High King of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Why was she here?

  “WHY ARE YOU HERE, MORGAN?” Arthur demanded, as Morgan brushed at her gown and straightened the hem.

  Morgan glanced around the room, her full lips curving into a radiant smile. “All these men…just for me, Arthur?” She laughed. It was a merry, bright sound.

  Bedivere, Cai, Leodegrance, Lancelot, Pellinore…most of his senior officers were crammed into the tent. They all backed up, squeezing together to give Morgan space before the high chair.

  Now they were smiling at her self-deprecating humor.

  Arthur braced himself against the levity in her voice. “You interrupted a war council, Morgan. We have defeated the Saxons once more. It is not the end of our work, though. Say what you must, so I can return to it.”

  “So serious!” She smiled, and dimples formed. “Five years as War Duke has soured you, brother.”

  “Morgan…!” he growled.

  Her smile faded. “I cannot speak to you alone?”

  Cai cleared his throat. Arthur let his gaze shift to him. Cai rolled his eyes.

  Bedivere lifted a brow and Arthur nodded. In response, Bedivere turned and spread his arms. “Let us give them the room. We can finish talking around the fire pit.”

  The men all shuffled toward the exit.

  “Cai, stay with me,” Arthur murmured.

  Lancelot patted Arthur’s arm. Arthur scowled. He knew what Lancelot had not said. He was happy to leave Arthur to deal with the woman.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed as her gaze fell on Lancelot. “You are a new one,” she said, her tone curious.

  Lancelot turned and faced her squarely and bowed. “I did not have the pleasure, when you were last in the High King’s company. Lancelot of Benoic, my Lady.”

  “Lancelot du Lac…” Morgan breathed.

  Lancelot grimaced. “I was raised by the Lady of the Lake, but I prefer—”

  “Benoic no longer exists, yes?” Morgan said.

  Lancelot hesitated. “For now, it is part of the Saxon territories, although that is a temporary—”

  “Thank you, you may go,” Morgan said.

  Lancelot paused. Then he swept into a low, elegant bow, and turned on his heel. As his eyes met Arthur’s, he widened them comically. His face, as he turned toward the tent door, smoothed out and become expressionless.

  “You remember my foster brother, Cai?” Arthur said, as Morgan’s gaze fell on him.

  Morgan considered Cai, and Cai shifted on his feet.

  “They say you can fight for five days and five nights, without sleep, food or wine,” Morgan said.

  Cai stopped shifting. He snorted. “Five hours, perhaps.”

  “Try ten,” Arthur amended.

  “It was only the once, and I slept for days after.” Cai’s cheeks tinged pink, for Morgan stared at him with open admiration.

  “I trust you feel more comfortable speaking with me now, Morgan?” Arthur said.

  She resettled her sleeve. “I believe there is little more I can add to what Idris’ spy would have told you, brother. Urien is dead.”

  “You sound singularly upset about it,” Arthur replied.

  “He was a brute,” Morgan said. “I am glad to be rid of him. But I did not kill him.” Her gaze lifted from her sleeve, to skewer Arthur. Her eyes were beautiful and quite beguiling.

  Arthur thought of Morguase and hardened his heart. “Perhaps you gave the order.”

  “To have him killed in my own bed? I am not a fool. If I had given such an order, Urien would have died in a way which roused no suspicion at all, and far, far away from where I happened to be.”

  Oddly, Arthur believed her. “For now, I will accept you are innocent, although we will continue the search for answers. It just leaves the question of what to do with you.” He waited.

  Morgan returned to fussing with her sleeve once more, her clever fingers picking over the embellishment. “I have…” She cleared her throat. “Cador would not want me in Tintagel and that is the only home I have ever known. I thought…perhaps…might I not stay by your side, brother?” She lifted her gaze.

  Arthur recognized the discomfort in her eyes. Morgan was a proud woman. This was as close to begging as she could get.

  “I understand your children are with you?” he said, letting his tone grow kinder.

  “Morfydd and Owain,” Morgan said. “I would not leave them behind.” A hard note rang in her voice, of which he approved. Whatever Morgan was, she was also a mother.

