Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  They dismounted, and Natanleod hurried forward. "Gawain! This is quite a surprise. But given the speed with which you were riding, I assume the news is not good."

  "Attacks on the northern coast of Dumnonia," Gawain said shortly.

  "Not just skirmishes?"

  Gawain shook his head. "The sons of Caw are leading an alliance of Picts and warriors from Ystrad Clud."

  "Bad news indeed. Come inside and we can discuss the situation over supper. You know my son Edern? And this is his wife Nerienda."

  They all shook hands, and Gawain and his men followed Natanleod into the townhouse. Natanleod's staff put together a pleasant meal for the unexpected guests, smoked meats and winter vegetables seasoned with lovage, coriander, and imported garum. Between bites, Gawain explained about the beacon at the Mount of Frogs being taken, the reason Calleva had not been warned earlier, and how Arthur was raising a larger army to fight back the invasion from the north.

  Natanleod's expression was serious as he contemplated the wine in his glass. "Caer Custoeint and the Mount of Frogs are far from here. I fail to see what Arthur could want from me."

  Gawain stared at him, momentarily speechless. Had it been the alliance with Cerdic that had corrupted Natanleod — or had it just been too many years of peace? "But Britain is under attack."

  "Britain? What is Britain? It is nothing more than a huge island with a multitude of tribes and kings. I happen to be king of the Atrebates. Those are my people, the ones I need to defend and protect."

  Gawain choked down a bite of pork that had been seasoned with a bit too much garum; he imagined he could taste the fish guts in their unfermented state, and he coughed into his fist to hide the brief bout of nausea.

  His eyes still watering, he faced Natanleod. "When the main port of 'your people', was under attack, Arthur did not hesitate to come to your aid." Gawain knew his response sounded short-tempered, but Natanleod had caught him off-guard. Despite the southern king's familial connection with the traitor Cerdic, it never would have occurred to Gawain that he would refuse to do his duty to Britain.

  "That was different," Natanleod said.

  "How was that different? Because your territory was under attack?"

  "In those days, Britain as a whole was threatened. That is not the case here. It may be more than a skirmish, but it looks to me like a regional conflict."

  "In the wars against the Saxons," Gawain shot a glance at Cerdic's daughter Nerienda, "there were no regional conflicts. That is what made us strong. It was with a united army as Britain that we were able to defeat the Saxons all those years ago and keep them from reaching Venta or Calleva. Not as Dumnonians or Atrebates."

  "There's no need to look at me like that," Nerienda said mildly. "I may be half-Saxon, but I am also half-British."

  Yes, and your British father is a traitor.

  Gawain set down his wine glass and rose. "May I speak with you alone for a moment, Natanleod?"

  The southern king nodded and rose as well. Gawain followed him out of the dining hall and through the portico to the inner courtyard. They walked together along the garden pathway.

  "As a former comrade-in-arms," Gawain began. "Tell me honestly why are you refusing to aid in the defense of Britain."

  "It is just as I told you in the dining hall," Natanleod said. "You think it is because Cerdic is now father-in-law to my son?"

  "How can I not think that? Arthur's victories have given you a dozen years of peace, and now you no longer think it necessary to contribute to the defense of Britain when one of its kingdoms is threatened?"

  Natanleod stopped and faced Gawain, laying a hand on his upper arm. "It has nothing to do with my son's marriage. Nerienda would not have been my choice for Edern, but they ran away together and found a Christian priest to marry them. There was little I could do."

  "Is that why the traitor Cerdic is once again in charge of the defense of Venta?"

  Natanleod removed his hand. "The actions of the 'traitor Cerdic,' as you call him, were over a dozen years ago. He has long since regretted his decision."

  "Because he was on the losing side," Gawain muttered.

  "You may think what you like, but Cerdic of Vectis has been a staunch ally to us in recent years, has helped us negotiate in border disputes with the neighboring kings of Ceint."

