High King of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Morgan grimaced. Then she made herself smile. “A fine British name.”

  “One you dislike, clearly,” Mair said.

  Morgan glanced at her. “Myrddin Emrys and I have had our disagreements.” Her tone was frank. “Merlin has a cutting tongue. I recalled the last argument we had.” Her mouth turned down. “The baby’s name merely reminded me of that moment.” Her smile grew warmer as she looked at Rhiannon. “Perhaps that is why Merlin rode off on some mysterious errand. He knew I was coming.”

  Mair watched Morgan work her way to the front of the cart, beside the driver, then straighten and hoisted herself onto her horse. Mair waited until Morgan had moved the horse ahead of the cart and was out of earshot, then said to Rhiannon, “I don’t think Merlin is avoiding Morgan. He is one of the most courageous men I know, even if he does not choose to fight. He would not be afraid to confront Morgan, if he had to.”

  “High praise from you, about a non-fighter,” Rhiannon said, with a small smile. Already, the tension had eased between her brows and she looked happier, as Emrys fed steadily.

  Mair glanced toward the front of the cart once more. “I cannot fathom how nice she is.”

  “Morgan?” Rhiannon patted Emrys with a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she studied her child. “She is a strong woman. Men often resent women who are too strong. Maybe that is why they say what they do about her.”

  “Maybe,” Mair said. “Or perhaps everyone is wrong about her.”

  “Including you?” Rhiannon asked. She looked up. “Morgan is not a fighter. She concerns herself with politics. Both are unforgiveable sins in your estimation.”

  Mair’s lips parted in surprise. “They still don’t know who killed Urien,” she pointed out stiffly.

  Rhiannon laughed. “Morgan says Lot arranged it, that he wants Rheged for himself and is acting now, before Owain is old enough to lead Rheged.”

  Mair scowled. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.

  “Of course not. It’s politics, not war.”

  Mair scowled again. “You make me sound completely inflexible.”

  “You are you,” Rhiannon said gently. “A perfect warrior, from the house of perfect warriors. No one wants you to be anything else, Mair. If you showed any interest in politics, you would not be the fighter you are. Don’t change, dear.”

  Mair shifted, discomfort making her squirm. Rhiannon was praising her, only it did not feel like a compliment. “Anyway, Morgan has taken Accolon of Gaul to her bed,” she said gruffly.

  Rhiannon shook her head. “Gossip.”

  “Fact. I saw him enter her tent…and why are you smiling like that?”

  “I am watching you bounce Anwen on your knee. You don’t even know you are doing it, do you?”

  Mair grew still and looked down at the little girl on her knee. Anwen was biting the edge of the coin. She tilted her head back to look up at Mair, smiling around the gold and showing small teeth.

  Horror spilled through her. Mair put the girl on her bottom beside Rhiannon. “I need to…I must go.”

  And she scrambled from the cart before Rhiannon could protest.

  MAIR WAS RELIEVED WHEN BEDIVERE let his stallion fall back from the head of the column, until he was riding beside her. They were on an old British road, their horses clopping on the mighty hewn planks with a pleasant steady rhythm. Only this short stretch of road needed to be traversed, then they would turn onto Ermine Street to run almost all the way to Venta Belgarum, tomorrow.

  Bedivere dropped the reins over the high front of his saddle and leaned on it to look at her.

  “Brother,” Mair said, trying to school her face so nothing showed of her upset from the conversation with Rhiannon.

  “As a leader of the Queens’ Cohort, there are things you should know,” Bedivere said.

  “I’m not the leader,” Mair said quickly.

  Bedivere raised a brow. “Lowri gave you command on the field of battle, did she not?”

  “Well…yes,” Mair admitted. “That was in battle, though.”

  “Which is where field promotions happen,” Bedivere said. “The wing is yours now, Mair. Lowri cannot ride again this year. Bevan will insist she not ride at all, after that.”

  Mair saw the hidden pride in Bedivere’s eyes, which was the opposite of the sinking sensation in hers. “I’m not a leader,” she murmured. “I just want to fight.”

