David licked his lips. “You know I don’t like what I have to do to them.”
Ieuan shrugged. “You’re meting out humiliation, not death. And it must be clear to everyone that your authority cannot be challenged ever again.”
* * * * *
The next morning, James Stewart and Robbie Bruce settled themselves at the table across from David. He’d just said goodbye to Lili, who was heading back to Chester with an escort. She had nearly ninety miles to travel, but knowing her, that would be two days of riding at most. She loved David, but her boys called to her.
“What now for Scotland?” James said.
David eyed him, feeling that this was Robbie’s question more than James’s. James had a wife and son in Ireland, which had become a second homeland to him. He saw himself as straddling the Irish Sea, an adviser to kings, but he wasn’t asking to rule himself. It made him incredibly qualified for the job, but David actually had something else in mind.
“You do intend to take the throne, do you not?” Robbie said.
“How much would you resent me if I did?” David asked.
For a moment, Robbie looked taken aback. Then he relaxed, his elbows on the table. “I wouldn’t. You deserve the crown.”
“Would your grandfather agree?”
“If my father were still alive, it might be different, but my grandfather knows better than to fight you on this, and I am too young to claim the throne myself. Besides, your great-grandfather was King Alexander. How can he object to your claim knowing that? How can anyone?”
David gave a short laugh. “Then it will perhaps come as a relief to you to learn that I have no intention of becoming King of Scots.”
Both James and Robbie blinked and then said in unison. “You don’t?”
“No. My plans are bigger than that—and possibly an even harder sell.”
Robbie narrowed his eyes. “Christopher has used that phrase before. Are you saying we won’t like what you intend? What are you planning if not to take the throne?”
“Oh, I intend to take the throne, just not that one.”
James sat back in his chair. “You mean to become High King of all Britain.”
Callum pulled out a chair and sat. “He does.”
“This dream of yours will never work.” James shook his head. “All these diverse peoples will never be united.”
“They are already united,” David said.
James sniffed. “What do you mean?”
It was Callum who answered. “Who came at David’s call? Do you realize how many different peoples are present in Skipton Castle right now in alliance with the king and each other? Englishmen, Welshmen, Scots, Irish, Danes, even a Frenchman ... all working together, united in one cause: to keep David on the throne.” He turned to look at David. “I don’t think we’ve given enough consideration to the future of Aquitaine, by the way.”
David opened his mouth to reply, but Robbie, brow still furrowed, spoke first, “So if you do not become King of Scots, I repeat James’s question. What now for Scotland?”
Callum laughed, and David was pleased to find him as excited about the future as he was. “You tried your hand at democracy four years ago and ended up with Balliol. He’s proposing that you try again.”
“You want us to vote for a new king?” Robbie’s lip curled.
“Not a new king.” David dampened down his enthusiasm and looked intently at the two Scotsmen. If he could make them understand, then others might too. “I want the people of Scotland to vote themselves a Parliament, which will then choose a Prime Minister, with a five year term.” It was the British system, and David could see enough issues with the American one to accept giving it a try. “You’ll need a constitution and probably a Bill of Rights too.”
“You can’t be serious.” James laughed, apparently genuinely surprised and amused.
David fixed his eyes on his friend. “I am completely serious. And you’ll be happy to know that this plan is not just for Scotland. I want the people of Ireland to vote too.” He tipped his head. “And I’m really hoping that one of those prime ministers will be you.”
“Democracy, my friend.” Callum grinned at James’s shocked look and buffeted him on the shoulder. “Welcome to Avalon.”
The End
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Sample: The Last Pendragon
Aberffraw, North Wales,
Kingdom of Gwynedd
655 AD
Rhiann
The smell of smoke and sweat filled the hall, mingling with the overlay of roast pig and boiled vegetables. More soldiers than usual sat at the long tables, here to celebrate their victory. The mood was subdued, however, not the wild jubilation that sometimes accompanied triumph and caused Rhiann’s father to lock her in her room in case he couldn’t control the men.
Today, the drinking had begun in earnest the moment the men had returned from the fight and settled into a steady rhythm Rhiann had never quite seen before. Here and there, a hand clenched a cross hung around the neck or an amulet against the powers of darkness, that should her father see, might mean death for that soldier. For a man to ask the gods for protection instead of the Christ meant he was less afraid of the King of Gwynedd than someone, or perhaps something, else. Rhiann had been afraid of her father her whole life and couldn’t imagine fearing another more, not even the demons that were said to walk the night, hungering for men’s souls.
Perspiration trickled down the back of Rhiann’s dress, made of the finest blue wool that her father had gotten in trade from merchants on the continent. Welsh wool, while plentiful, was courser than that of sheep raised in warmer climates. The Saxon threat was enough to keep the Cymry within their own borders, but the sailors still took to the western seas, bringing in trade goods of wine, finely wrought cloth, metalwork, and pottery.
