Bound by Blood

by Mia West

  “Neither of you will get the sword,” she said, “because neither of you deserves it.”

  Their father, upon returning from his day’s work to find that his sons had wrecked the house, agreed with her. And so the sword had been buried in stone, to lie forever between the two men who’d known it best.

  There was forever, Arthur thought, and then there were extraordinary circumstances, and what had happened to Bedwyr in the past year called for unforeseen measures.

  His heart thumping in his ears, he reached out and took hold of the blade. Its steel felt cold against his fingers. Carefully, he slipped it from under their hands and then held the sword across his lap. It needed honing and a hard polish, but still it gleamed in the lantern light. He set it aside and looked at Marcus’s shroud.

  “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  Rising, he rounded the bed to the other side and knelt again. Here had been the man whose opinion he’d always valued most, more than his father’s, more than Bedwyr’s, more even than Lord Uthyr’s. What did Papa Wolf think of him and what he’d just done? Would he have done the same, had he been in Arthur’s place? Had he done something like this for Grandfather Marcus?

  That knowledge was gone with the man, but he felt certain that either of these men would have done anything for the other. Even if doing so would have brought down the sky.

  He set his forehead to the hard shape that had once been Wolf’s brow. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  He stood and gathered the lantern and the sword. Unsheathing his own blade, he laid it on the ground just inside the entrance and made a quick, sheepish prayer to his gods that it would protect the tomb from looting. With one last glance to ensure their hands were still joined, he left the cave.

  He reset the rocks in the stone cleft with care. Taking his time, he mixed a new cement of clay and dry grass, and filled in the spaces around the rubble, smoothing it as best he could. When he finished, he stood back to inspect his work. Some of the blackberry brambles hung in long tendrils still. Before he wove them together again, he pressed his palm into the damp daub.

  Then he set off down the hill with a scabbard full of lightning.

  Chapter 8

  When Arthur stepped into the meeting hall, Tiro’s evening tale was well underway.

  He had planned his arrival just so and quietly took up a place in the shadows near the entrance. His parents sat side by side as always, against the wall to his left. They would be behind him when he spoke to Lord Uthyr. That was probably best. Cai sat with some of their fellow fighters, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, his hands resting calmly in his lap. Arthur set his feet and focused on the man he was doing this for.

  Bedwyr sat on a bench near his father’s chair. It was his place, and Arthur was glad to see him in it. But someday he hoped to see Bed sitting in the big, fur-laden seat that was his right by both blood and might. It would suit him, that great chair. Give his broad back something to rest on, allow him to lean casually on one elbow as he listened to some underling or other report to him about activity at the borders, his fingers drumming impatiently on his thigh.

  On second thought, Bed would look nothing like that. Given the responsibility of the region, he would sit upright in the chair and listen intently to anyone who approached him. He wouldn’t recline, either, but lean forward, so that if someone was speaking to him, they would feel they had his full attention. And when they finished, he would respond in his usual public way, his low voice measuring out words carefully, choosing only the necessary ones. He would hold the entire room in thrall.

  Arthur most of all. He could imagine standing back, much as he was doing now, watching Bedwyr occupy his rightful place in the hall and among their people. Arthur would ensure that everyone paid respect to Bed because the man wouldn’t do that for himself. He would simply lead, as he felt his duty to be. It would be up to Arthur to keep a watchful eye for fractured loyalties.

  If, that is, he was able to concentrate on anyone but Bed himself. The image of him sitting in the great chair was one of Arthur’s favorite fantasies. Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night, the hearth fire banked and Cai snoring on his pallet nearby, Arthur painted the picture in his mind. Bedwyr sat in his seat of power. He’d shed his shirt so that the flames jumping in the fire pit played over the bulky muscle of his chest. He sat with his knees splayed, the wool of his trousers hugging his thighs. As Arthur approached him, Bed’s dark eyes followed his every step from the door of the hall, across the floor, to the platform on which the chair was mounted. They greeted him, pulled him, demanded his obedience. When Arthur knelt between Bedwyr’s knees, as he always did in this dream, the man above him nodded acknowledgment, though Arthur always took it as encouragement. With his own shadow dancing on Bedwyr’s chest and belly, he unlaced the man’s trousers and paid his respects, Bed’s fingers buried in his hair—

  “Arthur.”

