War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Lot just sat there on his horse and did nothing!” Cai added, his voice rising. He was no longer stammering. Remembered anger gave his voice strength and conviction. He pointed at Lot. “He and Idris just watched as Emrys did all the work of holding the Saxons back. They overwhelmed Emrys and still the bastard sat and watched.” Cai turned to spit on the ground at Lot’s feet. Then he remembered where he was and held himself still.

  “So you challenged him,” Uther coaxed.

  “What else could I do?” Cai said. “We’re supposed to help each other out there! Emrys nearly died.”

  Uther’s gaze shifted to Emrys. “He looks well enough,” he said mildly. “How are your injuries?” he asked Emrys.

  “Stitched and healing, my Lord.”

  Uther’s attention moved back to Cai. “Tell me about the fight,” he said.

  Lot made a soft, impatient sound. Uther’s gaze shifted to him and he fell silent.

  Cai cleared his throat. “It wasn’t really a fight at all,” he admitted, his tone chagrined. “Lot put his man, Idris, in his place. If there’s a warrior out there who can best him, I’d like to meet the god, because mere mortal man cannot. Of course I lost.” He sounded disgusted.

  Uther didn’t seem surprised. “And afterwards…?”

  He knew. Rhiannon could feel her neck and face growing warm. Someone had already reported the events to Uther and now he was confirming them.

  From the corner of her eye, Rhiannon saw Cai rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I can explain it properly,” he admitted. “Everyone got angry…then suddenly, they were all laughing and drinking together.”

  Uther’s eyes narrowed. “What happened between the anger and the drinking?” he asked with sharp interest.

  “My Lord…” Lot began.

  Uther cut Lot off with a side swipe of his hand. This time, he did not look at the man. His gaze pinned Cai to the spot as he waited for his explanation.

  Cai rested his hand on Rhiannon’s shoulder. His fingers pressed. He was silently apologizing for what he was about to tell the King. “My foster sister, Rhiannon, kissed the victor and led him away, with a flask of wine in his hand.”

  Uther’s gaze settled on her. Rhiannon could barely meet it. Her cheeks flamed.

  “United over spoils…” Uther murmured. “Hmm?”

  Rhiannon caught her breath. He understood!

  “So, Lot was led away?” Uther asked the room. “No, wait. You said Lot sent in his man. Idris.”

  Rhiannon knew the King’s mistake was deliberate. He was leading up to something.

  Uther resettled himself in the chair, giving her a glimpse of thin wrists beneath the rich robe. He looked at Lot. “Why send in Idris? Why not fight for yourself? It was a matter of honor.”

  Lot didn’t seem discomforted by Uther’s stare. His smile was small and knowing. “Why would I not? You heard the boy. There is yet to be born the man who can defeat Idris. He is a useful tool who could win the fight.”

  “Indeed,” Uther said dryly. “He won honor for himself last night, not you.”

  “He has no honor to win,” Lot said coldly. “He is a slave, not a man.”

  Heat and coldness washed over Rhiannon in successive waves. She heard the indrawn gasp of everyone in the room, including her. Somehow, although she wasn’t aware of moving her feet, she turned herself enough to peer at the group of northern men, and Idris, standing behind them.

  Idris stared ahead, his expression stony, revealing nothing.

  This…this is what he would not tell her, what he had hidden from her.

  “A slave, Lot?” Uther said, his tone sharp. “Your best lieutenant?”

  Lot shrugged. “He is the best because he was raised to it.”

  “Oh?” Uther said. His tone was cold now. Did Lot not hear the chill in his voice?

  Lot seemed indifferent. “His father sold him to the Saxons when he was a small child. They sent him north to train with their best. They turned him into a warrior. We captured him in a battle and I have kept him since. A useful tool, as I said.”

  Uther let the silence stretch.

  Rhiannon watched Idris. The disinterested discussion about his life did not seem to touch him. Yet his throat worked, betraying his stony exterior.

  Look at me! Rhiannon begged him silently. He didn’t move.

  “Slaves support a flourishing country, my Lord,” Accolon said. “Rome learned this hundreds of years ago.”