  “Which is all you did on the field,” Bedivere said. “I did notice, little sister,” he added, when she lifted her brow. “Whether or not you want it, the command is yours. Or is there a more capable fighter among your wing who you deem should take your place?”

  Mair didn’t have to think about the answer. There was no one.

  Bedivere read the truth in her face. He nodded. “Therefore, it is you I must speak to.”

  Mair looked around. “Here?” There were soldiers marching on foot to either side, and carts in front and behind them. Cavalry followed on either side of the footmen, protecting their flanks.

  “Here is the best place to speak. While on the road, no one can sneak up on us and eavesdrop.” Bedivere laughed. “What is it you think we do, riding beneath the Pendragon banner? We do not spend all day in the saddle speaking of naught but wine and women.”

  Mair looked toward the thick congestion of riders who surrounded Arthur. “I do not think I have ever wondered about the conversations of officers,” she admitted. “Is that…you really discuss business while you ride?”

  “As easily as we do when we are halted for the day. It would be an extreme waste of time if we did not. And that is why I am here. See, I am not the only one falling back.”

  As he spoke, they passed King Leodegrance, who waited at the side of the road for his men to draw level with him. Leodegrance nodded at Bedivere, his thick gray hair shining in the afternoon sun. His helmet was tucked into his saddle bags. It was too nice a day.

  Mair turned to Bedivere. “What is it you must tell me?”

  “About the organization of Arthur’s army, going forward. There are changes to be made, Mair. Interesting ones.”

  “He still wants the Queen’s Cohort, doesn’t he?”

  “He does. Only, the swift departure of Brocéliande and the Lesser Britain clans has brought to our attention the changes needed—”

  “Do I have to know all the reasoning behind the changes?” Mair asked.

  Bedivere considered her. “You don’t want it to make sense, to understand why?

  Mair hooked her leg around the front of her saddle, to shift her weight and take the pressure off her rear on that side. She had learned to shift and change the way she was sitting throughout the day, or else arrive at the end of it unable to walk. “I can already guess,” she told Bedivere. “There are clans and tribes who only fight when the general call goes out. There are others, like Leodegrance, who have no intention of running home as soon as the year’s campaigning is done—”

  “Ouch,” Bedivere murmured. “They return home for good reason, Mair.”

  “Arthur has had a permanent standing army since the beginning. Soldiers who go with him everywhere. Now he wants officers who will stay permanently, too, so he can rely on them and build cohesion and trust.”

  Bedivere stared at her. “That is exactly what Lancelot said,” he murmured. “Mair, did you hear that somewhere?”

  “I guessed,” she admitted. “Dindrane, before she returned to Listenoise, said Percival and Aglovale and Lamorak refused to return. King Pellinore will not. How could they know there would be a place for them here, that Arthur will shelter them and feed them, if Arthur had not said something already?”

  Bedivere looked relieved.

  “No one is speaking out of turn, brother,” she told him.

  “Thank the stars,” he said softly.

  “You, of course, will be staying,” Mair added. “And Lucan, too.”

  “Yes,” he said heavily.

  A fizz of excitement touched her. “Does your speaking t
o me mean I am to stay, too?”

  Bedivere shook his head.

  Her pleasure faded. “I must!”

  Bedivere studied the whorls between his stallion’s ears. “Arthur’s officers, those of us who stay, have their own houses which answer to them. They cannot lead those houses if they are part of the permanent army.”

  Mair shook her head, as horror spilled through her. “No, Bedivere!”

  “We must train our seconds to be leaders in their own right,” Bedivere continued, as if she had not spoken at all. “It is an honorable charge, Mair. You would defend Corneus itself, which is close enough to the Saxon Shore you may well face battle on your own. This is no sinecure, sister.”

  “I won’t be here,” Mair breathed. “I won’t be fighting with Arthur.”

  “You will be supporting him. You will allow him—and me—to focus upon smashing the Saxons, upon finding peace.”

  She shook her head, her eyes aching. “Don’t send me away, Bedivere. Please. I…I beg you.”

