War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Rhiannon caught her breath. Such a disaster! The symbolic disarming would send a shiver of fear through the British. It would check their momentum and give them pause. The Saxons would see it as a sign of triumph and push forward with renewed strength.

  “Arthur!” Uther shouted, in a voice which had been trained to be heard across battlefields.

  Emrys spun in his saddle and got his hand up as Uther threw his great sword to him, over the heads of the men shielding the High King.

  The sword flipped and spun, catching the sun.

  Rhiannon pressed her hand to her lips, to hold in her cry of surprise and joy.

  Emrys caught the sword and instantly turned and thrust it into the heart of the nearest Saxon, who looked down at it with a surprised expression.

  Bedivere and Idris, Lucan and Gawain, Pellinore and Cador, Bors, Leodegrance, Hoel, even Lot and Urien, who must have sensed the turn of the battle, all raised their swords and gave a great shout.

  The Saxons hesitated. Rhiannon felt their pause, the dismay which quickly spread from one to the other, infecting them like a sickness.

  They continued to fight, but their will was broken. Emrys led the field to victory, well before the sun lowered toward the horizon, while Uther, surrounded by Tristan’s brother Mark, Bevan and Ector, eased his way to the edge of the field and took up a place near to where Ilsa’s wing waited, their swords still sheathed.

  Uther wore a tired smile. His back was still straight but his hands were empty, as he watched the last of the battle play out below.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A surgery tent was hastily erected among the trees to shelter the worst of the wounded who were rushed back from Mercredesburne on wagons. Everyone with medical skill turned to succor the wounded and ease the dying. Merlin put aside his staff and stitched and wound bandages alongside everyone else. The political consequences of this great day would have to come later.

  It was a hard victory, which had taken a bloody toll, but it would likely be the last great standing battle this year. They had routed the Saxons, who would retreat to lick their wounds for a good long while.

  He became absorbed in his work, worries about the immediate future receding under the pressure to save lives.

  It was fully dark and had been for many hours when Merlin came upon the first of the dead. He checked the body. Still warm. The man had only just died, then. He considered the wounds. A deep belly wound with a smell which said more than one vital organ had been severed. Still, not enough to kill a man in a few short hours, even with the bouncing cart ride back from Mercredesburne…

  An instinct, mere suspicion, made Merlin lift his head and examine the next few wounded ahead of him. None of those men were moving, either.

  The far corner of the tent was in deep shadow, far away from the nearest bier. Merlin pointed to the corner and glanced at the boy carrying the torch he was using to work by. “Go over there,” he murmured.

  Puzzled, the boy dropped Merlin’s box of tools and walked up the narrow aisle between the heads of wounded and the feet of the men in the next row. The light from the streaming torch fell upon still more freshly dead men, until the shape of a woman crouched over the last, a cup to his lips, was revealed.

  Merlin strode forward, anger stirring. “What is that, Morgan?” he demanded, grabbing the cup. He smelled it and drew back at the sharp, distinct odor. It was a poison—a strong one.

  Morgan rose to her feet. She wore the same plain black gown as before. Her expression was defiant. “They’re dying,” she said, her voice low. “I am merely helping them along. It is mercy I give them.”

  Merlin dashed the contents of the cup to the ground at his feet and tossed the cup. It smacked the walls of the tent with a wet splash and slithered to the ground with a metallic ring. “They might have lived! Who are you to decide?”

  Morgan’s chin lifted. “They would not have. I saw it, Merlin, just as you did. Only, I accept what I see. I do not fight against it as you do. They were doomed.” She shrugged.

  Merlin nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Then you do have the Sight. I thought as much.” He gripped her arm and pulled her through the tent. Morgan struggled and clawed at his fingers to release his hold. She hissed in anger.

  Merlin paid no notice. He yanked her out into the fresh air of the night and tossed her onto the ground.

  Morgan propped herself up on one arm and spat. “You are a coward,” she said, her voice trembling. “You see as I do, yet you do nothing about it.”