For once, Rhiann’s father, King Cadfael of Gwynedd, had eaten little and drunk less. For her own preservation, Rhiann had always been sensitive to his moods and noted the exact instant his disposition changed. He shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders, like a man preparing for a battle instead of the next course of his meal. A moment later, the big, double doors to the hall creaked open, pushed inward by two of the men who always guarded them. The rain puddled in the courtyard behind them, and Rhiann wished she were out in it instead of here—anywhere but here.
She kept her place, standing behind and to the left of her father’s chair. It was her duty to tend to his needs at dinner as punishment for her refusal to marry the man he’d chosen for her. Rhiann hadn’t turned the man down because he didn’t love her, or she him; she knew better than to wish for that. It was a hope for mutual respect for which she was holding out. But even this seemed too much to ask for an unloved, bastard daughter. Consequently, Rhiann spent her days as a maidservant, albeit one who worked above stairs. She didn’t regret her station. As the months passed, she’d come to prefer it to sharing space at the table with her father and his increasingly belligerent allies.
Silence descended on the hall as two of King Cadfael’s men-at-arms entered, dragging between them a young man whose head fell so far forward that no one could see his face. He was visibly collapsed, with his arms dangling over the guards’ shoulders and his feet trailing behind him. As the trio progressed along the aisle between the tables toward the king’s seat, the youth seemed to recover somewhat, getting his feet under him and managing to keep up with their strides. As
he came more to himself, he straightened further.
By the time he reached the dais on which Rhiann’s father sat, he was using the men-at-arms as crutches on either side of him. Because he was significantly taller than they, it was even as if he was hammering them into the ground with his weight. His footsteps rang out more firmly with every stride, echoing from floor to ceiling, matching the drumming of Rhiann’s heart. The closer he got to her father, the harder it became to swallow her tears. By the souls of all the Saints, Cadwaladr, why did you come?
Rhiann had been her father’s prisoner her whole life, unable to escape his iron hand. The high, wooden palisade that circled Aberffraw had always signified prison walls to her, rather than a means to protect her from the darkness beyond. This young man had grown up on the other side of that wall. He’d not had to enter here. He’d had a choice, but had recklessly thrown that choice away and was now captive, just as she was. She felt herself dying a little inside with every step he took as he approached Cadfael.
The young man, Cadwaladr, the last of the Pendragons, fixed his eyes on those of the woman sitting beside the King. She was Alcfrith, Cadfael’s wife, taken as bride after the death of Cadwaladr’s father. Rhiann couldn’t see her face, but from the back, the tension was a rod up her spine, and her shoulders were frozen as if in ice.
“Hello, Mother.” Cadwaladr’s lips were cracked and bleeding, puffy from the beating that had bruised the whole length of him. Rhiann had heard they’d close to killed him, but from the look of him now, he wasn’t yet at death’s door.
“Son.” Alcfrith’s voice was as stiff as her body.
Rhiann’s father ranged back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles to project his calm and deny the importance of the moment. “Foolish whelp. I’d thought you’d put up more of a fight, not that I regret the ease of your defeat. This will allow me to reinforce my eastern border more quickly than I’d thought. Penda will be pleased.”
“You and I both know why my company was not prepared for battle today,” Cadwaladr said.
Cadfael shrugged. “Your men are dead and you a shell of a man. What did you think? That the people would welcome you? That I would let you take my lands?”
“My lands,” Cadwaladr said.
Rhiann’s father sneered his contempt. He reached out an arm to Alcfrith and massaged the back of her neck. She didn’t bend to him. If anything, the tension in her increased. “You meet your death tomorrow, as proof of your ignobility.”
Cadfael waved his hand to Rhiann, signaling her to refill his cup of wine and that the interview was over. She obeyed, of course, stepping forward with her carafe. The guards tugged on Cadwaladr, but as he moved, Rhiann glanced up and met his eyes. It was only for a heartbeat, but in that space it seemed to Rhiann that they were the only ones in the room. She expected to see desperation and fear in him, or at the very least, pain. Instead, she saw understanding. She could hardly credit it. When had she ever known that?
“You’re wrong, Father,” Rhiann said, as the guards hauled Cadwaladr away. “Cadwaladr comes to us as a defeated prisoner, and yet, he has more honor, more nobility, than any other man in this room.”
“He is the Pendragon,” Alcfrith said, with more starch in her voice than Rhiann had heard in many years. “Cadfael can’t change that, even by killing him.”
Rhiann’s father snorted a laugh into his cup before draining it. He didn’t even slap the women down, so sure was he of his own omnipotence. “You may keep your dreams.” He pushed himself to his feet and turned to leave. “The dragon is chained; the prophecy dead.”
