The Dragon Prince

by Mary Gillgannon

  Rhun shook his head. “I’ll never forgive him for this. He’ll discover he’s lost me anyway. I think Bridei was right to refuse to come here and have our father meddle in his life.” A look of pain flashed across Rhiannon’s face. “I’m sorry,” Rhun said. “I didn’t mean to remind you. If it helps at all, know that Bridei wanted desperately to see you and his brothers and sisters. But his bitterness toward Maelgwn won out. And now...” He shook his head again. “Now I understand why.”

  Abruptly, he thought of Eastra, and his sense of anxiety returned. “I don’t see how he can keep me here and yet let Eastra leave. Doesn’t he understand? Arthur has ordered her death. How can he let her go out into the war-torn countryside? Anything could happen to her!”

  “She has an escort,” Rhiannon said. “Two dozen warriors. Maelgwn believes she will be safe.”

  “But where is she going?” A terrifying thought came to him. “Surely she’s won’t go to Arthur. She wouldn’t do something so witless, would she?” He had a sudden image of Eastra kneeling before Arthur, offering up her life if the high king would agree not to march off to war against the Saxons.

  “Nay, she’s not going to Arthur, but to Cerdic.”

  The news struck Rhun like a blow. Eastra was going back to her people. Although he knew she would be safe with Cerdic, it still felt like a betrayal.

  “She’s going to try to stop Cerdic from fighting,” Rhiannon said. “She thinks once he knows Arthur has spared her, Cerdic may be willing to agree to another truce.”

  What an absurd, naive, little fool she was! Rhun shook his head. “Cerdic will never listen to her. Never.”

  “She feels she must try,” Rhiannon said. “In her way, she is as stubborn as you are.”

  “All her efforts will be for naught. Cerdic is determined. Why else would he have killed Mordred? He could have broken the truce and brought about this battle without murdering a hostage.” Rhun couldn’t help puzzling over this. To kill Mordred seemed wasteful and cruel. He had not thought Cerdic was either of those things. He shook his head again. He didn’t understand why all of this was happening. It was almost as if this final, terrible battle was part of some inevitable plan. He knew there were those, particularly among Arthur’s Companions, who would say this was all God’s will. But he could not believe that. Why would God want Arthur—his shining sword of truth—to die fighting a battle he could not win?

  Rhiannon touched his arm again. “Rest now. You can’t change any of this. You must learn to accept it, and to have faith that the Goddess is with you, no matter how terrible things seem.”

  Rhun gave a snort of disgust. Although he admired Rhiannon’s placid faith, he could not share it. The thought that either the Christian God or the Great Mother had a hand in things no longer reassured him. Why had he been in Cerdic’s longhouse that day to once again behold Eastra’s shining beauty and lose his heart if the result was going to be pain and suffering for both of them... and this absolute despair in the end?

  Chapter 17

  Eastra glanced back into the darkness, back toward Deganwy. This was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, to leave Rhun, to tear herself away from the man she loved more than her own life. But she had to do it. The babe growing inside her represented the future, and she must try to influence that future for the better.

  The pain inside her flared into life. She almost wished she’d never laid eyes on Rhun, or that he had killed her in the longhouse all those years ago. Then she would never have known this terrible grief, this suffering. But then, she would have also never known those ecstatic moments in the hidden glen above Deganwy. And she wouldn’t have conceived this child, this precious life growing in her body.

  She touched her stomach. There was a tautness to her belly, a slight roundness to her lower abdomen, but no other sign of pregnancy. It was her secret. Hers and Rhiannon’s. She wondered if she should tell Cerdic about the baby. Would it influence him to listen to her? Or give him another reason to make war against the Britons? She would have to wait and see, to gauge his mood when she saw him.

  At the thought, she experienced a wave of foreboding. It would not be easy to face down her massive frightening uncle. But she’d done something similar with Maelgwn and survived. She took a deep breath. According to her escort, they had several days’ journey ahead of them. Plenty of time to plan strategy. Or to lose her nerve.

