LIKE A FOX SLIDING through hedges and skimming across meadows, like the shadows of clouds scudding over valleys, through the high hidden ways, through the valleys, traveling by the wind, word of Ambrosius’ arrival in Britain spread out ahead of the company.
In response, the few leaders left after the tragedy at Aquae Sulis, and every now-leaderless troop, unit and army was drawn into Ambrosius’ vortex. They stood on the side of the hard, good Roman road, or came up from behind the company, riding fast, or scrambled down from high hills, or hailed the company from nearly hidden camps. They sought speech with Ambrosius, to beg for a chance to exact their revenge from Vortigern for their losses.
Ambrosius gave no assurances on the matter of revenge, although he spoke to everyone with courtesy. He also made them swear allegiance to him on the spot and without hesitation they did, for Ambrosius was hard to resist.
He rode at the front of the company, instead of in among his strongest fighters for protection, and he was a fine sight on his great white stallion. Ambrosius seemed to gleam the way Nimue did. He was a man riding the great tide, as Merlin had predicted. The work of a lifetime was coming to the fore and he was more than ready. His determination shone from him. It was little wonder every man who approached the company devoted themselves to Ambrosius and his cause. It was their cause now, too. Hengist had seen to that.
The journey to Calleva, which was a long day’s ride, took nearly two days as they stopped frequently to speak to errant soldiers. They arrived at Calleva as the sun was sinking on the second day. The company had increased by another several thousand men with arms and horses. Too, there were hundreds of foot soldiers, made of local men carrying pitchforks and staves and old Roman swords long turned dull and rusty, yet still solid enough for honest work.
The tall man standing upon the steps into the king’s house could only be Mabon. He was around Arawn’s age, with the black Celtic looks common in this part of Britain. His people arrayed behind him. Beside him was a small woman with golden hair, arranged under a circlet and veil, and pale white Saxon skin. She would be his queen, Maela…and Vortigern’s daughter.
Mabon lifted a hand in greeting as Ambrosius’ stallion trotted up before the step upon which Mabon stood.
“Word of your arrival runs before you, Ambrosius,” Mabon said. “Fear, too.”
“Good,” Ambrosius said, swinging down from his horse, his cloak spreading like wings. “Fear will soften Vortigern’s determination. Let him stew in it, in his fastness.” Ambrosius held out his arm. “It is good to meet you after all this time, Mabon. I am in your debt for the news about Doward. How did you learn of it?”
Mabon drew his queen forward. “Vortigern requested Maela attend him.”
“A peace offering after fifteen years of enmity,” Maela added, her mouth turning down.
“Instead, you inform your father’s enemy of his whereabouts,” Ambrosius said and gave her a short bow of his head. “One day you must explain to me the reason for such deep hatred of your father, queen Maela.”
Maela curtsied. “It is not a story which would surprise you, my lord.”
“Not anymore,” Ambrosius said dryly. He turned to wave toward the senior officers and leaders of his company—all who could squeeze into the courtyard at the front of the house. “A night to rest, then tomorrow, we will all ride for Doward.”
“We are ready, my lord,” Mabon replied. “There is food and beds for your officers. Come and share wine with me, Ambrosius, and let the rumor of your coming draw ahead of you.”
“A fine idea,” Ambrosius said and moved into the house with Mabon.
Ilsa slithered down from her horse, feeling her body twinge. She was not as sore as she had been on the first fast ride for Carnac. To move freely, after five days on a crowded ship, was a blessed relief.
Arawn had already hurried to follow Ambrosius into the house. Ilsa instead walked to where the queen, Maela, waited for the stream of officers and lords entering the house to subside.
“I bring you word from Lesser Britain, queen Maela,” Ilsa told her. The woman was not much taller than Ilsa, now she was standing beside her, although she was older.
Maela’s gaze flickered over Ilsa and met her eyes once more. “You traveled with the company? How brave and strong you are! I always ache as if my whole body is one large bruise after a single day of it.”
“I, too,” Ilsa admitted with a small smile. “I am Ilsa, queen and wife to Arawn, King of Brocéliande.”
