He picked up a large wooden ball from the bench where he had sat, lifted it, touched his shoulder with it, and set it down again, his face contorted. ‘That,’ he said, breathing hard.
‘It is a good beginning,’ Branwen said. ‘I did not know. I was told only that you were wounded. My father knows, does he not? That old priest who made me a sour face when I came in, he knows! But me – me, I am queen of the Brigantes for the good it does me – no one tells me!’
‘No one tells anyone!’ Vortrix snapped. ‘Not even your father and the healer priest know for sure. I do not give up the kingship so easily. There are too many of my loving family who would be pleased beyond bearing to invoke the law if they knew.’
‘Me among them, I suppose?’
‘Nay, but a woman’s tongue—’
‘Mother of us all, what do you think I am, a chattering serving wench? I am your wife! I leapt the Beltane fires with you not a year ago! Of what does my lord suspect me, conspiring to wed your cousin and set him in your place?’
‘No! It must come to a test and I need time. That is why I have set it about that I am still sick with the wound fever. All the same, I would have you remember that I am king,’ he added softly. ‘Never think to rule me, lady.’
‘Treat me as your queen and I’ll not try.’
Vortrix eyed her consideringly. ‘Come then,’ he said roughly and pulled her to him. ‘Branwen, I am sorry,’ he said into her hair.
‘Then I am sorry too.’ She was still stiff. ‘It may chance that I can help you exercise that arm.’
‘That is possible.’ A smile twitched under the corners of his blond mustache. ‘At all events, it is comfortable to have you here.’
* * *
Vortrix lay back on the bed, eyeing his queen as she brushed the tangles from her hair. He grinned to himself. Well, that was one thing he could still do with his arm. Branwen looked up from her hairbrush and grinned back. It occurred to him that he wasn’t really sure how much he knew about this tall, golden girl he had taken to wife, perhaps half for her father’s position and half for her beauty and her wide hips. Vortrix needed sons, and as soon as possible, if the same squabbling that took place when his father died was not to undo his own work after him.
‘Do you really want to know what’s going on?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Of course I do,’ Branwen replied, placidly brushing her hair. ‘And you, you wear yourself thin with being alone and with having no man who knows your heart.’
‘No. I will not burden Galt with a knowledge that might set his conscience at odds with his love for me. And I know of no man save him that I would trust completely. And one other, perhaps, if things had fallen differently.’
‘And who is that one?’
Vortrix gritted his teeth as he shifted position on the bed. ‘He gave me this,’ he said, holding up his bad arm.
Branwen was silent for a moment. Then she came and sat on the floor by the bed. ‘You are too young to have been so long alone. It’s cruel.’
‘I have survived. My loving family has tried, and yet… I survive.’
‘When Arviragus your father died, Dubric who should have been regent took the throne instead. And when Dubric died and Rhiada his brother would have ruled, the clans spoke for you, not for Rhiada or Cawdor his son. So much I know. No more.’
‘The wolves are waiting. If I let loose my grip just once, they will pull me down and everything I would do.’
‘Cawdor is a wolf?’
‘In full cry. Remember how he tried to win the war band to him last year. That cost us sore.’
‘You should have killed him.’
‘So says Galt. But there are others. And none of them can hold the Brigantes as one people except me. And if we are not one people, we will be no people. Rome will scatter us. But will they see that, stupid old men? No, they blether about their home fields and who will look after them when they take the war trail. Or they fight among each other over who has precedence or who does not send his fair share of men to the war band.’
‘Now they also fight over whether or not the High King has the use of his arm,’ Branwen said.
‘How long can your father hold them in check?’
‘Yet awhile. But you must show yourself soon.’ She reached out to touch his arm and looked him in the eye. ‘It may not heal, you know.’
* * *
It was dusk when Branwen slipped out, leaving Vortrix asleep, in the company of a nightmare full of wolves. When she returned, she informed the old priest curtly that she was here to stay and he might as well get used to the idea. He departed, muttering and scandalized, and the High King’s lady settled herself grimly in front of the hearth, a dagger in her lap and fire in her eye.