  Merlin untied the tunic he had wrapped about his waist and thrust his arms into it and pulled it on. “You and your northern kin have done more than enough damage here. Go back to your king and tell him he is no longer welcome at Uther’s court.”

  Morgan drew herself to her feet, her fury making her seem even more beautiful and regal, despite the plain gown. “Who are you to tell me I must leave? I come and go by leave of the King!”

  “And I am the King’s son, the King’s nephew and the King’s uncle,” Merlin replied. “Take your pick,” he added dryly. “No matter which king sits upon the high chair, I stand by his side, which is more than I can say of you and your sister. If you value your pretty skin, Morgan, you will leave tonight, before the tide of opinion reaches the very edges of this camp and all hands are raised against you. Go home and let fading memory save you and Lot from being pulled apart in fury. Your work is done here.”

  A sudden malicious smile formed on her full lips. “Yes, it is done, in more ways than you know. You see great things, Merlin, but when it comes to the petty affairs of women, you are blind, aren’t you? Those petty affairs will be your doom.”

  Merlin laughed. “You think I do not know my own doom?” His amusement faded. “Go, before I am tempted to make you drink from the same cup you were using upon Uther’s men.”

  She turned, her chin still up, and walked away. When she was gone, the night felt cooler and fresher.

  Merlin went to wash and change his clothes. The affairs of the living were intruding. It was time to witness the next great changes.

  TRISTAN HUNCHED CLOSE TO THE fire yet shivered anyway. The sounds of victory and happy celebration echoed through the trees from the camps around them—all but the Kernow camp. Dinadan was off somewhere, stealing cups of wine while no one was looking and getting drunk. The Kernow fighters were finding food, treating wounds and resting…some were already sleeping. They silently passed wineskins around, mourning the loss of their king.

  A second cloak dropped around Tristan’s shoulders, heavy and warm. He glanced at the dark blue wool and sucked in a deep, startled breath, trying to shrug it off.

  It was his father’s cloak.

  His uncle, Mark, grabbed his shoulders and made him stay still. Then he crouched down beside him and stared at the flames for a long moment. His face was grave. The pulled down eye gave him a sad look, echoed in his turned down mouth.

  “Wear the cloak and honor your father,” Mark said softly.

  Tristan drew in a breath which shook. He refused to cry, although his eyes ached with the threat of them. “How am I supposed to honor him? You are the king, now.”

  Mark nodded. “It seems like cruel fate. Yet you will be glad you are a bastard, one day, when you understand the perils of leadership.” He leaned so his shoulder nudged Tristan’s. “You are young yet. Enjoy life while you can. You will be a man soon enough and then I will have need of you.”

  “You?”

  “Indeed,” Mark said gravely. “I want you to stay in my household. I want you to learn to be a great warrior and lead my army. And then, when it is time, you will take my place.”

  Tristan blinked, clearing his eyes. “As king,” he finished, his tone flat.

  “And my heir, yes,” Mark said. “The laws of Kernow allow me to choose my heir. I cannot choose a bastard of my own seed and neither could your father, which is why I must be king now. You will yet take your father’s place…only, when you have earned your repu
tation and the loyalty of the men of Kernow, which will make your rule much easier.”

  Tristan thought it through. “This is what my father wanted? For me to be king after you?”

  “He wanted you to be the very best at whatever you chose to be—king, warrior or man.”

  Tristan drew the blue wool cloak around him. “I can do that,” he murmured.

  Mark patted his shoulder and stood. “There will be more trouble before we are allowed to leave and return to Kernow. I must go and serve the High King a little while longer. Stay and watch the camp. I suppose Dinadan is out stealing wine again?”

  “You knew?” Tristan asked, startled.

  Mark winked at him. “I was fourteen once, myself.” He smiled as he left.

  EVEN THOUGH NO CALL HAD been made, the clearing where the King’s command tent was built filled with men who should have been celebrating the victory and getting drunk on relief and wine.

  They stood silently. Kings, dukes, petty lords, their ladies and companions, senior officers and war dukes. The might of Britain assembled, watching the King’s white tent.