  He flinched at the soft voice that wasn’t Bedwyr’s. “Master Philip.”

  The cleric gave him an inquisitive smile. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any final questions?”

  Arthur shook his head.

  Philip studied him in a way that made him nervous, but then said only, “I wish your grandfathers could see you boys just now.”

  The scabbard lay heavy between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “Can’t they?”

  The man smiled. “I suppose so. And I further suppose each of them has wagered on his favorite.”

  Arthur hoped so, and that the gods’ dice would fall in Wolf’s favor. Ensuring Bed’s place among their people was all he wanted.

  Well, not the only thing, evidently, but the most important.

  A cheer rose around the hall as Tiro’s story ended. Philip walked away to meet him with a cup of ale. Bedwyr caught the movement and straightened on his bench.

  Even from across the room, Arthur could see Bed’s eyes widen at Arthur’s hair. He was wearing it loose. Bedwyr liked it down, and Arthur enjoyed seeing the effect it had on him. On any other night, he might have worn it free just to see the color it brought to Bed’s neck and cheeks, and the way it made his hand restless, as if he were imagining touching it. But Arthur had a more practical reason tonight.

  Practical and dangerous.

  Cai stood and strolled over to him. “You ready?”

  Funny how a question could sound so different coming from his brother versus his old teacher. “Are you?”

  Cai’s only answers were a snort and a cocky hitch of his belt.

  They crossed the over-warm space toward Uthyr. By the time they reached him, the hall had quieted again. The warlord’s black eyes gave them each a once-over. “What have you to share?”

  Arthur waited for Cai to speak first. Birth order held some importance, after all.

  Cai launched into a scheme to repel the Saxon threat, involving the concentration of regional patrols to the south and east.

  Arthur sneaked a glance at Bedwyr. Just as he’d imagined, Bed was listening to Cai intently.

  Lord Uthyr, on the other hand, leaned against one arm of his great chair as Cai spoke. He looked almost bored until Cai mentioned the buck.

  “Fourteen points if it has two, my lord. I’ve had the meat prepared for your larder, and the hide is being cleaned. I saved the head to mount here, if you wish.”

  Uthyr leaned forward. “Four and ten, you say?”

  Cai raised his chin. “Yes, my lord. It was a bear to drag back.”

  “A buck, you mean.” Uthyr chuckled at his joke, and the room joined him.

  Cai’s color was high with pride. “Just so.”

  Uthyr sat back. “I don’t remember you possessing much skill with a bow—have you been practicing on your own?”

  Arthur almost felt sorry for his brother. He’d borne the weight of that scrutiny himself, and it had been difficult not to shift his feet under it.

  Cai’s boots scuffed the packed-dirt floor. “I f
ound my shot,” he said. “My lord.”

  When Uthyr turned to Tiro for confirmation, Bedwyr looked at Arthur. Arthur winked at him, quick as a moth’s wing.

  The warlord turned back to face him. “And what have you to share, my boy?”

  He tried to read more behind the challenge in Uthyr’s voice. Had he been impressed by Cai’s speech and his offering?

  Didn’t matter. Arthur had only the one plan. He squared his shoulders.

  “My lord. You told us to show you which of us is Marcus Roman’s rightful heir.” He raised his voice so that everyone in the hall would hear him. “My grandfather fought for Rome for twenty years, then survived her fall by forging a secure community on the edge of chaos. He crossed a sea to come here, and mountains. And then more mountains and more mountains—he never let us forget how many mountains.”

  Uthyr’s craggy features broke into a smile, and he laughed, nodding. So did Philip and Tiro, who had made that journey with Marcus. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

  So far, so good.

