Cai pushed her to her feet. “Of course you can defeat him,” he said, his tone completely insincere.
“Poor woman!” someone murmured as Rhiannon got to her feet.
Her heart hurrying, Rhiannon moved over to face the big man. He was Cai’s size, yet most of the width was in his shoulders, which looked even larger because of the black fur around them. He watched her without a shred of amusement in his expression.
Be unpredictable, she reminded herself.
Idris bent, his hands raised, braced for her attack.
Rhiannon glanced over his shoulder and widened her eyes. “You’re not watching your back!” she cried.
He glanced behind him, startled, then snapped his head back to sight her, aware that she had distracted him. It was too late. He had given her the moment she needed. She ran forward and, with a hiss of effort, planted her boot on his bent knee. It wasn’t sharply bent, although there was enough of an angle for her to leverage herself. She pushed off his knee and swung her other boot up, flipping herself in a full circle.
Her boot connected with the underside of his chin, then she turned her head back to spot her landing. She bent her knees to land neatly on both feet.
Idris staggered back while she was landing. He straightened and felt his chin. He pushed a finger inside his mouth then examined the blood on it.
There was little amusement around the campfire now. There were some subdued sounds of approval, although the main reaction was one of anticipation.
She might have known that a blow which would put another man on his back would merely shift this man’s feet a few paces. Rhiannon blew out her breath. He was wary now. Anything she tried, he would be braced for.
He came at her, startling her with the speed he moved, which was lightning quick for such a big man. She got her hands up to defend herself just in time. Only, he didn’t grab her in one of the classic grappling holds. Instead, his arms came around her and she was swept up off her feet. He held her against him, locked in his arms, her feet kicking uselessly.
The laughter started.
Rhiannon got one fist free and pummeled at his shoulder, while she struggled to free the other. There was a move she could make, a blow over both ears with her cupped hands, which would stun him, if she could get the other hand loose…
She struggled hard while he stood as still as a tree, completely unmoved by her straining and the blows she rained upon him. His gaze met hers.
“Yet still a woman,” he growled, and kissed her.
Rhiannon shrieked her shock against his lips, as everything inside her stilled to the consistency of smoking ice.
Her mind wouldn’t work.
A thought surfaced, mired in the cold of her shocked mind. It was a sense of curious awareness, that actually, really, she didn’t mind his lips against hers at all…
Rhiannon shoved against his shoulder with all her might, straining against his iron-hard arms. The movement pulled his lips from hers.
While the laughter erupted once more, Rhiannon got her other hand free. She reached up with both hands. Thanks to him holding her against him, she didn’t have to strain to reach his head as she would if she was on her feet. She cupped her palms and slapped both hands against his ears.
Idris staggered. His arms loosened. She slithered out of them and dropped to the ground. She steadied herself and monitored Idris warily.
There were cries of encouragement and approval around the ring, as Idris shook his head and blinked, and put his fingers to one ear. From experience, Rhiannon knew he would be dizzy and his ears would be ringing painfully.
He scowled at her, dropping his hands to an attack position.
Astonishment touched her. He would continue the bout. How extraordinary.
She lifted her finger in warning.
He hesitated. She could see awareness building in his eyes. He had been operating on instinct for the last few moments, intent on attacking the enemy before him as he had done all his life.
Now he was reconsidering.
Silence clutched the people around the fire as he straightened. Then he bowed low from the waist, in a sweeping gesture of capitulation. When he straightened, he was smiling.
Screams of delight and victory went up around the fire. Rhiannon barely heard them. She watched Idris’ face, instead, trying to see if the smile was false, a front to hide his humiliation. She could see nothing behind the smile but genuine amusement.
How strange.
Idris returned to where Lot and Urien sat beside King Hoel. Those two had remained silent and watchful all evening. Idris moved behind them and was swallowed up by the shadows beyond the firelight.
Cai was laughing as he brought her the challenge ball.
Rhiannon shook her head. “You take it, Cai. I’ve lost my taste for this game.”
Cai’s smile faltered. “Because he kissed you?” he demanded. “You did it to me. It means nothing.”
“Tell Emrys that,” Rhiannon said softly.
Cai looked at Emrys where he sat scowling, his brows together, watching them.
Rhiannon shivered and followed Idris’ example. She slipped between the people at the edge of the fire, on the far side from where Emrys sat and moved into the cooler night shadows beyond, grateful for the sobering chill against her heated cheeks.
Chapter Ten
Rhiannon discovered the next morning that she was sore all over from bruises and strains she had not been aware of yesterday. She groaned as she woke and shifted on the saddle cloth. It was painful to move.
She rolled over slowly and looked up at the overcast sky. Nearby, soft voices spoke. One of them was Emrys. She didn’t know the other.
Groaning, Rhiannon sat up, shedding the damp leather sheet. The pavilion which Ector and her parents used was still closed, the flap tied down. All around them, the camp stirred as people woke and went about their days.
Emrys stood speaking with one of the Corneus sons, the one with the darker brown hair. His armor was carved and embellished in elegant swirls and patterns. The deeper areas were painted red, which contrasted against the dark stain of the leather.