Maela’s smile grew even warmer. “You are most welcome, Ilsa. Tell me, can you really shoot that bow over your shoulder?”
“I am told I am a fair shot with it,” Ilsa said, touching her hand to the string running between her breasts. “Why do you ask?”
“To see if you will fit with my troop,” Maela replied.
“Your troop?” Ilsa repeated, startled. “You have a…troop?” Her heart jumped and fluttered. “You fight?” She glanced once more at the queen’s elegant gown and veil and the circlet, her smooth skin and small hands.
“Oh, not in the thick of things, to be sure,” Maela assured her. “My women wait on the flanks. We watch for the enemy trying to break from their ranks and circle behind the front lines and cut them off. Our horses do most of the work. A good bowman—woman—would be useful, though. You can teach the others.”
Winded, Ilsa could only stare at her.
Maela laughed. It was a gay sound. “I see you are not used to the idea of women mixed up in the affairs of men. I confess the idea once shocked me, too. Come inside and share wine with me, Ilsa.” She held out her hand toward the door. “You said you brought news from Lesser Britain? For me?”
“Yes.” Ilsa recalled the message. “Lynette, wife of Cadfael, sends greetings and hopes you remember her fondly.”
Maela halted, her eyes growing larger. Her lips parted. “Lynette? She lives? Truly? And she is with Cadfael?”
Ilsa tilted her head. “They have five children. Cadfael is one of Ambrosius’ most trusted and senior officers. You did not see him, just then?” She nodded toward the house.
“I was not looking for him,” Maela confessed. “I thought he had been killed, long ago. Lynette lives…!” she added in a whisper and pressed her fingers to her lips. Her eyes glittered with sudden tears.
She dropped her hand and sniffed heavily, then took Ilsa’s arm. “I see there are stories we must exchange, Ilsa of Brocéliande. Come, come. The wine awaits.” She walked beside Ilsa, up the broad, shallow steps to the big doors which stood open in greeting and gave another small laugh. “Do you know Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall?”
“I saw him in Clausentum,” Ilsa said, “although I have heard his name spoken by Ambrosius and Arawn many times over the years.” She thought of the tall, red-haired man who had waited for their ship to berth, standing on the wharf at Clausentum. His hair was not as deeply red as Uther’s, although they shared the same hard, disciplined carriage. Gorlois was a fighting man, through and through. “He has been loyal to Ambrosius from the beginning,” Ilsa added.
“Yes, and he brought a large company of men with him. I can see the Boar on tunics everywhere,” Maela said. “If you have only heard of him from men, then you may not have heard tell of his wife, Igraine.”
“No.”
The great hall was ahead, lined with shields and devices and many men, milling about with cups and talking loudly. Maela skirted the hall doors and drew Ilsa farther into the house, which was bright and airy and smelled of herbs and lemons. “Igraine is Gorlois’ second wife, a princess from Venta. They say she is the most beautiful woman to walk the earth since Cleopatra yet no one ever sees her, for Gorlois keeps her in his fortress at Tintagel and is jealous of any man who steps in her presence.”
Ilsa’s heart skipped a beat. She had been a wife trapped in a keep, once. She shrugged. “‘They’ always think they know why a man does what he does. They are not always right.”
“Very true,” Maela said and squeezed her arm. “My hus
band, Mabon, is more friendly with Gorlois than others, as they have both served Ambrosius for so long and both have lands in the south. He has got to know Gorlois well over the years and he says Gorlois does not keep Igraine captive as men would like to believe. The truth is that Gorlois loves his wife deeply and Igraine is not interested in affairs beyond the walls of the keep. She stays at home to care for her children and await Gorlois’ return. He always does return, too. He will leave his men and ride back to Tintagel every night, just to be with her.” Maela’s smile was warm. “It is romantic, is it not?”
“I suppose,” Ilsa said reluctantly. “Dukes are free to marry for love. Kings are not.” The words emerged with more churlishness than she intended.
Maela’s smile did not falter. “Mabon says this campaign of Ambrosius’ could last for years, winter and summer alike.”