  Bedivere shifted uneasily. A furrow ran between his brows. “Someone must do this,” he said gently.

  Mair’s eyes filled with hot, painful tears. She blinked, which only made them spill. Her humiliation was complete.

  Bedivere made a soft sound at the back of his throat. “For the sake of the gods, Mair…crying is unfair. What am I to do with you, when you do that? Any man would be proud to serve this way.”

  Mair used the corner of her cloak to scrub at her face, which also hid it from the foot soldiers peering up at her curiously. She pulled her hood over her head and bowed her shoulders.

  Bedivere rested his hand on her shoulder. A gentle touch. “There is time yet for you to grow accustomed to the idea,” he told her. “Arthur does not plan to dismiss the clans until after the solstice, when he is sure the Saxons have been subdued for the year.”

  Only until mid-summer!

  Mair didn’t notice Bedivere leave. She noticed nothing at all, until they stopped for the night.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Nimue and Merlin returned to the exercise yard, the flare of energy which Merlin’s wine had imparted had left her. Her limbs were weak. Contrariwise, her determination to continue strengthened.

  Merlin stood in the yard, waiting for her to indicate where they should search next. His expression was patient, one of waiting. This was Nimue’s quest.

  She cast about with her mind and every sense.

  While they had searched inside the echoing stone rooms, the sun had climbed higher. It was nearing its zenith.

  Through a gap in the ravaged perimeter wall, Nimue saw tall, pale green spring grasses, carpeting the summit of the hill. Knee deep in those grasses was a bull, peering through the gap at Nimue and Merlin with incurious placidity.

  The bull was pure white.

  Nimue touched Merlin’s wrist and lifted her chin, pointing silently toward the gap.

  “Mithras…” Merlin breathed, for the bull was Mithras’ symbol. “Mithras was a popular god among the Legions. If they followed usual customs, there will be a cellar or a cave close by. The entrance will be outside the fort.”

  “Out where the bull stands,” Nimue murmured. She did not ask how Merlin knew of the ancient practices. It was likely he was an initiate of Mithras, for those with the Sight often sought any god who would speak to them, to further their understanding. Was it for Merlin’s knowledge that the gods had sent him here today?

  They moved toward the wall and the gap in it. The crumbling stone was barely to the knees, here. As they approached, the bull turned with heavy steps and moved away.

  Nimue stepped over the remains of the wall. She didn’t look to place her feet around the fallen stones and mortar. She kept her gaze upon the bull. It seemed to be a perfectly ordinary beast, except for the pure white of its hide. It tugged on the sweet new grass and moved erratically in search of the next morsel. Despite the great creature’s wandering steps, it headed steadily along the crest toward a great yew tree which spread its branches out over the land.

  “The tree is old. Very old,” Merlin murmured beside her.

  Nimue nodded. She could feel its ancient roots running into the earth beneath her feet.

  As the bull they followed drew near the tree, flapping wings snapped loudly, telling Nimue how quiet the land had become around them. The bird in the tree gave a raw cry and launched itself into the air with huge wings.

  “Falcon,” she breathed.

  “A merlin,” Merlin corrected her.

  Nimue’s heart ran high and hard, singing in her mind. This was the way. She peered at the massive lower branches of the yew, looking for the owl.

  There it was. It sat close to the trunk, blinking in the dim light beneath the canopy, watching them draw closer. It was as white as the bull.

  “The entrance will be well hidden,” Nimue said, for the followers of Mithras had been outlawed even before the Romans left Britain.

  “I will know where to find it,” Merlin said. “There will be signs.”

  His words confirmed that Merlin had been brought here to open the way for her.

  The bull stopped before the owl. It turned its great head, the thick, heavy neck pendulous with rolls of flesh. The owl monitored the bull with an unblinking gaze.

  Calmly, the bull raised its snout and caught the leaves of a low-hanging branch in its teeth and tore at it.

  Nimue wanted to cry out a warning, for the leaves and fruit of yew trees were deadly to most animals.

  Merlin caught her wrist. “No, do not speak,” he said softly. “The gods demand their price. This is the payment you offer to be allowed entry.”

