Pendragon Rises

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  She did not challenge Anwen after that. The lesson continued, with Steffan introducing simple Latin words for objects in the room. Anwen helped them write the words.

  The time passed quickly. When Anwen heard the women coming down from the Duchess’ chamber to head for the kitchen for their noon meal, she took the girls’ slates from them.

  “You have done well this morning,” she told them, as she sent the girls from the room.

  Then she put the slates away. “I am going to find food for myself,” she told Steffan, collecting the bowl she’d used for her breakfast. “I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  She had her hand on the door latch when he spoke. He did not turn to face her, but spoke to the tabletop. “I suppose…I could eat here, after all.”

  Anwen struggled with the hot mix of feelings which sprouted at his observation. “You do not need to make it sound as though you are conferring a favor upon me. I like being alone and I withdraw the offer.”

  He turned about, lifting his legs over the bench and facing her. His eyes looked gray now. Storm clouds. “I do not like being alone,” he said. “It is not a condition I experienced until…”

  Until he was blinded and suddenly, no one sought his company.

  Anwen shifted on her feet. “You seek to make me feel pity for your plight and give up my solitude.”

  He shook his head. “I prefer to eat alone, for more reasons than to avoid the bad manners of other men.”

  Anwen rolled her eyes. “You cannot have it both ways. Either you want company or you want none. Pick one and hurry, for I am hungry and there is lamb stew.”

  “Mutton, actually. The smell is unmistakable,” Steffan said. “Someone should explain to the cook about the power of rosemary as an aromatic.”

  “You try my patience!” she said and stalked from the room.

  She found one of the staff in the kitchen and asked them for two bowls of the stew simmering in the big cooking pot on the fire. There were loaves left over from breakfast and she took one of the smaller ones. Juggling the hot bowls and the loaf, she carried them back to her room.

  The room was empty.

  Anwen ignored her disappointment. That left more for her to eat.

  She settled at the table, the wall at her back, and broke off a hunk of the loaf, dipped it in her stew and ate.

  The door unlatched and swung open. Steffan entered, carrying a stoppered flask and two cups in one big hand.

  Anwen lowered the bread, her heart pattering.

  He sniffed. “Bread, too. A feast.” He put the flask on the table and settled the mugs, then sat. He leaned the staff against the wall, then sat and swiveled to face the table and put his hands upon the surface.

  His sightless eyes moved to where she was sitting. There was an expression on his face which Anwen did not understand.

  “You must forgive the impertinence,” he said.

  “What impertinence?”

  He moved his hands across the table, feeling his way with his fingertips. They brushed over the bread and the bowls, including hers, the handle of her spoon and the back of her hand. Then he moved them back over to the other bowl. He picked it up and put it in front of him.

  Then, with the same waving of his fingers, he found the flask and the cups. He unstopped the flask and put his finger into the cup and poured the watered wine. When the liquid touched his finger, he stopped pouring. He took his finger out and shook it off, then pushed the cup toward her.

  “That impertinence,” he said, his voice strained.

  Anwen stared at him, her heart thudding with more than unease. This was why he preferred to eat alone. He didn’t like being alone. Yet he did not like people seeing his fumbling uncertainty, as he explored his food with his fingers and dipped them into his drink so he knew when to stop pouring.

  He was embarrassed.

  How mercilessly the other men must have tormented him for his awkward groping, to bring him to such a quandary!

  Anwen picked up her spoon once more. “I do not care one way or another about your manners,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “So long as you do not need me to entertain you with gossip and conversation while you eat, you may remain.”

  He sat motionless for more of her heartbeats. Then he drew a breath and let it out. Silently, he poured the second cup of wine, then licked the end of his finger.

  “Tonight, I will bring napkins, too,” Anwen added and ate.

  Chapter Eight

  Arawn should be out drilling his men, seeing to their duty rosters, and training the youngest recruits. Her children should be in the big tent where all the other small children who traveled with the High King’s court remained during the day. There, they learned lessons or played, while supervised and guarded by wives and soldiers. Sometimes they were permitted to walk upon the plains, with a suitable guard to escort them. That would not happen today, for the cold, overcast morning had turned into a chilly, rainy afternoon.

