Arthur rubbed at the back of his head. The heat had diminished. Now he felt a strong need to bathe. Dirt was not always visible. “It feels as though you are leaving at the very worst time. If I ordered you to stay, would you?”
Merlin considered him, his head tilted. “Do you have any idea how old I am, Arthur?”
Arthur gave a dry laugh. “Somewhere between thirty and venerable. I’ve never given it a thought.”
“I am forty-nine years old this solstice,” Merlin said. “I am on the verge of becoming an old man. I promised you I will spend the rest of my life serving you and Britain and I shall, but I am just a man. It is something you must bear in mind, Arthur.” He drew closer. “I will not always be here to guide you.”
“Have you seen that, too?” Arthur’s lips felt numb and the words difficult to articulate. “Your death?”
Merlin’s gaze shifted inward the way it did when he was consulting his Sight. “A cave. Silence and darkness.” Then his gaze settled back on Arthur’s face. “But not today.”
“How can you be so cheerful about it?”
“Because I know it will not be today. In that I am luckier than most men,” Merlin replied. “You, on the other hand, do not know if you will live to reach each day’s sunset.”
“I suppose there would be a small comfort in knowing one will make it to bed this night,” Arthur said stiffly. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fear which gripped him. “So, you will find me in Venta Belgarum, you said?”
“It is possible I will beat you there,” Merlin replied, turning back to the door once more. “I know every shortcut in Britain.” He hesitated, as the tent flap dropped down behind him. He lifted the heavy fabric enough so Arthur could see one black eye. “Would it help if I promised you I will be here at least until you are king?”
“Then I will never take the crown,” Arthur shot back.
Merlin laughed and walked away.
Chapter Six
After breaking her fast, Mair walked through the Corneus camp to the rope line where Leolin stood patiently waiting for his oats and his brushing. It was a daily task she would not hand off to a boy or slave, for the moments she spent with Leolin bound them together and made them a fighting team.
Alun had counted on it. He came up behind Mair as she was removing the leather blanket which protected Leolin from the worst of the damp and the cold during the night. He stood between Leonlin’s rump and the next horse, which was Lucan’s gray. His position cut off Mair’s escape route, unless she ducked and scrambled beneath Leolin’s belly or neck.
As that would speak far too clearly about her feelings, Mair stayed where she was, with one hand on Leolin’s back, her heart pounding far too fast.
Alun’s gaze skittered over her face. He was a tall man, like his brother. They and Elen, their sister, had all taken their height from their parents. Alun had the look of his sire, though, while Rawn had taken his mother’s blue eyes.
“Were you waiting for me?” Mair said, pressing her spare hand to her heart to steady it.
“Yes,” Alun said. “Yesterday was a day crowded with priorities, so I may have concluded you were avoiding me in error. Hasty conclusions happen when one rides into the camp upon the eve of battle.” He paused, his gaze meeting hers. “Was it my imagination, Mair?”
She swallowed. “I needed time to think,” she confessed. “I haven’t seen you for nearly five years. Only letters, and few of those…”
Alun seemed to relax. His head nodded infinitesimally. “A reasonable want,” he said softly. “And now you have had time to think, we should speak, you and I.”
Mair trembled. “Alun—”
He lifted his hand. “No, let me speak first. Please.”
Why, he was as nervous as she! Mair’s fear lifted. “Of course,” she told him. What harm could words do? They were not a blade.
“I have spoken to your brother. Bedivere has given his blessing.” Alun’s voice was low. “You would be a queen, Mair. Queen of a great land, which—”
“You spoke to Bedivere first?” Mair said.
Alun hesitated. “I did not have to speak to him at all,” he said. “I am a king. If he inherits your father’s title, he will only be a duke. I am told the inheritance is still in doubt, more than three years after your father’s passing.”
“Because the Corneus clan has more important priorities, like the defense of Britain,” Mair replied. She marveled at her cool tone, when her fury surged in her veins, making her dizzy with it. “I am part of that clan,” she added.