  * * *

  They followed the coast, then turned north to enter Manua Gotodin, a heavily forested country. They met few people there, but when they did they had only to say the name “Maelgwn the Great” and they were allowed to continue on unmolested. Rhiannon was a princess of the Brigantes, the tribe that dwelt in this land, and her marriage to Maelgwn had formed a strong bond between the two peoples.

  Eastra had been surprised to discover young Beli was part of her escort. He told her he had begged to go and his father had finally relented, muttering something about making different mistakes this time. Eastra decided this must have something to do with Bridei’s estrangement from Maelgwn. At any rate, she was glad to have Beli for company, a familiar face among her grim, serious guards. But there was a downside to traveling with Rhun’s half brother. Sometimes the way Beli smiled or spoke reminded her of Rhun and made the familiar longing rise in her chest until she could scarce bear it.

  * * *

  After crossing the heavily forested lands of the Brigantes, they traveled east toward the old Roman fort of Eburacum. Here Cerdic had massed his troops, joining forces with the Picts from the north.

  A wave of horror swept over Eastra as they neared Eburacum and saw the huge warhost spread out over the hills around the fort. There must be ten thousand men, she thought. Cerdic and his thanes and house carls were inside the ruined walls of the old Roman settlement. To reach them, they would have to pass through this whole vast army camp.

  They neared the perimeter of the outlying camp and were confronted by a group of small, swarthy warriors, nearly naked except for leather loincloths and an abundance of ornaments fashioned of bronze, shells, and feathers. They all wore feathers in their long straggly hair, the bluish gray feathers of the blue heron, and their faces were marked with blue lines and symbols. As Eastra drew closer, she realized these men must be Picts, the “painted people,” as the Romans had called them.

  The tallest man stepped forward and spoke to Owain, the leader of her escort. “Britons,” he asked sharply. “What do you here among your enemies?”

  “Not Britons,” Owain answered, “but Cymry. We come in peace, as an escort for Lady Eastra, princess of the Saxons. She’s here to see her uncle, Cerdic Hengistson, the Saxon war leader. Will you take us to him?”

  The man’s gaze rested on Eastra. He scrutinized her, then moved off and huddled together with his men. Eastra whispered to Beli, who was beside her, “Do you think they will agree?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on Cerdic’s relationship to their people.”

  Time seemed to drag on. Several of the men glanced back at Eastra, their expressions awed and uneasy. To break the tension, Eastra said to Beli, “How do they get those blue marks on their faces?”

  “They make small holes in the flesh, then rub dye into the holes. As the flesh heals, the color remains. The patterns they use are sacred signs, honoring the old gods.”

  The Pictish leader returned. He motioned with his hand, a gesture of deference. “Princess Eastra, we will take you to your kinsman.” He looked at Owain. “I give you my oath she will be safe.”

  “As we have given our oath to protect her,” Owain said angrily. He shook his head. “She can’t go alone. We must accompany her.”

  The Pict’s expression didn’t change. He looked at Eastra. “Princess, will you allow us to escort you?”

  “Nay,” Owain interjected. “I will not allow it.”

  Eastra stared at the strange small warrior watching her. Despite his savage appearance, the Pictish leader had such dignity, such a proud, fearless way of c
arrying himself. She believed he would take any oath he gave very seriously.

  “Do you believe in the Goddess?” she asked him. “The Great Mother?”

  He nodded solemnly. “We call her Anu.”

  “Will you swear in Her name that I will be safe?”

  “I so swear,” the man answered.

  Eastra turned to Owain. “I’m satisfied. I’m certain I will be safe with these men.”

  “I can’t let you go,” Owain retorted. “Maelgwn commanded me to guard you with my life.”

  Beli stepped forward. “Then I release you from your duty to my father.” He nodded to Eastra. “I believe this is what Maelgwn would have wanted.”

  Owain’s gaze narrowed. “You’re scarcely more than a boy. I would not even have agreed to bring you along if the king hadn’t insisted.”

  “Nay, I’m not just a boy!” Beli’s blue eyes flashed defiance. “I’m a prince of the Cymru, and you will obey me in this!”