  Ilsa longed to be warm. The idea of mulled wine and warm furs had sustained her while she watched over Merlin until his sleep had become natural and relaxed.

  Only, Arawn was moving about the tent in impatient circles, while Ban and Bors, both red in the face with frustrated anger, tried to talk over the top of each other.

  Arawn spotted Ilsa as she ducked under the flap and relief showed on his face. “These domestic crises are endless,” he told her.

  “What has happened?” she asked, glancing at Bors and Ban. They were both handsome men, with clear eyes and skin, tall and well built. They favored closely cropped beards which outlined their jaws and strong chins.

  Neither looked handsome nor happy right now.

  Bors scowled at his brother. “The stupid git got Lady de Maris with child, that is what has happened.”

  “Oh…” Ilsa said, her heart sinking.

  It was an open secret that Ban had been sharing Suzanna de Maris’ pallet while her husband was patrolling the Saxon Shore borders at Ambrosius’ direction. Ilsa could even understand why Ban was drawn to the woman. She was fair, with dark hair and eyes which reminded Ilsa of Elaine, Ban’s wife.

  Ban shoved his hand through his curly hair. “It might not be mine,” he said. “There are other possibilities.”

  Ilsa winced. It was true Suzanna was free with her favors, although not of late. She had devoted herself to Ban’s company for some months, a fact which had not escaped most of the encamped army yet had apparently eluded Ban.

  Or perhaps, Ilsa thought, studying Ban’s unhappy features, he preferred to believe Suzanna had no attachment to him.

  Ilsa glanced at Arawn, who had returned to pacing. “This is not good. What message does it give the army, if their leaders cannot contain themselves?”

  “Exactly!” Arawn said, throwing out his hand, looking at Ban and Bors.

  Ban shook his head. “You think setting a good example will cure the illness which strikes this place?”

  Ilsa glanced at Arawn, startled. They had spoken about the declining morale in the camp more than once and wracked their minds for solutions. “Idle men make for mischief of the worst kind,” Arawn had growled. “It’s not just a matter of keeping them occupied and happy—they stop caring about everything when the rot sets in. Sentries stop patrolling diligently. Guards don’t bother challenging everyone who passes. Men become slower to respond to emergencies and alerts. It’s dangerous, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa had never thought peace might be dangerous. Now she understood why it might be so, among this company of highly trained and dangerous men who had spent their lives fighting wars and now had none left to fight.

  “It has been nearly a year since Ambrosius pushed the Saxons behind their own lines,” she murmured. “It is too long to hold an army together in this way.” She glanced around the temporary shelter. It was warm and comfortable, but only constant vigilance made it that way. Tents sprang leaks when least desired. Mud always tracked inside. The flaps and the hems of the tent let in drafts and c
hills.

  Ban looked at her. “A year we’ve been held here, waiting for Merlin to finish the damned monument to the fallen. A year too long. We fought for seven years. Seven!” He pushed his hand into his hair and clenched his head. “I left my new bride the day after the wedding and I haven’t seen Elaine since and that was eight years ago!” He spun to plead his case with Arawn. “You must understand, Arawn—I do not regret a single year of the time we have spent fighting for Ambrosius and Britain. I would do it all again. This waiting, though…I am so sick and tired of this place!”

  Arawn came over to Ban and pressed his hand upon his shoulder. “I know, friend. I know. I will speak to Ambrosius on your behalf and see if a dispensation can be made. I think it is time you went home.”

  Ban shuddered. “Just to behold the forest again would ease the sickness in my chest. To see Elaine…”

  Arawn shepherded the pair to the tent opening, assuring them he would speak to Ambrosius at the earliest moment. Then he came back to Ilsa and took her in his arms.

  He was warm against her and Ilsa sighed.