  Nimue swallowed, as the bull chewed the dark green foliage. It was only part of the price, she now realized. The other cost of entry grew inside her.

  “North, where the earth meets the air,” Merlin said.

  They moved around the perimeter of the great tree. It grew at the crest of the hill, and on all sides, the land sloped away. On the north, the slope was less, the land running to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the straits. From here, the sea appeared as still and unmoving as the rest of the day. Across the narrow straits laid the most holy of isles, Ynys Môn, which the Romans had renamed Mona. No birds hovered over the sea, in search of fish. Even the chimney holes of the monastery at the far end of the island were without smoke.

  Nothing moved. It was as if time itself had stopped.

  “Do you feel it?” Nimue breathed.

  “The very ground beneath my feet strums,” Merlin replied. His voice was strained. He examined the yew tree, his eyes narrowed, as if his head ached.

  On the north side, the roots of the yew broke the ground, lifting in great waves across the earth. The soil between was bare of weeds and grasses, for the yew cast too much shade to allow anything to flourish beneath its branches.

  A trace of a path remained in the grasses beyond the tree, once made by many feet, long ago. Now, the land was taking the smooth path back, reclaiming it. The direction, though, was unmistakable.

  Nimue turned to study the tree. If there were signs, then they were indeed invisible. She waited, content to let Merlin find the way forward, for that was his role.

  Merlin raised his chin, the hood casting his eyes in shadow. He held them nearly closed, as he hunted with senses other than sight.

  From the direction where they came, the bull gave a snort, then a soft, rumbling bellow. It staggered, thrusting out its short front foot. The hoof struck the ground, which vibrated.

  The bull raised its great head, the horns rearing back. Its eyes rolled.

  Pity stirred in Nimue’s heart. Regret enveloped her.

  The bull didn’t drop to its knees then roll over, as a cow normally did when it was sick. Instead, it stood for a moment, every limb strained, its head back in protest. Then it toppled, as if knocked over by a giant, invisible hand.

  The ground shuddered at the impact. The tremors continued, increasing.

&n
bsp; Nimue threw out her hands for balance as the land flexed and rolled beneath her. She and Merlin gripped each other, fighting to stay on their feet. Shifting earth cracked and rumbled, like a late summer storm beneath them, instead of overhead.

  The owl took flight with a lazy flap of its wings, the white body almost invisible against the pale blue sky.

  After such a profound silence, the grinding thunder deafened them. Nimue clapped her hands to her ears, her heart strumming too hard.

  At last the earth grew still. Dust rose from the base of the yew tree in a dense cloud, mingling with the branches above, for there was no wind to drive it away. Where the earth had laid packed between the gnarled roots, was now a deep, black opening. Stones which had been buried in earth, now appeared dark and moist, around the edges of the opening. They were made by man and carved with ancient symbols. The hole was regular. Man-shaped.

  Nimue moved toward it.

  “No. A moment,” Merlin breathed, grabbing her elbow.

  She waited.

  Merlin closed his eyes and held his hand out toward the opening. His fingers crooked, then twisted.

  From within the dark opening came a deep sound of something heavy shifting and resettling.

  Merlin opened his eyes. “If you had entered before, you would have died two paces beyond the lintel. Now, you can enter safely.”

  She nodded. “You are to come with me, I think.”

  Merlin stood aside. “After you.”

  Nimue moved toward the tree. Among the broken earth, she saw regular shapes. Steps, leading down. This time, she picked out her footing with care. This was the domain of a demanding god—and not the one who had brought her here. This petulant god was merely the guardian, used to protect an older and deeper secret than that of his followers.

  As she stepped through the old, carved doorway, she felt the unnatural chill of malevolence biding its time.

  Cautiously, she reached out for the torch she knew would be just inside the door. Cold, rough wood was beneath her fingers. She plucked the torch from the iron stand on the wall. She focused on the tip of it and made fire. The power tore through her, bringing deep pleasure and pain, too. Light leapt from the torch, as flames licked and danced.