Pendragon Rises

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  This time, Ilsa heard Uther’s bawled complaints when Merlin broke the news. They were too far away from the tent for her to distinguish words among the explosion, although hearing Uther’s irritation told her the matter was a minor one. If she had been in grave peril, she suspected Uther’s temper would not have been roused at the prospect of delaying the journey for days.

  It allowed her to sleep.

  She woke to find Arawn sleeping next to her and her children ranged on the other side of the tent. Content, she returned to sleep.

  The next day had passed in sleep, too. Merlin made her drink concoctions that let her drift, her thoughts unanchored by day-to-day concerns.

  This morning, though, she was properly awake. Everything hurt…only now, the injury did not hurt as much as it had at first. The deep throbbing had gone.

  The sound of strident commands outside the hastily erected tent stirred Ilsa with a jerk.

  Arawn’s hand tightened about hers. “It’s only Uther. He insists upon seeing you,” he said, smoothing her hair back.

  “Oh…” she whispered. Even that much movement hurt.

  Arawn got to his feet. He pulled the furs and blankets he had been using out of the way, as the tent flap opened.

  Uther ducked under it and straightened. He nodded at Arawn and stood over Ilsa, peering down at her.

  Ilsa met his gaze. “It wasn’t done to spite you, my lord.”

  Uther’s mouth quirked up. “No, you have far more effective ways of putting me in my place, madam.” He crouched, bringing himself closer. “Arawn has argued that I should leave you here and move the army on to Venta Belgarum. We could be there by nightfall if we start at once.”

  Ilsa glanced at Arawn, startled. Arawn’s gaze was steady. “My men would stay with us,” Arawn said. “They are numerous enough to keep us secure. After dealing with the last band, word will have passed up and down the road. No one else will bother us.”

  “Merlin insists you not travel for at least five days more,” Uther added. “I can see from your pallor that he is not exaggerating. As much as it pains me to deprive myself of one of my best and most able contingents of men and their leaders, I will agree with Arawn’s suggestion.”

  He glanced at Arawn. “I will leave Merlin here to tend Ilsa until she can travel. Merlin has no fear of traveling alone—he can hide in plain view and no one would dare attack a magician, anyway.” His eyes rolled. “He can join me in Venta Belgarum once you can travel again.”

  Arawn nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” His tone was one of deep gratitude.

  “We join you in Venta Belgarum,” Ilsa amended.

  “No, Ilsa,” Arawn said quietly.

  Uther’s brows came together. “Arawn has argued strenuously that this is a sign that his service to me and to Britain is at an end.”

  Ilsa caught her breath. “My lord?”

  “We have not seen Lorient in eight years, Ilsa,” Arawn said softly. “Our children have never seen it.”

  Uther glanced at him. “I, too, have not seen Lesser Britain in all that time,” he said mildly.

  “It was only ever a place of retreat for you,” Arawn said, his voice growing strident. “It is my home.”

  Uther lifted his hand. “Enough, Arawn. You convinced me last night. You and Ilsa should return home.” His tone turned bitter. “Just as Ban and Bors and Ector and Pellinore have.”

  “Britain is peaceful, Uther. You don’t need us,” Arawn said.

  “Britain’s High King does not need the King of Brocéliande, his mighty queen and his men, that is true. I, though, will miss your friendship and your counsel.” Uther drew in a breath and let it out. “I would have liked to have you there for the coronation, although I will not put Ilsa at greater risk simply to soothe my feelings.”

  He turned to her, then bent and touched her forehead. “I remember you covered in mud, arguing your claim to a deer was stronger than a king’s. We have come a long way, have we not?”

  Ilsa’s eyes prickled with tears. “You will make a great king, Uther. Ambrosius would be proud of you.”

  Uther nodded. “Until we meet again, then.” He straightened and gripped Arawn’s hand. “Fare well.”

  Then with a whirl of his cloak, Uther turned and strode from the tent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tintagel Fortress, Duchy of Cornwall, 465 C.E. Spring.

