War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  She hesitated. “I do,” she said. “Last night—”

  “What brought you here?”

  “I am trying to explain.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one. I am here for my own reasons.” Rhiannon frowned, annoyance touching her.

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then let me speak and I will go away,” she snapped.

  “You don’t understand. You shouldn’t speak to me at all.”

  Rhiannon hesitated. “What gods insist upon that?” It was a phrase Emrys used all the time, when he was frustrated by “shoulds” and “musts” which had no real logic behind them.

  Idris smiled, as if he was holding back laughter.

  The change humor made to his appearance was astonishing. It was as if the sun had risen over the horizon, bathing his features in golden light. The darkness fled. Warmth lit his eyes.

  Then, just as suddenly, the brightness was gone. He sobered. “I am not a man you should be seen spending your time with.”

  “Because you are the Slayer, or because you are with the Northern kings?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You do like direct speech.”

  “Which is why I am here. Everyone tells me I should avoid you because of last night. They think I have made an enemy out of you because I bested you—why do you look like that?”

  His face had shifted and an odd emotion she could not name flooded it.

  “Then, you do resent that I embarrassed you?” The knife was still in her hand and she appreciated the feel of the hilt, now.

  His expression changed again. This time, she had no trouble identifying the bitterness in his eyes. “If only I had the luxury of petty resentment.”

  Rhiannon swallowed. “Then…you do not resent me?”

  His face cleared. The expression in the eyes was shuttered. “I do not,” he said. “More can be learned from defeat than from victory. Last night was instructive.”

  “Yes, exactly!” Rhiannon said, startled into it. “Myrddin says that all the time—not to think of it as failure but as a lesson and—”

  “And what did you learn from last night?”

  She drew in a breath, recovering from the interruption. “I’m not here to speak about me.”

  “You came to ensure you had not made an enemy last night. I have said you did not, yet you stand there still. With your knife in your hand, too. Perhaps you do want me to think of you as an enemy?”

  “You’re doing it deliberately—keeping me off-balance.” She pushed the knife into her belt with a hard shove. “Why?”

  He spread his hands. “You should not be talking to me. If I make you uncomfortable enough, you will go away.”

  Rhiannon considered. “Why?” she said at last.

  He scowled. “Just go, Rhiannon of Galleva. You are irritating me.”

  He was lying. She didn’t know why she was so certain of it. She stayed still and crossed her arms, just as he was doing. “And if I do not?”

  He took a step toward her. “Last night was instructive, remember? You will not catch me unprepared in the future. I could snap your neck with one hand and you could not stop me.”

  “You would kill me for daring to speak to you? You rank yourself so highly, Idris the Slayer?”

  His laugh was short and sour. “You are blind to the truth, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask your foster brother.”

  “Ask Cai what?”

  “Not Cai. Emrys. Ask him what every man here can see for themselves, which you do not…” He frowned. “Or is it that he does not see it, either?”

  Rhiannon hissed in frustration. “And now you are talking in circles. I thought you liked plain speech, too.”

  “Then you really do not know…” He said it softly, to himself.

  “Know what?”

  He straightened, dropping his hands and settling his big shoulders. “I will give you one direct answer. The other is not mine to give. You must learn that for yourself. The first answer is, you should not be here because your foster brother would not like it.”

  “Emrys?” She frowned, remember Emrys’ scowl when she had bested Idris last night. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t.”

  “Then you know less about men than I thought, which is even more reason for you to go away.”

  She could feel her cheeks heating. “I know men well enough to kill them,” she muttered.

  His laugh seemed to catch him by surprise. He looked away, shaking his head, as if he regretted revealing his amusement. Then his gaze swung back to her. “You have hidden qualities, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I do not,” he growled.

  “Oh? Is it not true, then, that you rammed a building into rubble with your head?”

  He lifted a brow. “Is that what they say about me?”

  “Among other things. Is it true?”

  “It was a cottage already on the edge of collapse, made of kindling. I used my shoulder. The thing fell apart as it should have long before.” He shrugged.

  “Then you do not cut off the thumbs of your defeated enemies and string them to hang on trees to feed the wolves?”

  His lips parted in surprise. “I took the damned Saxon’s thumb because he tried to blind me with it. I let my temper get the better of me. And no, I did not keep the thing. Gods’ teeth, do people have nothing better to talk about?”

  Rhiannon smiled. “They say you can see in the dark like an owl and in the day like an eagle.”

  He sighed. “I’ve learned to distinguish movement from far away. It’s a skill any fighter develops.”

  “True enough,” she said. “Only, no one talks about how well other warriors can see, while they do talk about how far you can see. You are better at it than most.”

  “I suppose.” He seemed bored by the subject. He lifted his brow at her. “Anything else?”

  “They say you have never stepped foot in a civilized hall. That you live outside.” Her gaze shifted to the packs and saddle by the fire. “That you refuse to move inside because walls stop you from seeing the approach of an enemy.”

  His expression darkened. Until that moment she had not been aware of his building amusement as she itemized the rumors about him. Now, the sun fled once more.

  “Go away.” He stalked back to the fire pit, picked up kindling and laid it on the ash.