  “My grandfather understood strategy,” Arthur said. “He was skilled, and disciplined, and you must have thought so yourself because you let him train your son.”

  Uthyr wasn’t laughing now, but still he nodded, thoughtfully.

  “I train for skill and discipline. I’ve begun to understand strategy, thanks to you, my lord, and to the patient teaching of Master Philip.” He tipped his head to the cleric, who gave him an encouraging nod in return. “But in our days together recently, I came to understand something else. Something more important than patrols or watch schedules. What I realized is that no strategy is worth the sum of its tactics without loyalty.”

  Uthyr straightened slowly in his chair.

  “Grandfather had his differences with you—that’s no secret. No surprise, either, since he came from a different world. But I was raised under you, my lord. Your rule is my law, your word my bidding. I could give you a set of tactics to beat back the Saxons—I prepared one with Master Philip’s help. But the best strategy I can offer is my loyalty. No matter how you choose to deal with incursions, the loyalty of your men is the most important thing.”

  Uthyr was watching him closely, waiting.

  Arthur took a breath; just a few words more.

  “Marcus Roman was loyal to you, my lord, and so am I. It’s my honor to serve you as his grandson.” Reaching under the fall of his hair, he gripped the sword and drew it from its scabbard.

  The blade sang in the silent hall.

  He stood it in front of him, its tip anchored in the ground and his hands resting on the pommel so that no one would see how he trembled.

  It took a moment, but then Cai gasped.

  Bedwyr’s gaze was pinned to the blade.

  Uthyr leaned forward to peer at the weapon, and then his eyes grew wide. “Is that—?”

  Arthur raised his chin, triumphant. “Marcus Roman’s sword.”

  A cry arose among his neighbors.

  Uthyr stared at him. “I thought it was buried with him.”

  “It was, my lord.”

  “You took it from his tomb?”

  “I claimed it.”

  Cai stepped away sharply, as if Arthur might bring down the gods’ wrath on him by proximity. As though summoned by them, his mother stepped between Arthur and Lord Uthyr. Her shoulders had a rigid set to them as she directed some look Arthur couldn’t see to the warlord. Then she addressed Master Philip.

  “Is this your doing?” she demanded.

  When Philip shook his head, speechless for maybe the first time in Arthur’s life, his mother turned to face him.

  He’d never seen this expression on her face before, and his courage faltered.

  “How dare you?” she said in a shaky whisper and then slapped him so hard he stumbled sideways.

  Catching himself, he resisted pressing a palm to his burning cheek. The sword still connected him to the earth. Looking up, he found Uthyr watching Britte stalk from the meeting hall. His dark eyes slid back, flicking down to take in the sword once more before meeting Arthur’s gaze.

  “This is unexpected,” he said. “Impressive doesn’t begin to describe what you’ve done.”

  Arthur wished for the thousandth time that the warlord’s face were easier to read, but a man didn’t reach his position by giving away his every thought.

  Lord Uthyr pointed one square finger at him. “I’ve watched you for a long time, lad. I knew you were willful; I told the Roman so. Told him I looked forward to shaping you into a true warrior of Cymru. He didn’t appreciate that.”

  The lord’s eyes seemed to flash with humor, but Arthur couldn’t be certain.

  “You do train, and hard. Except for your first time out, I’ve found no fault with your skill or discipline. But as you might imagine, finding no fault with someone is a far cry from finding them exceptional.”

  Arthur’s throat began to close up tight. Had he failed? Had he misjudged Uthyr’s intent? He gripped the sword.

  “In the end, you’ve saved me the trouble. I asked you for a strategy. But you saw past the request to the true objective of the test. Unquestioning—and unquestioned—loyalty. Moreover, you’ve brought the proof of it here and claimed it before everyone you know.” Uthyr’s black eyes glinted at him. “You are exceptional, Arthur ap Matthias, and the rightful heir of the qualities that shone so strongly in your grandfather.”

