Nimue rubbed at her forehead. “If it was any other boys than these three, then yes. These are the sons of my friends. They are family to me. I have watched them grow up and now I cannot see beyond the danger which hovers over them.”
Vivian’s grip on her wrist tightened for a moment. Then she let go. She nodded. Her blue eyes were slate gray as she murmured, “Then I must see the way forward, instead.”
Nimue felt a rare touch of fear. “You are untried…”
Vivian shook her head. “For you, I can do this.” She closed her eyes.
Nimue glanced around. No one took notice. They were two women, and harmless. No one knew who they were. They had their swords tucked at the back of their hips, where their cloaks hid them.
Nimue drew Vivian over to one side of the narrow alley between the tents and waited, her gaze on Vivian’s face. This matter was beyond her reach. She knew that. She was too invested in the outcome. It was a danger they all risked, the Ladies of the Lake, for they were entangled with the kingdom’s people and their welfare. Living deep in the forest kept them apart, although sometimes it was not enough.
Nimue paid that price, now. Over the years, she had forged such deep personal bonds she could not free herself from them enough for her Sight to move beyond them.
She spared a thought for Merlin, whose power outstripped all of theirs, yet he was still just a man who bore the burden of human ties. He kept himself apart, yet he must surely feel the tug of family, for he was bound to the High King as they all were.
Vivian drew in a deep breath which shook. She opened her eyes. “I know where they are.” She hesitated. “They are not alone, Nimue. The man who is with them…” She shuddered. “He is black inside.”
Nimue reached under her cloak and loosened her knife from the sheath beside her sword. “Show me the way.”
“Hurry!” Vivian spun and moved between the tents with determination. She knew exactly where she was going. She turned without hesitation, slipping between tents, across open spaces and around campfires, moving as if she was as familiar with the camp as everyone here. It made them even less likely to be halted and asked to identify themselves.
The tent which Vivian led them to was on the outskirts of the camp. It was unremarkable except for the number of guards who lounged or strolled around its perimeter, trying to appear as if they were not guarding the tents with their lives.
They were alert, too. As soon as Vivian and Nimue approached, they straightened or stood. They didn’t reach for their weapons, although their hands strayed in that direction.
One of them jerked his chin at them. “Move on,” he said gruffly.
Vivian raised her hand palm out. She did not brace herself or put effort into it, yet the man flew backward, his feet lifting, as if a great invisible hand had yanked him from behind. He cannoned into the others. All three rolled across the dirt to land against the nearest tent.
Instantly, the other guards drew their swords and rushed at them, shouting in a language Nimue did not know. It was not Latin, nor any of the languages used in Britain.
From inside the tent came more shouting. The voices which gave those shouts were high and light. Nimue’s heart squeezed.
Nimue drew her sword and knife. So did Vivian, although she held the sword loosely in her left hand. She used the knife to point with her right. Two more men slammed backward.
It left only three more for them to deal with. Nimue surged forward. This was something she could do. She dealt with the first man quickly, then turned to find that Vivian had sliced open the neck of the second.
They both confronted the third, who stood stock still, waiting for them.
Nimue would question Vivian later about this display of power. It was something only the most advanced acolytes ever managed and even then, it was rare.
“Put him to sleep,” Nimue said. There was no need for more bloodshed today.
Instead, Vivian stepped up to him and sliced open his neck. She backed out of the way as the blood spurted and looked at Nimue with a cold expression. “By sunset, you will agree with me on this.”
Nimue shivered.
Together, they moved toward the tent, their weapons up. Nimue pushed the tent flaps aside. Vivian stepped in, both blades extended.
It was dim inside the tent. Enough bright morning light streamed through the opening, though, for them to see the three boys surrounding the body.
Even in death, the man had a cruel cast to his mouth and eyes. The hilt of a knife jutted from his chest, explaining how he had died. Only a trickle of blood soiled the shirt, for the knife remained in place. Lower on the man’s belly was another great wound. It had bled freely.
