War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Your daughter!” Igraine pressed her hand against Anwen’s where it laid on top of the furs. “Oh my…Rhiannon of Galleva is your daughter! Of course she is—she looks just like Steffan—”

  “Thank goodness,” Anwen said quickly.

  Igraine gave a soft laugh and sat back. She turned her face up to the sun. “Tell me about them. Merlin said he would raise him, only I can tell you have had a hand in his making, too. Tell me everything about Arthur. Every little detail. I cannot be a mother to him, not now, although I can still be proud of him.”

  A gasp sounded, by the edge of the trees.

  Cai, Emrys and Rhiannon stood there. All three of them wore shocked expressions. Emrys’ face was white. Rhiannon’s eyes were huge and glassy.

  Anwen sat up. So did Igraine, with a soft gasp of her own.

  “Emrys…” Anwen began. Only, the unexpected arrival of this moment, which she had been dreading for twenty years, left her floundering, looking for adequate words. It was not supposed to happen this way. It was not her place to break this news to Uther’s son.

  Emrys pushed out an unsteady breath at the sound of his name. Then he turned and strode back through the trees. After a few steps, he broke into a run.

  Cai turned Rhiannon around. “Go!” he urged her, pushing her after him.

  EMRYS DIDN’T HALT EVEN WHEN Rhiannon called out to him. He was the fastest of the three of them. She watched him slide through the busy camp, deeper into the trees, where the tall pines faltered and the yews and oaks began. The forest changed and became muffled and closed in.

  “Emrys!” Rhiannon shouted again, as she hurdled more roots and pounded after him. “Stop!” Her voice didn’t carry as well as it should.

  Even Emrys couldn’t run forever. She continued doggedly, until he slowed to a walk, his chest heaving. As she reached him, he leaned both hands against the trunk of a huge oak and hung his head.

  Rhiannon moved up to his side and rested her hand on his heaving shoulder.

  “I even look like him,” Emrys said, his voice choked. “How did I not see it?”

  “You weren’t looking for it. I didn’t see it either. Only, as soon as I heard the Queen, it all shifted and just…”

  “Made sense,” Emrys finished. He closed his eyes. “Horrible sense,” he whispered.

  “How can you say that?” she said. “You’ve spent your life wondering who your father is. Now you know, and he’s the High King of Britain!” She drew in a breath, for she was near to winded by the sprint. “How can you not be pleased about it?”

  “Because it changes everything!” He pushed himself off the tree. “People talked about Arthur for years, remember? They all wondered where he was. The stories about where Merlin had hidden him…” He grimaced. “Myrddin,” he said.

  Rhiannon put her fingers to her temples, squeezing them. “The way everyone watched him, when we arrived at Vedra!” she breathed. “The way he changed his appearance…”

  “Merlin the Enchanter,” Emrys said, his tone bitter.

  Rhiannon didn’t dispute him. The change in Myrddin’s appearance had been so drastic, it resembled magic. Why could it not be magic?

  Only, she had grown up listening to Myrddin tell tales about faraway lands. She had begged him for more oatcakes. He had taught her how to stitch wounds and treat them with herbs she could find in the forest. They had picked those herbs together, walking for miles and talking about anything and everything. Myrddin was the first person she asked to explain whatever stray thought occurred to her. “He always knew the answers. He was always just…there,” she murmured.

  “For me, it turns out,” Emrys said, his tone still bitter. “All those stories about Merlin and Arthur living on some invisible island. We listened to them, fascinated.”

  “Myrddin never told those stories, though,” Rhiannon pointed out.

  Emrys paused. “Because he didn’t want to lie to us?” he wondered aloud. He shook his head, the burnished red locks glinting in a shaft of midday sun which shot through the trees. “Cai told me once he wished he could be Arthur. I thought he was a fool and told him so—he was Cai, Ector’s son and heir and he would one day serve the High King. He knew exactly who he was, while I was a nameless bastard.”

  “You always resented it,” Rhiannon murmured. “You always wondered who your father was, who you were.”

  “Not always,” Emrys said. “Myrddin…” He looked up at the sky. “Gods and stars! He knew, when he told me…”

  Rhiannon waited.