  Gawain could still remember waiting for reinforcements before the battle of Caer Baddon when they were so hopelessly outnumbered. But the only reinforcements from the south had been under the command of the youthful King Cador, while Cerdic had been the first enemy they faced, a man who had once been Count of the Saxon Shore, one of Arthur's generals. But twelve years was a long time: too long for some people to remember Cerdic's betrayal at the battle of Caer Baddon.

  He drew in a deep breath. A scent of molten metal lingered in the night air from the many metalsmith shops of the city. "I'm sorry, Natanleod, but it's not long enough for me to forget. Too many men died at Caer Baddon. Cerdic had a hand in that."

  The king of the Atrebates sat down on a stone bench and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And what of you? Your father fought against Arthur at Din Eidyn. Does that not make your loyalty suspect?"

  Gawain clenched his hands at his sides. Natanleod knew better than that, knew that Gawain and his brothers — Gareth and Gaheris at least — had stood with Arthur even though it had cost them their patrimony.

  Natanleod didn't really doubt his loyalty; he was just trying to provoke him to make a point. It had worked, but Gawain wasn't about to accept his conclusions.

  He uncurled his fists and flexed his fingers. "Arthur does not believe in guilt by association or blood. I have never betrayed him, as Cerdic has."

  "Nonetheless, it would be wise of Arthur not to ignore Cerdic. He could be a valuable middleman between the British and the Saxon kings."

  "Believe me, Arthur does not ignore him." Truth be told, Arthur tried to keep himself as well informed as possible where Cerdic was concerned. Luckily, Cerdic's Saxon allies had been decimated in the Battle of Caer Baddon, and Saxon memories were long. The Saxons appeared content to remain in Ceint. But Arthur — and Gawain too — was convinced Cerdic would march against the rest of Britain again as soon as he saw the opportunity.

  "But Arthur refuses to speak with Cerdic," Natanleod pointed out.

  "There you have the right of it." Frustrated, Gawain held out his hand, and Natanleod rose and took it. He should probably try harder to convince the king of the Atrebates to send troops to Caer Leon, but he knew it would be a waste of time. "We will be on our way again in the morning and will not bother you further. We were not aware that the Atrebates no longer regarded themselves as part of Britain."

  Natanleod shook his hand, shrugging. "There is no longer any such thing as Britain, Gawain, not really. We all have to look out for ourselves now."

  Yes, just as Cerdic is doing. He would bet his best horse that Cerdic had set his sights on Nataleod's kingdom. He wondered if the girl Nerienda was an innocent pawn in Cerdic's grasp for power or if she was in on whatever plans her father was hatching. At supper, she had seemed sincere enough in her attachment to her husband, but she might also be good at dissembling.

  "So you say," Gawain said, impatient to leave. "But Arthur's philosophy has always been that the kings of Britain are stronger together than apart."

  "For a campaign affecting more than one province, I would tend to agree with you. But look at it from my point of view, Gawain. I have a long border with the Saxon kingdom of Ceint. If it became known that I had depleted my armies for a war in the west, it would not take long for the Saxon leaders to forget the uneasy peace we have struck and take advantage of the situation."

  "Yes, I see," Gawain said, no longer protesting. Arthur had not asked Natanleod to deplete his armies, only contribute whatever he could to the defense of Britain.

  Which he had refused.

  Gawain hoped this wasn't a sign of how the rest of his trip would go.

 
* * * *

  Gentle rain was falling as Cador rode into the yard after inspecting the troops. It was not a good day for traveling, but this time of year it made no sense to wait for the weather to turn. Besides, the sooner they threw the enemy out the better. It had been almost a week since Gawain brought the news of attacks along the Dumnonian coast; preparations had been made and it was time to join Arthur.

  At least it wasn't a downpour. They would be on paved Roman roads most of the way. There was no danger of swamps masquerading as pathways slowing them down, even if the rain did get worse.

  He glimpsed Yseult in the yard on the back of a white mare and rode over to her. "Good morning, Yseult."

  "It could be better."