“Arawn says that, too,” Ilsa admitted.
Maela nodded. “Yet, knowing he would not be excused to hurry back to Cornwall whenever he missed his wife and that he might be on the road for years, Gorlois still did not bring her with him, despite loving her as he does. She will not follow him in the women’s caravan, either.”
Ilsa gave up. Her uneasy heart would not allow her to think. “You have a point to make, Maela?” she asked bluntly.
Maela paused in front of a closed door and looked at her. “Gorlois would not bring his wife with him, not even to trail behind him in the camps, yet your husband insisted you travel right by his side. He must love you very much.”
Ilsa jerked, her arm pulling from Maela’s grip. The words were right there on the edge of her lips. He brings me only so he can work to break the curse, that is all. She did not speak them, for Maela’s eyes were shining.
“Come and tell me about Lynette,” Maela said, pushing open the door and waving Ilsa inside.
With heavy, slow steps, Ilsa went in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ambrosius was true to his word. The company remained in Calleva the next day, to rest and to allow rumor of their coming to spread far and wide.
“The longer Vortigern has to brood about our arrival, the more he will stew in the stink of his own fear,” Ambrosius told Arawn, as he wrote and dispatched messages, and listened to spies’ reports.
“The longer you stay here, the more men with arms flow through the town gates,” Mabon pointed out, from his seat by the window. “The gatekeepers are having a devil of a time sorting them out.”
“If they come bearing arms, let them in,” Ambrosius said. “There is no enemy anywhere who would dare attack your town today, with thirty thousand troops camped around it.”
So the town gates were left open to all comers. The recruits poured in. That evening, Mabon—who was a thoughtful host—announced a feast for all the lords and officers to attend. Even the men camped in the fields outside the town walls were invited. The town could not accommodate everyone, but the king’s hall could contain them for an evening.
Mabon had given Arawn a room in the far back of the house, with apologies for the location and the size. “I would give a king a grander chamber, but there isn’t one,” Mabon told him. “At least your lady wife can rest comfortably, for the bed is soft and large enough for two.” His dark eyes twinkled with good humor.
Ambrosius did not rest that day, even though his men took keen advantage of the moment of leisure. Instead, he fell to planning the next stage of the campaign. A man was found who knew the twin hills of Doward and could describe the fort there. Ambrosius interviewed him, asking sharp questions about the land around the fort, the valley which led to the lesser hill where the fort was built, the amenities and water supply inside the walls and more.
In his mind, Arawn formed a picture of a high, flat-topped hill surrounded by bare plain with no cover, approachable only from the north. Inside the ramparts and palisades was a spring which had never failed and cellars holding enough food to feed a thousand men for a year.
The walls had never been breached since the Iceni built their first defenses there. It was said the only way to breach the walls was with treachery.
“No wonder the King picked Doward,” Cadfael said, when the man had gone. “It sounds formidable.”
“There is always a way to break any wall if one has the time, and I do.” Ambrosius said calmly. “Vortigern will answer for his actions, come what may.” He let the book he was reading roll shut. “I suppose we must wash and dress and honor our host’s generosity this night.”
Cadfael clapped Ambrosius on the shoulder. “It will do you good to relax for a single moment. This may be your last for a long while.”
Arawn got to his feet. “For all of us,” he added.
“Except you, hey, Arawn?” Cadfael replied, with a wink. “No other man had the cheek to bring his wife with him. Perhaps I should find out for myself what her magic is, hmm?”
“Oh, leave him, Cadfael,” Ambrosius said. “When it comes to Lady Ilsa, Arawn cannot be teased. He takes the matter of curses too seriously.”
Cadfael lifted his brow. “Definitely, I must talk to the woman. Come along, Ambrosius. I will force you to relax, even if I must pour the wine down your throat and hold your nose to make you swallow.”
The pair walked out of the great hall, leaving Arawn alone at the table. He pushed the scrolls and tablets away from him with a convulsive jerk. Is that what everyone thought? That he was so fearful and superstitious he had brought the woman who would break his curse with him to war?
