War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Is he badly injured?” Rhiannon asked.

  “He’ll live,” Ilsa said. “As long as the wine holds out, at least. He’s still bawling orders, even prostrate on the ground.” She smiled sourly. “There is no greater child than an injured man.”

  Rhiannon smiled, recalling Emrys’ complaint about the sharpness of her needle. She headed for where Emrys and Cai had camped. Tonight, she would stay with them until the rest of the Galleva people arrived.

  Even though the company consisted of only fighters and their horses, and the area where they settled was full of trees, the same layout as the other camp had formed here, with the lords and their fighters settling in close groups on the four quarters of the camp field.

  There was no command tent and no King at the moment. Instead, in one of the larger clearings, a fire was built. The flames leapt toward the canopy. Around this fire, the senior commanders were conferring with junior officers, dealing with the aftermath of the battle. There were prisoners and wounded men to see to, the Saxon dead to burn and the British fallen to either bury or arrange for transport back home.

  Tristan laid upon a saddle blanket, propped up on one elbow as he gave orders and listened to reports. His tunic had been cut away so Ilsa could treat the great gash in his side. Blood was smeared all over the revealed flesh. As he spoke and gestured, more blood ran from the wound.

  He seemed extraordinarily energetic. It was a reassuring sight. While Uther had remained with the trailing company, Tristan was the High King’s spokesman, whom everyone looked to for direction.

  Rhiannon skirted the big fire, feeling the heat from the flames warm her. A small fire in front of Emrys might cheer him, she decided.

  Then she heard the shouting. It was Cai’s voice, echoing through the trees. Heads turned. Fighters got to their feet, peering through the trunks.

  Rhiannon lurched into a run, her heart knocking in a way it never had while she was fighting. This was a far more personal terror.

  She wove through the trees, following the paths beaten by many boots to the small clearing where she had left Emrys and Cai.

  Emrys was on his feet, his boots spread and his fists held by his sides as he watched Cai confront Lot, King of Lothian.

  The Lothian people were making their way to their eastern allotment, passing through the center of the camp. It had brought them directly to Cai’s little clearing.

  Lot stood behind three of his men, his stallion nuzzling his shoulder. Lot seemed amused, his big nose lowered as he peered at Cai.

  Cai was all but pressed up against the three men in front of Lot, waving his arm. “There is a name for what you did, Lot!” he cried. “You left my brother to fend for himself. I saw you!”

  Rhiannon moved up beside Emrys. “We have to stop him,” she breathed.

  “In all the years you’ve known Cai, have you ever been able to stop him once he made up his mind about something?” Emrys asked.

  “This isn’t an argument about the rules of hawking!” she hissed.

  Emrys glanced at her. “And Cai isn’t twelve anymore.”

  “What say you, Lot?” Cai demanded.

  “Be careful, boy. You draw perilously close to accusing a king of…I’m not sure what, as I have no idea what you are talking about.” He gave a stiff smile. “Think about what you say next.”

  Rhiannon glanced around the small clearing. More fighters were stepping up around the perimeter, drawn by the shouting.

  “Cai, that’s enough!” she cried. “I have food. Come and eat.”

  Cai launched himself at the three men shielding Lot, his fist lifting once more. “Fight me, you…you! Fight me! Prove you can fight, at least!”

  Rhiannon trembled. She knew Cai had changed what he was about to say at the very last moment. He had stopped short of an outright accusation he could not prove. Despite his fury, he was still thinking. A little, at least.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Lot said.

  Cai stepped back. “Then you won’t fight.” His tone was withering, filled with a contempt she had never heard him use before.

  For the first time, Lot seemed to notice how many people had gathered in the trees around them. His gaze flickered sideways. He considered Cai once more. “If it is a fight you want…”

  Cai smiled grimly and backed into the center of the clearing. He beckoned with his hand.

  Lot glanced over his shoulder. “Idris. Get out there and deal with him for me.”

  Rhiannon gasped out her shock. She felt Emrys glance at her. She could not tear her gaze away from the big man making his way through the Lothian host to where Lot stood behind his three guards.