  "True enough." Somehow, she did not seem as affected by the rain as he was; it was almost as if the damp gave her skin a moon-like glow. Cador suppressed a sigh. Yes, there was no avoiding it — he was still in love with her, after all these years. He barely remembered when the feelings had begun, but it had been even before the battle of Caer Baddon, that much he knew; a combination of his burgeoning adolescent desires and the knowledge that she was not happy in her marriage with his foster father Marcus. Of course it hadn't hurt that she was the most dramatically beautiful woman he had ever seen, with her white-blond tresses, ice-blue eyes, and tall, proud figure.

  "Have you reconsidered my offer?" he asked.

  "There's no need."

  Cador wiped the damp from his brow, shook some of the moisture out of his hair, and tried to rein in his impatient mount to face her. "Please, take the additional troops. There are over two centuries camped outside Lindinis. We can easily spare fifty men."

  He saw Yseult gazing at his prancing stallion from the back of her perfectly behaved white mare, a small smile playing around her lips. Perhaps he should have chosen the gelding. But no — his warhorse Wyllt was what he needed, and he would just have to deal with the consequences, even if it included looking silly in front of the woman he'd only recently realized he still loved.

  "I thank you for your offer," Yseult said. "But my answer is still 'no.' Arthur needs every man to retake the Mount of Frogs. I will be in no danger." She glanced down to his stallion's hooves and then back up to his face, raising her eyebrows. "Perhaps you should invest in a more obedient mount, such as a docile gelding?"

  Cador grinned and patted the gray roan's arched neck. "Not necessary. Wyllt's temperament will serve me well in battle. And do not try to change the subject."

  Yseult raised her chin in that stubborn way she had. "I do not need your men. I'm planning on taking the southern route to Dyn Tagell, despite the weather."

  At least that. The roads were better on the northern route — but they passed closer to the coast. Nonetheless, she needed more protection than her honor guard. "Come, Yseult, we would all be happier to know you safe."

  "I agree." They both turned at the sound of Kustennin's voice. Yseult's son drew up next to them, tall in the saddle of his black gelding. "Please, Mother, take some of the men Cador offers. You would want me to do the same."

  Even without the powers of the Old Race, Cador saw the exact moment Yseult changed her mind.

  "Good, I will take a dozen more," she said, glancing from Cador to Kustennin and back. "But first you must promise me you will each fight with the strength of ten men to make up their loss."

  Kustennin laughed out loud, in that high, free way he had that was so reminiscent of Drystan. "I promise, Mother."

  Cador did his best to bow in the saddle from the back of the dancing stallion. "Of course, Lady Yseult."

  She threw back her damp, moonlight-colored braid, which through some native magic did not seem to grow darker in the rain like the hair of normal mortals. "Stay safe, both of you. For the sake of a mother and an old friend — not to mention for the sake of Britain."

  "I will do my best," Kustennin said.

  "As will I," Cador added. "I want to return to my farm." He was rewarded with a melancholy smile.

  And then they were riding out of the gate, banners waving, motioning their men forward.

  At the crossroads, Yseult drew up alongside Cador and Kustennin. "I wish you a pleasant trip to Caer Leon. Look out for each other."

  Kustennin smiled. "We will. I hope your journey to Dyn Tagell is uneventful."

  "Thank you."

  Cador held out his hand, and when she placed her own in his, he lifted it to his lips. "Farewell, Yseult. I will do my best."

  "I know you will, Cador. You always do."

  With that, she whirled around on her mare and rode south, followed by her honor guard and the extra riders. Cador allowed himself a moment to watch her party, glad their numbers were now tripled. With a small army at her back, she was much less likely to run into trouble on the road.

  "Thank you," Kustennin said.

  "Thank you," Cador replied. "She wouldn't have taken the extra troops if you hadn't asked her to."

  "You see? It isn't always an advantage to have a mother who's a lioness."

  Cador smiled, wiping the rain out of his eyes with his forearm. "But most of the time."

  Kustennin let loose that laugh again, and together they cantered north, to Arthur and war.

  * * * *

  In the early evening, Cador called a halt so there would still be enough daylight to set up the tents. Making camp for two hundred cavalry was no small chore. To their relief, the rain let up during the course of the day and the sun came out. In Cador's experience, there were few things more miserable than sleeping on wet ground.