* * *
Unlike the previous year’s, this winter was a mild one, and two days later the High King professed himself far enough recovered to walk in the winter sun. Beside him went Branwen like a large golden shadow, smiling, placid, and watchful, her arm linked through his bad one, and chatting of new hangings in the Great Hall for the benefit of any nearby ears.
‘Crowded, isn’t it?’ Vortrix murmured. The courtyard was fuller than usual of people who had no business to be there. ‘Dawid!’ he called, and a small form skittered across the snow and bowed. One of Vortrix’s ‘hounds,’ the grandson of old Cathuil, and Branwen’s nephew.
‘My lord.’ He beamed. ‘I’m… I’m so glad to see you well.’
‘Thank you,’ Vortrix said gravely. ‘You must credit your aunt with that. A most excellent nurse. Go you and find me Cathuil your grandsire.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The boy hesitated. ‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Dawid?’
‘Some of your Council, my lord. And – others. They all want to see you.’
Vortrix turned to look at Branwen, and then, like a pair of golden hawks, they both turned to look at the figures gathered in the courtyard.
‘I have every intention of indulging them,’ said the king.
* * *
The Great Hall was crowded. The High King’s family holding was not so large as the King’s Hall at Isurium Brigantum, but it had the advantage of being less accessible to the Roman kind, tucked away in a defensive position high in the hills. And it was peopled with folk who had served the High King’s family for generations, an advantage grimly noted by the High King’s Lords of Council.
The Council Lords were all there tonight, as well as the other tribal lords who had gathered at the start of winter to see whether the High King lived or died, and who remained still camped in and about the High King’s hall. Cathuil, with his rheumatism bundled against the night in a wolfskin cloak and leggings, was there in his official position as chief Council Lord and father-in-law of the High King, and unofficially to serve as watchdog on the rest of them. If Vortrix’s arm did not heal, Cathuil would support tribal law and a new king. The king was god for the Tribe, and a maimed god brought ill for his people. But until the matter was clear one way or the other, the young king was going to have his chance.
Red-haired Donal, Branwen’s brother and the father of Dawid… Dependable and unimaginative, he had helped his father carry the High King’s inert form back that night, deposited him with the healer priest, and asked no questions.
On the other side of the hall, Galt, leader of the king’s household warriors, whose feminine airs and graces belied a magic with horses and a silken feel of danger that few had the nerve to challenge. Resplendent in a red cloak and golden arm rings that clinked musically as he moved, Galt circulated among the throng, showing off his new harp and keeping a careful eye on anyone he thought might be unwise enough to start anything. Cawdor, for instance, his reddish hair braided and tied back, warming his hands at the hearth and carefully keeping his eyes on nothing in particular, while noticing everything. Or Berec, who had been a hound in Dubric’s household. Or Conor, who had ever an eye to the main chance. Or even Talhaiere, chief priest of the Tribe, who would wield his not inco
nsiderable power with the clans against any king whose actions might call down the god’s wrath.
Galt ran his fingers along the harp strings, picking out a few shimmering notes, and strolled over to prop himself against the wall and play with the beginnings of a tune, one ear cocked toward the talk between Berec and Conor.
‘… never any use from that arm,’ Berec was saying. ‘A maimed man to lead us. It will anger the god and he will lead us all to hell.’
‘The law is quite clear on that, of course,’ Conor murmured. ‘If, of course, he is truly maimed.’
‘No man survives a wound like that with a whole arm. Better they had left him to the Romans.’
‘And left the way open for – whom?’
‘There are others with as good a right as Vortrix. Other men who are whole.’
Conor smiled sweetly. ‘Then I would give those other men a piece of advice. If they are strong enough, let them take the kingship now, before the god becomes offended – or the High King’s arm can heal.’
‘The High King’s arm is strong enough to take that other man’s head off.’ Galt spoke aloud to no one in particular, and Berec whirled around.
‘It is an offense to—’
‘It is an offense to the High King to talk treason in his own hall! The man who does so may find more fight on his hands than he wants, friend adder-tongue.’ Galt slid his hand down to the dagger at his gilded belt and Berec turned furiously away.