  Rhiannon was one of them. There had been no discussion in the Galleva camp. They had seen to their wounded, taken the worst of them to the surgery, washed and changed, eaten hasty handfuls of food and come here to where they would hear the news first.

  Rhiannon stood with her mother and father and Cai. Ector had taken Idris and Emrys with him as soon as they had arrived at the camp. “Idris is safe only by Emrys’ side and Uther wants to see Emrys. So they must both go.” He patted Rhiannon’s cheek. “This will sort itself out,” he assured her, his wrinkled face creasing into a smile.

  She had tried to smile back.

  Now she stood with Cai and her parents, waiting to see the outcome of that conversation.

  The wide tent flap was pulled aside and Ector and Pellinore emerged, looking grave.

  More men emerged, with Uther between them. He sat upon his big chair, which had two spears thrust through the arms, by which the men carried it. His eyes were alive with life and energy—so similar to Emrys’ that Rhiannon marveled she had not noticed before. Nothing could hide the frailty of Uther’s body, though. He seemed to take up little space on the big chair. His cheek bones were high, as were Emrys’, while the cheeks beneath were hollow.

  A shiver and sigh went through the assembled people.

  Emrys walked behind the chair. His face was white, and his eyes shifted, as if he was trying to see everywhere at once. His hands were tightly fisted. Three paces behind him was Idris and a bevy of lesser lords—Cador, Druston and Leodegrance. Also, heavily veiled so her face was all but hidden, was the Queen.

  At the sight of Emrys, another soft ripple of sound moved through the crowd.

  The men lowered the chair to the earth, facing the fire and the throng which gathered around it. Igraine moved to stand at the back corner of it, within reach of Uther.

  The last to emerge from the tent was Myrddin. Merlin, Rhiannon corrected herself. Nothing of Myrddin was left in Merlin’s richly appointed appearance, while Emrys was still Emrys to her.

  Merlin slid between the lords and stood beside Uther’s chair. He gazed about the clearing. No doubt, he was assessing men and tallying the strength of their loyalty.

  The clearing was silent. Uther cleared his throat. “It is time to settle the matter which has remained unacknowledged by me, yet known by everyone, especially after today.” He glanced to the other side of the chair. “Arthur.”

  Emrys stepped forward. He wore the Galleva tunic, still slashed and blood splattered from the fighting. Rhiannon wondered why he had not been given clothes as rich as Merlin’s, then realized that the shredded tunic was a reminder of Emrys’ work in the field today.

  Emrys stopped by Uther’s chair, on the side opposite Merlin.

  “I declare to you now that this man you know as Emrys of Galleva is my son Arthur, borne by the Queen and raised under Merlin’s supervision until I had need of him. Now, I have need of him.”

  Emrys’s throat worked.

  No one spoke or moved. No shock showed in any face.

  “Today, I lost my War Duke, Tristan, King of Kernow. I appoint Arthur in his place—for he has already proved he is capable of—”

  “Declare the man properly, Uther!” The call came from the back of the fire.

  Rhiannon turned to see who had spoken. Her heart squeezed, for Lot and Urien stood there. It could have been either of them to make the demand. No one else would dare.

  Uther hesitated, his hand gripping the arm of the chair. His fingers were so frail they looked like talons.

  “Use your sword, King!” Urien shouted. “Make the bastard a proper War Duke.”

  Merlin frowned.

  Uther licked his lips, uncertainty playing across his face. He glanced up at Merlin and Rhiannon knew without doubt Uther was silently asking Merlin for help.

  “Uther already gave Arthur his sword today!” Merlin cried.

  “In the heat of battle,” Lot said. His smooth voice rolled across the clearing, sounding reasonable and steady. “I would give a man in need one of my own weapons, too. It means nothing. Now, in front of all these men, the meaning would be undeniable.”

  It made complete sense to Rhiannon, which gave her pause, for Lot of Lothian made the suggestion. She was suspicious.

  Mutters of agreement sounded around the clearing.

  “They want certainty,” her father murmured. “Who can blame them?”

  “I don’t like this,” her mother whispered back. “Neither does Merlin.”

