Even Arthur sat in the dirt, just another fighter in the big circle, passing around the wine jug. The simple evening, bereft of ceremony, yet filled with comradeship, was a reminder to all of them of the grim dark days they were passing through and that they were still yet to face.
Tonight, on this day of total war, most of the leaders and petty kings came to the fire for a few moments, to drink and acknowledge Arthur’s leadership, before returning to their own fires.
Cador, however, stayed at the fire. “The Cornwall fire is a lonely place, these days,” he said, raising the jug toward Arthur. “Elen has no heart for the court and the gossip about war, especially among the women.”
Bedivere nodded. Elen’s mother, Ilsa, had led the Queen’s Cohort with a firm hand for many years. Her passing had left a large gap in the hearts of many.
“How does Constantine fare?” Arthur asked. “And your ward…the girl.”
“Guenivere,” Cador said. “Both are thriving. The sea air does everyone good. You should try it, Arthur.”
Arthur laughed. “If the Saxons ever choose to fight on the beaches, I may.” He passed a jug on to Bedivere. “That’s the sour one,” he added in a low voice.
Bedivere hid his smile, pretended to sip and passed the jug on to Cai.
“One can hear the sea from the walls of Listenoise,” Pellinore said. His voice carried, even though he didn’t speak loudly. He didn’t lift his gaze from the flames, either. “The fort lies only five miles inland from the cliffs. On a still day, the waves which smash against them are as loud as if one is right there, peering over the edge.”
No one spoke for a moment. Bedivere understood their awkwardness. What did one say to the man who had lost two sons in one day?
Cai made a gagging sound, wiped his lips and hurriedly passed the jug of wine on to Lucan.
When the silence stretched on, Arthur spoke, keeping his voice even and warm. “One day, you will return there, Pellinore, and rejoice to hear the waves once more.”
Pellinore stirred and looked at Arthur across the flames. He shook his head. “There is nothing there for me now.” He glanced around the circle of men. “I will spend what few days I have left, fighting for Britain, and be glad to do it.” He cleared his throat. “Where is the wine?” he demanded.
A wine skin was handed to him. The sour wine jug was still moving around the circle. Dinadan thrust it toward Bors, on his right.
Bors shook his head. It made the scar which ran across his forehead and between his eyes almost glow in the reflected light. “I must decline.”
Dinadan raised an elegant brow. “The problem with you, Bors,” he said in his refined voice, “is that you are too godly for your own good. You should find a woman, sink into her arms and rejoice that you are alive.”
Everyone laughed, including Dinadan, as he leaned to pass the jug on to Sagramore, on Bors’ right.
“Enough of disparaging women, Dinadan!” Gawain cried, from the left side of the fire. “With every battle women prove their worth. They’re not bed sport for the lonely, you know.”
“Gawain has a point,” Arthur said.
“Thank you,” Gawain replied and took the second skin as it reached him.
“They’re not just for bed sport,” Dinadan said, his tone urbane.
The laughter was even louder, this time.
Gawain tried to look offended. “You young cockerel. You’re too cheeky for your own good.”
“Says the man trying to make up for his father’s ways by defending every woman and slave who parades past his nose,” Dinadan replied.
Oohs sounded around the fire, as everyone braced themselves for Gawain’s reaction.
Gaheris, who stood just behind Gawain, lowered the wine jug he had been about to drink from, his eyes narrowing.
Gawain studied Dinadan for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve much to make up for. What of it?”
Dinadan met his gaze.
Lancelot, sitting between Arthur and Gawain, stirred and thumped Gawain’s back. “He is a most capable champion, Dinadan. His charity is renown and his purse deep. Gawain is the most well-endowed man in Britain.”
Dinadan grinned. “I heard it has nothing to do with the length of his purse.”
The laughter rose to the treetops.
Once the volume lessened and once the wine jugs moved on again, Tristan spoke. He was a quiet man—barely more than a lad. This had been his first major battle yet the men already spoke of his worth on the battlefield with astonishment.
