Elen laughed. “You saw Rome before you saw Britain! How wonderful!”
“I hadn’t thought of it in that way,” Rhiannon admitted. “My earliest memories are of Galleva and the people there.”
“Including your foster brothers,” Elen added. “Does it make a difference that they are not related by blood?” Her tone was curious.
“No difference at all,” Rhiannon replied swiftly. “Unless…did you fight with your brothers, my lady?”
“All the time,” Elen admitted, her mouth turning up. “Fought, argued, screamed. They would sit on me and tickle me until I was sick or tease me until I lost my temper.” She touched her hair. “I lost my temper a lot. They would just laugh at me.”
“Cai and Emrys teased all the time, too. Only, they stopped trying to tickle or poke me when I learned how to fight back.”
Elen nodded. “Then it is no different at all…” she said to herself.
“Why do you ask, my lady?”
“I am Elen,” she said firmly. “There are no ranks in the Queen’s Cohort. We all fight together.”
“I will remember that…Elen.”
Elen glanced around to see who listened to them, for the horses were packed together and riders’ knees bumped. Everyone was tired and their attention drifted. Chatter about domestic matters interested them not at all.
“My son Constantine is nearly a year old,” Elen said softly. “My recovery, afterwards, did not go well. There will be no other children, I’m told.”
“I’m sorry,” Rhiannon said.
Elen shook her head. “I have come to accept it. Only…” She drew a small breath. “King Leodegrance, from the Summer Country…do you know the lord?”
“I have only heard the name. I am not certain who is he,” Rhiannon admitted, for Cai had failed to point out that lord.
“He has only a small retinue here, to support the King,” Elen said, her voice dropping even lower. “His country is ailing. His queen died giving birth to a daughter, nearly ten years ago. Now the kingdom is coming adrift because Leodegrance spends all his time supporting Uther and there is no queen to manage the land while he is away.” Elen grimaced. “He would not admit it to anyone, for Leodegrance is a proud man, but I think he stays away because there is no queen. He could find another, yet his heart is not in it. Meanwhile, his daughter, Guenivere, is growing up wild.”
“You are considering fostering her,” Rhiannon concluded. “That is why you want to know if a foster child feels poorer for the status.”
“Exactly,” Elen said. “The Summer Country runs not far from the borders of Cornwall. She would be raised in a country similar to her own and her father would not find it onerous to visit her when he can. It seems a simple solution, only I want to be sure I would not serve the girl ill by proposing it. I am certain Leodegrance will grasp the suggestion with both hands.” Elen sobered. “Cador, too, I suspect. He says nothing, yet I know I have disappointed him.”
Rhiannon compulsively put her hand on Elen’s wrist. “You gave your husband an heir. He can ask for nothing more. And now, you think of him, too. He will see that.”
Elen sighed. “You have reassured me. Thank you, Rhiannon.” She stirred. “And now, I must speak to everyone else. This is when attention can falter, when tiredness creeps in. Now is when it is most dangerous, for our reactions are slowed.” She clicked her tongue at her horse, who obediently slowed his pace. “Drink what water you have!” Elen added.
Rhiannon obeyed the order and for the rest of the day steadily drained her water sacks.
As the sun reached the horizon, they came upon a waiting scout.
“Barely five miles from here!” he cried, as the head of the host drew level with him. He swung up into his saddle. “They were forced onto the road to pass through to the next vale and the timing is bad for them. They will push into the night to reach the other side of the vale and be forced by the dark to camp on that edge.”
“That is good news,” Tristan said. “We will halt and set watch.”
“A dawn march?” his brother, Mark, asked.
Tristan nodded. “As soon as the first pre-dawn bird chirps, we will walk our horses through the pass, so they do not stumble in the dark. Then we will fall upon the Saxons as the sun rises. Everyone must sleep their fullest tonight.”
Relief washed over the company like a small, cool breeze, as the news was passed back along the line.