  “I thank the gods you are here, every single day,” Arawn murmured. “I would look as Ban does, if you were not. Every deprivation and discomfort my selfish need has put you through, I will spend the rest of my life redressing and I will do it happily.”

  “I’m glad I’m here, too,” Ilsa said against his chest. “Although I must admit, sometimes I yearn for the softness of our bed in Lorient.”

  “We can’t go home,” Arawn said heavily. “Not until the High King gives us leave and even then, I would not. We must stay to witness the final resting place of the fallen ones, Ilsa. We must honor them.”

  “I agree,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “Although, perhaps this endless waiting has an end coming into view. I was talking to the engineers this morning.” He took her shoulders and moved her away from him so he could see her face. “They say the work on the standing stones is nearly done and will certainly be done in time for the ceremony.”

  “In time?” she asked, confused. “Won’t the ceremony be scheduled after the work is done?”

  Arawn shook his head. “There is some special alignment of the stones and… Merlin and the other mages would give a better explanation. Even the engineers are convinced there is only one day of the year when the ceremony can be held.”

  Invisible fingers walked up Ilsa’s spine. “When?” she asked, her throat tight.

  “Dawn, at mid-winter,” Arawn told her. “By years’ end, we could be on our way home, Ilsa.”

  Mid-winter.

  Ilsa tried hard to show enthusiasm for Arawn’s news but could not.

  Mid-winter and the fall of the red dragon…and the coming of the once and future king.

  GORLOIS RETURNED TO TINTAGEL UNEXPECTEDLY, in the late autumn. He rode with a small, fast retinue of men. Ambrosius had given him only twelve days leave. Eight of them were taken up with travel from and the return to Amesbury.

  The entire fortress fell into hysteria when they realized he had returned. Women giddily donned their best and prettiest gowns. Men bathed in the rivers and the sea. Everyone scrambled to look their best.

  Morgan and Morguase were even more distracted by their father’s return, crowding up against the window which looked upon the square for a glimpse of Gorlois among the men. Even before the horses had been led away, Anwen declared no more lessons would be given until Gorlois left once more. Morgan did not protest, and Morguase’s hasty departure left the door swinging.

  Anwen smiled as she shut the door once more and came back to the table to stack the slates.

  Steffan had already placed them in a neat pile and held them out to her.

  “You should change, too,” Anwen told him, taking the slates.

  “Why?” he asked, sounding startled.

  “When Gorlois learns that you are teaching his daughters, he will expect you to present yourself to him.”

  Steffan’s eyes narrowed. “I had not thought of that,” he admitted and got to his feet.

  “There is no rush, though,” Anwen said.

  “He will not expect everyone to attend him in the upper chamber immediately?” Steffan asked, raising a brow. He reached for the staff.

  “I thought you fought by Gorlois’ side?” Anwen replied.

  “I did,” Steffan said, with the flex of his jaw which Anwen had learned was a sign the conversation had strayed into painful territory for him.

  “Then how is it you do not know that the very first thing Gorlois will do upon his return is shut himself in Igraine’s bedchamber?”

  Steffan’s unseeing gaze settled on her face. His smile was small and for a moment, heat flickered in his eyes.

  Anwen’s breath evaporated between one heart beat and the next. It was simply not there. Her heart knocked heavily. Her limbs shook, while the core of her grew warmer.

  What was happening? It felt as though the room had suddenly grown far too hot.

  Steffan cleared his throat. “How would I know that?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “Gorlois has never brought his wife with him on campaigns.”

  Anwen tried twice to speak. She tore her gaze away from his face and closed her eyes. With a deep inhalation, she could speak evenly. “You should go.”

  He did not move.

  “Go!” she said, her voice tight.

  Steffan moved to the door.

  “A moment!” She hurried to the narrow table against the wall and grabbed the white, folded garment on the top of the pile. “Here. Take it.”

  Steffan held out his hand. She laid the garment on his palm. He curled his fingers over it. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A shirt. I suggest you wear it when you present yourself.”

