Gawain rolled his eyes, picked up Idris’ hand and slapped the daisies in them. “They’re for Rhiannon.”
Idris drew in a breath, holding down his first instinctive, angry reaction with sheer willpower. It had been years since he had been reminded that Lot had pushed his sons toward Rhiannon, aiming to forge a connection between Lothian and the future High King of Britain through Arthur’s foster sister.
When even Arthur gave a soft, breathy sound of amusement, Gawain must have realized what everyone was thinking. He shook his read head impatiently. “For her pains, when her time comes. They will help. The midwife will know what to do with them.”
Everyone’s laughter faded. Instead, they were all smiling.
At Idris.
Idris curled his fingers around the bunch of daisies, feeling the heat sliding up his neck and making his flesh prickle. He didn’t bother asking if Gawain was certain about the use of simple daisies. Gawain had overheard and absorbed more about healing herbs from his mother and his aunt than most physicians would ever know through direct study.
“Thank you,” Idris said, his voice strained.
Arthur patted his shoulder. The fondness in Arthur’s gaze made Idris feel even more uncomfortable. “Any day, yes?” Arthur murmured.
Idris nodded.
Bedivere gave a soft sound, one of mixed, bitter emotions. Everyone turned to him.
Bedivere nodded back toward the field, far behind them. “The Listenoise banner hasn’t moved. Pellinore…?”
Idris stuffed the daisies into his belt. “I saw it from across the field. Tor and Dornar both fell.”
No one spoke. Their sober silence said enough. Everyone felt sorrow for the old king.
“His heir and his second oldest,” Bedivere breathed, after the moment of silence. “Pellinore still mourns for Alis. Now this.” His eyes narrowed. “He stands there still. Under the banner. Look.”
“It’s too dark to see anything, now,” Cai said.
Lancelot held the reins of his horse out toward the group. “Here, take him.”
“Where are you going?” Bedivere asked sharply, as Cai took the reins from him.
“I will stand with him,” Lancelot said. “Tor and Dornar…they were mighty men. Listenoise has been loyal to the High King since before Ambrosius landed. I will acknowledge that.”
Arthur squeezed Lancelot’s shoulder. “Tell him I would stand with him, but…”
But there were men to appease, leaders to thank, Saxons to rout. The business of war never ended for Arthur.
Lancelot nodded and moved back toward the field, his tall body wrapped in a black cloak and his dark hair melding into the night.
Arthur stirred. “It is dark.” He glanced up. “No moon. It seems fitting.” Unlike his men, Arthur never celebrated victories. Idris knew Arthur would spend the night thinking of the fallen men on both sides and regretting the necessity. It would add another iron hard layer upon his determination to force peace upon Britain, no matter the cost to himself and his friends.
Arthur glanced around at the group of officers surrounding him. “Go and enjoy your victory. Tomorrow is soon enough to debate what happens next. Go.”
Idris tugged Brennus into a slow clopping pace, leading him to the northern end of the camp, where his men lodged between Lothian and Rheged. Gaheris led the Lothian contingent and Gawain directed Rheged, for no one wanted Lot and Urien here—not even for a general call to arms.
The three houses were close to the white command tent. Many years ago, the northern factions had been given camping space as far to the south of the command tent as possible. Now they were beside it, because Arthur’s sister was part of that group.
Idris handed his horse to the boy who came running up to take the reins, with a nod and a murmur of thanks. Before him, the campfires were all lit and men settled around them. Food warmed over the flames and the scents mingled with the wood smoke.
Idris wove through the fires, speaking here and there, measuring the wounded and praising his men’s valor. Everyone had fought hard today. Gaheris and Gawain would do the same with their men and in the morning, the three of them would collate their tallies, to measure the strength of the northern army.
Then, at last, Idris was free to turn and head for the striped tent in the center of his camp. His heart picked up speed, the way it often did when he was about to see Rhiannon again, the way it always did after a battle.