As she stirred, both men paused to study her. Emrys moved over and held out his hand. “If you feel as I did, you need the assistance.”
“Thank you.” She let him lift her to her feet, wincing at the movement.
The other man smiled. “They say if you drink a cup of the blood of your enemy, it will disperse the soreness.”
Rhiannon grimaced. “No, thank you.”
The man nodded. “I’m sure it has been exaggerated in the telling. Physicians say blood has salt in it. I’ve found that salt stirred into hot wine helps enormously.”
That made sense. “I will try it,” Rhiannon said.
Emrys helped her walk stiffly to where the man stood. “Bedivere, this is my foster sister, Rhiannon. Rhiannon, Bedivere of Corneus.”
They nodded to each other. “I saw you fighting with Emrys yesterday,” Rhiannon told him. “Was this your first battle, too?”
“Not quite,” Bedivere said. “I have been on campaign with my father for three years now. Lucan, my brother, has been fighting for two years.”
“And this is your sister Mair’s first year,” Rhiannon added. She smiled. “Did she get her warrior’s kiss from the King of Brocéliande, last night?”
Emrys nudged her with his elbow. “That is not a question you should ask a lady’s older brother.”
Bedivere’s smile wasn’t at all strained. “Then I should not ask you, Emrys, about your sister’s interest in Idris?”
Emrys’ face tightened. He scowled. “You should not.”
“I am not interested in the man,” Rhiannon replied quickly.
Bedivere nodded, accepting her hasty correction. “Then I have no need to warn you. Very well.”
“Warn me?” Rhiannon repeated, astonished. “About what?”
Emrys rolled his eyes. “Male pride.” His tone was rueful. He had not thought of thi
s himself.
“Indeed,” Bedivere added.
Rhiannon shook her head, lost.
Bedivere faced her squarely. His tone remained polite and even. “You embarrassed the man when you bested him, last night. Lord knows, Idris the Slayer is a man among men. Such a man, humbled by a woman, can be dangerous. Never more so than when the shame was before his fellow men. King Lot was watching, remember.”
“Lot and every man still standing after yesterday,” Emrys murmured. “He seemed to take it well enough. Idris, I mean.”
“He is a southerner,” Bedivere said.
Emrys and Rhiannon both looked at him blankly.
Bedivere shrugged. “You can hear it in the man’s speech. He is Lot’s man now, although he was born and raised in the south.” He hesitated. “I see I must explain southern men to you, Emrys. You have much to learn about them—they are canny and good at biding their time. The longer Idris broods over the slight to his manhood, the greater his anger will be. Best to avoid him altogether. Once the High King gives us leave to return home, you can stop looking over your shoulder.”
“You could say that of the men of the north, too,” Emrys pointed out.
“Of all men,” Rhiannon said irritably. “This is ridiculous. If I had been a man and bested him, he would be laughing about it, just as Emrys is laughing about Pellinore besting him twice.”
“Three times. He did it again after you went off to sleep.” Emrys showed not the slightest shred of resentment.
“There. See what I mean?” she said to Bedivere.
Bedivere’s smile was knowing. “Only, you are not a man. That makes all the difference in the world,” he said. A slight note of apology was in his voice.
Rhiannon could feel her temper stirring. She rarely got angry. Emrys was the one with the lightning fast and red-hot temper, yet he was usually only stirred to fury by injustice and unfairness. Cai was the most placid of all of them.
Now she could feel her anger building. She had done nothing. Nothing! She had responded in the same way as every man around the fire had responded last night—a light-hearted bout with whoever challenged her.
Rhiannon stalked back to her saddle and packs and picked up her fur and cloak and put them on. Both men watched curiously as she yanked them into place.
She pulled her hair out from beneath and tugged her tunic down and turned to locate the Lothian banner. She suspected it was on the far side of the camp from here, and the command tent hid it. No matter. She would walk a full circuit of this valley to find it, if she must.
“Where are you going?” Emrys asked, his voice rising, as she walked off.
“To talk to the damned man!” she shot back. “I refuse to watch my back because of his male pride!”
“Don’t be foolish, Rhiannon! Let me come with you at least,” Emrys said.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t want the company. Not even Emrys’s. She would resolve this in private.
THE LOTHIAN CAMP WAS ON the far side from where Cornwall and the southern lords had been located. Once she moved past the command tent, Rhiannon could see the big black banner clearly.
It was still early and few people were up and about, most of them women and children, who had not spent the evening drinking. The smoke from cooking fires wound up in lazy circles in the tiny morning breeze as Rhiannon made her way around the clumps of men and tents, horses and gear.
It had only taken the day for her to understand that the apparent chaos of the King’s army camp had a logical order to it. The spokes of avenues were kept clear for everyone to make their way to the command tent. The paths were replicated in narrower streams between each house or tribe. Each company had a tent for their lord, while the men slept in the open around it, a passive guard.
In the Lothian camp, the wagon served as a tent. Some enterprising soldiers were sleeping beneath the wagon, which would provide protection from rain and the heavy dew. There were few people moving about the Lothian area. Unmusical snores resonated.