  Lot smiled.

  Rhiannon didn’t think she could stand to hear any more of this. Only, she could not leave without the King’s permission.

  Emrys’s hand curled around her arm, supporting her.

  Uther nodded his thanks to Accolon and returned his attention to Lot. “I am curious, Lot. When you captured the man and understood his worth, why did you not free him? A free man is far more eager to fight for what is his, than any man in irons.”

  “He’s not in irons,” Lot said, his tone sharp. Apparently, he prided himself on this point.

  “Yet he sleeps outside with the wolves…” Rhiannon whispered. She felt sick.

  Emrys gasped. He had heard her.

  Uther’s gaze was unwavering. Rhiannon would have shriveled beneath it, while Lot merely stared back at the High King. “Why would I let go of a perfectly good slave?” he asked.

  Rhiannon felt dizzy. She fought to keep her knees locked and stay on her feet.

  “My Lord!” Emrys said sharply.

  Uther glanced at him.

  “Sir, my sister is ill…”

  “Go,” Uther said shortly.

  Cai caught her other arm and the two of them walked her toward the door. She was pathetically grateful for the support. She was shaking badly enough to make her teeth chatter.

  As they approached the door, Idris moved to intercept them. Cai and Emrys halted.

  Rhiannon found her voice. “You should have told me,” she whispered.

  “I was too ashamed,” he breathed.

  “Idris, stay,” Lot demanded, his tone imperious.

  Idris closed his eyes.

  “Idris…!” Lot added warningly.

  The expression in Idris’s eyes were bleak, as he turned and moved back to his position behind Lot.

  Rhiannon looked away. She couldn’t bear it.

  THEY MARCHED HER TO THE bubbling stream and sat her on a soft mound of gorse and ferns. Cai wet a corner of his cloak and bathed her face, while Emrys settled himself in front of her, his gaze warm and steady.

  Rhiannon covered her face, defeating Cai’s efforts to reach all of it.

  “There’s no shame in it,” Cai told her. “You didn’t know what he was.”

  Rhiannon dropped her hands and looked up at him, astonishment warring with anger.

  “Cai!” Emrys said, sounding just as shocked.

  “What?” Cai demanded, puzzled. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I am not shamed,” Rhiannon said slowly, sounding out each word. “I’m angry, Cai.”

  “At me?” He looked worried.

  “At Lot!” Rhiannon cried. “How could he do that to another man?”

  Cai lowered himself to the ground and looked at her, winded. “But…slaves are everywhere,” he pointed out. “People use them all the time. They’re…well, they’re useful, aren’t they? If you’re rich enough to buy them, that is.”

  “Your father could have bought slaves, only he didn’t,” Emrys said. “Only the Romans and the Roman families still left in Britain think owning slaves is a sign of prestige, Cai.”

  “My father is Roman.”

  “Your mother is more Roman than your father and she threatened to leave him if he ever bought one,” Rhiannon told him.

  Cai blinked. “Really?” Then he frowned. “What about what Accolon said, about slaves making a country great? Is that why Rome is so grand and Britain…isn’t?”

  “Slaves do not make a country great,” Emrys said, his tone harsh with a growing anger. T
his was rubbing against his innate sense of justice and decency. “Rome is crumbling from within. Just ask Rhiannon’s mother and father. They will tell you about the decay they saw when they were there. Uther had it right, when he said a free man will fight for what is his, with more passion than any man bound to another…” He drew in a sharp breath.

  “What is it?” Rhiannon said quickly.

  Emrys’s gaze shifted from his thoughts to her face. “It is something Myrddin asked me a long time ago. He told me I should decide for myself what true freedom really means. I told him freedom was being allowed to go fishing on a hot day. He laughed and said I should think about it…and I have. Only, I never understood what he was asking me until just now.”

  “Freedom is what Uther fights for,” Cai said, as if it was obvious. “Freedom for Britons. The Saxons keep slaves and use them in their battles, which is why he was angry with Lot, too. Yes?” He looked from Rhiannon to Emrys, waiting for them to tell him he’d got it right.