Bedivere had noted the chatter. Arthur needed all the champions he could gather around him, although King Mark spoke of returning home to Kernow and taking his men with him, including Tristan, as soon as Arthur released them.
Tristan’s voice lifted over the last of the chuckles and sighs. “Does this victory today mean you will be High King now, Arthur?”
The throbbing silence which fell said more than a thousand words combined. The men about the fire looked at each other, then away. No one looked at Arthur.
Arthur didn’t hesitate. He smiled and reached for the wine jug Lancelot held and shook it to test the level of the wine. “We have not yet defeated the Saxons, Tristan. Today, as mighty as it was, was just one small step. There are more to go.”
Something like a sigh moved around the fire. Arthur had said what they were thinking.
Tristan, frowned. He didn’t like the answer. “You should be king!”
Bedivere remembered that Tristan was the son of Mark’s brother and would most likely have been king but for his accident of birth…or at least, that would be the way Tristan viewed it. Bedivere knew the rumors and chatter, for his lands marched alongside Kernow and Mark was his over king. Tristan had simply been too young to take the throne and rule a land in such troubled times. It was better for him to learn the trade of war first, which would make him a far better leader of men, later.
It made Tristan’s protest understandable, now.
Arthur shook his head. His gaze was steady, holding Tristan’s, as if there was just the two men at the fire. “I made an oath, Tristan. I said I would not take the crown until every man who fought with me considered it mine to take.”
Again, the soft sigh sounded. Arthur had once more said what they were all thinking.
“It doesn’t mean you have to wait until all the Saxons are dead, does it?” Tristan shot back, scowling.
Arthur’s gaze didn’t shift. Yet an echoing furrow built between his brows. “I don’t know, Tristan.” His voice was flat with sincerity. “The men here, the people of Britain, they are not yet ready for me to be king.”
Tristan hunched his shoulders. The truthful answer did not sit well with him.
“Oh-ho! What is this? Gawain, are you indulging in charity again?” Dinadan cried, pulling attention away from Arthur and Tristan to where Gawain had twisted on the ground to speak to a woman standing behind him. She was a lovely girl, one of Lowri’s ladies, Bedivere thought.
Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. Bedivere shifted his gaze, to watch Merlin crouch down behind Arthur.
As the men cheered on Gawain and Dinadan cajoled, Merlin murmured to Arthur, “The people of Britain are not ready? Or you are not?”
Arthur didn’t glance at Merlin. He kept his gaze upon Gawain, as the northerner got to his feet and took the woman’s hand.
“She needs my help,” Gawain told the men about the fire and winked.
The laughter was once more loud and long as he walked away.
Beneath it, Bedivere caught Arthur’s murmur. “It does not matter if I am ready or not,” he told Merlin. “The people must be certain. Any man can win a battle. They need a sign that I am the one.”
Merlin nodded. “So do you.”
MAIR FOUND RAWN WHERE SHE knew he would be. He had settled on the grass behind the big surgery tent, with a large jug of wine between his feet. Dried pork and apples were spread on a cloth by his hip.
She settled on the grass besid
e him with a deep sigh.
He passed the jug to her. “I heard Idris bawl you out.”
“Word passes fast,” she said, with a grimace. She took a long, long swallow of the wine, letting it burn down her throat.
“I’ve been here a while. I actually heard it.”
The surgery tent was just behind the command tent. Both were sited in the center of the camp, for easy access. That was why they always came here, to this spot behind the surgery tent, no matter which campsite it was. From here, one could see from the southwest edge of the camp, all the way around to the south-eastern edge. The only banners hidden from them were those of Arthur’s senior officers. As the officers all sat about the fire to the right of the command tent, as usual, Mair and Rawn could see them, too.
It was a nearly perfect position from which to observe the comings and goings of everyone. From here it would not be difficult to hear someone shouting between the surgery and the command tent.