  Owain drew back, looking startled, like a man bitten by a pet puppy. Then he looked at Eastra. She tried to return his gaze with the serene, patient expression Rhiannon used in getting her way.

  After a moment, Owain said “I suppose I have no choice. Maelgwn also told me to treat Princess Eastra as if she were my own queen. If you wish to entrust your life to these men, so be it.”

  A vague shiver of fear went through Eastra, although she tried to suppress it. That was exactly what she was doing, entrusting her life to these fierce wild men. She took a step forward and the Picts surrounded her, forming a wall of warriors bristling with spears. She turned to say farewell to Beli. “The Goddess be with you,” she said.

  He took down her traveling pack and handed it to one of the Picts to carry. “We will wait here for you,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I will be coming back. But... I will send word to you, some sign showing I am safe.” She walked toward the Pictish camp.

  She tried to hold her head high, to appear calm and unafraid. Everywhere, men left their cookfires and tents and approached her, staring. They came in groups, and Eastra noted each clan seemed to have a distinctive animal symbol they incorporated into their attire. One group wore bearskins around their shoulders, despite the heat, and had bear claws strung on leather thongs around their necks. Other clans carried the wildcat’s spotted fur as their symbol, wore hawk feathers in their hair or adorned themselves with boar tusks. One tribe had gone so far as to smear a light streak down the center of their dark hair so they looked like badgers, whose fur and striped tails hung from their waists.

  Eastra thought of Rhun’s symbol, the red dragon of Cymru. The dragon wasn’t a real animal, but a fantastic creature out of legend. It seemed an appropriate symbol for him, a man who believed in dreams and bright, shining ideals. A lump formed in her throat. By now, Rhun would have rejoined Arthur’s men. He would be preparing to march into battle. Would she ever see him again—her great golden warrior, her champion and hero?

  The pain inside her grew so intense she could scarce walk. She reminded herself why she was here—to stop the war, to save Rhun’s life and the lives of so many other men. If only she could convince Cerdic to talk to Arthur before they fought. Arthur could not win, not against this huge army. Perhaps he would think twice about sacrificing the lives of his men if he were given an opportunity.

  She squared her shoulders, her resolve deepening. The babe inside her made her feel powerful. When she met with her uncle, she would pretend she was Morguese. She would call up the magic, the Goddess’s energy. She would make him listen to her.

  At last they reached the edge of the northern warriors’ camp. Along the way, Eastra had noticed the Picts seemed poorly equipped. The weaponry she’d seen was mostly old and made of bronze rather than iron. It wouldn’t fare well against the superior weaponry of the Britons. But despite their lack of resources, she sensed the Picts had their own kind of strength. They were lean, hungry men, and they were fighting for the survival of their race, their offspring, their future.

  The Saxons were also fighting for their future, but the mood in their camp was much different, Eastra thought as she crossed the invisible barrier and entered the territory of her people. Here there was a sense of expectancy and eagerness in the air. These were the tall, strong warriors she remembered from her childhood, with long golden hair and fierce blue eyes. Their weapons were terrifying, she knew—the seaxe, which could cleave a man in two; spiked balls attached to a club that was swung in a deadly arc, for the purpose of crushing the opponent’s skull; maces and spears and huge broadswords that rivaled those of the Britons.

  Her heart pounded at the thought. She could easily imagine one of her countrymen killing Rhun, see his blood running on the ground, see his beautiful face smashed by a blow from a Saxon warrior. Before he died, would he look into his opponent’s pale blue eyes and remember her?

  She shuddered, and some of her Pictish escort turned to look at her. They were uneasy as well. They didn’t like venturing into the realm of their so-called ally.

  The Saxons they saw hardly took note of them. Their attitude toward the Picts was clearly one of tolerance edged with a kind of contempt. Eastra wondered how the Picts could bear to fight beside men who had so little respect for them. But then she remembered the northern men’s desperation. They felt they had no choice. If they were going to keep their lands, they had to ally themselves with the Saxons.