  Emrys shook his head in wonder. “Myrddin took me fishing…only we didn’t fish. We sat in the coracle and he told me he lived his childhood thinking he was a bastard born of a nameless stranger he would never know. For years he was angry about it. Then he watched other bastards, and saw how desperate their situation was, while he was at least warm and fed and dry, and had clothes to wear.” Emrys grimaced. “It made me consider you and Cai and the farm, and how, even though I was base-born, I had everything I wanted. I even had a grand mission to help Cai be the best leader Galleva had ever seen. And I stopped being angry.”

  Rhiannon nodded. “That was when you were about twelve, wasn’t it?” She could remember the shift in Emrys. He had been angry, for a long time. Then…he wasn’t.

  “I like my life, Rhiannon. I like living in Galleva and helping Cai. I was never like other boys, dreaming about how grand it would be to discover they were the lost boy Arthur. I never wanted to be Arthur…” His forehead etched with pain. “Now, everything I…I love is gone. It was never real at all.”

  “Emrys.” The flat, low tone came from beyond the oak, deeper into the trees.

  They both whirled, startled.

  Myrddin stood by the tree, the staff Rhiannon had made him in his hand. Only, it wasn’t Myrddin. Not the old man tending the crypt, at least.

  Now she knew who he really was, Rhiannon could not understand why she had failed to see the truth until now. Merlin stood straight and tall, a commanding prince who was, they said, more royal than Uther himself. The simple black robe and dark green cloak had little embellishment, yet he wore them like rich coronation robes. The pin on his shoulder—the red Pendragon, Rhiannon realized with another mental sigh at her blindness—was his only jewelry.

  His gaze was upon Emrys. “We must speak, you and I.”

  Emrys closed his eyes. “Tell me this is all a mistake, Myrddin. Please.”

  “In your heart, you know it is not,” Merlin said. “That is why I am here. Uther should have been the one to tell you, only he is…resting. You must make do with me, instead.”

  Merlin came closer. He smiled at Rhiannon and abruptly, the regal man was gone. It was just Myrddin standing there. “You have worried your mother, Rhiannon. You should go back and let her know I have found Emrys.”

  “Arthur,” Emrys said with a harsh note in his voice. “Emrys is dead.”

  Myrddin’s expression was mild. “Not to me. You will always be Emrys to me. After all the fish hooks I have taken out of your fingers, the scrapes I have tended, the oatcakes I have made you…” He sighed. “You are Emrys and will remain so—at least, between us. Come. Come and talk. You have had a bad shock and I know exactly what it feels like.”

  Emrys took a reluctant step toward him. Then he rolled his eyes. “Your father…Ambrosius, the High King…”

  Merlin smiled. “Exactly.” He turned to lead Emrys away and glanced over his shoulder at Rhiannon. He winked.

  Rhiannon pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to be amused, only this was a familiar pattern. Emrys would lose his temper and Myrddin would make him walk and talk through it…

  She sighed and turned back toward the far-distant camp and trudged back. She would speak to her mother and reassure her, as Merlin had suggested. Then, she would find a way to speak to Idris.

  Her heart thudded at the idea. She didn’t know what she would say to him. Only, Merlin considered talking matters over to be constructive and she had seen him manag
e Emrys’ temper for years. She would try talking to Idris. Finally, she could speak plainly and understand, now she knew the truth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time Rhiannon returned to the Galleva tent, the Queen had gone. Anwen sat on the bench, hunched over with her worn hands gripping her knees. When she saw Rhiannon, she lifted her arms up, her face working and tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Rhiannon! It must have shocked you, to learn it that way!”

  Rhiannon sat on the bench and comforted her mother. “It was a shock,” she admitted. “Only now all the strange things which have happened since Cador arrived at Galleva make sense.”

  “Is Emrys…is he very angry?”

  “He is with Merlin.”

  Anwen sighed. “Then you know about Merlin, too. Oh, this was not the way we intended to tell you at all!”

  “I feel quite stupid, mother. Everything was there for all of us to see, if we had only looked properly. It is so startingly clear in hindsight. Cador’s stunned expression when he saw Emrys and Myrddin…Merlin, I mean. And Arthur…” She tasted the name on her lips. “Arthur…” she repeated, then shook her head. “He is still Emrys to me.”