“You heard Idris?” Mair repeated. She hoisted the jug. “This isn’t light enough, for you to have been sitting here all that time.” She had washed and changed and eaten, since then.
“I waited for you.”
Mair smiled. “That’s better.” She drank. “So…what have you seen?”
Rawn picked up a piece of dried apple and pointed with it. “King Bevan’s oldest sons, the twins. They’re just back from patrolling beyond the battlefield. They’re likely lads. See the shoulders on them?”
Mair assessed the two identical boys. They looked to be fifteen or so, with dark brown curly hair like their mother, Lowri. “Good shoulders,” she said judiciously. “A bit skinny.”
“We all start out skinny,” Rawn reminded her. His tone turned teasing. “Some of us stay that way.”
“I am not skinny,” she said. “I’m very strong.” She snatched at the wine jug, annoyed.
“For a woman, you are,” Rawn agreed. “Only you have no muscle at all. I don’t know where you hide your strength.”
Mair couldn’t dispute that. “In my belly?” she suggested and drank. “What else?”
Rawn’s gaze roamed over the camp. “Listenoise is quiet and dark, of course.”
“Of course,” Mair said, with a sigh. She studied the tent beneath the Listenoise banner. No one sang or laughed or stirred much about the few campfires still burning there. “Dindrane will be bereft. Tor was her favorite big brother.”
Rawn pointed with his square chin. “Gareth and Agravaine were…interesting, today.”
“How so?” Mair asked, and Rawn fell to describing the tactics and techniques he had seen the two northern boys use.
This was their favorite occupation, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of other fighters. In this regard, she and Rawn were of like minds. Fighting, winning peace for Britain, being the best fighters they might be, was the only honorable profession left for any man or women still alive in Britain. It was important work. Critical work.
By critiquing other fighters, they could adapt and improve their own skills.
“I saw you leading the wing, after Lowri left the field,” Rawn said. He tore a piece of the pork apart and handed her the larger portion. “How did that feel?”
“Leading isn’t what I thought it would be,” Mair intoned. She bit into the pork.
“Too much pressure?” Rawn guessed.
She swallowed. “No! The opposite. It was as if I was free to make things happen. To fight the way I wanted to fight. I don’t remember giving any commands. I must have, though, for they did exactly what I needed them to do, just when I needed them to do it…are you laughing at me?”
“No.” Rawn wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips. “A bit,” he admitted. “You’re almost glowing, Mair. Look at you. I did say you were a natural leader.”
Mair smiled. Then she laughed. “Thank you.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I speak a simple truth.” Then he frowned. “Oh, no…” He nodded.
Mair turned to the far left. At the edge of their view was the glow from the fire where Arthur and his men sat, laughing uproariously. They would stay there long into the night, drinking until they were sodden, trying to forget.
Mair didn’t mind drinking. Only, the senior officers were all morose men, who took life far too seriously. She preferred the company of men like Rawn, who thought as she did about war…and about relaxing, afterwards.
Moving away from the big fire pit was a tall figure with black, curly hair.
Lancelot.
He moved through camp like a shadow, his cloak wrapped around him, hiding the gleam of the black and gold leather armor he favored. He headed for the Benoic camp, where two small tents sat beside the banner. Soldiers speculated rabidly over why Lancelot always slept alone, unlike his mother, whose tent was alongside his.
“It’s still early,” Rawn said, sounding disgusted.
“We all must rise before dawn,” Mair reminded him. “Lancelot is being a good soldier.”
Lancelot picked his way through the fires, stepping around sleeping men, acknowledging others with a soft word or two. In the five years since Lancelot had joined Arthur’s army, Mair and Rawn had pulled apart the man and discussed his abilities at length. Little more remained about Lancelot that they might discuss, yet Mair still found it hard to look away from the man.
“He’s just so…perfect,” Rawn said, making it sound like an epithet.