Rhiann had heard about Cadwaladr her whole life. As a child, men in Cadfael’s court had spoken of him as if he were a demon from the Underworld, or worse, a Saxon, coming to steal their home like a thief in the night. Later on, as she began to piece the story together, she realized that he was only a little older than she was, twenty-two now to her twenty, and their words said more about their own fears than Cadwaladr’s power.
Rhiann’s father had married Cadwaladr’s mother after Cadwallon’s death in battle, many miles from Aberffraw. The High Council of Wales had wanted peace in Gwynedd, in order to focus the concerted attention of all the native British rulers on the threat of the encroaching Saxons. Throughout Rhiann’s life, the Saxon kingdoms had been growing in number and power. Two centuries before, the British kings had invited them in, but once here, could not control them. The Saxons had overrun nearly all of what had been British lands only a few generations before.
By now, everyone knew that the Saxons wouldn’t ever return to their ancestral lands across the water. Her father, Cadfael, and Cadwallon before him, had allied with Penda of Mercia, but it had left a sour taste in the collective mouth of their people. All the Cymry knew that it was only a matter of time before the Saxons turned their gaze covetously on Wales.
The Council had settled upon Cadfael as the man to impose peace amid the chaos of constant war, provided Alcfrith agreed to the marriage. Rhiann suspected that agreed was too generous a word, and like most noble women, Alcfrith had had little choice in the matter. While the High Kingship had never materialized, and he didn’t even rule all Gwynedd like Cadwallon before him, Cadfael did control a significant piece of it: Cadwaladr’s birthright, as he’d said.
What Alcfrith had not done upon her marriage was give up her son, instead sending him away to be raised by another. Rhiann’s father had raged at Alcfrith time and again, demanding to know to whom she’d given him. Alcfrith had refused to say, and perhaps that was the bargain she’d made—safety for her son, in exchange for her allegiance.
And now Cadwaladr was here, walking into the lion’s den, although not quite of his own accord. Cadfael had spies everywhere and had known of his coming. The story he’d put out was that Cadwaladr’s small band had forded the Menai Strait and met Cadfael’s army just shy of Bryn Celliddu. Cadfael hadn’t even bothered to meet the force himself, instead delegating the task to lesser men.
But Rhiann wasn’t so sure, especially now that she’d heard Cadwaladr’s exchange with her father. Before the feast, she’d questioned some of the older men in the garrison, particularly those who’d held allegiance to Cadwaladr’s father once upon a time. A few of them had muttered among themselves about the evil Cadfael’s acts would bring to Gwynedd. One even mentioned that he’d seen demons in the woods surrounding Aberffraw. The others had dismissed that as fantasy, and then together they’d rebuffed Rhiann’s questions, as they had every right to do. Yet each, individually, had given her a look—like he wanted to speak—but thought better of it. Why had Cadwaladr come, only to be defeated so easily? Why had he sacrificed his men for such a fleeting chance?
And sacrifice them he had. Cadwaladr was the only survivor.
The Last Pendragon is available for free! at all retailers.
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Also by Sarah Woodbury
The After Cilmeri Series
Daughter of Time
Footsteps in Time
Winds of Time
Prince of Time
Crossroads in Time
Children of Time
Exiles in Time
Castaways in Time
Ashes of Time
Warden of Time
Guardians of Time
Masters of Time
Outpost in Time
Shades of Time
Champions of Time (Coming Soon)
Footsteps in Time & Prince of Time
The After Cilmeri Series Boxed Set
The Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mysteries
The Bard's Daughter
The Good Knight
The Uninvited Guest
The Fourth Horseman
The Fallen Princess
The Unlikely Spy
The Lost Brother
The Renegade Merchant
The Unexpected Ally
The Worthy Soldier
The Favored Son
The Viking Prince (Coming Soon)
The Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mysteries Boxed Set
The Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mysteries Books 1-7
The Last Pendragon Saga
The Last Pendragon
The Pendragon's Blade
Song of the Pendragon
The Pendragon's Quest
The Pendragon's Champions
Rise of the Pendragon
The Pendragon's Challenge
Legend of the Pendragon
The Last Pendragon Saga: The Complete Series (Books 1-8)
The Last Pendragon Saga Boxed Set
The Last Pendragon Saga Volume 1
The Last Pendragon Saga Volume 2
The Last Pendragon Saga Volume 3
The Lion of Wales
Cold My Heart: Love, magic, and faith in the time of King Arthur
The Oaken Door
Of Men and Dragons
A Long Cloud
Frost Against the Hilt
The Lion of Wales: The Complete Series (Books 1-5)
The Paradisi Chronicles
Erase Me Not
Standalone
Heroes of Medieval Wales
From Many Cultures, One Nation: Ethnicity and Nationalism in Belizean Children
Watch for more at Sarah Woodbury’s site.
Champions of Time Page 28