  Long ago, Steffan had learned to think of winter as a time of rest. Wars were rarely waged in the depth of winter. Instead, fighting men clung to the home hearth, staying warm. The frantic household tasks of summer halted. Fields could not be tended, nothing grew and the days were short.

  As Steffan climbed to the top of the tower, he reflected that this winter had not been one of rest, but one of waiting. The expectation of events to come filled the fortress with tension.

  Now the events were nearly upon them. Igraine’s orchestration of the household in preparation for the High King’s coronation at Easter had the entire fortress in an uproar. As they had for Ambrosius’ funeral, every able body would travel to Venta Belgarum for Easter.

  This time, though, Igraine had the balance of winter to plan, instead of a mere two days. “No more jolting about in carts like sacks of grain,” she told her ladies. “No plain mourning for us, either. We will honor the new king with elegance and embellishment.”

  Igraine’s plans kept every woman in the keep sewing frantically by lamplight for weeks, while every man in the household burnished blades, finished armor and polished shields. They turned their hands to unexpected tasks such as building wagons with cushioned benches and roofs.

  Trunks were filled. Food was prepared for the journey.

  Complaints were frequent, for Igraine maintained a frantic pace, insisting upon more and more. Her focus upon minute details was beyond reason, although no one had the courage to complain where Igraine or Gorlois could hear them.

  Steffan and Anwen heard every complaint, eventually. No one paid either of them any notice. They sat in the corner of workrooms and heard every frank opinion and grievance.

  Igraine worked Anwen as hard as any of her other companions. Anwen was not a strong seamstress, although basic seams were within her capabilities. The mound of garments at the end of the table waiting to be stitched when Anwen had completed her normal duties rose higher every day. They claimed more space, while Morgan and Morguase squeezed themselves in at the other end.

  Anwen spent hours at the table after the evening meal until Steffan snuffed out the lamp, told her she had done enough for the day and drew her to bed.

  For a season of tense waiting, Steffan thought he should be more irritable. He had been bored at Dimilioc, which had caused everyone to describe him as angry. Here at Tintagel, while waiting for the journey to Venta Belgarum to begin, he expected the tension would make his temper even more uncertain, but it had not.

  He could not forget Uther’s offer to take him into service. It lived like a solitary standing stone upon an open plain in his mind. Even when he was occupied with the stitching of leather armor, which he could do by touch, or even while instructing the girls, the stone was there, visible from miles away.

  At Venta Belgarum, at Easter, the decision would be made. He would remain in Venta Belgarum at Uther’s side. Or he would return here.

  He’d thought a season of reflection would bring him closer to a decision. The passing of time, though, had muddied the water, not clarified it. He was further from a clear decision than before. The uncertainty should have added to his temper, too.

  Yet this winter of waiting had been placid.

  As they climbed to Igraine’s antechamber to answer her summons, Steffan recalled the fury which had gripped him the first time he had come here. How differently he felt now!

  Days of peace left their mark, as did days of war. He had always considered peace as merely the rare absence of war, although now he understood the healing such peaceful times imparted. They were restorative, just as war was destructive
.

  Peace was in his heart, despite his dithering over Uther’s offer.

  Anwen’s hand rested on the back of his shoulder. “Two more steps,” she warned in an undertone.

  He took the two steps and moved into the antechamber, grateful for her warning. She never forgot. It saved him from jarring his knees when he reached the top and his foot did not find a higher level.

  Light filled the antechamber. It was a bright day outside and sun-warmed air blew through the large window. Steffan could see the edges of the window, for they were dark against the light beyond.

  He could see clouds!

  His heart strummed. Steffan halted, gripping his staff tightly.

  Yes, thick white clouds which looked dense enough to reach out and pluck them from the sky. The sky was a clear blue. And there, floating on the winds off the cliff, was a merlin. The bird had its wings stretched, the feathers at the tips ruffling as air streamed through them. It hovered, its gaze on the sea below.

  What did it see there?