  Idris glanced at Cai, then back at Lot. “My lord?”

  “I said, deal with him. Go on.” Lot pushed on Idris’ shoulder.

  Idris swayed, but didn’t move. He studied Cai.

  “I won’t tell you again,” Lot said. Rhiannon heard him because the clearing was bereft of any noise. It was as if everyone held their breath in shock, too.

  Idris moved forward, sliding through the three guards. He stepped out into the clearing.

  Lot came up behind him and held out a long, narrow-bladed knife. “Here. Use mine, as you represent me.”

  Rhiannon gripped Emrys’ arm, startled. Her heart thudded in her temples. “Armed?” she breathed.

  Even Cai straightened. Caution flooded his face.

  “Get his knife. Quickly!” Emrys murmured, his voice strained. Rhiannon leapt to where Cai had dropped his packs and saddle, and his sword belt on top of it all. His knife was still stained with Saxon blood. She drew it from the belt, sickened. Surely, fighting with old blood on a blade was a bad omen?

  She hurried to Cai’s side and pressed the hilt into his hand. He gripped it and glanced at her. The anger was gone from his eyes. She saw fear there, instead.

  “He’ll try something unexpected,” she breathed.

  “As long as he doesn’t kiss me,” Cai whispered.

  Rhiannon couldn’t laugh. She couldn’t even smile. She moved back to Emrys’ side.

  Even Tristan had stirred. He leaned heavily against a tree, his other hand held to his side as he watched. Mark stood close by, as if he would catch Tristan if he collapsed. Yet his gaze was on the clearing, too.

  Lot hefted the knife once more. “Take it.”

  Idris looked at the blade. Moving slowly, as if reluctance weighed him down, he picked up the knife and hefted it. His gaze slid to Cai, as Lot moved back behind the three guards, smiling his satisfaction.

  Idris moved out to the middle of the clearing, facing Cai. He drew in a breath and let it out. It was almost a sigh. His gaze shifted and Rhiannon’s heart jumped. He was looking at her.

  She squeezed her hands together, until her knuckles groaned, the little pain stopping her from speaking the thought which shouted in her mind. She didn’t want Idris to be hurt, either. Only, these fights didn’t end at first blood. Satisfaction wouldn’t be had until someone was badly wounded…or dead.

  “Even if Cai is right about Lot,” Rhiannon murmured to Emrys, “if Idris wins, then everyone will believe Cai was wrong or lying. This is all mixed up, Emrys.” Her agony strained her voice.

  Emrys took her hand and squeezed it. “It is a mess,” he agreed, his voice low. “Don’t talk for a while, hmm? I need to concentrate.”

  “Concentrate on what?” she whispered, then made herself shut up.

  Emrys replied, even though she hadn’t expected him to. “This is not simply about Cai and Lot. Something else is happening and I can’t work it out. Not yet. Look at Lot.”

  Rhiannon tore her gaze away from the two men in the center of the clearing, to glance at Lot. He was a tall man. His son, beside him, was shorter. It was the oldest boy, Gaheris, who stood with his hands fisted by his sides, his gaze on the clearing, while his father murmured in his ear.

  Gaheris looked ill.

  Cai gave a cry—one which Rhiannon recognized. He used it to unnerve
his opponent, just before he leapt. She pulled her gaze back to the clearing just in time to see him launch himself at Idris.

  Idris backed away calmly.

  Cai staggered as his boots found no purchase. He landed heavily but lunged and swiped with the knife. It was one of his cat-quick changes of direction which always left Rhiannon scrambling to regroup when he used them on her during practice bouts.

  Idris merely leaned away, letting the blade swish through the air where his throat had been a moment before.

  Then he thrust himself forward, the knife blade in his left hand, aiming for Cai’s chest.

  Cai threw himself backward at the last second, with a grunt of effort.

  “Cai’s trick…” Emrys breathed.

  The trick which Emrys always chided Cai for using—for it was underhanded.

