The Dragon Prince

by Mary Gillgannon

  She handed him the cup, then abruptly turned and hurried away. Rhun watched her, wondering if his bold stare had offended her.

  He continued to observe her as she carried cups to the other men. She wore a gown of fine blue linen embroidered in yellow and rose at the hem and neck, and a gold girdle around her waist. No serving woman would possess such finery. Could she be Cerdic’s wife? She was younger than the Saxon chieftain by a score of years or more, but maybe his first wife had died.

  When all the cups were passed around, Arthur and Cerdic exchanged formal toasts. Rhun hardly listened. His attention was focused on the woman, who had retreated to the corner of the room. He could swear she was staring at him, and he felt acutely aware of her also, as if her gaze had set his flesh ablaze. Why should she affect him like this? Unless...

  His mind whirled with the incredible possibility she truly might be the Saxon girl he had rescued so many years ago. Had she recognized him in that brief moment when he smiled at her?

  Astounding that they should see each other again, and that she had survived and ended up in Cerdic’s household. Was she kin of his? Or wife? The idea repulsed Rhun. It didn’t seem right that such a delicate, ethereal creature should be forced to share the bed of a ruthless barbarian like Cerdic.

  Yet it was likely. What else would she be doing in Cerdic’s longhouse? If she were his daughter or other female relative, she would be wedded to some other man by now. Saxon girls married young, the better to breed many warriors. It was not so different among Rhun’s own people, the Cymry. It was not uncommon for girls of thirteen or fourteen winters to be wed, although his father refused to discuss marrying off Rhun’s sisters Elen and Anwyl, and they were fifteen and seventeen already.

  Rhun repressed a sigh. It was good to know the girl hadn’t perished as he’d feared, that she’d been rescued and lived to womanhood. But it troubled him to see her in these circumstances. He almost wished he had been left with only a memory. Then he could imagine her living among the forest fairies, her bright beauty indestructible and eternal.

  When the toasting was finished, Arthur sought to discuss the details of the truce. But Cerdic was not quite ready to leave the past behind. He began a long recitation of all he had suffered at the hands of the British. He told how nearly all his kin had been killed, his mother and wife and sons and daughters murdered.

  His words opened raw wounds for the British, who had suffered their own soul-wrenching losses. Arthur sought to turn the conversation to the future, but Cerdic stubbornly resisted. Rhun could sense his fellow soldiers growing angry, and both sides shifted restlessly, their hands reaching unconsciously for their sword belts, searching for weapons that were not there. Rhun was glad Arthur had insisted everyone entering the longhouse leave all swords and knives in a pile by the door.

  Perhaps the woman also sensed the growing tension, for she stepped forward with a bronze ewer and, moving lightly around the room, began to refill everyone’s cups. Rhun watched her more closely this time, more and more certain it was she, the Saxon he had saved those long years ago. He also observed Cerdic’s reaction to the woman. Surely if she were the chieftain’s wife, he would nod or look at her. But Cerdic took no more notice of her than he would any servant.

  Cups filled, they made more toasts, and the mellow warmth of the mead seemed to dispel some of the tension in the room. Arthur brought up the idea of exchanging hostages to provide surety for the truce, and Cerdic appeared amenable to the idea. Rhun’s thoughts turned back to the woman. He’d made up his mind he must speak to her somehow, if only to tell her how pleased he was that his worst fears for her had not come to pass.

  The discussions dragged on, hampered by the need for Bridei to translate everything and the cautious, tense nature of the occasion. At last, Cerdic called for a break, and Arthur agreed. It was decided the Britons would return to their camp outside the village for the night and talks would resume in the morning.

  As everyone rose, Rhun looked for the woman. He was disappointed when he did not see her. Had she gone to a private area of the dwelling? Or slipped out a back entrance and vanished altogether?

  Bridei came up beside him, and the two men gathered up their weapons and walked out of the longhouse together. “By Llud’s silver hand,” Bridei swore, “I’ll be glad to get back to camp and have a cup of wine and some food. I’m starving. I’ve never fancied mead. Give me good Gaulish wine any day.”