  Rhiannon glanced at Merlin. He monitored the building calls for Uther’s sword and the symbolic tap on the shoulders which would dub Emrys his official War Duke.

  Igraine pushed between Merlin and Uther and held a cup out to Uther. He took it and gulped and handed it back. Then he lifted his hand, calling for silence. When he had it, he said, “Bring my sword. We will do this properly.”

  Three men ran for the tent and the rear compartment where the King and Queen slept. The big sword with its gold hilt and silver wire and the great red jewel in the pommel was sheathed. The sheath was still threaded upon the belt.

  Merlin looked as though he wanted to protest, only the eager sounds from the crowd made it clear they wanted this little by-play.

  Uther gripped the hilt. “As High King of Britain,” he said, drawing the sword.

  Cries of horror and dismay rose, for the sword was sheered clean, so that only a third of the blade remained.

  Uther stared at the broken sword, his mouth working. His eyes grew wider. Then he cried out and clutched at his chest, writhing.

  “Uther!” Igraine cried, pushing Merlin aside and reaching for him.

  Emrys spun on his heel to look at the High King. He moved toward him. Idris took a lunging step and held him back. He murmured something and Emrys nodded and stayed where he was.

  “What is it? What happened?” Rhiannon’s father breathed, his voice strained.

  Her mother told him softly. “I think…I think Uther’s time has come.”

  Merlin bent over the chair with Igraine, both hiding Uther from the stirring, uneasy people. Frightened voices lifted in query, uneasy mutters sounded. The shock of the broken blade touched everyone in the clearing, its dark meaning all too plain.

  Everyone but Lot and Urien, Rhiannon saw. They were not smiling—they would not be so foolish as to look pleased at their handiwork. They did not look shocked or unhappy, either.

  Merlin stepped away from the chair, removing his cloak with slow movements. He dropped the cloak over Uther and Igraine fell to her knees in front of the chair and rested her head on it. Her shoulders shook.

  Merlin turned to face the fire and the people who watched. “The High King is dead.”

  More mutters. Many people crossed themselves or made signs which served much older gods. A few sobbed.

  Merlin gathered himself to speak once more. “Uther is dead, yet his son live
s. All of you saw Arthur fight today. You followed him into battle. Have you any doubt he is Uther’s son and the rightwise King of all Britain?”

  “He’s a bastard without a sword!” Lot cried.

  Rhiannon dug her nails into her palms. The broken sword…such a simple thing, such a powerful weapon against Emrys. In the plain light of day, people were sensible and disinclined to believe in magic and symbols. Now, when their fear was high and the future uncertain, they grasped at such things to help them see a way forward.

  The broken sword told them Emrys was not the man to replace Uther. Lot played upon it, to turn opinion against Emrys.

  Rhiannon’s breath caught again as Idris moved away from Emrys, stepping into the open space between the fire and the big chair. He held up his arms. “Silence!” he bellowed in his deep voice. It rolled across the clearing.

  Silence was given to him. Everyone watched him.

  Idris looked around the clearing. “If my voice counts for anything, then it counts for Arthur.”

  “A slave?” Lot replied, his disdain making his mouth sneer. “Then Arthur, like you, counts for nothing.”

  Emrys jumped in front of Idris and drew his knife. “The true measure of a man is his loyalty and courage and we have all seen yours today, Lot of Lothian. Idris fought by my side. His voice counts. More than yours.”

  Idris stepped to one side of Emrys. He lifted his chin. “Glynn, Haul. Ithal. You have all fought with me for years. Mecal, Yale. Choose now. Choose to fight with a real man and a proper king.”

  The men standing behind Lot and Urien stirred, glancing at each other, then at Lot, their expressions fearful.

  “I’d fight beside Arthur any day he asks me to!” came a cry. The Lothian contingent shifted, people moving aside. Gawain stepped out, one foot up against the stones around the fire. He smiled. “Make room, make room,” he said, as he moved around the fire, heading for Arthur and Idris.

  The mutters grew louder. Lot scowled. Urien’s smile faded.

  “And I!” came another cry. Bedivere moved around the fire, heading for Emrys, too.