Alun shook his head. “That is where you are wrong. There is no place for you in Corneus. Your father is dead. The leadership is uncertain, although Bedivere is the only one who can take it. One day, he will have a wife and a family, and your place will be gone.”
The coldness in her grew harder. “I am a soldier of Corneus, fighting for Arthur.”
“This mad need of yours to fight—” he began.
“You should have spoken to me first!”
“Fighting is not everything, Mair!” Alun’s tone was harsh.
Mair felt her jaw sag.
Alun shook his head. “No, that is not what I meant,” he said, almost to himself. “I mean,” he said with a firm tone, as if he was trying to change the direction of the conversation, “only that once you are living in Lorient, in the heart of Brocéliande, with the forest right there, you will see the world has more in it than wars and loss and sorrow.”
Mair stared at him, horror spilling through her. “Then I would not be here, doing the most important work of our lives.”
“If you love me…” Alun begun.
Mair shook her head. “I thought I did. Only…you’ve changed, Alun.”
“I am the king now. Of course I have changed.”
“I have not,” she replied. “The Alun I knew five years ago would not have asked me to leave Britain. He would have known I could not.”
“Could not, or will not?” Alan asked, his voice strained.
“My life is here,” she said, her throat hurting with each word. “Fighting for Arthur and for Britain.”
Alun shook his head. “It will be the end of your life,” he said bitterly. “A short and bloody one.”
“If my life is asked of me, then very well.” She ducked under Leolin’s neck, making him snort in surprise, and hurried away from the line of horses.
“Mair!” Alun called.
She ignored him and kept walking. After a few steps, she broke into a run.
THERE WERE FEW COMPLETELY PRIVATE spaces in a king’s army camp. Mair could only think of one at that moment—her small tent beneath the Corneus banner. Only, Bedivere or Lucan could step in at any moment.
Mair kept running, until she left the camp behind and was jogging between trees. Impenetrable copses of brambles and blackberry bushes, just coming into their foliage for the year, made her walk around them, leaving the camp far behind and well out of sight.
When she could no longer hear the sounds of the camp, she settled her back against an oak tree and closed her eyes.
Rawn found her there. He called out as he approached. “It’s me. Put up your knife, Mair.”
She pushed her knife back into her belt. “How did you find me?” she asked wearily. It wasn’t long since dawn and she already felt as though she could sleep another night through, beginning this very minute.
“The ground is damp. You left footprints a child could follow.” He settled his back against the tree. His arm rubbed her shoulder companionably. For a moment he didn’t speak.
“Alun told you?” Mair asked.
“He didn’t have to. His face spoke for him.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
Rawn put his arms on his knees and studied the backs of his hands. “I’m not even surprised.”
“Why is it acceptable for you to want to be the perfect warrior, yet it’s wrong for me to want to be?” Mair demanded. “Why must I bend my life to suit his?”
Rawn sighed. “I think the way it is supposed to work is that when you love someone, you don’t mind giving things up, because you get to stay with them when you do.”
“If Alun loved me, he would stay here?”
“He can’t, Mair. You know that.” Rawn shifted and looked at her with his calm blue eyes. “Arthur has already dismissed the Lesser Britain contingents, so they can catch the spring tides. Alun knew that before he came to speak to you.”
Mair drew in a quivering breath. “So soon! There will be no more big battles this summer. The fighting is done for this year…”
Rawn nodded. “The Saxons can’t possibly regroup that fast. It will be another year at least before they return.”
Mair rested her head back against the tree and gave a great gusty sigh. “A whole year!”
Rawn got to his feet and held out his hand. “Come and see Brocéliande depart, Mair. It is the honorable thing to do.”
Reluctantly, knowing he was right, she took his hand and let him hoist her to her feet.
They walked back slowly, talking as they always did of matters of war, fighting, strategy and craft. When they reached the west side of the camp, they came to a halt, for the earth where the Lesser Britain houses had been sprawled was clear and nearly empty.