  “Yes, Cai, Uther fights for freedom, only he doesn’t take it far enough,” Emrys said softly. “Freedom can only be true freedom if everyone is free. Slaves, servants, everyone.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “It is a fancy dream, Emrys. No one, not even Uther, could change the way the entire world works.”

  “But it is a good dream, isn’t it?” Emrys said, smiling. He touched his chest. “To believe that is the way it should be makes you warm inside.”

  Cai stared at Emrys. “You’re mad,” he said, with a snort.

  “Am I?” Emrys asked him. “Think about it, Cai. Why did you challenge Lot yesterday?”

  “Because what he did was wrong,” Cai said instantly. “And…because you might have been killed,” he admitted softly.

  “You were more angry about the wrong he did, weren’t you?”

  “Damn it, yes,” Cai admitted. “Sorry.”

  Emrys shook his head. “No, that’s the way you should feel, Cai. Now, think of it this way—try to imagine how you would feel this morning if you had done nothing when you returned to the camp, if you’d simply allowed Lot to get away with it. How would that make you feel?”

  Cai shrugged. “That’s easy. The same way I feel whenever we lied to grown-ups as children.”

  “Guilt,” Rhiannon added softly.

  Cai nodded.

  “It’s not a good feeling, guilt,” Emrys said. “Now, think about slaves, Cai. How would you feel about buying one?”

  Cai rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I never thought about it before. There’s less coins in all of Galleva than in the purse on the King’s hip.”

  “Pretend you were rich,” Emrys pressed. “Would you buy one?”

  “No,” Cai said flatly.

  “Why not?”

  Cai shifted uncomfortably. Intellectual discussions always made him twitchy. He would rather shovel out stables than be required to think very hard. He was the least eager of them to visit Myrddin, when they were growing up. “Because it would make me feel bad…?” he said slowly.

  “Would it?” Emrys pressed.

  Cai scowled. “I don’t know!” he shot back. “With you two moaning over Lot and Idris, you’ve got me thinking about it and wondering about the right and wrong of it and it’s all mixed up in my head now.”

  “Good,” Rhiannon said.

  Emrys smiled—his bright, warm smile. “Yes, Cai. Thinking is good.”

  “It makes me sweat,” Cai growled. “Can we please go back to the camp? I’m starving.”

  “As long as you promise you’ll keep thinking about it,” Emrys said, getting up.

  “Oh, it’s lodged in there, now,” Cai said darkly. He hoisted Rhiannon to her feet and bent to peer at her face. “Are you well?” he asked anxiously.

  “No,” she said softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be well again.”

  Cai looked worried.

  Rhiannon gave him a small smile. “I was well, eight days ago. Now, I wish I was back in Galleva, before Cador came, and all I had to worry about was if I could have oatcakes for breakfast. I’m like you, Cai. Now all these terrible things are lodged in my mind and they won’t ever go away.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Steffan had arranged for the cushioned bench from their wagon to be untied and brought to the front of Ector’s tent, and placed in the sun for her. Anwen had not protested over the fuss, for she did feel extraordinarily tired from the days of frantic travel.

  The bench was wide enough for her to stretch along it with her back propped upon a cushion against the arm. Steffan pulled warm furs over her and kissed her forehead before making his way to the command tent. The King had sent for him.

  Anwen was happy to let her thoughts drift and doze as sleep claimed her, which happened more often, these days. The smallest of breezes lifted her silver hair and brought the scent of grass and young leaves.

  She must have fallen asleep for a while, for when she next opened her eyes, Igraine stood before her, smiling down at her.

  Anwen tried to sit up, alarm rushing through her. “My lady!”

  Igraine lifted her hand. “No, no, do not stir yourself. You look far too comfortable, Anwen. May I sit beside you? These endless days of bouncing in a cart take their toll, don’t they?”

  Anwen pulled her feet up, the furs with them, to expose the other half of the bench. Igraine settled herself on the cushion and arranged the folds of her gown around her feet.