Ilsa pushed back between her riders. “We will bind our horses’ feet tonight, before we sleep. If you do not have spare cloth or leather, ask for it. Follow me. We will camp where we are.”
Tristan and his officers had already wheeled off the road. They moved through the trees, looking for a flat space wide enough for them and their horses to halt for the night.
The trees were tall and straight, here, with bare trunks and canopies high overhead. Ilsa and Lowri gathered the women riders around them. “Stay close together for warmth,” Lowri ordered in her low voice. “We will build the fires around us.” She stopped by Rhiannon and patted Tielo’s shoulder. “You have cloth for his feet?” she asked.
“I have leather,” Rhiannon said. She would happily give up her protective sleeping sheet. More leather would be easy to come by, later. “There is more than enough for my horse. If anyone wants to use the rest—rather than cut up their own cloaks…”
Lowri gave her a stiff smile. She was a tall woman and wore a tunic with her husband’s shield over the top of her leather armor, belted tight. “You are generous. Thank you. The leather will be welcome. I will come by and collect what you have left when you are done.”
Rhiannon sliced up the leather sheet with her knife, cutting four big squares and thin straps to fasten them around Tielo’s hocks. He put up with the boots with stoical silence and when she was finished, he pawed the ground experimentally. His hooves were muffled.
She tied Tielo’s reins to the nearest tree and put a blanket over him. He was close enough to the fires surrounding the Queen’s Cohort that he would not suffer from the cold.
There would be frost tonight and she had no protection of her own but what her cloak could provide. Ah, well…better to sneak upon the Saxon camp, than to be dry and warm and announce their arrival with a clatter of hooves.
Now it was fully dark, she could see mist rising between the trees, making the silhouettes of men moving through them look distorted and strange. One man stood twenty paces away, while fighters moved between them on their way to and from the small creek.
Rhiannon studied the shape of the man. There was nothing to tell her if it was Idris, yet she knew in her bones it was he.
He was too far away to speak to. Rhiannon wasn’t sure if he would welcome it, anyway.
After a moment, he turned and moved back through the trees. The wolf, Nudd, followed him, another dark shape within the mist.
Rhiannon pulled her cloak around her, shivering. Then she went back to the fires to settle herself for sleep, to prepare for the battle in the morning.
Chapter Thirteen
It was not the first time Idris had been part of a fighting force trying to creep through the dark to surprise an enemy. It was, however, the first time an entire army had attempted to pass silently through a two-mile pass, with horses, to mount and attack before the Saxons knew they were there.
He had been doubtful such a silent approach could be made by so many fighters. He watched with growing admiration as Tristan and Mark coordinated the host. Their officers streamed back along the file to order the muffling of bits, to leap upon hapless fighters whose horses made too much noise, and order the hooves re-wrapped with more cloth. They dealt mercilessly with anyone who dared speak or make a sound, handing out blows and cuffs to remind them to stay silent.
Tristan left a rear guard to catch any Saxons who might break through their ranks, for the pass was a natural bottleneck. It left nearly eight thousand men and the women of the Queen’s Cohort to slide like shadows through the pass, leading their horses.
/> Pale streaks of dawn painted the sky. Idris could see the ground ahead of him when they paused a half-mile on the other side of the pass and gathered together.
Ellar, Lot’s seneschal, put his hand to Idris’ ear, straining on his toes to do so. “Mount and walk forward until you see their campfires. Then wait for the signal to attack.”
Idris nodded and turned to murmur the same instructions to the man behind him. The whisper passed down the file and riders climbed carefully into their saddles.
Idris loosened his sword in its scabbard, checked his knife, then nudged Brennus forward with his knees. Brennus moved on, his knees lifting high. He was eager and fresh, ready to fight. Nudd moved alongside, a silent shadow.
Idris patted Brennus’ neck. Soon, he promised the stallion silently.
The thick line of mounted fighters wound along the road as the sky lightened even more. As soon as the sun lifted over the horizon, there would be more than enough light to ride at full tilt. Had Tristan anticipated that factor, too?