  Rhiannon was jolted by the abrupt change in him. She wanted to demand another explanation. She wanted to know why he reacted in ways which didn’t make sense. Somehow—she didn’t know how—she had severed the tiny thread of understanding between them.

  If she was smart, she would turn and walk away. She should accept the man’s assurance he was not someone she should spend time with. He clearly understood things about her life and the people in it which she did not. Now she ached to return to the Galleva camp and find out for herself.

  At the same time, she didn’t want to leave with this sour note lingering. She had come here to repair resentment and instead, she had increased it.

  Rhiannon cast about for something to say which would reverse the damage. Her gaze fell on the wolf, who laid unmoving as the big man built the fire beside him. She recalled the fan of Nudd’s hot breath on her cheek.

  “I didn’t buy the wolf pelt,” she said. “I killed it myself.”

  Idris glanced at her. His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he straightened. “You? Killed it? It was a gray wolf. They’re bigger than Nudd, even.”

  She touched the fur on her shoulders, her heart hammering. “This one was small for a gray wolf. She caught me by surprise, one winter. It had been a hard winter. I think she was starving and desperate…but so was I. She got me on the ground and her paws on my chest and was trying to get her teeth into my neck. She had them buried in my arm…” Rhiannon realized she was rubbing her left wrist and let it go.

  “You were under her,” Idris murmured.

  Rhianno
n’s chest ached. So did her eyes. The desperation of that day returned to her in a rush. The snarling, basso animal growl of the wolf, the crunch of the snow all around them. The silence of the forest watching the death battle play out. Her blood on the snow and the foul breath of the wolf. The implacable determination in the wolf’s eyes.

  “I’d never killed anything before,” Rhiannon whispered. “I didn’t like to hunt, which my father and Myrddin said I must change. Until that day, I refused.”

  He was closer than she thought. He had moved closer while she remembered. Rhiannon turned her face up to look at him. “She would have killed me. I could see it in her eyes. She would not stop until I was dead. Or…I could kill her.”

  Idris’ gaze was steady. “You or her. You chose to live.”

  Rhiannon swallowed. “Her belly was right there. I just had to reach my knife, and move swiftly enough to slice her, deep and long, before she knew what I intended and took her teeth from my arm…”

  “You did it,” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I was sick, afterwards. Right there in the snow. And I cried. For hours. Every time I thought about what I did, I felt sick and cried again. Myrddin said…he said I should always remember the day, that killing should never become easy. That it was only ever something I must use when there was no other choice. After that, I would always know when it would be needed. I would recognize it, because I had seen it before.”

  Idris lifted his hand. It didn’t occur to her to shrink back from him. With the back of a knuckle, he wiped her cheeks of tears she hadn’t realized she had shed.

  “That regret is what separates us from the savages,” he said, his deep voice rumbling. “Your Myrddin is right—you must never forget it.” Then his gaze lifted, to focus on something behind her. His eyes narrowed. “Something is happening.”

  She whirled. There were men gathering at the front of the command tent, their heads together. Hands gestured. Voices were harsh, although from here she could not make out complete words.

  “The King’s assent to leave?” she guessed.

  “The War Duke gives that in person. This is different.” His hand rested on her shoulder, over the fur. “You must go back. Your family will look for you, for whatever is about to happen.” His voice held an urgent tone. He was not dismissing her, as he had a moment ago, but warning her. His hand urged her forward.

  Rhiannon turned to look at him, her heart strumming with more than the agony of telling him about the she-wolf. The thread between them was repaired. Now it was stronger than before and she could feel it tugging. She didn’t want to leave.

  The milling men at the command tent, their lifting voices, made it imperative she return. She might be needed.

  Rhiannon let her instincts guide her, for they had been right about mending their connection. There was only a little space between them. She leaned and pressed her hand against his chest. She felt heat through the linen of the tunic.

  He gripped her wrist. “Rhiannon…” It was another warning.

  She ignored it and pressed her lips to his and tasted him.

  It was just as she had remembered from last night. The pleasant and surprising softness of his lips, with an unyielding will behind them. The tickle of his beard. The scent of him, which was a heady mix of wood smoke, spicy male, and fresh green growing things.

  Her body tightened. Thrummed.

  His grip on her wrist drew her hand higher, as his own slipped under her hair. He was responding.

  Her heart leapt high and hard. She sighed into his mouth.

  He tore himself away from her, stepping backward. His chest rose and fell. His gaze stayed on her lips. “You play with what you do not understand,” he said, his voice harsh with control. “Go.”

  Rhiannon didn’t understand. Her ignorance sent her stumbling away from the yew tree.

  She hurried back through the camp to the command tent. Tristan, the War Duke, grabbed her arm and snapped, “Tell Ector from me—the Saxons have wheeled about during the night. They head for Sussex and Horsa’s forces. We must cut them off before they join. We ride as soon as the horses can be saddled.” The king shook her arm for emphasis. “Run!”

  She ran.

  Chapter Eleven

  Instead of easy traveling in manageable stages, as they had done to reach the Vedra, Galleva and the rest of the High King’s army traveled south after the Saxon host in a bone-jarring, rattling sprint. It left horses and men by the wayside, lame or too exhausted to continue.