  “The woman who served us,” Rhun said. “I wonder where she went?”

  Bridei raised a brow. “I’ve never known you to be taken with a pretty face, and certainly not when it belongs to one of the enemy.”

  “God willing, there will soon be peace between our peoples,” Rhun said irritably. “Besides, I only want to talk to her.”

  “Talk to her? Have you forgotten, brother, that you don’t speak Saxon?”

  “Maybe she knows a word of two of Briton, and I am not completely without understanding of her language.” Once before we met and understood each other, he thought. We needed no words then. Why should we need them now?

  Bridei shook his head. “I suppose it had to happen sometime—that your loins would get the better of your wits. Just be careful, brother. As one who is experienced in these matters, I can tell you that dallying with royal-blooded maidens can be a dangerous business, even when they are not our enemies. If you recall, only a day ago you said this truce might be the answer to all Arthur has fought for these past years. Take care you are not the one who ruins your idol’s dream.”

  “I would never do anything to jeopardize this truce!” Rhun retorted hotly. “And furthermore, I have no intention of dallying with this woman. Indeed, I suspect she is Cerdic’s wife. I would be risking much more than peace for Britain if I were foolish enough to pursue her!”

  “Cerdic’s wife?” Bridei made a face. “Seems a shame a hoary old goat like him should have such a comely lass warming his bed. But to the victor go the spoils. He probably killed her father to have her. He’s a savage bastard. I think pious, noble Arthur has overreached himself this time. Cerdic may agree to a truce, but he’ll break it as soon as it becomes inconvenient.”

  Bridei’s words aroused a gnawing bitterness inside Rhun. Had he saved the Saxon only to doom her to a grim, onerous life, married to a crude man who scarce seemed to notice her? If she were my wife, I would not have her serve my enemies like a slave. I would dress her in finery and jewels and seat her by my side like a queen.

  As the two men walked out the gate of the timber-walled palisade, Bridei continued his questioning. “If you know you can’t have her, why do you want to speak to this woman?”

  Rhun pressed his lips together. He was not about to tell Bridei the tale of his rescue of the Saxon girl all those years ago. Although he didn’t regret his actions, he had disobeyed a direct order. Cador had later been chastised by Arthur for his brutality in killing women and children during the raid, but that did not entirely excuse Rhun’s defiance. He had no desire to reveal to Bridei—cynical, opportunistic Bridei—his long ago breach of honor.

  “You aren’t going to tell me, are you? I guess I’ll have to find out my own way.” Bridei grinned, alerting Rhun that his brother had some mischief in mind.

  Rhun gritted his teeth as he headed toward his tent. Why had God seen fit to give him a brother like Bridei? He was like a flea that burrowed beneath a soldier’s jerkin, biting and irritating, but never causing any real harm a man could complain of. Yet he loved his brother and was proud of his talent for languages and his ability with words. Besides acting as interpreter, Bridei served as Arthur’s bard on campaign. His skilled fingers could make a harp sing, and his facile tongue composed bawdy soldier ditties and heartbreaking tributes to fallen warriors with equal grace.

  Rhun sighed. Bridei’s sly, slippery nature was the least of his worries today. He had to find a way to speak to the Saxon. If he did not, he would never know peace.

  * * *

  He is here! I have fou
nd him! I stood so close to him I might have touched his hand! Eastra’s heart pounded as she hurried through the encampment. It did not seem possible, yet she knew there could not be two men in Britain with such kind, beautiful eyes, eyes that had looked at her with such tender pity, eyes that had stolen her heart all those years ago.

  His build and coloring were the same as she remembered. His shoulders might be a touch broader, his long-limbed body more heavily muscled, his burnished gold hair a bit darker, but he was a man in his prime now, and such changes were only to be expected.

  A tremor rushed down her body. For so long, she had dreamed of him. Now he was here, not an arrowshot from her uncle’s longhouse. She could scarce breathe, she was so excited.