  Kustennin set to work alongside the seasoned warriors, eager to prove he was one of them. Cador wandered between his men as they prepared camp, inspecting their work. He asked Sinnoch about the health of his pregnant wife and stopped next to the fire where Brys was making stew. Cador accepted a bowl from the cook, tasted, approved, and moved on, dinner in hand. He hoped it all looked natural enough, hoped that no one could see the subterfuge behind his actions; that he was looking for Gildas, the boy Arthur meant to sacrifice.

  He finally found Gildas on the outskirts of all the bustle, seated on a flat rock, eating his dinner alone. Without asking or waiting for an invitation, he sat down next to the boy. Gildas tended to be a loner — which was fortunate, given what Cador intended.

  "You found a good spot," he said.

  Gildas nodded.

  "I hope the journey has not been too tiring for you?"

  The boy drank down the rest of the broth and put his bowl aside. "No. Should it be?"

  "I'm simply asking. The weather could have been better, and we've been riding hard."

  Gildas lifted his chin. "I can keep up."

  "I'm sure you can." Cador finished his own stew and laid the bowl on the ground between his booted feet. "You do know why we're riding for Caer Leon, don't you?"

  "The Dux Bellorum has called his companions together."

  "And why?"

  Gildas looked away, his expression mulish. "The 'sons of Caw,' as everyone keeps saying, have taken Caer Custoeint and the Mount of Frogs. My half-brothers."

  Cador leaned back on his hands, his posture deliberately relaxed. "That they are. Since you too are a son of Caw, Arthur will be very glad to see you, I suspect. Perhaps if we take you along on the campaign, you will have an opportunity to persuade your brothers to see reason and return north to Ystrad Clud."

  The boy stared at him. "I hardly know my brothers. They did not often come to Bro Leon, and I have never been to Ystrad Clud."

  "That's too bad," Cador said, shaking his head in an imitation of regret. "The Dux Bellorum will be disappointed."

  Gildas shot him a sharp glance. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm not sure what Arthur will do if you can't make your brothers see reason," he said softly. He hoped Gildas would understand now — he did not want to be any more specific. It was a game he was playing with himself, he knew, just as he knew that in warning Gildas even this much he was betraying Arthur's trust.


  Cador wondered if he had lost the ability to hold on to his principles. First the sinful moment of passion shared with Gildas's sister, the attempt to give comfort that had turned into adultery — and now this. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn't have the life of an innocent boy on his conscience, especially not a boy who had been living with him for most of the last four years. Cwylli's little brother.

  Was that the true reason he was betraying Arthur, because of the guilt he felt regarding Cwylli? He didn't think so, but he doubted he would ever know for sure.

  "How should I make my brothers see reason?" Gildas ground out.

  "Perhaps you can get a personal message to them?" Cador pressed. "They are your blood relations, after all. And you are in Arthur's power."

  As he watched Gildas's expression, the boy's eyes narrowed and the bitter line of his lips went thinner. It appeared he finally grasped what Cador was trying to tell him. He might be barely thirteen, but he was no fool; he lived in the world and knew its ways. As his effective taunting of Kustennin showed all too well.

  Cador remained silent for a moment, giving Gildas a bit more time to consider the consequences of being in Arthur's power. Then he pushed himself up from the rock and stood, wiping dirt and moss off his breeches. "You know," he said, his voice quiet in the growing shadows of dusk. "There's a Christian monastery less than a day's walk from here to the east. It's too bad we don't have the time to make a slight detour. It never hurts to have the blessing of holy men for one's undertakings."

  Gildas nodded slowly, but he was no longer looking at Cador; he was staring at the ground, his thoughts far away. He dropped his forehead into his hands. "I was looking forward to seeing my sister."

  The boy understood! "I'm sure you'll see her soon enough."

  Cador picked up the empty bowls and returned to the fires of the camp without looking back. The darkness was now almost complete. He gave the bowls to Brys, complimenting him on the stew again, and waved away calls from his men to sit down and share a wineskin or some ale. Instead, he found a stump just far enough away from the fires between the tents that no one noted him and sat down, his hands clenched between his knees.