Cawdor, who had been observing, took Berec by the arm and said something to him in a low voice, and Berec moved toward a gathering of tribal lords from the westernmost settlements.
There was a stirring from the far end of the Great Hall and an icy blast of wind preceded the High King into his council.
Vortrix’s eyes were as coldly blue as the wind which sent the smoke from the hearth whirling upward, and his golden hair hung loose under the deeper gold of the circlet that crowned it. Gold shone bright around his neck and arms and he wore the sword which had belonged to the High King his father before him. As he reached the hearth he stopped and coldly surveyed the room. The smoke-grey wool of his shirt and breeches blended with the fire’s smoke and he looked grim and inhuman, a winter king born of the ice and snow and the howling wind outside. His eyes traveled slowly around the hall, noting Cathuil, grey as an old watchdog and grim-faced, softening as they reached Galt, and turning brittle again as he saw Cawdor bowing gravely before him.
Vortrix bent to retrieve a small twig, smoldering at one end, which had rolled from the hearth, and pitched it into the heart of the fire with his wounded arm. There was a murmuring behind him and, satisfied with the effect he had created, he strode to the end of the hall and seated himself there, nodding to Cathuil to proceed.
The old Council Lord raised his hand for a silence that was already there, as, their murmuring stilled, they waited for the High King to speak.
For a long moment, Vortrix merely sat and watched them, hawk-wise, until Berec began to fidget and even Talhaiere looked uncomfortable, although the talk was none of his doing. Conor merely seemed amused.
‘It pleases me to see so many of my spear brothers in my hall,’ Vortrix said, ‘but it troubles me somewhat that concern for my welfare should so long have kept you from your fields and hearths. I am sure the wolf guard has need of every spear, even though the Mother has blessed us with a lighter winter than our last. We must take council quickly and then I must let you go.’
‘Go back to what?’ a voice cried. ‘My steading burned, my sons dead – what have I to return to?’
Vortrix’s voice was gentler. ‘I also grieve to see so many of my brothers missing. We must hope to have learned a lesson in unity from this summer’s losses. While we quarreled among ourselves, the Painted People were let to slip by our guard. While we fought them, the Romans gathered strength.’ He eyed Cawdor for an instant, then turned again to the old man. ‘And yet, we must go on. We have no choice if we are not to live all our days with Rome’s hand on our necks.’
There was a murmur of assent, and the old man slowly straightened himself. ‘Aye, lord. I would not see my sons’ sons chattel on their own land.’
‘And whom will you follow in this battle?’ a voice murmured from the shadows.
‘Aye, I canna send more men to a war band that will ride leaderless,’ a voice from the back of the hall spoke up. It was Duncan, stocky and greying, a veteran of many war trails, whose steading lay far to the north and west.
‘Aye, what of a leader with an arm he cannot use?’ Berec took up the cry.
‘You saw him use it not five minutes ago!’ Cathuil roared.
‘To pick up a twig, no more,’ Cawdor’s smooth voice interrupted. ‘The question is, how much use has the High King of his arm? You cannot lead a war band with a twig.’
‘It is the law!’ Berec shouted. ‘Remember the law, my brothers!’
‘Enough!’ Vortrix was standing, blazing with fury, sword in hand. ‘Am I a chariot horse for sale that you discuss me among yourselves in my own hall? You, Berec… and you, Cawdor… you’ve tried this before and are lucky to have the breath still in you – do you question my right to hold the kingship? It is mine by right of blood – and mine by right of battle –and I… will… not… let… it… go! See, I hold it – thus!’ He raised the sword in his right hand. ‘If you think you can take it from me, cousin, then try – Now!’
Cathuil drew in his breath sharply. What did the young fool think he was doing? That arm would never hold. Oh, fool!