  Eastra cast a quick glance over her shoulder and slowed her pace as she neared the back entrance of the palisade. She must not be seen. If would be disastrous if Cerdic discovered she went to meet a British warrior. He would probably use the incident as an excuse to refuse the truce, and the vicious fighting would continue indefinitely.

  Eastra’s eyes filled with tears. How she hated war. It had cost her everyone she loved and taken much of her youth and all her innocence. Sometimes it seemed all she had left was her memory of a young warrior who took pity on a terrified child. As huge and fiercely clad as her rescuer had been, she had never feared him, not from the moment she’d looked into his blue-gray eyes and been certain this was a man incapable of cruelty.

  She could not forget the way he had looked at her when they were in the forest. His expression had been beyond tender, almost worshipful. Although many men had taken note of her since then, none had ever made her feel the way the young warrior had. He was special, wonderful. She had to speak to him. She had to tell him what he meant to her. And she did not have the patience to wait for him to return to her uncle’s encampment the next day. She would go to him now.

  But how to find him? She spoke the British tongue fairly well, but it would be risky to approach the enemy camp. Her uncle might have spies there. In fact, he undoubtedly did. Cerdic was treacherous and unprincipled, at least in regards to the Britons. He bore them a bitter grudge for killing his family, and somehow, someday, he would get his revenge. Eastra suspected the truce was only a temporary arrangement to give his client thanes a chance to plant their crops and rebuild their villages.

  She spotted the British camp, situated among a grove of trees. Arthur ap Uther had not brought many warriors with him. It would be easy for Cerdic to encircle the camp with his troops and kill them all. But that kind of treachery might be too heinous for even Cerdic to contemplate. Eastra hoped so.

  She slowed her pace, creeping through the thick underbrush, which was greening rapidly in the warm spring sunshine. Buttercups, violets, and wood anemone bloomed everywhere. How would she find him, she wondered, one Briton among many? He appeared to stand high in Arthur’s favor. He must be an important man, one of the British leader’s most trusted warriors.

  She took a deep breath as she neared the camp. Many of the tents had colorful pennants planted in the ground outside their doorways, the battle devices of the men within. In the center of the camp, Eastra saw Arthur’s banner, rippling purple silk, portraying a huge bear with an eagle flanking it. At one time, Cerdic had mentioned, Arthur carried a dragon on his banner and his shield, the symbol of his father’s lineage. But in recent years he had changed to the bear, for Artoris, his birth name, and the eagle, representing the might of Rome.

  The thought of the dragon jogged Eastra’s memory. Had not the young warrior who rescued her also carried a dragon on his shield, red on white? A rush of excitement filled her. If only he had not altered his symbol in the intervening years. If she could spot his device, she might be able to sneak into his tent without being seen.

  She moved cautiously, slowly circling the camp, straining her eyes for a glimpse of crimson and white. Bees and mayflies buzzed around her, and her linen gunna clung to her skin and snagged on brambles and bushes. She thought of returning to Cerdic’s palisade and changing into old clothing. But she wanted him to see her like this, looking like a princess, not a serving girl.

  On her second circuit of the camp, she finally spied it. Not a large banner, and quite tattered and worn, but mostly white and with a red dragon emblazoned upon it. Viewing the rather bedraggled pennant, Eastra decided this was not a man who cared much for the trappings of power. A practical man, a man who relied on his formidable size and striking appearance to intimidate his foes, rather than showy display.

  She sighed heavily. Not a hundred paces stood between her and the object of her quest. What if he didn’t remember her? He might have rescued many other children in the intervening years. But she didn’t think so. He could hardly stand so high in Arthur’s favor if he spent his time aiding Saxons, rather than killing them.

  Determination made her press forward. She had to speak to him. If nothing else, to tell him how his act of kindness had given her courage and hope, the will to go on when her life seemed impossibly hopeless and bleak. All those years when she was a slave girl, almost less than human.

  Then, five years ago, Cerdic had found her and rescued her. He offered her a life of luxury and comfort, but she was no happier. There were many among Cerdic’s household who looked upon her as hopelessly devalued by her years as a British thrall. She might be a princess because Cerdic called her one, but she would never be accepted by his subjects.