  Steffan’s throat tightened. How long would this moment last? He was afraid to move, in case movement destroyed it.

  “Steffan?” Anwen murmured. His stillness had puzzled her.

  Anwen. Steffan drew in a sharp breath, his heart leaping high. Anticipation sizzled in his veins. He spun on his heel to face her and to look at her.

  The bright light blurred as he turned. He blinked, holding his breath, only the shapes in his vision did not sharpen their focus. They remained hazy colors, less distinct than the clouds he had just seen.

  There was only the golden shape which was Anwen.

  Steffan closed his eyes, bitter disappointment tearing at his chest. “No…” he breathed.

  “Steffan, what is wrong?” Anwen murmured. “The Duchess comes. You must move out of the way.” She tugged on his sleeve. “This way.”

  Steffan tore his arm out of her grasp. “Don’t do that! I am not a sheep!”

  He could feel her surprise in her silence but barely acknowledged it in his mind. His heart thudded, each beat hurting.

  “She comes…” Anwen said, her tone tense.

  Steffan couldn’t abide the thought of attending Gorlois and Igraine, of listening and obeying. He wanted to be alone. He needed to shore his defenses after this last disappointment.

  He needed to think. He had spent far too long this winter letting himself drift, avoiding thought and decision. Now he had been reminded.

  Steffan turned and strode toward the stairs. He did not use his staff to check the way ahead was clear. Let everyone step aside for him, for once. By the time he reached them, he was nearly running. He pressed his hand against the wall to brake his speed, yet nearly tumbled down the steps. His heels slipped, jarring him and making his heart work even harder.

  Now the anger was building. It had been there all along, buried under the balm of warm arms and lips.

  Peace was as fragmentary as his vision, and just as unreliable.

  AS SOON AS IGRAINE DISMISSED everyone, Anwen hurried down the stairs, cannoning into those ahead of her and rattling down them faster than was safe. Her heart worked frantically and not purely because of the neck-risking speed of her descent.

  She suspected that Steffan had for a moment been able to see. She had puzzled it out while standing in her usual position on the edge of the room. He had come to a halt, his chin up, facing the big, unshuttered window. Had he seen the sea beyond?

  Then he had spun to face her.

  He had been turning to see her, she was sure of it. Only, by the time he faced her, his vision had faded once more.

  Her heart gave an extra thud as she pushed through the people lingering at the bottom of the steps. She hurried down the corridor. There was a door into the yard, farther down. If Steffan followed his usual pattern, he would retreat to the stables to be alone.

  Men working stripped to their shirts in the mild spring day filled the yard. Smithies and groomsmen, carpenters and wheel-makers and all manner of craftsmen went about their noisy business. Anwen side-stepped and skipped around a dozen of them before she reached the big door into the primary stable and stepped inside.

  The stalls were full of horses and empty of people. She moved through them to the tack rooms beyond.

  Steffan stood at a high workbench in the middle of the main room, ramming a shirt she had made him into a saddle bag.

  Her heart skipped a beat, hurting.

  A young page stood at the end of the workbench, watching Steffan with a wary expression. He saw Anwen and relief painted itself on his face.

  She jerked her head. He left, looking pleased.

  “Ralph, come back!” Steffan yelled. The boy’s steps had told him of Ralph’s escape.

  “You’re leaving?” Anwen asked.

  Steffan grew still. Then, with a tiny shrug of his shoulders, he closed the flap of the bag and buckled it.

  “You are, then…” She moved closer. “Where are you going?”

  “Venta Belgarum.”

  She drew in a breath, to steady herself. “All of Tintagel leaves for Venta Belgarum in three days.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot wait that long.” He sought for the second buckle.

  “Why not? Does a moment of vision make you so humble you must escape everyone here?”

  He paused. “You know, then.”

  “I guessed,” she admitted. “You cannot travel alone, Steffan. It is risky for anyone, but for you—”

  He rounded on her, his face working with a fury she had not noticed until now. “Do not dare tell me I cannot because I am blind!” he roared.