  “I told Cai he would do the unexpected,” Rhiannon said, her voice strained as she watched the men straighten and consider each other once more. “He wouldn’t think of having his own tactics used against him.”

  “Idris must have seen it on the field this morning, or the other day,” Emrys said. “Now he’s using it against Cai. What else did he learn about us?” He sounded worried.

  Cai and Idris leapt once more, both arms swinging high and coming down. They each got their hands up to block the blade, their muscles straining. They stood locked together, each trying to drive the point of their knife into the other’s neck. The points lowered, shuddering under the pressure of two opposing forces.

  “Yield,” Idris growled. “Yield and walk away.”

  Men around the clearing muttered. Yielding wasn’t an option in a fight over honor. As Cai had called the fight, he must stay in it until the end, to prove his point. Surely Idris knew that?

  The knives hovered, barely moving, as each strained against the other. They were both large men, both terrifyingly strong. Rhiannon had assumed until this moment that Cai was stronger, though. He had never been beaten, not once in his life, not in a simple competition of strength.

  “Finish this!” Lot shouted. “Now!”

  Idris’ gaze rested on Rhiannon once more.

  She drew in a startled breath. Why, he appeared to be barely taxed at all, while Cai struggled to repel his blade…

  Idris bent his head toward Cai and murmured something in his ear. Only Rhiannon and Emrys could see it for they were the only people standing on that side of the clearing.

  Then Idris tossed his knife, so it landed quivering point down in the earth. He wrenched Cai’s wrist, until Cai cried out and let his knife go.

  Idris turned him and his big arm snaked under Cai’s chin and tightened. “Tell me when you’ve had enough,” Idris said. He didn’t speak loudly, yet everyone heard him, for the clearing was silent except for Cai’s harsh breathing.

  Emrys squeezed Rhiannon’s hand, making the bones creak and all feeling to leave it. She barely noticed. She watched Idris’s arm flex and work, tightening his hold.

  Cai’s face turned red. He wheezed.

  Rhiannon swallowed.

  “Damn it, man, say it!” Idris growled.

  “Yield! I…yield!” Cai gasped.

  Lot gave a delighted laugh as Idris let Cai go. Cai dropped to his knees and propped himself up with one hand, the other at his bruised throat. He breathed noisily.

  Idris walked to the other side of the clearing where his knife—Lot’s knife—had landed. Lot moved out from behind the three guards, his arms in the air in a gesture of victory.

  He turned on his heels, smiling at everyone.

  “No, no, no, no, no…” Emrys breathed. “This will divide the host. North and south. Just when they’ve come together…!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhiannon did not dare look away from the three figures in the clearing. Lot, victorious. Cai, distressed. And Idris, watching Lot warily, his hands at his sides.

  The fighters around the clearing were divided—smiles of delight and crowing expressions showed on the faces of the northerners…and the handsome man called Accolon was looking pleased, too. Everyone else was angry.

  Even Tristan looked disappointed. Mark just looked disgusted. They were not happy with Lot at all.

  How to mend the divide which had just appeared? How to fix this? Her mind whirled as Rhiannon took in the shifting patterns of pleasure and anger. How did one negate such a serious falling out?

  Serious…

  Something sighed in her mind as she saw the answer. She could counter the seriousness with lightheartedness and cross the divide with unity.

  Rhiannon pulled her hand from Emrys’s and stepped into the clearing. She raised her hands, just as Lot was doing, and turned to gain everyone’s attention.

  The angry muttering and sounds of satisfaction died.

  Rhiannon lifted her voice to make sure everyone heard her. “To the victor goes the spoils!”

  A growl of agreement ran around the clearing. Yes, to the victorious went the pickings of war.

  Rhiannon turned and plucked a flask of wine which King Pellinore held in his hands. “Thank you,” she murmured. She pulled the stopper and drank a mouthful. There was little wine left. It didn’t matter.

  Then, she stoppered the wine. The clearing was silent once more. They didn’t understand why she, the foster sister of the defeated side, was drinking the wine.

  She made herself smile knowingly, as she crossed the clearing and held the wine flask out to Idris.