That is what you told Ilsa. Why would anyone believe otherwise?
Arawn pushed to his feet with a hiss of impatience and went back to his borrowed room to wash and smooth his travel-worn clothes. He laid off the leather armor and armguards and most of the accoutrements of battle, so he looked as though he had at least tried to appear presentable.
By the time he had done, the rumor of many voices collecting in the hall rose in volume.
Through the window came faint sounds of cheerful music. Shortly before sunset, barrels of ale and roasted haunches were sent to the soldiers who must camp beyond the walls. They were making the most of their night, too.
Ilsa did not return before Arawn was ready. He was impatient to return to the hall. What did it matter if he did not arrive with her on his arm? He was not besotted with her, not the way Gorlois was with his wife and his children. Gorlois had a way of turning conversation back to hearth and home every time it paused for breath, his adoration for his young wife patent in his eyes and his face and his words.
He did not seem to care that men jested and rolled their eyes behind his back. Comments Arawn had overheard men make about Gorlois said he was a strong leader and a vicious fighter. His prowess as a warrior was not in doubt. If anything, defending his home and his family gave him added passion for the fight.
No, Arawn was not like Gorlois.
He strode into the hall and did not look around to see if Ilsa was already there, even though it was difficult to resist the impulse to do just that. Instead, when Uther raised his hand and beckoned, holding up a cup of wine, Arawn nodded and made his way through the gathering to Uther’s table. He took the cup from Uther with a murmured thanks and drank deeply.
He raised a brow at Uther. “You aren’t hunting for a companion for the night, Uther? With thirty thousand men surrounding us, I would imagine available bed partners are hard to find.”
“They are indeed,” Uther said with a grin, his blue eyes dancing. Since the ships had sailed and Uther faced real action, he was a changed man. His seething impatience and frustration had all but vanished. He smiled more frequently and he was as eager as a hound dog with the scent of fowl before him. Uther was a man who thrived upon action. “Why do you think I am hiding here in the hall, away from the quarrels and fights? I won the toss for the girl and Brithael is out there sulking with his men.”
Arawn laughed and took another deep mouthful of the wine. The tension sitting in his chest eased, although it did not completely disappear.
What was wrong with him? Since when had he become so sensitive to what anyone thought about him and his curse? For years he had ignored the jibes. It didn’t matter what others thought. His people believed the curse. It was his duty to break the curse so they would not suffer.
That was why she was here. That was the only reason she was here.
Uther lowered his cup, his eyes narrowing as he took in something behind Arawn. “At least I won’t have to fight you for a bed companion, Arawn.”
Arawn turned on his heel. Ilsa entered the hall with Mabon’s queen. Everyone around them bowed and curtsied, for this was Maela’s hall and they were honoring their queen. For a confused moment it seemed to Arawn they were bowing toward Ilsa.
She looked…different.
Arawn blinked his eyes, trying to clear his mind and think properly. How many times had Ilsa changed her appearance? He had lost count. She was as changeable as the weather, shifting like the seasons, a mood and an appearance for each.
Tonight she looked like a queen more than any other night he remembered.
The dress was clearly borrowed, for Ilsa rode as he did, with the barest of baggage so the horses were not slowed. The length was too long for her, yet not extraordinarily so, which meant it must be Maela’s gown, for Maela was only a finger’s width taller.
The soft green might have been made for Ilsa, though. The gown curved over her full breasts and hips and drew in around her waist, only to fall to the ground in graceful folds. The sleeves were wide, revealing the tight sleeves of the underdress. It was similar to the new-style gowns Ilsa and Elaine had made for themselves. There was a hint of Roman fashion there, too, for Ilsa wore a queen’s circlet about her brow, with a green gauze veil trailing down behind. The veil was so fine, every ripple and gleam of her hair could be seen beneath, for Ilsa wore her hair loose, brushed until it was burnished copper, curling around her hips and elbows.
Heavy copper and enamel earrings dangled from her ears beneath the hair, swinging with every step she took. A necklace of the same copper and enamel laid about her neck, the pendant sitting between her breasts.
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