  “This is not a king’s court, Morgan,” he replied. “This is a working, mobile army. Everyone here contributes in some way—even the women who do not fight provide succor and services which support the army. You cannot linger here as a lady of leisure.”

  Morgan’s chin lifted a fraction. “I am a superior surgeon, Arthur. Ask Merlin. He will vouch for me. I have a way with herbs and…other things.”

  Arthur suspected those other things were what earned Morgan her reputation as a witch. He crossed his arms. “The last time you and your sister were in the south, your contingent stirred up trouble we can ill afford to spend time to deal with, these days. Cai manages everything to do with the camp and will monitor your activities. If you fall back into your old ways, if you incite any mischief at all, I will toss you from the camp. Do you understand?”

  Morgan’s jaw grew iron hard. Her eyes glittered. “Oh, I understand perfectly, little brother.” Her tone was cool.

  “Then, be at peace. You are welcome here under those terms.”

  Her chin stayed up. For a long moment, she did not speak. Then, with a strained tone, she said, “I and my children thank you.”

  Arthur nodded.

  Morgan picked up her hem and swept from the tent.

  Unlike the gossips insisted, the tent did not feel dimmer once she had departed. It actually felt brighter.

  “You must watch her, Cai,” Arthur said. “Morgan is as slippery as an eel.”

  Cai rubbed at the back of his head. “Maybe you should have Lancelot do the watching. She seemed to take a shine to him.”

  “Afraid of her, Cai?” Arthur asked, smiling.

  “As a mouse is of owls,” Cai responded. He plucked at his tunic. “I’ll break out in hives, I know it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Even before the Romans had built their barracks and declared the place to be called Segontium, there had been Britons living here. The Segontiaci tribe had settled where they could see the straits and lived in peace for generations, until the Romans arrived.

  Once he had subdued the tribe, the Roman emperor, Agricola, declared the vantage point a good one and ordered a fort be built. Segontium had been the major Roman military town in the north.

  Once the Romans deserted the place, Segontium had returned to a small village, while the once magnificent legion barracks crumbled with neglect.

  Nimue rode at a slow pace along the street which ran between old Roman villas and houses the locals had taken for their own. Smoke rose lazily from chimney holes, while chickens and ducks scratched between the stones of the street, looking for seeds and greens.

  This corner of Britain had never seen a Saxon invasion and the domestic peace was soporific…and pleasant. Nimue kept her cloak pulled in around her, so her presence was not noticed and did not change the gentleness in the air.

  The road climbed the mild slope to the top of the hill. Her horse, weary from the long travel, took the gradient a step at a time. It was a cold afternoon. The sky was cloudless and pale. Not a breath of a breeze disturbed the day. It was as if the very air itself waited.

  The tension in Nimue’s chest and belly relayed that expectation. Her heart had strummed as soon as the first red-tiled roofs came into view. She had let the horse find its own way along the cleared and well-maintained road, while she sampled with her mind the way ahead.

  Even before she reached the village, she knew her destination was beyond it. Higher.

  The fort was the only location higher than the town. It
overlooked the people it had protected for hundreds of years.

  Nimue studied the walls of the fort as she crested the low hill and they came into view. The locals had carried away with them anything of use they could find in the empty buildings. Loose stones and those they could pry loose had been reused for newer buildings in the village and farther afield. It left the fort’s perimeter wall a gap-toothed relic.

  In the gaps she could see the barracks beyond. Those walls still looked solid. The barracks rooms and offices would be empty of everything but ghosts of soldiers and officers. No Briton cared to use the rooms as living quarters, no matter how sound the roof.

  Nimue returned once more to the troubling idea that a treasure as great as the sword of Macsen Wleddig would be here in this place. Yet the tugging at her heart and mind was coming from somewhere up here.

  She stopped at the high walls and slipped wearily from the saddle. For a moment, she clung to the saddle to maintain her balance and waited for strength to return to her legs.

  “Nimue.”

  Nimue turned, knowing who she would see. “Merlin.”