  There were soft sounds of understanding. Amusement.

  Yes, let them enjoy this.

  Idris’ gaze narrowed.

  “Take it,” she whispered.

  He slid the flask from her fingers, which earned him small calls of approval and encouragement.

  Her heart galloped harder than it had in all the days of fighting. Rhiannon lifted herself up on her toes and kissed him, her hand resting on his chest for balance.

  Sounds of delight and roars of approval, clapping and stomping broke out around the clearing.

  Rhiannon saw Idris’ eyes open. Widen. His awareness grew.

  Then, he gave a loud growl and swept his arm around her and mashed her against him. He thrust his hand into her hair and kissed her, bending her backward so he could deepen the kiss.

  He understood what she had been doing. Good. Relief touched her.

  The raucous and bawdy shouts of approval told her it had worked. She had halted the divide. Now, every man in the clearing was simply a fighter who had faced the enemy this day and deserved his spoils and enjoyment.

  Idris let her go, bent and swept her up, so she folded over his shoulder and hung helplessly. Rhiannon didn’t struggle as he carried her from the clearing. He strode through the trees, into the shadowed spaces where the firelight didn’t reach. Then he put her down again, this time with a gentleness that was the complete opposite of the way he had picked her up.

  He held her shoulders to ensure she had her balance, then stepped away from her. Two controlled steps, then he dropped the wine flask to the ground beside him and turned to face her. “Do you know what you have done?” he asked, his voice harsh with the same control.

  “Yes,” Rhiannon said.

  He paused. In the late afternoon light under the trees his eyes were shadowed, although she still saw his surprise. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do.”

  “Lot was about to divide the host. Those loyal to the northern kings…and everyone else. I’m Cai’s foster sister. By choosing you—by appearing to choose you, I stopped that.” She shrugged, to appear indifferent. In fact, her heart was thundering so hard, her chest ached.

  “Not with me!” His voice was still low, yet so tight and harsh, she flinched.

  “You’re the victor,” she said, confusion touching her. “If not with you, then who? Not Lot, surely?” Lot was both Christian and married. The Christians took their unique marriage vows regarding fidelity seriously.

  Idris hissed his frustration. “Gaheris!” He threw out his hand
. “Gaheris was supposed to heal the breech—a kind word to you, leniency for Cai…you would fall into his arms in gratitude.” He drew in a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Coldness touched her. “Gaheris…” she said softly. Wonderingly. “I am nobody. My parents are nobody. We come from a little land north of the wall, which everyone overlooks or forgets. Ector hasn’t attended the High King in years and years, so it can’t be because of any influence Lot believes Ector has with Uther. Why would Lot want his first-born son aligned with…with me?”

  Idris shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Lot is the King. You have ruined his plans. You must go back, let Gaheris find you. Tell them I discarded you already. Tell them anything you like, I don’t care, only you must go back.”

  Rhiannon shook her head. “I cannot. Everyone back there thinks I chose you, the victor.” She took the three steps which divided them—for him, it had only been two, yet she needed the extra one. She looked up at him. “I do choose you.”

  His breath expelled in a sharp rush. “No, you cannot.”

  She raised her hand to put it on his chest once more. This time, it trembled. She hesitated, terrified that if she touched him, he would reject her. He was strong enough he could toss her far from him, if he wanted. She had seen what he did to Cai.

  Rhiannon pressed the tips of her fingers against his tunic and felt his heated flesh beneath. She let out a trembling breath. “You do want me, don’t you?”

  He gave a groan which sounded as if he was being torn apart. His hand came over her fingers, holding them against him.

  He trembled, too.

  Idris raised his other big hand and touched her cheek. “Go back now,” he said, his voice rumbling. “Before it is too late.”

  “It is already too late,” she whispered.

  He kissed her. His lips were as soft was the first time, even though he was controlling himself, damming back the full force of his need. The victorious warrior who had bent her to his will in the clearing was an imposter. This was the real man kissing her, and he was too afraid to let go.

  “I won’t break,” she whispered against his lips.