Lancelot, Bors and Lionel stood around the man, all of them panting. Lancelot glanced at Nimue and Vivian. His face was white beneath his black curls. He held a knife in his hand. The blade dripped blood. It was not his own.
Lionel trembled. Bors had a great cut over his eyes and between them. It looked deep and ugly. He fumbled beneath his shirt. Nimue’s heart clamped with coldness as she realized he was fastening his trousers.
She glanced at the still body. The man’s trousers were unfastened.
“He was trying to…” Lancelot said. His voice shook. “To Bors…”
Bors looked angry. “He boasted. His father thinks he took us as hostages. He had other plans.”
Vivian dropped her sword and knife, untied the scarf she wore around her neck and wadded it. “Let me deal with that cut,” she breathed. “Come here.”
Nimue lowered her weapons, too. “Lancelot, Lionel… Are you injured?”
Lancelot threw himself at Nimue and wrapped his arms around her waist. He rested his hot cheek against her middle. Nimue held him tightly and drew Lionel toward her. He was thirteen and too old to allow himself the comfort of a hug. He nodded, his throat working. His eyes were large.
Vivian dabbed at the wound between Bors’ eyes. Nimue could see she was using more than simple fabric to treat the wound. It stopped bleeding as she worked at it with the scarf. The edges of the wound pulled together.
Such powers! Even Nimue had not foreseen Vivian’s full potential. Perhaps this was just the beginning.
Nimue wiped her blades on the dead man’s shirt to clean them. She put them away and picked up Lancelot’s hand. She smiled at him. “We will take you home,” she told him and Lionel.
Vivian patted Bors’ cheek. “You will have a fine war wound to boast about to the ladies.”
He nodded. The anger was still in place, although there was a light of understanding, too. He was moving further into the world of adults with every passing minute.
“Let’s go back,” Nimue told them.
UTHER LEANED ON HIS SWORD, surveying the battlefield. “Peace,” he said heavily. “But at what cost?”
Ilsa made herself stepped forward, so she was beside him. She had once ridden for an entire day of battle and not noticed the strain. Now her entire body ached.
She put her hand on Uther’s arm, knowing she was the only person in the world apart from Igraine who could dare such an intimacy with the High King. “You are wounded, Uther,” she breathed. “You must have the wound tended to at once. Drust is waiting for you.”
Uther’s blood pooled about his boots. Ilsa could not see beneath his cloak to measure whether the wound was the belly or lower.
Uther ignored her. Instead, he focused upon the devastation lying in the valley. It was victory, for Claudas had retreated and sent an emissary to sue for terms. Yet it was a victory which came at a great price.
“Ban and Bors…?” Uther asked.
Ilsa shook her head. “They are dead. Mabon will join them before sunset.” Her voice shook as she added, “I fear Maela will not make it, either.” Maela’s daughter Lynette was only sixteen years old. The two boys were grown, although this would be a blow to them, too. Bevan was old enough to be the king in Mabon’s place, though.
Uther sighed. Still he did not move.
/> On the battlefield men patrolled, looking for wounded and piling the dead upon carts which creaked across the torn-up field. In the middle of the field walked a small group of people beneath a banner with a crest Ilsa did not recognize.
“Who is that?” Uther asked, standing. He hissed as he moved.
“The man waiting to greet them is Brandegoris,” Ilsa said. “And if Brandegoris is waiting for them, then what I heard must be true. He saved the life of the Magyar King, yes?”
Uther frowned as he watched the small group of people approach Brandegoris and his cousins, Tristan and Mark, who stood behind him as an honor guard. “Yes, he freed the man when he pleaded for his life. I thought him a fool at the time. Now I see this and wonder who was the real fool.”
“I heard the men talking about it as I came to find you,” Ilsa said. “The King of the Magyars said he was forced to fight with Claudas, that Claudas held his wife and son hostage.”
Uther’s gaze met hers. Pain shadowed his eyes, but growing understanding was there, too. “Hostages. Such a nasty business. When did war become so dishonorable?”