  Despite the rigors of travel, Igraine’s gown was pristine and elegant. She traveled with all her companions, as always, and they would spend their time tending to her needs. It was telling that she had not a single companion with her now. She must have walked through the camp unattended, which was extraordinary for Igraine.

  Then Anwen saw movement on the other side of the clearing. An armed guard. Igraine had not lost all her senses, then.

  “I have tried to find an opportunity to present myself to you since we arrived at Vedra, my Queen. War has a way of shifting one’s priorities…”

  Igraine shook her head. “Never mind all that,” she said, with a sharp note in her voice.

  Anwen fell silent and waited. It had been twenty years, yet she remembered the imperious note well.

  Igraine had grown stouter about the middle in the intervening years, although she was still a graceful and lovely woman. Her dark hair was shot with a few strands of gray, yet it was still thick and long. She had tied it in braids, as they all did for traveling, and it brushed her hips.

  There were small lines around the corners of her eyes, and a softness beneath her chin which marked her age. The eyes themselves had not changed at all. Igraine was still the smart political player—perhaps more so, after two decades as queen to Uther. Uther drew enemies like flies to honey, most of them disguised as friends. Igraine had navigated those troubled waters with a serene grace.

  “Steffan told me you were not feeling well. I thought I might stop by and see for myself,” Igraine said.

  “That is kind of you,” Anwen said carefully.

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Igraine said. She turned on the chair. “I hated you for years, Anwen, and it was undeserved. You helped me when…when Gorlois died. I know you helped only because it was your duty. You disagreed with my decision and I resented you for your superior attitude. Yet I think you may have been the one who was right, all along.” Her voice was strained.

  Anwen’s heart stirred. “How was I right?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Uther is dying, Anwen.” Igraine’s voice broke. She drew in a shuddering breath.

  Anwen held still. Igraine was too proud. She would resent any show of sympathy.

  Igraine gathered her composure. Her jaw flexed. She continued. “He has not told me and I have said nothing to him, because I want him to continue to think I am still ignorant. Once I knew for certain, though…well, such knowledge has a way of making one review one’s life.”

  “So I am told,” Anwen said.

  “Wh
at do your Greek philosophers say about a life lived upon a misdeed, Anwen?” Igraine asked.

  Anwen’s chest ached. “They call it hubris,” she said gently. “One reaps what one has sown.”

  Igraine nodded. “You used to say it another way.”

  “The price one pays for their decisions,” Anwen replied.

  “Yes, that was it.” Igraine sounded satisfied. She smiled at Anwen, even though her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “I am paying the price for my decisions, now.”

  “You have all along,” Anwen pointed out.

  “I have?”

  “Your daughters, sent to the northern kings. They were taken from you before Uther set foot in Tintagel.”

  Igraine dropped her gaze. “I hadn’t thought of it in that way. All these years I have comforted myself with the knowledge that Morgan and Morguase were fulfilling their roles as political assets, just as I did when I was married to Gorlois at seventeen.” She sighed. “How could I have known this marriage would be barren? And now Uther…” She halted and closed her eyes. “It seems too high a price,” she whispered.

  With a jolt, Anwen recognized the pain in her voice. Igraine loved Uther—she had always loved him, enough to give up her daughters to be with him. Now, he was being taken from her.

  Igraine let out a deep sigh. “I have been watching him when I can. He is so like Uther…”

  Anwen didn’t need to ask who she was speaking of. Igraine’s thoughts had turned from her husband, who was beyond her help, to her son. “He is,” Anwen said, with a smile.

  Igraine’s responding smile was weak. “I even resented you for that, too,” she said with a candid tone. “When I learned Arthur had been sent for, I was determined to ignore him.”

  “Because he is Uther’s replacement,” Anwen said softly.

  Igraine’s smile was tremulous. “I watched him, through the hole in the tent. I couldn’t look away. And the way he fights…!”

  “He was trained by the best. Uther saw to it,” Anwen said.

  Igraine sighed. “You got to see him grow from a baby to a man.”

  “More than that,” Anwen said complacently.

  “Oh?”

  “My daughter and Emrys, and Ector’s son grew up together.”