  Anwen stepped back, a gasp escaping her.

  Steffan slapped the table. “There was a time where I could ride wherever I wanted. No one would dare try to stop or attack me. I could go anywhere.” His jaw flexed. “Now I am confined to a stone fortress on a spit of land surrounded by sea.”

  “You can still go where you want.” Anwen kept her voice soft and even. “No one says you cannot. Only, how will you know you are even upon the right road?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know the way to Isca well enough. The entire country is heading for Venta Belgarum right now. There will be a party in Isca who will let me ride with them.”

  “You could travel with us,” she said quickly. With me, she added only in her mind. “Steffan—”

  “Uther asked me to serve him,” Steffan said, interrupting her. He spoke as if the words were pushed from him unwillingly, as if something drove him to it. It was as if she had not spoken at all.

  Anwen pressed her clenched fist against her heart. “Uther?”

  “In Amesbury, after the funeral,” Steffan added. “He wants me. He has need of my services.”

  Anwen could barely breathe for the tight band constricting her chest and her throat. “He wants you to fight for him?”

  “He wants me to help him. To listen. To talk.” He turned back to fastening the last buckle.

  “You can go back to your world…” she whispered.

  Steffan picked up the saddle bag and moved around the workbench toward the door. He knew the way well enough that he didn’t need his staff, which was propped against the door. He picked up the staff and turned his head, as if he looked at her. “I’m needed there. Me. Not a makeshift tutor.”

  Anwen forced herself to speak despite the painful knot in her throat. “Then you should go, of course.”

  His eyes widened. He hesitated. His knuckles where he gripped the staff whitened.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  He bent and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss did not rouse her senses as it might normally. Even though Steffan seemed to be trying to say so much with the simple gesture, she was too numb to understand.

  He let her go and strode through the stable and was gone, leaving only an after image of his silhouette framed by the big door burned upon her mind.

  Even when she closed her eyes, she could see him still.

  Chapter Eighteen
/>   It was a relief to step into the great keep, out of the noise and bustle of the busy streets of the great city. Although, even here, haste and activity battered Steffan’s ears, making it hard to distinguish voices.

  “This way,” the boy said cheerfully.

  “Which way?” Steffan asked.

  “Oh, right.” The boy gripped his staff. “Here.” He tugged.

  Steffan held in his protest and allowed the boy to lead him through the stuffed corridors and passages. Up two flights of stairs. Everywhere, there were people. Venta Belgarum was a city in the throes of celebration and the fortress was the beating heart of the preparations.

  The boy opened another door and came to a halt three paces inside. “Steffan of Durnovaria,” he announced.

  “I’ll let the King know,” someone murmured.

  Steffan heard an inner door open and close.

  “Steffan. It’s Merlin.” The hand on his shoulder was friendly enough. “Has Gorlois arrived, then?”

  “He and his household are at least three days behind me,” Steffan said. He paused. “I’m no longer in the Duke’s service,” he added.

  “Uther’s, then?” Merlin’s tone made it sound as though he was smiling. Steffan remembered the black-haired and black-eyed young man from Doward. He had rarely smiled.

  “If Uther will have me. He asked, in Amesbury.”

  Another voice said, “The King wants to see you right now. This way.”

  Merlin turned Steffan’s shoulder with a slight pressure. “Straight ahead,” he murmured. “We can speak, afterwards.”

  Steffan found the door with the tip of his staff and felt it was open. He moved forward warily. Thick furs came under his feet.

  “Steffan,” Uther said. “You traveled alone, all the way from Cornwall?” His voice grew nearer. “I’m pleased you are here. Give me your hand.”

  Steffan lifted his hand and Uther gripped it firmly.

  “I am here to serve, as you asked me to, in Amesbury,” Steffan said.

  “I hoped you would change your mind.” Uther let his hand go. “These last few months have been trying indeed. Arawn returned to Brittany just after mid-winter, which left me with damn few men I trust. More than half the faces around me these days are those of strangers, sent by kings from afar to have an ear in my court.”