Mair put her arms around her knees. “That’s what Corneus is supposed to be. Perfect warriors.”
Only, Lancelot made even Bedivere, the strongest of the three siblings, appear to be a bungling, plodding farmer with a rusty plowshare in his hand instead of a sword.
“Is he still building the chariots?” Mair asked, for she hadn’t heard any laughter over Lancelot’s favorite project in some time.
“They’re finished. He’s training drivers now. He says by the end of the year he will need warriors to ride the things.”
“You will not volunteer, will you?” Mair asked, appalled.
“Give up my horse and shield for a jolting cart? No, I don’t think so.” Rawn shuddered.
“Fighting from chariots,” Mair said. “It doesn’t seem very…”
“Honorable,” they both finished together.
Rawn handed her the jug.
Mair pointed directly ahead. “Look. The second Calleva tent.”
A lamp burned inside the tent, painting shadows on the wall, as two people came together, their outlines clear against the wall of the tent. Their figures melded for a moment. Then the taller one reached for the lamp and extinguished it.
“They resolved things,” Mair said, pleased.
“Eogan and Lynette?”
She nodded and passed the wine jug back.
Lancelot had retired to his tent. The flap was closed.
There were more dying coals than flaming fires now. The camp was settling down for the night.
“Do you have company tonight, Rawn?” Mair asked.
“Feeling prurient, Mair?” His tone said he was laughing at her again.
“I don’t want to keep you from your bed.”
“Even though you’re avoiding yours.”
The whisper of strained voices stopped Mair from replying. They both turned toward the voices. Two shadows stood by the cluster of tents of the Lesser Britain houses. One of them was easy to discern, despite the lack of moonlight. The daughter of Brandegoris, Claire, was the only other woman whose hair came close to being as white as Mair’s.
“Although hers is pale white, while yours is gleaming silver,” Rawn had told Mair once, his tone judicious. She had ignored the observation as Rawn had been drunk at the time.
Regardless of the differences, Claire’s pale locks were easy to spot in the deep night. She stood with a man with heavy shoulders and both were murmuring, their tones intense.
“That isn’t…Lionel, is it?” Rawn said, keeping his own voice low.
“I don’t know,” Mair shot back, keepin
g her own voice down. “These are your people. Can’t you tell who it is?”
“I’ve been here for five years,” Rawn replied. “I feel like a stranger among them now.”
Perhaps that was why he had arrived here behind the surgery so early.
The pair whispering intently behind the tents did not seem to know Mair and Rawn were only two dozen paces away.
Then Claire’s voice lifted, strained with raw emotion. “I don’t understand! I could have any man here. Anyone. I want you.”
Mair held her breath, wishing she was away from this place, that she might grant to the two the privacy they thought they had. Only, to move would be to tell them they were being observed. She must let this play out.
The man shifted. “Choose someone else,” he said, his voice low and just as strained as Claire’s. “Better the arms of a willing man, than mine.”
“Bors,” Rawn whispered and hung his head.
Bors, the man with the deep scar slashing across his face.
Mair felt their agony. Claire spoke truly when she said she could reach out and have any man she chose. The comments, the glances and the speculation about Claire’s beauty were rife.
It was ironic that the one man she did want was the scarred, disfigured Bors.
Claire made a choking sound. “Then you do not want me.”
“You could have any man,” Bors said, his tone one of agreement. “And you should. You are so beautiful and strong…”
“Bors, please.” She stepped closer, her tone pleading.
He moved back. “You don’t want me.” His tone was agonized. “I am…flawed.”
“Your face is not what I love about you.”
Bors made a soft, agonized sound, his hand lifting to his face. “This is not the only scar,” he said, his tone one of despair. “Love someone else, Claire.” He turned and walked away, moving fast, until his silhouette was lost among the greater shadows of the night.
Claire remained only for a few more minutes, her breath unsteady as she wept.
Mair held her breath, her eyes closed, every soft sob scraping at her heart.
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