Could he use it, Galt wondered, or couldn’t he? If he couldn’t, he was taking a superb risk! Galt almost laughed at the beauty of it – what was behind the door, the lady or the serpent? With a bad arm, Vortrix didn’t stand a chance. But Vortrix with two good arms was capable of dealing with Cawdor, or Berec… or even Conor… and Cawdor knew it. He had clamored for a test and Vortrix had offered him one, with a vengeance. But the price was high if he was wrong. Galt eyed Vortrix speculatively. That arm had looked bad enough the night he had helped old Cathuil steal the High King away from under the Romans’ noses, and he still remembered their last conversation in the hut of the healer priest. Galt knew there was a crimson scar the length of the High King’s arm hidden under his shirt sleeve. But it was the muscle under the scar that mattered.
Vortrix advanced a step toward Cawdor, the sword blade shining in the torchlight, his eyes blazing like a demon. ‘So! Who would sit in the High King’s place? You, Cawdor?’
Cawdor fidgeted with the jewel in his cloak pin, remembering. ‘Nay, I do not dispute you, kinsman. Later, should that arm fail you, we shall see.’
‘Fool!’ Conor murmured.
Vortrix sheathed his sword, hoping the trembling in his grip went unnoticed. ‘Let you bear witness, my brothers, that I have offered the test that was called for. Is there any other who disputes the High King’s right?’
‘Nay,’ Duncan spoke up. ‘It is proved.’ The old lord stomped to the front of the hall. ‘The man who willna back up his own words is none that I’d be following.’ He shot a contemptuous glance at Cawdor and stalked back to his place. ‘I am the king’s man.’
Cathuil breathed a sigh of relief. Duncan’s steading was small, but the old warrior’s word counted for much. Conor played silently with his dagger hilt. Cawdor was capable of stirring up trouble, but never of holding the Tribe under him. Fool not to have taken the thing when it was offered him. Vortrix’s arm was no good – Conor was almost sure of that. Well, when the test did come, it did not have to be Cawdor who sat in the High King’s place. Conor also had descent from the royal line, through his mother’s blood, which was the old way and not entirely dead.
The old way was the way of the Mother, of the dark things of the earth, when the Queen was ruler and goddess both for her tribe, and each king died in ritual battle with his successor, a blood sacrifice to the Mother that the land might be fruitful and peaceful. When the tall golden people had come overseas from Gaul when the world wa
s young, they had brought with them new ways, and the influence of the Mother had given way somewhat to the way of the Light, of Lugh Shining Spear, and the sacrificial death of the king had become a willing gift in time of great need, not a ritual slaughter. But the Mother held much sway still, especially among the Painted People and their left-hand kin, the little dark folk. Among the golden people, she was strongest in the women, and in the dark and secret places of a man’s mind. But descent in the female line remained a valid claim to the kingship, and Conor knew it, though he had no mind to rule as a seven-year king himself. It was merely the place to start.
Vortrix was seated again, dealing with plans for the spring. A vengeance-hungry Legion was not his only problem; the Painted People showed signs of moving south again, and as reports began to come in from the northernmost clans the picture looked grimmer than ever.
Generations ago, the Painted People had been pushed gradually northward by the settlements of the Brigantes and their kin, where they had mingled with the little dark folk who had been there before them, and where they remained a thorn in the flesh as much to the golden people as to the Roman kind. The Romans had slaughtered them by the thousands thirty years before, but now it seemed that they had gathered their strength and were ready to push southward again, toward their old domains. The untimely raid on the tribal horseruns had been only the beginning. The Brigantes, caught between the Painted People and the garrison at Eburacum, had need to make peace with one or the other. And the High King knew there was only one choice.
Vortrix beckoned to Galt and lowered his voice as the household captain dropped to one knee in front of him. ‘So, my friend, it is good to see you.’
Galt smiled. ‘And to see you, my lord. I have ever a soft spot for a man who takes a risk.’
‘It may be that we must take a bigger one yet, brother.’
* * *
The moon hung low over the heathered hills, a round, fat moon that shed a watery gleam on the rocks and new spring grasses in the rider’s path. The light changed almost constantly with the clouds which shifted now across the moon’s face, and now away again, but there was enough to see by… and to ride by, for a man who knew the country.
The Legions of the Mist Page 16