  Perhaps their scheme would work, she decided. From what she’d heard, no Saxon would covet the Picts’ homeland. It was too hilly and heavily forested to be farmed. It was good only for grazing, and even then it took a large territory to feed a herd.

  Her people desired the rich southern lands. That’s what they were fighting for. Her confidence in her purpose wavered. How could she convince Cerdic to be content with the coastal lands and the areas of the south their people had already settled when there was so much rich, desirable land left to conquer? She would have to think of a plan, and she would have to do so quickly.

  They entered the arched stone gateway of Eburacum. On either side were watchtowers, abandoned now to the swallows who built their nests in the crumbling stonework. There was no need for sentries to watch for the enemy here. She followed the Pictish leader down the half paved, weed-ridden street to a large, square building in the center of the fortress. The roof was half fallen in, but the walls looked solid. Above the doorway was hung the embossed bronze ceremonial shield of her uncle, decorated with two white horsetails that drooped limply in the heat. Two of Cerdic’s house carls stepped forward.

  The Pictish leader walked fearlessly to meet them. “We bring you the Princess Eastra,” he said loudly in Saxon touched by the burred, lilting accent of his people.

  Eastra faced the sentries, recognizing them as Beornwold and Aelfric. They stared at her. Then Aelfric, his eyes cold as the western sea, stepped aside so she could enter the ruined building.

  She walked down a corridor lit with oil lamps and decorated with the badly scarred mosaic of a beast she knew was called a panther. At the end of the corridor was a large room, and there sat Cerdic at a table, eating his midday meal. Two other men were with him. Eastra recognized the large, fair-haired man as Ossa, the leader of the Jutes. The other man she didn’t know, although she sensed she’d seen him before. He was young and foreign-looking, with brown hair and a slender build. The three men looked at her in surprise, then Cerdic spoke. “Eastra,” he said. “How...” he cleared his throat so he could speak in normal tones. “How do you come to be here?”

  “Did you think I was dead? That Arthur had me killed?” She spoke coldly, seizing her advantage. He had willingly sacrificed her life when he murdered Mordred.

  Something shifted in Cerdic’s gaze, and his voice when he spoke was slow and careful. “Why should Arthur have you killed?”

  The question surprised Eastra, but she tried not to show it, to maintain a hold on her anger. “Because I’m the hostage you gave in exchange
for Arthur’s son, Mordred. Since you’ve killed Mordred, it seems reasonable Arthur would have me put to death. As I understand it, that is the purpose of hostages. Each side holds something of value of the other’s, and that’s the deterrent that keeps the peace. But obviously”—she faced her uncle challengingly—“I was not of much value to you.”

  Cerdic didn’t speak, but wiped his mouth and pushed the platter in front of him to the other side of the table. Then he gestured to the young, dark-haired man beside him. “This is Mordred. He looks very alive to me.”

  Eastra stared at the youth, and he stared back with green eyes like a cat. An eerie sense of recognition sent a chill down Eastra’s spine. Mordred did look familiar, although the day of the hostage exchange she’d scarcely paid any attention to him. She wondered why his appearance unsettled her.

  “But...” It was her turn to hesitate. “A man came from Arthur’s camp and said Mordred was dead.”

  Cerdic shrugged. “Obviously, he was misinformed.”

  Either that, Eastra thought, or he was trying to incite Arthur to make war. The implications of Bedwyr’s message struck her. Had Bedwyr been lying? Or was he simply carrying on the message Arthur had received? Then the sudden thought came to her that if Mordred was alive, the truce might yet hold. There was no reason for Arthur to march against them.

  “Uncle, you must send a message to Arthur with some proof his son is alive. He’s planning to go to war against you. His troops are marching here even now. If he knows Mordred is alive, he will retreat and this battle can be avoided.”

  Cerdic gazed at her. “I’m pleased you are alive and well, niece. You must believe me when I say I didn’t think Arthur would harm you, hostage or not. I’ve been told he is a man who honors women, a man whose conscience would not allow him to order the death of an innocent girl.”

  Eastra bristled at the term “girl.” She was hardly a child. Indeed, she carried a babe in her belly, the ultimate proof of her womanhood.