“So fast!” Mair breathed. She trembled. If she had accepted Alun, she would now be sitting upon a horse, preparing to rush from this place, too.
“Spring tides, fast ships and harvests to plant,” Rawn said. “Lesser Britain is a different world to this one.”
“It won’t stop the Saxons from plundering it.”
Rawn’s expression darkened. “No. It won’t. Which is why I remain, while my brother returns, and why Alun will come back the moment Arthur needs him.”
The long file of horses and carts were forming on the periphery of the camp. Alun strode across the ground where men had been laying only a short while ago, skirting the remains of fires. He wore his armor once more, and his sword slapped his thigh as he came toward them.
He nodded at Rawn, before shifting his gaze to Mair. His eyes were shadowed. “I regret what cannot be, my lady.”
Mair’s eyes ached. Her chest hurt. “So do I,” she said truthfully.
Alun looked as though he might say more. Instead, he shook his head and held his arm out toward Rawn. “Until next time, brother.”
Rawn took his arm, moved closer and held him with his other arm. “Until then,” he murmured.
Alun stepped back and considered the pair of them. “At the very least, watch out for each other, for me. You are my two most favorite people in the world.”
Mair drew in a breath which hitched.
Alun turned and walked back to the head of the file. He climbed into his saddle and waved the file forward. With no ceremony, the Brocéliande, Guanne and Morbihan armies left.
Mair and Rawn watched the long line of soldiers, horses and carts climb the low hill and turn onto the old road which ran there, then slowly disappear behind the tree line.
“Was I wrong?” Mair whispered.
“No,” Rawn said, his voice low.
“Then why do I feel this way?”
He caught her fingers with his. “Because giving up a dream hurts.”
Chapter Seven
Ageneral order was sent by messengers and word of mouth that the army was to move out the next morning just after sunrise. They were to head for Venta Belgarum, while scouting the lands for Saxons.
A boy brought Mair a written note from Bedivere which explained the order. Bedivere added, with his usual brevity: See to Corneus.
Abruptly, there was far too much to do. Lucan and Bedivere were needed in the command tent, which meant Mair must arrange the preparations for the morrow’s march.
Because she had been on the campaign trail for at least four years, Mair knew to send men to fill the water skins and barrels and to hunt. Game must be cooked and packed for eating on the road. The younger boys and children were tasked with collecting berries, if there were any, mushrooms and whatever nuts might still be hanging from last summer.
Tents could not be dismantled yet. The chests and cushions and anything not needed for sleep tonight were packed into the carts, to save time tomorrow.
All around the campsite, Mair could hear other commanders bawling similar orders, and the creak of many cart wheels as carts were brought around to be packed. On the other side of the command tent, Cai’s deep and penetrating voice directed the permanent army. Now Brocéliande had left, Rawn would be among them.
Dindrane found Mair in front of the big Corneus tent, shortly before noon. Dindrane swung down from her saddle as Mair took in the saddle bags and packs, and the three armed men behind Dindrane.
Dindrane tossed her silky locks back over her shoulder. “I don’t know who else to speak to, Mair. I am returning to Listenoise. The Cohort…”
Mair’s heart trip-hammered. “Should you not advise Lynette?” For Lynette was the commander of the other wing, in which Dindrane rode.
“I can’t find her,” Dindrane said. She bit her lip. “We must ride hard today, to get far beyond the reach of any Saxons roaming the land on foot by the time we camp tonight. I cannot linger, Mair. Would you mind telling her?”
Mair caught her arm. “I will,” she promised. “But Dindrane! You are one of our strongest fighters. How can you leave?”
Dindrane’s eyes shadowed. “I must, Mair. Father refuses to leave Arthur’s side and so does Percival.”
Percival was now the oldest surviving son. Mair’s heart squeezed. “What of Aglovale and Lamorak? Can they not be spared?”
Dindrane shook her head. “They are with Percival on this. The work here is too important.”
Mair shook her arm. “Yes! So why must you go? What of your sister, Elaine?”