He stepped into the tent and paused to take in the details. Despite the years which had passed, stepping into this, his tent, always caused him to linger and absorb the astonishing fact.
Over the last few years, nearly every leader, petty king and lord had been inspired by the war duke’s tent to acquire similar shelter for themselves and their families. Especially for general calls to arms. A general call had been made nearly every summer for five years straight. For those calls, the lords did not leave their families behind in vulnerable estates and villas and exposed houses upon lands stripped of fighting men. They brought their families with them, surrounded by their men at arms.
The tents which housed the lords had grown increasingly sophisticated to cater to that habit. A single tent could have two, three, and sometimes even four rooms inside it, each hung with furs and carpets to trap the warmth, with skins and rugs underfoot to hide the earth. Leather over the roof shed rain and morning dew. Biers provided light and warmth.
Women brought with them the comforts of home. Blankets, cushions to soften hard benches, pillows to lay one’s head upon, scented candles and dried herbs to perfume the air, and tasty food properly cooked. Even the less domestic women warriors instinctively understood how to turn a barren piece of earth into a small echo of home.
Idris recalled the burnt meat and cold stews he had endured through years of campaigning, along with the constant cold, dampness and grubby discomfort. He had been a slave, yet his conditions had been no poorer than the lowliest foot soldiers in the Lothian army—especially those who did not know how to provide for themselves while campaigning.
Now, every return from the battlefield was a joy, when Idris stepped into such warmth and beauty.
Agatha, the nursemaid, got to her feet as Idris came in and picked up Anwen. She put her finger to her lips and glanced at the inner chamber. She settled baby Anwen on her hip and came right up to Idris. She did not seem to fear him, the way many women did. “The lady sleeps,” she murmured. “Anwen and I will find our supper.” Her gaze flickered over Idris. “So…victory.”
Idris nodded.
Agatha’s faded eyes glittered with fierce pride. “A good day, then.”
Idris stroked Anwen’s downy dark head, as the little girl smiled up at him, her few new teeth gleaming. He stepped aside, so Agatha could leave.
As he had brought blood and grime into the tent, he shucked off all but his under tunic and trews. He dropped everything into a pile beside the cushions Agatha had been sitting upon. The daisies he put to one side.
The bowl and pitcher sat on the chest in the corner, put there just for this moment. Herbs floated upon the water. He washed swiftly. Only when he felt clean enough to not soil a room just by stepping into it, did he move through to the other chamber.
The light was lower here. Only a single lamp burned, enough for Idris to see her. Rhiannon laid on her side on the wide bed and soft mattress, her black, silken hair spread across the pale pillow. She was deeply asleep.
The sight of the bed always made Idris feel a quiet note of guilt. It was a huge thing, built to accommodate his height and two people. It took six men to lift and drop it into the cart which carried everything in this tent and the tent itself.
Rhiannon had insisted upon the inconvenience with a rare anger. “No, you cannot sleep upon the ground!” she railed at Idris, her voice husky with emotion. “You are not that slave anymore. You are not that simple warrior. I don’t care if kings and lords sleep as their men do—you must sleep upon a bed, so you never forget who you have beco
me.”
Idris had given way in the face of her fury and was one of the few leaders who slept as Arthur did, upon a bed and downy mattress. Looking at Rhiannon now, he was glad of the bed which gave her a comfortable rest.
He lowered himself to his knees beside the bed and studied her dear face. He would not wake her, yet he could not go further this night without seeing her. His gaze traveled along her body, to her swollen belly.
His child. His second child.
For a moment, the blessings and joys in his life overwhelmed Idris. He shuddered with it and gave thanks to whichever gods might be listening that he had made it through the day and was here to see her.
Voices rose in anger, just behind the tent. They were so loud, they sounded as though the combatants stood right beside him.
Idris scowled, as Rhiannon jerked and stirred to wakefulness.