  Merlin stood at the higher corner of the wall, his staff before him. He wore a hooded cloak and dark clothes, as always. The hood shadowed his features. Mud caked his boots, speaking of hard travel. He came toward her with long strides.

  “Did Vivian send you?” Nimue asked.

  “I saw it, too,” Merlin said. He studied her, his eyes narrowed. Then he reached beneath his cloak and unclipped a flask from his belt. “Here. This will help.”

  Nimue drank without concern. Nothing Merlin gave her could harm her. Not now. The wine and herbs were fresh and potent, although cooler than they would have been. Energy surged through her as the herbs did their work. She handed the wine back. “Thank you. Then, you are here to find it, too?”

  Merlin shook his head. “I think I am here purely as a witness. For whatever reason, this work is for you to complete.”

  They both turned toward the barracks. Silently, they passed through the gate. Long ago, it would have been barred by stout oak doors. The doors were long gone—the timbers and even the iron and hinges would now serve other purposes.

  Nothing stirred.

  They moved around the buildings to the alley which ran between them, then through to the wider exercise yard.

  “There is nothing here,” Merlin said. “Not even the spirits.”

  Nimue already knew that herself. “Still, we must search,” she said. “Perhaps this is to remind us.”

  “Of life under a conqueror’s heel?” Merlin said. The corner of his mouth lifted. “We are really in need of such a reminder? Us?”

  “The gods don’t explain themselves.”

  “No,” he said with feeling. “Very well. Every building. Every room. Lead the way, my Lady.”

  MORGAN GAVE THE BABE ONE more firm pat, as the child murmured. “Here. Take the boy, Rhiannon. He will settle now.” She shuffled on her knees over the rug which softened the floor of the jolting cart and placed the swaddled baby into Rhiannon’s arms.

  Rhiannon stared down at the tiny pink features, a tight furrow between her brows. She looked exhausted, Mair thought.

  “It is truly remarkable,” Rhiannon breathed, her voice just above a whisper. “I could not stop him crying at all.”

  “Because you are tired and because the way you hold him tells him you are unsure of yourself.” Morgan settled on the cushion they had offered her. “Even babies can sense such things. If you are confident in your handling, he will sense it and trust you.”

  Rhiannon blinked, as her eyes filled with tears. Mair watched them form with alarm. Rhiannon was not a woman who cried. Not even when she was in pain. Now her tears trickled weakly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “Anwen was such a peaceful child, in comparison.” Her gaze flickered toward the little girl sitting beside her with her thumb in her mouth, her big black eyes—so like her father’s—wide and curious. “I was at the end of my wits…” She wiped her cheeks again. “Thank you, Morgan. Your help has been welcome.”

  And unexpected, Mair added to herself. She let her gaze drift over Morgan once more. The remarkable thing was that the Queen of Lothian sat in this poor, rattling cart, ministering to Rhiannon and actually helping.

  They had been three days on the road and would be in Venta Belgarum by tomorrow night. They had been stressful days for Rhiannon. The babe was so new, she could not ride on horseback and was forced to travel in a cart which had been hastily cleared for her. Cloth was stretched over the top, to shield the sun and shed the rain. Otherwise, the cart was open at the sides and dusty.

  Idris had arranged for cushions and a rug to hide the planks. Still, the jolting progress of the cart had unsettled the baby. His screams continued for more than a day. He had fussed and refused to feed, while everyone traveling around the cart rubbed at their temples as the cries went on and on.

  Shortly after they had got underway this morning, Morgan gave a soft click of her tongue when the baby cried once more. She tossed her reins to the cart’s driver with a curt order to fasten them to the cart. Morgan hopped across to the moving cart from the back of her horse with an elegant motion.

  Startled and somewhat alarmed, Mair gave her reins to Rawn and swung up into the cart herself. She didn’t trust Morgan an inch. No one in the camp did.

  Only now, Mair studied the queen and tried to understand the fearsome rumors about her. The fact was, Morgan had been one of the most helpful and pleasant women Mair had ever traveled with. She seemed to appear at the exact moment someone needed…well, almost anything.