  She took a cautious step toward the dragon banner snapping in the breeze, then squared her shoulders. She would hold her head high, and if anyone stopped her, she would say she brought a message from Cerdic. If Cerdic had spies in the camp, it would take them some time to discover her claim was only a ruse.

  She saw two soldiers on the way there. They gave her startled glances then nodded politely. I am a princess, she thought. I have every right to walk freely on Saxon lands.

  Reaching the tent with the tattered white banner, she took a deep breath and ducked inside.

  The British warrior sat sprawled on a worn cowhide, cleaning his armor. Her first thought was to wonder why he did not have a body servant perform such tasks for him. Then her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she simply drank in his glory.

  It was not only that he was handsome, golden-skinned and fair like her countrymen, with well-made features and a manly form. It was some other quality he had, a gentleness about him even the fierce trappings of a warrior could not obscure. Seeing him now, wearing only a tunic, he appeared so magically beautiful, like a god. And so much like the youth who had rescued her all those years ago.

  Her heart melted. She wanted to reach out to him, to have those strong arms close around her, making her feel safe and protected, as she had not felt since.

  But she didn’t approach him, was not quite that brave. He watched her, stunned. Then, when his surprise faded, he frowned. “You should not be here,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

  She wanted to laugh. If she was not safe with him, where was she safe? Had he never learned that security was not a roof overhead nor a full belly? Even knowing her kinsman and protector was likely the most powerful Saxon on this side of the eastern sea did not make her feel safe. Only this man had done that, nearly a decade before.

  He rose as much as he could, given his size. It would be impossible for him to stand upright inside the small tent. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak much of your language.” He frowned in thought, as if searching for words, then gave up and gestured to the tent entrance.

  “I’ll not go,” she said in his tongue. “I’ve come to speak to you.”

  “You speak Briton.” He looked amazed.

  “Aye, although a different dialect than the one you use. I was a slave on a villa in the south. They spoke a mixture of Latin and Briton, and their speech had a different cadence than the language you use.”

  “You were a slave?” His expression altered to one of horror.

  “Aye.” The bitterness rose up inside her. Would he also shun her
? “Five years past, Cerdic found me and took me into his household.”

  He closed his eyes, and she could not guess what he was thinking or feeling.

  When he opened them again, he appeared calmer. But there was a distance between them now. Eastra suppressed a sigh. She should have known he would not be any different than the others. How many men had expressed an interest in her, only to change their minds when they learned of her past? Never before had she cared. In fact, it was a relief. She did not want to be any man’s wife, his chattel. She valued her freedom too greatly.

  But this man, she could not deny she sought his regard. It was like a dagger in her gut to see the distress in his eyes when she told him she had been a thrall.

  She almost left then. But despite her pain and disappointment, she could not bear to give up.

  He spoke again. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped you would be rescued by your people, that they would keep you safe. But... at least you are alive. And still beautiful.” He smiled at her, although it seemed forced. “When I saw you in the longhouse today I thought that only once before had I ever seen a creature so radiant and fair. I have never forgotten you.”

  But you want to now, she thought, I can see it in your eyes. The anger rose up inside her. She bit her lips to keep from weeping.

  “I would like to speak with you, but...” he glanced again toward the tent opening. “I think it would be wisest if we went elsewhere to do so.”

  She nodded, still paralyzed by heartache.

  He donned a leather jerkin and his swordbelt, then escorted her out of the tent. She followed him as he walked rapidly through the camp. The few soldiers they saw stared, then looked quickly away. She decided it must be courtesy and respect for this warrior that made them behave so discreetly.

  As they approached the forest, her mind was filled with the memory of him carrying her through the burning settlement to the sanctuary of the woods. But this time he did not carry her. Indeed, he took care not to touch her.

  When they had gone a short distance into the tangle of foliage, he stopped and turned to face her. “Do Cerdic’s men patrol this area?” he asked.