He growled under his breath. He would skin alive whoever it was out there, disturbing his wife…
Chapter Three
The arguments broke out before the Cohort split up, the women heading for their own campfires to tend their horses and their men and families. Usually, the women separated at the edges of the camp. Tonight they stayed together and the second wing, under Lynette’s command, joined them.
“I would learn of Lowri’s fate before I leave,” Elaine said, when Mair asked her why she by-passed the Benoic camp. The others echoed this sentiment.
Mair considered quickly, then dismounted and took Leolin’s reins in hand. “We can skirt around the command tent to reach the surgery. Single file,” she added. “The avenue is not wide, tonight.”
There were people moving in both directions along the avenue, although few of them led horses at this late hour. The women moved along the avenue, heading for the white, well-lit command tent. They drew attention to themselves because they clumped together and led horses. They were among the last to leave the field of battle, which was as it should be in Mair’s mind. They could not protect the army if they left at the first possible moment.
Only, she had not anticipated that if the women did not return immediately to their campfires, their menfolk would come to find them, instead.
The first to reach them was Eogan, just as they circled around the command tent to reach the surgery. He still wore bloody leathers and a scratch along his cheek spilled blood down to his fine chin. His jaw worked as he hurried up to Lynette and caught her face in his hand. “You are unhurt?” he breathed, his voice strained.
“I am,” Lynette said, her tone light. “This blood is not mine.”
Eogan rested his head against hers. Mair watched his shoulders shift as the tension in them eased.
“Elaine!” The call came from behind them. As they had been halted by Eogan’s approach, everyone but Eogan and Lynette turned to watch Bricius stride to Elaine. He did not reach for her as Eogan did with Lynette, for both of them thought their association was known only to them. Elaine lifted her chin, her gaze cool.
Bricius was Lowri’s and Eogan’s oldest brother, the heir of Cadogan and Lynette, and a widower. He had mourned his Irish princess for so many years, everyone presumed he would never consider taking another wife, or even a woman to his bed for comfort.
Elaine had arrived at Arthur’s court with her son, Lancelot, the year Arthur had been declared War Duke. The entire camp—including Lancelot—had been surprised and secretly delighted when Bricius and Elaine warily came together. Neither of them gave any outward sign of the relationship, preventing anyone else from speaking of it.
Now Bricius stood stiffly in front of Elaine, running his gaze over her gray streaked hair and down to her grimy, blood-splattered boots, looking for injuries.
“Yes?” Elaine asked, her tone as chilly as her gaze.
Mair hid her smile. Elaine had cajoled and battered Lowri for weeks, begging for a place in the Cohort.
“You’re an old woman, Elaine!” Lowri had argued.
“You are only a few years younger than me!” Elaine cried, in her low, husky voice.
“I have been training and fighting for years,” Lowri countered. “You have never held a sword.”
“I have,” Elaine replied calmly. “I know how to control a war horse. Ilsa made us all learn, many years ago. I will work hard, Lowri. I will learn what I must and I will not complain. I want to fight. For Ilsa’s sake, I must fight.”
“Why? Why, Elaine? You have lost much because of war. Why would you risk anything further?”
“Because I lost so much, is why I must fight,” Elaine said. “In all my life, despite marrying Ban, I never once have stepped foot on the lands which are his. The Saxons took them. Now my son has nothing to call his own. I should sit back and let others fight to win his lands back?” She shook her head. “Honor demands I fight.”
Lowri relented. Mair suspected it was Elaine’s appeal to motherhood and a son’s inheritance which moved her. Mair viewed her decision as a sign of weakness, although she had been careful to not say anything or to hint of her opinion to Lowri.
Now Bricius struggled to hold in his dismay about Elaine’s decision. He was a man with old-fashioned values, who had watched his mother, Lynette the Elder, mind the homefront while other women fought on the battlefield. The news that Lowri was wounded would swell his dismay.
“I said I was well, Eogan! Stars above!” Lynette cried.
Mair wheeled around once more, in time to see Lynette pull Eogan’s hand from her face. Her blue eyes, the ones she had acquired from her half-Saxon mother Maela, flashed with anger.