  As Uthyr stood and looked out over the silent hall, Arthur risked a glance at Bedwyr, who was looking at him with something like wonder. This is for you, Arthur tried to tell him silently. They would celebrate tonight, if he had to drag Bedwyr miles into the dark hills.

  “I set these brothers a challenge,” Uthyr told the village. “You all knew that—nothing stays secret here for long.”

  A murmur of laughter at that.

  “What you may not know is that I promised the victor a house. My house, in fact, with some of my most prized possessions in it.”

  The murmur grew. Cai stood a few feet away, scowling.

  Uthyr turned to Arthur. “You’ve shown me what I sought, and so you’ve earned the structure. But you’ve also proven you’re willing to take great risk for those you serve. And that, lad, is a quality I want allied to the house of my family—to my name—and so I give you my single most prized possession.” He held up his hand. “Gwenhwyfar, come forward.”

  Shock flashed over Arthur’s skin and rippled through the hall.

  Gwen rose, staring wide-eyed at her father, then at Arthur. She made her way silently to the warlord, where he took her hand. When he held out his other hand, Arthur gave his on instinct, and Uthyr set Gwen’s on top, his large paw pressing them together.

  “Arthur ap Matthias, I betroth you to Gwenhwyfar, daughter of my blood and of my name. In your joining may both our houses become stronger. What say you?”

  Arthur swallowed hard. Did that mean he had a choice? Gwen was still staring at him with unblinking doe’s eyes. She knew him, better than almost anyone. She knew his mind and his heart, so she knew they would never fully belong to her. Could he do that to her? He glanced at Bedwyr.

  He gripped the edge of his bench, knuckles pale as milk. His face was still as stone.

  No, Arthur had no choice.

  He turned his hand to grip Gwen’s wrist, and her trembling fingers took hold of his in return. Then he looked up at his warlord and nodded.

  “May our names be eternal.”

  Uthyr grinned.

  Behind him, Bedwyr rose from his bench. Stepping forward, he thumped Arthur on the back, mumbling congratulations, and kissed his sister on the head. Then he drew back, his eyes everywhere but meeting Arthur’s, and as their neighbors began to crowd in to offer their own good wishes, Bedwyr left the hall.

  Chapter 9

  Bedwyr wanted to stop just outside and lean against the wall, but he needed to get away from the place. He made for the well. There, at least, he might ease the unbearable tightness in
his throat.

  Halfway there, just past the weavers’ workshop, a hand closed on his arm. “Bedwyr.”

  He turned to find Elain looking up at him. “Leave me be.”

  “You’re supposed to guard me, remember.”

  He plucked her hand from his sleeve and walked away.

  She caught up, but she didn’t say anything else until they’d come to the well and he’d had two ladles of cool water. It didn’t help.

  “Come.”

  Elain pulled him to a low bench nearby. He gave in and sat down, and she settled next to him, her fingers laced in her lap.

  “Did your father never mention the possibility?”

  He let his head tip back. Stars pulsed overhead as if each were filled with silver blood. “That Gwen would marry for alliance? Of course.”

  “But to Arthur?”

  His own blood had seemed to slow, as if it were freezing. “No.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then, “Might it be a good thing? That if she must marry someone, he’s your closest friend?”

  He leveled a hard look at her.

  She held up her hands to ward it off. “Fair enough. It was a thought.”

  “A stupid one.”

  “And poorly expressed. I’m sorry.”

  They sat silently for a long time. From the hall, a muffled shout rose. The village was toasting Arthur and Gwen.

  Bedwyr looked down at his hand, clenching in his lap. “He tried to tell me I should marry.”

  “Your father?”

  He nodded. “After you shared my bed.” He looked at her. “He made a strong case for you as wife.”

  Elain pressed her lips together, as if she were horrified at the thought.

  He looked away. Of course she wouldn’t want him. It shouldn’t have mattered, but the reminder that he was less than an optimal choice was a kick to the teeth.

  “Bedwyr, there’s something I need to tell you.”