Dindrane gave Mair a small smile. “Elaine is not a fighter, Mair. Someone must lead them at home. If this army fails and the Saxons sweep the land, or if the Saxons by-pass Arthur, then someone with strength must be there to lead the defenses and meet the Saxons. Do you not see?”
“No!” Mair cried. “I do not understand at all! If Arthur’s army fails, then Britain is lost. The strength of the leader at home will matter not a whit, after that.” She stamped her boot. “What happens here is what will make the difference.”
Dindrane caught their twined forearms in her other hand and patted gently. “If Arthur does fail, we are to let our people wither under the Saxon wave, with no resistance, no spirit…with no one to stand before them and defy the Saxons with our last breath?”
Mair swallowed, her eyes aching. She could not dispute Dindrane at all. “The Queen’s Cohort will be weaker for your absence,” she said miserably.
“Not with you there, Mair. You will be their greatest strength, now.” Dindrane hugged her. “Farewell, white warrior!” she whispered, then spun and strode back to her horse and mounted. She was a tall, proud figure, with her finely carved armor and gleaming bronze-hilted sword.
She looked down at Mair. Her eyes glittered. “The gods—all of them—I pray stay with you.”
“And with you,” Mair whispered, as Dindrane wheeled her horse about. The small unit of armed men traveling with her turned and caught up with her.
NEWS OF THE ARRIVAL OF Queen Morgan spread from mouth to mouth faster than a brush fire before a stiff wind. Before the cart with the enclosed cabin hove into view at the top of the dale, the entire camp knew of its approach. Men lined the old track the wagon was using to observe its arrival.
Mair stood at the side of the track, too. She had never seen Morgan before, although the stories about her were legion. They said she was a witch, that her powers rivaled Merlin’s. They also said she was so beautiful, the sun faded when she stepped out beneath it.
Mair had never seen a woman described so. Although Morgan Le Fey was not in any way a fighter, Mair was curious to see what she looked like and if the sun really did hide behind a cloud in shame at her lovelines
s, and lamps lost their glow.
The pair of horses leading the cart blew heavily despite the slow pace, their sides heaving. Froth formed at their mouths. They had been driven hard and for too long. Mair would not be surprised if they dropped where they stopped and never got up again.
The cart was enclosed and she could not peek inside. Only a single driver sat on the bench before it. He kept his eyes ahead, as if he had not noticed the hundreds of people watching the cart drive by.
Disappointment touched her. Mair would not see Morgan Le Fey today, either.
As the cart rumbled passed Mair’s position, heading for the command tent, she noticed Rawn on the other side of the track. He stood with his arms crossed, frowning as the cart rolled by.
He wasn’t looking at the cart, Mair realized. The way Rawn had his body angled, he appeared to be looking along his side of the track at the men watching Morgan’s arrival.
Mair ran her gaze over the men lining the track as the progress of the cart revealed them. Her gaze was arrested by Accolon, the Gaulish fighter who had sided with the northern kings, three years ago. Accolon was a handsome man, in a light, insubstantial way. He had pale eyes and golden hair. Men considered him to be a superior fighter. Only Mair had seen him drop his sword to his left hand to strike from the other side, a tactic she considered weak and dishonorable. It was also a risky one, for it left a fighter’s right side exposed.
Her assessment of Accolon’s fighting abilities was a secondary thing. Most of her attention was upon his face. The man had his arm around the trunk of a spindly tree growing beside the track. He leaned against the tree as if his legs would not hold him. He wore an open, adoring expression, as he tracked the cart’s progress.
His appearance jolted Mair. The man looked like a fool in the throes of blissful first love. He didn’t seem to care who noticed him, either.
She looked back at Rawn. He met her gaze and shook his head. He looked disgusted.
Mair thought she understood that look. Queen Morgan would be a distraction to the senior officers. They were in the middle of cleaning up after the defeated Saxon army, and had no time for domestic matters, but Morgan was Arthur’s sister and would demand his time and attention.
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