Ahead, above the heads of the riders, Idris saw a sword blade circle in the air, then swing to point forward. The front riders had seen the campfires ahead.
They surged forward, galloping, with little more than a stomp on the earth to mark their passage. There was no clattering, no staccato drumming of hooves to make the earth tremble.
Idris gathered himself for the gallop. As the horses in front of him leapt forward, he drew his sword and urged Brennus to fly.
They fell upon the Saxons exactly as Tristan had planned, scattering their fires and cooking pots and sleeping furs. Shouting curses in their foul tongue, the Saxons leapt for their weapons, most without armor, some without boots, all looking bleary and sleep deprived.
It should have been an easy morning’s work. Idris barely had to swing his sword, for Brennus did most of the work with his hooves and teeth. Only, they had failed to capture or kill Aelle three days ago. The Saxon leader now pulled together the fighting spirit of the survivors. They coalesced into a tight band and fought off the British with little more than shields and curses, while they mounted and picked up their weapons.
Saxon horns blew hard. They sallied out into the British host with grim determination driving them, which helped offset their smaller numbers.
The battle was joined in earnest.
It would not last long. It could not possibly last, for the Saxons were ill-prepared, and had been surprised while they slept. Now they were trying to form a battle strategy while they fought overwhelming numbers.
Defeat was a certainty, yet they refused to simply lay down their arms and bow to it. They fought with a tenacity Idris might have admired if it had been anyone but Saxons he faced.
Desperation could drive men to extremes. They were dangerous now and Idris settled into his work, taking no chances, checking his back at all times. He chopped and hewed steadily.
A cry went up farther along the line, where Idris thought Aelle himself was fighting. Idris saw Tristan’s tall figure fall back on his horse. Blood spouted. Mark shouted and drove forward with his sword, fighting off the Saxons who would swarm over the injured War Duke and bring him down with sheer numbers.
Mark would be overcome, too. The Saxons has spied a break, a small vulnerability, and they were energized. They screamed their insults and curses and drove toward that one point in the British lines, intending to break it.
From the far left came a ferocious war cry. There might have been words in it, or perhaps it was simple fury given voice. Red hair, bare to the dawn sun, a raised sword…Emrys fell upon the Saxons trying to reach Tristan and deal with Mark. His sword swung so that the blade was a blur. Saxons fell back with cries of dismay, while those behind them pushed forward, ready to end this one way or another.
Idris recognized that the outcome of the battle hung upon this moment. He had seen too many battles to doubt that the next few heart beats would determine the victors and right now, either side might win.
Idris urged Brennus forward. He was not a proud man, yet he knew he had strength and ability to make a difference, if he could reach the melee fast enough.
A hand gripped his elbow and hauled him back, hard enough to almost unseat him. Idris looked around, fury rising.
It was Lot’s long hand on his elbow, his fingers digging in. “Wait,” Lot said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the clash of weapons and shouting. Lot watched the center of the line, where Emrys stood upon the back of Tristan’s stallion, his boots planted on either side of the injured man, as he fought off the Saxons who reached for him.
Idris looked from Lot to the fighting and back, astonishment battling with a growing anger. “He’ll die! There’s too many!”
“Let him demonstrate if he has his father’s skill, first,” Lot said, his voice calm.
Idris jerked, fighting the impulse to knee Brennus forward and aid the stricken group.
“If you take another step forward, Idris, I will have your head for it,” Lot said.
Idris ground his teeth together, sickened, and watched the Saxons surge forward. They knew they could win, and it was driving them.
From behind the thick cluster of their strongest warriors and shields came a battle cry Idris recognized.
“Aelle…” Idris breathed.
The shields parted and the leader of the Saxons burst through the space, leaping up to meet Emrys’ blade. He was a short man, but powerful, with long, dirty hair tied with rags and twine and no helmet. He had painted his face with gray mud. He was moving fast enough to knock Emrys off his feet. The man fell backward, onto the ground beneath stomping hooves.