  He felt the cloth in his hands. “You made this? For me?”

  “Do not flatter yourself. It was found in the storeroom among a great many others. I had it washed, that is all. It should fit. The man it belonged to was a giant.”

  He nodded and gripped the shirt in his fist. “Thank you.”

  “Now go,” she said irritably.

  He left without another word.

  IT WAS NOT REQUIRED THAT Igraine’s women attend Gorlois, yet Anwen found herself climbing the circular stairs anyway, drawn by the bubbling good humor drifting through the corridors. Gorlois’ return had energized everyone.

  She found her customary spot between the big window and the wall tapestry. The tapestry showed the final bloody battle of Macsen Wledig, with his great sword picked out in yarns of extraordinary fineness. They were gray threads, although in the right light, the sword glowed silver and white.

  Gorlois emerged from the inner sanctum with Morgan’s small hand in his. Morgan’s face was shining with happiness. Morguase trailed behind them.

  Gorlois did not let go of Morgan’s hand when he reached the big chair. He lifted her up and settled her on his knee. Morgan giggled and stroked his chin and the thick red beard which grew there.

  Anwen smiled. Morgan approved of this change in Gorlois’ appearance.

  Igraine emerged from the chamber as the last of the household assembled in the antechamber, facing the big chair. She took up her place beside the chair. Her hair hung freely about her shoulders and tumbled down her back, making her look younger than she was. The loose gown she wore looked hastily donned, too.

  Gorlois looked about the almost-circular room, scanning the faces. He wore a pleased expression. Igraine had often spoken of how much Gorlois enjoyed the comforts of home and the simple life to be found here.

  Then his smile checked. He frowned, peering. “Steffan…?” he said. He lifted his hand and beckoned. “Is that really you?”

  The attendees in the room stepped aside, clearing a path for Steffan, who was easily taller than all of them.

  He moved along the path they had made, the staff swinging in low arcs. “It is I, my lord.” He stopped before the chair. He had donned the shirt she gave him, then put the jerkin
back on, too, to hold in the excess of material. The shirt was overlarge even on him. He had left off his cloak. “Does the High King still camp beside the standing stones, my lord?”

  “He does,” Gorlois said. “You look extraordinarily well, Steffan. Why are you here and not in Dimilioc where I left you? Have you abandoned Cador?”

  “Cador was no longer in need of my services,” Steffan said. “He awaits your summons with a rare eagerness.”

  Gorlois smiled. “I will take him back with me,” he said, his tone warm. “It is time. More than time. Still, I am puzzled. Explain why you are here.”

  “Steffan teaches Morguase and me, father,” Morgan said. “Mother told him he must.”

  Igraine stood with her gaze upon the room and did not move. Gorlois considered her, his smile fading. “Is this true, Igraine? What extraordinary circumstances would bring you to such a decision?”

  Anwen watched Steffan, not Igraine. His knuckles whitened upon the staff, yet he wisely remained silent. Gorlois did not like to be interrupted.

  Igraine turned to face Gorlois, her smile stiff with tension. “It is a decision which Cador and I arrived at jointly, my lord.”

  Anwen nodded to herself. Bringing Cador into the matter would rebuff some of Gorlois’ anger, although Anwen wasn’t certain why Gorlois should be angry about the decision. Clearly, he did not like the idea of Steffan tutoring his daughters.

  Gorlois opened his mouth to speak, then glanced around the room at the entire household, who stood watching the drama with avid interest.

  “Everyone leave,” Gorlois said abruptly. “Now. Steffan, you stay. Igraine, you too. Someone send for my son! I would speak to him as soon as he gets here.”

  There was a shout—Anwen thought it was Parry, the steward, shouting for a messenger to saddle and go with all haste to Dimilioc to summon Cador.

  Silently and with clear reluctance, everyone filed out of the room, including Igraine’s women. Anwen moved up behind the last of them.

  “Anwen, stay,” Igraine said quietly. She glanced at Gorlois. “Anwen continues with their lessons, too.”