  Uther’s war host departed as soon as horses were saddled and the host—including the Queen’s Cohort—was mounted, with food and water stuffed in their packs for sustenance on the way.

  The rest of the company—all the wagons and carts with supplies and tents and the families of the war host—would follow behind as soon as they were able. Few armed men were left to guard them, for the country was empty of enemies. The enemy raced before Uther’s host, to join with Horsa’s men, when the much larger Saxon host would turn and fight Uther once more.

  Uther could not afford to let the remnants of Aelle’s people join with Horsa. Giving into the urgency of the moment, Uther ordered Tristan to take the host south at best speed, while he would remain behind with the families and travel in a wagon.

  There was no time to feel dismay at their King’s growing weakness. Rhiannon buckled her sword and dressed with shaking hands, bound her hair swiftly and pushed on her helmet. She threw herself upon Tielo’s back, as her father thrust meat and bread and wine into the packs, his staff under one arm.

  “We will see you in two nights’ time, when we catch up with you, for we can travel at night and you cannot,” Steffan said.

  “We cannot? Uther said best speed…”

  “And there is no moon. We can travel with torches and guides on foot. You must stop when it is dark, or risk broken legs or worse. So, too, must the Saxons. During the day, you will ride like the wind.” He stepped back.

  “Hurry, Rhiannon!” Emrys called.

  “I’m ready!” Rhiannon called back, although she wasn’t sure she was. This was all happening so fast…

  Cai was already on his horse, Ector beside him, their stallions prancing impatiently.

  Emrys wheeled his big steed, Cynbel, around. “Let’s go.”

  Rhiannon glanced at her father. “Be safe,” she said and kicked Tielo forward. Tielo and Cynbel matched strides, cantering through the camp, following Ector and Cai, who had already moved off.

  The day was torture of a unique kind. Rhiannon had experienced long journeys on horseback, before, but never one which lasted an entire day without stopping once for rest, food or drink. She clung to Tielo’s back as the wide file of horses galloped until they faltered, then dropped to a walk until they recovered, while their riders leaned over their necks and fed them handfuls of oats and helmets of water. Then the horses would be urged into a canter, then a gallop once more, and the cycle would repeat itself.

  The fighters on the backs of the horses ate and drank as they rode. Rhiannon suspected the seasoned fighters who trusted their horses completely also dozed, their arms around the necks of their horses.

  Certainly, she saw more than one rider reach out to nudge another back squarely upon his saddle, as he drooped.

  Emrys stayed by her side for only a short while, then pointed and shouted to her, “You must find the Queen’s Cohort and ride with them. When we next walk, you must move ahead.”

  When the company slowed to a restorative walk, Rhiannon moved Tielo ahead at a slow trot, looking for the Queen’s company. She was not the only rider repositioning themselves among the host. She realized the company was sorting itself as it rode, so that when they met the Saxons, they could separate into their fighting units cleanly, without tripping over each other.

  It took three stages of walking for Rhiannon to find the gathering Queen’s Cohort. At one point, Rhiannon realized with a touch of cold shock she was riding beside the northern kings. There were no banners
to warn her whose company she rode among.

  As they galloped down the road, which turned to mud beneath them, Rhiannon saw a dark silhouette from the corner of her eye and glanced to her left. They could only ride four across on this narrow road and she was on the far right. To the left, with two horsemen between them, was Idris, bent low over his horse’s neck to reduce the resistance to the wind of their passage. He was such a big man, the crouch would make a difference.

  Rhiannon suspected he was not aware she was there. She returned her attention to the now challenging task of staying on her horse, for tiredness was setting in.

  When the host slowed to a walk once more, she paused long enough to feed Tielo oats and a lot of water. She put the damp helmet in her pack and turned to pick up her reins and urge Tielo forward to where she could see Isla’s and her daughter Elen’s flaming red braids.

  Idris watched her across the noses of the horses between them. He didn’t smile or acknowledge her. His gaze did not let her go, though.

  Rhiannon let out an unsteady breath. Regretfully, she moved Tielo on, until she was level with Isla and Elen. Isla smiled a greeting and passed her a flask. “Wine.”

  “And cheese,” Elen added, holding out a folded cloth.

  “I have oatcakes and dried lamb,” Rhiannon told them, reaching back for her packs.

  The day continued. The jolting pace was unceasing, and Rhiannon yearned for the black of the moonless night which would require them to stop. She would sleep as soon as she laid foot to earth, even if that earth was this beaten, muddy and stony road they followed.

  FOR THE REST OF THE day, Idris caught glimpses of Rhiannon’s straight figure through the backs of the riders in front of him. She was with the Queen’s Cohort and would remain there, just as the other fighters traveled with their units.

  She had braided her hair for the ride, but hastily, for there was a twist in the long braid hanging down her back. His fingers itched to straighten and smooth the kink away. The sight of it reminded him of the softness he had felt, this morning.

  His body tightened at the memory. She was a compelling mixture of innocence and wisdom which was hard to resist.