Another cry, just as heavy and filled with fury, sounded. “Emrys! Save Emrys! Get the bastard! Bedivere!”
“Here! Here!”
From the same direction which Emrys had come, two more fighters leapt into the thick of the horses and men, their swords raised. Bedivere and Cai, and only a pace behind them, Cador and Pellinore.
Idris let out a breath which shook, as more fighters around Emrys turned and threw themselves off their horses, diving into the struggle to contain Aelle and save Emrys. Relief made him shake.
Lot considered him. “You can help now, if you want.”
Idris threw his leg over Brennus’ back and slid to the ground. He wanted to knock heads together. He wanted to run his sword through bodies and scream his fury.
If he did that to a few dozen Saxons, it would help him not do it to his king.
CAI WAS SO ANGRY, RHIANNON thought he might burst a blood vessel. The tendons in his neck stood white against the red of his face and neck, as he stalked up and down the same strip of earth, waiting for the remainder of the army to return to the campsite.
It was Lot he waited for, Rhiannon realized. She wasn’t sure what had happened at the front, for she had been containing the Saxons on the right wing, driving them back toward the center. She had not dared look up, even when she heard Cai and Bedivere and Emrys shouting, somewhere in the middle.
Emrys hissed as she inserted the needle on the other side of the wound on his arm. It had stopped bleeding now.
“Keep still,” she snapped.
“Use a sharper needle,” he returned, his jaw flexing.
“It is the only needle I have. You should be grateful I have it at all. I could let you bleed all over the grass, if you prefer.”
His gaze flickered toward Cai. Then back to her face. Emrys shook his head.
She yanked his arm back around, so she could see what she was doing. To take his mind off it, she said, “Tell me what happened. Why is Cai pacing that way?”
Around them, fighters were returning in twos and threes to the fires, to rest and recover. Ilsa and Lowri were tending Tristan at the main fire, while his senior officers, including Mark, contained the Saxons who had surrendered.
At sunset, Aelle would be executed. The remaining Saxons would be stripped of their weapons and armor, shields and boots, and driven back north. It was another victory
, snatched from the edges of defeat…or so the soldiers had muttered as she hurried through the camp to tend Emrys’ wound.
Emrys told her in short sentences what had happened at the center of the battle. “I was too busy hacking at their wall of shields to look around. Cai is insisting Lot hung back, when he was close enough to help.”
“It is not something he can accuse a king of doing,” Rhiannon said, appalled. “Saying Lot failed to help the High King’s War Duke…that is the same thing as…”
“Treason. Yes, I know,” Emrys said heavily. “Did you see any of it?”
“I was busy, too.” She bent and bit off the thread, then tucked the needle in the suede roll with the other thread. She tore her spare tunic into strips for bandages. “I’ve never seen him this way,” she added under her breath, glancing at Cai again. “If he confronts Lot in such a mood, he might try to kill him and that…I can’t imagine how the northern lords would react to that.”
She wound the bandages around Emrys’ arm, noticing not for the first time that he had developed muscles in the last few years. She had always thought of him as slender, beside Cai, only he wasn’t any more. In every way, he was a man.
Uncomfortably, she thought of her father’s entreaty two nights ago.
Emrys loves you.
She tightened the knot with a jerk and Emrys hissed again.
“Baby,” she said shortly.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.
She lurched to her feet, careful not to meet Emrys’ gaze. “I’ll see if anyone has any food at all. We could all use a decent meal. It will take hours yet for the rest of the camp to reach us.” She stalked away, her temper simmering, too.
It seemed to be a day for bad feelings.
ILSA AND THE OTHER LADIES had squirreled away dried meat and a little hard cheese, which they insisted on sharing with Rhiannon. “Emrys is wounded. Take the food,” Ilsa insisted. “If there is any wine left once Tristan stops guzzling it, I will bring that, too.” As she spoke, she sorted through one of her packs, removing surgical supplies and bandages and herbs twisted in parchment.
War Duke of Britain Page 14