  Morgan’s chest of unguents and medicines seemed bottomless. The medicines bought relief, for they worked. She would tilt her head to examine a scratch or a festering wound, or rest her hand against an aching head, then dip into the chest and withdraw a pot. With soft murmurs of sympathy, she would apply the ointment, or clean a wound and then leave with a soft smile and an assurance that soon, they would feel better.

  If it was not the endless supply of medicines Morgan offered, it was wisdom and experience in an astonishing array of subjects, from mothering a child, as she was doing now, to the ailments which could inflict horses’ hooves, to the assessment of metals. Mair had seen her hold up a sword to the sun, then swing it through the air so it sang, then hand it back with a twist of her mouth. “‘tis good for naught but prodding, my lord,” she had regretfully informed Hector, who had claimed the sword on the battlefield. “If you were to use it as a cutting weapon, it would chip and shatter.”

  Her assessment had been proved accurate that night. When they were camped, Hector had tested the handsome sword against a cabbage draped with plated leather armor. The blade had cracked, the end flipping up into the air with a sour note of stressed iron, while everyone fell back with hearty laughter.

  And now Morgan dispensed advice to Rhiannon. Indeed, she had settled the baby within a few short minutes and now he was suckling steadily, while Morgan watched with a warm smile.

  Where in this pleasant and helpful woman was the witch of the north Mair had heard so much about?

  The little girl, Anwen, tugged on her mother’s sleeve. Rhiannon frowned. “I’m sorry, my darling one. You must wait a moment.”

  Anwen tugged even harder.

  “Mair, play with her,” Morgan said softly. “Distract her, so she does not think herself slighted by her mother’s focus on the boy.”

  Mair’s eyes grew wider. She looked from Morgan to the little girl. Anwen’s dark brows were pulled together, just as Rhiannon’s did before her temper flared.

  Mair hesitated. She knew nothing about mothering children. She had never held a baby. She had never picked up a small child. She had never even spoken to one. How was she supposed to distract a determined little girl? She was a fighter, not—

  “Is that fear I see in your eyes, Mair?” Morgan laughed softly. She leaned forward and balanced herself on one hand. Then she plucked Anwen’s hand away
from Rhiannon’s sleeve. “Come here, my sweet. Come and see what I have here.” She drew the girl toward her and settled on the pillows again. She plopped the girl on her lap. “See…what is this?” She opened her hand. A gold coin rested upon the palm.

  Mair frowned. She had not seen Morgan pick up the coin. Where did she get it? Mair had seen few coins in her lifetime, and never a gold one.

  Anwen stared at the shiny thing, then looked up at Morgan.

  Morgan nodded. “Yes, you can pick it up.”

  Anwen gripped the coin in her tiny fist and examined it.

  Morgan smoothed her curls and looked over the top of her head at Mair. “You have your guard up against the wrong danger, Mair of Corneus.”

  Mair’s heart slammed against her chest, stealing her breath. The odd note in Morgan’s voice reminded her strongly of Merlin. “Why do you say that?” she demanded.

  Morgan blinked. “Say…?” she breathed. She shook her head. “Goodness. Pay me no mind.” She lifted Anwen up. “Here, take her. Oh, she won’t damage you, Mair. Put her on your knee and let her sense your warmth. She will play with the coin until her mother can spare her a few moments.” Morgan smiled at Rhiannon, who smiled back. “Then you must get some sleep, yes? Perhaps Idris could take Anwen on his horse?”

  Mair lifted Anwen and brought her over to where she sat, as Morgan had directed. She was surprised at both the small size and unexpected weight of the girl. Copying what Morgan had done, Mair settled Anwen on her knee.

  “Are you leaving, Morgan?” Rhiannon asked, her voice rising.

  Morgan lifted herself to her feet. “You do not need me anymore.” Her tone was confident. “By tonight, you will have nearly forgotten the last few days.” She cupped the baby’s downy head. “What is his name?”

  “Emrys Myrddin,” Rhiannon said.