  “He will continue to be Emrys to you,” Anwen said. “Igraine is still the Duchess of Cornwall, to me. And Steffan…” Her smile warmed. “To me, your father will always be Uther’s favorite fighter and companion, and the man who terrified me.”

  A throat was cleared, from the north side of the clearing, by the corner of the tent.

  Gaheris stood there. In the bright sunlight pouring through the break in the canopy, his hair was not plain brown, as it normally appeared. Like all his younger brothers, Gaheris had red in his hair. It only showed in this bright light, turning his normally brown locks to a pale copper. He wore a simple, long tunic, his sword slung low. He was a long, lean man, yet he was also a good fighter. Rhiannon had heard the talk about him around the fires after battles. He had hidden strength and relentlessness on the battlefield.

  “I regret my interruption,” Gaheris said. “I was wondering if I may speak to your daughter, madam?”

  “Lord Gaheris,” Anwen acknowledged. Her tone was cool. “I am afraid this is not the most auspicious of moments to—”

  “I will speak to you,” Rhiannon said, getting to her feet. She turned and bent to hug her mother and murmured in her ear. “We should not alienate Lothian.”

  Anwen’s expression, as Rhiannon straightened, told her that her mother understood.

  Rhiannon moved over to where Gaheris waited and gave him a small smile. “Yes?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, his hand coming to rest on the pommel of his sword. “I wonder…can we walk? I can think better when I’m moving.” His cheeks tinged pink.

  “It seems everyone does,” Rhiannon replied, thinking of Emrys and Merlin, somewhere in the woods. She fell in beside him and waited.

  They moved away from the clearing, stepping over tree roots and kicking through last year’s fallen leaves. The leaves were damp and brown, although with a day or two of the clear sunshine, they would dry and rustle. For now, they made the footing soft.

  Rhiannon glanced at him. Gaheris looked to be her age, perhaps a year younger. “They tell me you are a courageous fighter,” she said. Perhaps if she started the conversation, he would say why he had sought her out.

  Gaheris’ cheeks painted themselves a deeper pink. “My brother Gawain is the real fighter. He will be a great warrior one day. I…” He licked his lips. “I do not like war,” he said in a rush, as if it was the most dreadful of confessions.

  “Does anyone like war?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Gawain seems to enjoy it,” Gaheris said, his voice low.

  “You should speak about yourself, brother, if you want to woo the lady.” The voice came from behind them.

  Rhiannon and Gaheris both turned.

  The man—and he was barely a man, Rhiannon realized—stood with his back against the tree they had just passed. He held a great crock of mead in his arm and the stopper in the other. He was copper-headed, too.

  “Gawain!” Gaheris said, annoyed. “Are you following us?”

  “Yes.” Gawain laughed and took a swallow of the mead. “Father told me to make sure you did the deed properly.” His smile faded and his gaze flickered toward Rhiannon.

  She gasped, recalling what Idris had told her. Gaheris was supposed to heal the breech—a kind word to you, leniency for Cai…you would fall into his arms in gratitude. None of it had made sense until now.

  “You know who my brother is,” she gasped. “That is why you seek me out.”

  Gaheris gripped his sword hilt, his hand working nervously. His face flushed deeply. He looked at his younger brother, almost as if he was pleading for help.

  Gawain made a soft sound. “You know, now? Father said you did not suspect at all…” He looked at Gaheris, his mouth pulling down. “The jig is up, brother. Give up. I can see in her eyes she is already taken, anyway.”

  Rhiannon felt the jolt to her toes.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Gaheris said, his voice low and hard. “We cannot go back and say we failed!”

  Gawain stoppered the jug with a sharp slap of his hand, considering Rhiannon. He shifted his gaze to Gaheris. “So, we can lie,” he said. “Father can go to hell,” he added, his tone low and vicious. His gaze returned to Rhiannon. “Let’s be nice to each other, instead, hmmm? Do you like mead?”

  “I…umm…actually, yes, I do.”

  “Good.” Gawain hoisted the jug. “What say you, brother? Let’s find a spot where you can pretend to seduce the lady and drink instead.”