The man beneath the regal banner stopped before Brandegoris and held out his hand. Beside him was a beautiful woman dressed in Roman fashion, with a baby in her arms. She was crying as she smiled at Brandegoris.
“Out of dishonor comes hope,” Ilsa breathed. She took Uther’s arm once more. This time she pulled steadily until he allowed himself to be moved. He came with her as she walked him back to the surgery tent.
His steps were slow, which told her the injury was a bad one. Little kept Uther down.
As they approached the tent, a startled cry sounded. Voices babbled. It was not a happy sound. Ilsa raised her brow and braced herself.
They stepped into the tent. Drust nodded his thanks to Ilsa as he hurried over to help her lead Uther over to a pallet in the far corner, where Drust could treat him. Between them, they lowered Uther to the pallet.
“Thank you. I have it now,” Drust said. He was already working to remove Uther’s clothes and armor to determine the extent of the wound.
Ilsa glanced over at the other side of the big tent where surgeons and women and soldiers gathered in a tight huddle. “What happened?”
Drust glanced at her. He went back to work. “Evaine…” He shook his head. “She sat beside Bors’ body and used his knife to open her wrists. I’m sorry, Ilsa.”
Ilsa was beyond the capacity for tears. There had been too many blows to her heart today. At least Arawn was safe, and Alun, too. She had checked upon both as soon as the cohort had returned to the command tent, when the white flag had gone up. Arawn had a mild injury to his arm and Alan was unscathed. Elen was taking care of both.
“And Mabon?” Ilsa asked.
“He lives, for now.” Drust frowned down at Uther.
Ilsa moved away, giving them privacy. She knew where Mabon laid and suspected Maela would be beside him. Ilsa stepped around the physicians who worked on the wounded and walked between the pallets until she found Mabon and Maela.
They were together, their hands twined. Mabon was not conscious, although he was still breathing. His breath rattled in a way Ilsa had learned to recognize as mortal. Maela’s gaze met Ilsa’s. Her eyes glistened with tears she did not shed. She swallowed deeply so she could speak, then said in a whisper, “It has been an honor to fight with you, Queen Ilsa.”
Her heart heavy, Ilsa knelt between the pallets, before their joined hands. “For this day and every day you have served Britain, know that your children and your children’s children will all be watched over, guarded and allowed to thrive.”
“I have only ever sought to undo what my father did.”
“In that, you have succeeded. You will be remembered, and not just by me.”
“Lynette…” Maela whispered.
“Our old friend Lynette, for whom she was named, will take care of her. She has already said she would. Do not worry. Be at peace.” Ilsa wrapped her hands around Mabon’s and Maela’s. She stayed there until Maela stopped breathing, shortly after Mabon fell silent.
WHEN ILSA EMERGED FROM THE surgery tent sometime later, her heart heavy, she found the camp in turmoil. It was not the usual post-battle chaos. Men hurried, most of them heading for the command tent.
Ilsa went there herself, her heart beating with more than unhappiness. She slid under the flap of the tent and moved around the inner edges until she could see who was at the center of the storm.
She bumped into her son, Alun. He stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, straining to see between shoulders and heads. His gaze met hers. “A messenger from Britain,” he murmured. “Saxons of Kent, led by Hengist, are moving westward. Sweeping waves of them.”
Ilsa swallowed. “Another flood…” The year Ambrosius had died had been the start of what old campaigners now called a flood year. Thousands of Saxons had crossed the channel to land on the Saxon Shore and join their comrades. The combined forces spewed across the land, taking advantage of what they thought was the new High King’s lack of experience.
They had underestimated Uther, though. They thought that because he had lived in his brother’s shadow all his life, he was unable to think for himself.
Uther had beaten back the Saxons with relentless summer campaigning for four hard years. He had been ruthless. He had pushed them behind the Saxon Shore borders, where they had continued to harass Uther year after year.
Now they sallied forth once more, spreading across Britain while Uther was in Lesser Britain.