Where would the King of Lothian’s best warrior sleep? The privileged position would be beneath the wagon. She could tell by size alone that no one under the cart was Idris.
Rhiannon moved around the edges of the camp, following the narrow path. There were hundreds of men with Lot. They took up a great deal of room. It took time to walk around the edges. As she went, she looked for a man in black. Many men wore black garments to hide grime and blood, although no one wore nothing but black the way Idris did. His size marked him, too.
No one in this camp used leather sheets to protect themselves. They laid sprawled on their saddle cloths with only their cloaks for protection against the cold and the damp of the morning. It would be miserable to sleep that way—had no one ever taught them to use leather to shield themselves? Or did they simply not care?
She was grateful Ector and Myrddin and the seasoned campaigners Ector had hired to train them knew how to survive on the campaign trail. They had passed those skills along. Rhiannon was washed, dressed, dry and warm because of that training. Her saddle and gear would not fall apart in three seasons through being constantly wet.
These men looked sodden. Their aroma was rank.
The Lothian contingent was at the far south of the field, butting up against the tree line which marked the slope up the side of the valley. Great beeches and yew trees, their leaves budding, stood at the forefront. Higher up the valley sides, fir trees with their permanent green mantles carpeted the slopes.
That was where she found Idris—as far from the command tent and his king’s wagon as it was possible to get. There might even have been some strategy in the decision, she supposed, as she moved under the edge of the tree canopy. The trees barely had leaves, yet they were thick here and the branches many—there would be some protection from the damp.
He was asleep, his head on his arm, the remains of a fire in front of him. The dog—the wolf, she corrected herself—laid alongside him, also asleep. At least, she thought it was asleep. As soon as she moved under the branches of the enormous yew tree the pair laid beneath, the creature lifted its snout and looked at her with its colorless eyes.
Rhiannon drew in a startled breath, caution flooding her. She had watched the wolf tear out a Saxon’s throat, yesterday. She knew how ferocious the thing could be.
The wolf got to its feet and moved silently toward her. Even though it made no sound, its teeth were bared.
Rhiannon plucked the knife from her belt, watching it approach.
“Don’t move until he has inspected you.” Idris’ voice was soft. “He must decide if you are friend or foe.”
Rhiannon swallowed as the wolf trotted right up to her and sniffed. It was larger than she had realized. Its shoulders came up to her hips and the great head was level with her waist. Such a big wolf would weigh more than she did and on his hind legs, he would be much taller than her.
He pushed his nose against her tunic and sniffed again. Rhiannon shivered.
“Do not move…” Idris breathed.
Rhiannon didn’t dare lift her gaze away from the wolf to look at Idris. She watched the big wolf move behind her. The skin between her shoulders itched and crawled. She clutched at the knife hilt, her hand sweaty. “What if he decides he does not like me?”
“Nudd is never wrong.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I do not argue with Nudd’s judgment.”
She shivered. “What do you do with those he decides are enemies?”
“What I usually do to the enemy.”
The wolf circled back in front of her once more. The colorless eyes examined her. Then he lifted up on his back legs and put his paws upon her shoulders.
Rhiannon drew in a breath which shuddered with fear. She heard a soft curse and the thud of heavy feet but couldn’t look away from the wolf.
“Nudd! No!”
Nudd’s breath was hot against her face. The snout and the big front teeth were barely an inch away. He was as heavy as
she had guessed he would be. The weight on her shoulders was enormous, pressing her backward. She thrust her foot out behind her, to brace herself.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the dark shape of Idris approaching.
The wolf brought his nose closer, then dropped it and pushed it deep within the fur on her shoulders. With a jolt, she realized what the wolf was doing. “No, let him finish,” she said softly, holding up her free hand toward Idris.
The rough movements of the wolf’s snout in the fur shook her. He pushed and made a soft sound in the back of his throat. Then he licked her throat, where the fur tickled it.
He dropped back to the ground and padded back to the cold fire, dropped heavily to the ground and closed his eyes.
Rhiannon wiped the dampness from her neck. Her hand shook.
Idris crossed his arms, scowling at the wolf. “He has never done that before.” His arms were bare. The cloak laid by the fire. He wore a simple, unadorned tunic and trews. The round neck of the tunic and the lack of sleeves meant that with his arms crossed, she could see the play of muscles and tendons in his arms.
“It is because of this.” Rhiannon touched the fur about her shoulders. “Perhaps he recognized whatever scent remains.”
“Did the merchant you purchased it from tell you it is a wolf pelt?” Idris’s gaze came back to her. The cold of the morning did not seem to bother him.
“I didn’t buy it,” she said shortly.
He didn’t move from his wary stance between her and the old fire. “Someone gave it to you?”
“No, and that is all I will say about it,” Rhiannon said. “I am not here to spin stories about old deeds.”
“Stories about old deeds are often illuminating.”
Rhiannon held up her hand. “I am here because of last night.”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Why else would you be here?” he added.
It was a leading question, one which would mire her in subjects she didn’t want to venture into. She backed away from it. “I want to be clear—”
“You prefer plain speaking.”
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