  Gaheris looked as though he was mentally wriggling, torn between duty to his father the King, and Gawain’s proposition. Then he blew out his breath and relaxed, all at once. His shoulders dropped and he smiled. “As long as you invent the lies, Gawain. I just stammer when I try.”

  “Done,” Gawain said, with a great smile which lit up his face and made his eyes dance. “You will drink with us, won’t you? We’re not all odious trolls in the north.” One eye flickered, almost in a wink.

  “I suppose, in order to support your story, I must linger for a while.” Rhiannon held out her hand. “Give me the mead.”

  “Ah, no, not yet,” Gawain said. “I know a far more convivial place for drinking than this musty glen. Come along! Gaheris, pick up the lady’s hand. At least look as though you’re chasing her.”

  Gaheris raised his brow, with a touch of apology in his face, and held out his hand.

  Rhiannon slid her hand into his and wasn’t surprised to find his palm was damp.

  GAWAIN’S LOCATION WAS CONVIVIAL. A mile into the woods was an open area with sweet grasses and a small stream. The stream tumbled musically down rocks to form a deep pool, before wandering through the glade and disappearing among the trees.

  They sat at the edge of the stream and shared the mead, as the sun passed overhead. They talked—about everything and anything. The two men spoke about their childhood in the Orkney Islands, running barefoot with a complete freedom few other children of lords and kings were allowed.

  Lot had four sons, all of them red-headed to one degree or another.

  “That comes to us from our mother,” Gawain said, ruffling his thick copper hair. “Her father was so red, they say he should have been a northerner.”

  “He was a Cornishman,” Gaheris pointed out. “As far south as you can get.”

  “There’s Lesser Britain,” Rhiannon said. “That’s farther south.”

  The two exchanged glances.

  “My father says Lesser Britain doesn’t count,” Gaheris said, the apology back in his voice.

  “A lesser land of lesser lords,” Gawain said, with a tone which said he was quoting his father. “Here, drink more.” He pressed the jug upon her again.

  Gaheris was nineteen and Gawain eighteen, and they had both been fighting for two years. Agravaine, the next younger, was sixteen and this was his fir
st campaign season.

  “Although to hear him, you’d think he’d fought at Doward and Guannes and every battle between,” Gawain said, with a soft laugh.

  Gareth, the youngest son, was only thirteen and happy to be permitted to watch the battle by his mother’s side. “He’s gentle, is Gareth,” Gawain added. “We’ll have to watch out for him when Father does push him onto the battlefield.”

  Rhiannon did not have to prompt them with many questions. The two of them spoke with deepening frankness as the level of mead dropped. She learned that if she muted her reactions to what they were saying, they felt free to speak even more.

  They painted a picture for her of a fractious, temperamental family which argued more than it enjoyed each other’s company. Even their mother and father fought in bitter, loud arguments.

  “Our mother is a princess by marriage and inclined to speak her mind because of it,” Gawain explained. “My father likely wishes for a more biddable wife.”

  Gaheris snorted. “No, he doesn’t.” He drank deeply.

  Rhiannon suspected Gaheris’s quietness and shyness allowed him to see more about people than Gawain’s loud and happy nature did.

  There was a genuine bond between Gaheris and Gawain, though. At times, it seemed Gawain was the older man. He certainly seemed more worldly.

  He coaxed Rhiannon into telling them tales about her own childhood, growing up with Cai and Emrys and Myrddin, her tutor mother and philosophical father.

  “And you never suspected, not even once until today?” Gawain asked, sounding amazed.

  “He is just Emrys to me,” Rhiannon explained. “If you found out Gaheris was…was, say, Macsen Wledig come again, wouldn’t you have trouble believing it?”

  “Yes,” Gawain said instantly and flatly.

  Gaheris hit him.

  They rolled in the grass for a few moments, trying to grind each other’s cheeks into the dirt, while Rhiannon drank. Then they dusted themselves off and sat down again, breathing hard. Gawain took the jug from her.

  “Still,” he said, as if the interruption had not happened, “there must have been something which made you think he was…I don’t know. Different?” He screwed up his eyes, then drank.