The message was written on parchment, which was passed to those men who could read, to squint and frown at it before passing it on again.
“Will you be leading the men against the Saxons, then?” Pellinore asked Tristan.
Uther’s war duke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It may yet come to that.”
“No, it will not,” Uther declared, from the entrance to the tent. He leaned on a staff and looked white and haggard. A mutter ran around the tent as everyone took in his appearance. He wore a hastily donned robe over his fighting clothes. The garments beneath were soaked in blood. He wore his great cloak over his shoulders, the black framing his white face.
Using the staff, he made his way into the middle of the tent, to the tiny circle of free space. He turned, considering everyone. He paused when he saw Accolon standing at the back of the group.
“Accolon, you fought well today. You are a talented commander and Britain would be remiss, if we did not do our best to convince you to stay with her. To stay with me. Come and fight the Saxons and you will have a place among us. One of honor.”
Accolon inclined his head. “That is an offer I cannot refuse. To be honored among this great company would be reward enough. Thank you.”
“Then we are to return home?” Bedrawd asked. His face was pale. “My sons—Bedivere, Lucan—they are still small, and my home is along the path the Saxons take…”
“Look at the King, man,” Cador replied. “He’s barely standing. Give him time to recover enough to hold his sword, at least.”
Bedrawd said nothing else, although his throat worked as he studied Uther, waiting for his answer.
Uther shook his head. “We wait for no one. The Saxons will not. And if not them, it would be the Irish, or another enemy who feels they have a right to our land. I have been fighting the Saxons all my life and will fight them to when I draw my last breath. I have no intention of giving up. I will give them no quarter and not one more inch of ground. We rest tonight, then we ride for Carnac and the harbor.”
“And I ride with you,” came a soft voice from the entrance.
Ilsa, who was short to begin with, tried to peer over and around people, for it was a woman’s voice she had heard.
The lords and kings in the tent parted to allow Elaine to move into the center of the tent, where Uther stood. Elaine’s cheeks were tear stained. Tonight she looked far older than she was. Elaine moved right up to Uther and looked into his face. “Toni
ght I have lost a husband. Thanks to you, though, my son was saved. For that reason, I call upon an oath your brother made to Ban many years ago. I ride with you and will claim the lands of Benoic for my son, once you have retrieved them from the Saxons. And when Lancelot is old enough, he will fight with you to retrieve everything the Saxons have taken from us.”
She looked around the room, at the lords who listened uneasily. Ban had been a favorite among them. They all felt his loss.
“You will take Lancelot with you?” Ilsa asked. “A life on the road… It is difficult.” She had faced the same challenges with her children, although they had been much younger than Lancelot. “If he is to serve Uther, then he must be trained properly.”
“And he will be,” Elaine said calmly. “Lancelot and his half-brother, Hector, and Bors and Lionel will all go with Nimue and live in Brocéliande. Nimue and Vivienne will ensure they are trained by the best warriors and swordsmen to be found. They will be safe in Brocéliande with the Lady of the Lake, while we work to win back their lands.” Her gaze met Uther’s.
Uther nodded. “It is a worthy ambition for a great house. I will help you.”
“Not before he gets some sleep,” Drust said from the open doorway.
Chuckles ran around the tent.
Uther rolled his eyes. His knuckles upon the staff were white, though.
Hoel stepped forward. “If this is to be all out war, then none of us can linger at the hearth. I and mine will come with you to Britain, to beat back the Saxons one last time.”
Alun pushed his way through the shoulders in front of him. He stepped out into the open space. Ilsa’s heart leapt hard and high, hurting.
“I will come with you, too,” Alun told Uther.
That was when Ilsa knew Arawn would never fight again.
THE VERY LAST OF THE sun was sinking below the horizon when Nimue found Vivian.
Vivian stood at the top of the hill, watching the camp settle for the night, her cloak wrapped around her tightly. Vivienne was still young but, like everyone here, she looked much older tonight. Her jaw was tight with tension as she looked out over the camp.
War Duke of Britain Page 3