Eogan would also be thinking of his sister, Lowri, Mair realized. His bloody face worked, his dark eyes narrowing. “You have only just risen from your bed, after—”
“After a perfectly natural birthing,” Lynette said, her tone cold.
“Of my son,” Eogan added, his voice whiplash hard.
Mair sighed, as she realized what was happening here. Even though the pair was not married or even promised, Lynette had borne Eogan a son shortly after the solstice. Eogan was now a father and feeling the pull of family, roots and permanence. Any risk to Lynette scared him, when before it may simply have been part of her charm and why he was drawn to her at all.
“You are telling me I should not fight?” Elaine said, her voice rising.
Mair whirled once more, as Elaine said what Mair expected Lynette to say to Eogan.
Bricius took a step backward, caution flooding his worn features. He was not a stupid man. He knew he had stepped over the line.
“I’m the youngest son of a landless war duke!” Eogan cried, from behind Mair. “I have nothing but you and my son!”
Mair closed her eyes and let her head roll back, as the other women shifted uncomfortably on their feet, trapped between the two arguing couples.
Why did women complicate their lives in this way? Men could be warriors and husbands, while women could rarely be wives, mothers and fighters. Yet women like Elaine and Lynette still insisted upon trying. Divided in their loyalties between husband and war, they failed at both, resulting in messy affairs such as this one.
Mair would never let that happen. She was a good fighter and one day she would be the perfect warrior, just as Bedivere and Lucan would be. They were raised to meet that standard. She would not fail to achieve it and bring honor to the Corneus banner.
“What in the devil’s name is going on here?” came the bellowed question.
Mair opened her eyes and spun to face this latest challenge, as the women and Bricius and Eogan fell silent. So did all the men huddled around nearby cooking fires, for the volume of the question demanded immediate attention.
It didn’t surprise her to see Idris, the northern war duke, standing with his legs spread and his bare arms crossed. He was scowling, his dark features mere shadows in the night, for no firelight reached him where he stood at the back of the command tent.
“My Lord Idris—” Mair began.
“I am not your lord,” Idris growled. “Break this up. Y
ou’re disturbing most of the camp with these domestic squabbles. Go to your fires. Go on.”
“I wanted to check on Lowri—”
“She rests,” Eogan said.
Idris raised a brow. “She rests. So was my wife resting before this squawking began.”
They had woken Rhiannon. Mair sighed. “I regret the disturbance, my…Idris.” Around her, the women dispersed, cowed by Idris’ anger and the news that Lowri fared well enough to sleep. Perhaps the demands of the two brothers, Eogan and Bricius, reminded the women of their own duties, too.
Idris didn’t move. “Go and rest, yourself,” he told her, in a quieter voice. “The camp rises at dawn tomorrow.”
“At dawn…!”
Eogan grimaced. “For Hengist’s execution.”
Mair shifted on her feet, discomfort roiling her belly. She had seen many men die in the heat of battle, but she had never seen a man executed coldly at first light. This was another part of war, one for which she would have to put aside her distaste. She must witness the dispensing of justice as everyone else was required to do.
Soberly, she tugged Leolin into motion. “I apologize, Idris,” she told the big man. “I will be there at dawn.”
She moved around Idris. She would have to round the command tent one more time, to go back to where the Corneus people were camped, beside the Benoic clan. That was when she remembered that Brocéliande and the other Lesser Britain houses, including Guanne and Morbihan, all camped on the west side.
Alun sat with his men, one knee propped in front of him, a chicken leg in his hand. He watched Mair with a shadowed brow.
Mair tore her gaze away from the Brocéliande banner, her heart thudding and her belly roiling once more. Now she remembered that she had complications of her own to deal with.
Chapter Four
It was of immense satisfaction to Bedivere that, despite the steadily more civilized accommodations they enjoyed even while on the war trail, Arthur and his officers still sat around the fire pit the evening after a battle, to reflect on the day and enjoy each other’s company.
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