Arthur gripped the hilt and raised the sword in the air. The sun flashed and bounced off the blade as it lifted higher than all the rest.
Arthur. Excalibur.
Arthur, High King of Britain.
Beneath the shouting, Nimue gave a soft sigh, closed her eyes and slid to the ground.
THEY BUILT NIMUE’S FUNERAL PYRE on the very edge of the cliff overlooking the sea, within sight of the yew tree. “It is appropriate she be returned to the stars here, over water, and by the place which was the culmination of her life’s work,” Merlin said, when Druston suggested she be returned to the Lake which gave its name to her.
“We’re to see her off the Saxon way?” Pellinore asked doubtfully.
“There is no mound or barrow grand enough to contain her,” Merlin replied. “This is not the Saxon way, Pellinore. The Saxons took it from us. Once, long ago, our ancestors, who come from lands far, far in the east, also burned their dead, so they could rise with the flames.”
Lancelot directed the building of the pyre, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening. At sunset, everyone gathered about the pyre. Lancelot stood at the foot, while Arthur took a stance at the head, the great sword Excalibur in his hands, the point resting on the earth.
Merlin spoke words in a tongue Mair did not understand, although she could hear the grief in his voice.
Torches were put to the pyre and as the sun slipped into the sea, they watched silently the passing of Nimue, Lady of the Lake, bringer of Excalibur.
THEY CAMPED THAT NIGHT RIGHT where they were upon the exposed headland. From there they could see the holy isle, the embers from Nimue’s pyre, and the shadowy shape of the silent yew tree. Farther down the hill were the flickering lamps and fires of the village. None of the village folk ventured near the great company of armed men.
There was little wine and diminishing food to share. Despite the rations, the mood around the big fire was cheerful. The finding of Excalibur had heartened everyone. Nimue’s death cast no shadow, even though everyone spoke of her in soft tones of respect and awe. Even Lancelot wove a story or two about his raising in the mysterious, enchanted forest.
Tomorrow, they would return to Venta Belgarum, although the pace would be gentler than their journey here.
“We carry the prize with us,” Merlin said. “I think everyone knows in their bones that any enemies we come across would be vanquished in a heartbeat. We can take our time.”
The lack of wine and food meant that many of the men rolled beneath their blankets and sheets earlier than they would, otherwise. More than half of the men snored softly when Rawn wended his way through the comatose bodies and picked up Mair’s hand. He tugged.
“Where?”
He tugged again.
Aware of the handful of officers sitting about the fire watching them, Mair sighed and got to her feet. She followed Rawn through the sleeping men, over to the very edge of the cliff. The sea roared below and the wind plucked their words and flung them upon the waves before anyone would hear them.
The night was warm, despite the wind. Mid-summer was approaching, Mair reminded herself. The reminder made her heart flutter uneasily.
Rawn let go of her hand and faced her. “Today was…” He shook his head, lacking the words needed to adequately describe it.
Mair drew in a sharp breath. “It was.” She realized with a jolt that she had raised her hand to place it upon Rawn’s chest. She snatched her hand back. “Today was a reminder,” she added.
“Reminder?” Rawn asked. His eyes glittered with the light from the distant campfire, showing dark blue and depthless.
His wariness made her heart shift once more. Caution touched her, although she pushed on. This was something which must be said, even if everything else which had happened in the last few days was ignored. “Yes, a reminder,” she continued. “I watched Arthur raise Excalibur and I could see it, Rawn. I knew he was our king. I could feel it in my bones. It was as if I could see the future the way Merlin can. For just a moment, while Arthur held the sword, I knew. Arthur will be High King of Britain and he will bring peace.”
Rawn nodded. “I felt it, too,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “We all did, Mair. That’s why I brought you here. Don’t you see—”
“Yes, yes, I do see,” Mair said quickly. “I lost sight of it for a while but now I see once more. Nothing is more important than complete victory over the Saxons and the peace which victory will bring. Not hearth or home or kin. We must all work to make it happen. For it will happen. I felt it today and I know it in my bones. Peace will come, if we all work together.”
“Work,” Rawn repeated, with a tone which made it sound like a curse.
Doubt touched her again. “Why do you look that way?” she demanded. “Nothing I said is wrong. You have said the exact same thing many times.”
“You must ask that? You do not know?” Rawn’s voice was strained.
Mair ignored the tiny seed of doubt which wanted to grow in her chest. She had let doubt confuse her for too many days. Now she knew the way forward. She braced herself. “You speak of what happened—”
“Of course I speak of it!” Rawn seem to blaze with the emotions driving him. “Any man would. You took the second kiss, Mair.”
She couldn’t help but glance toward the fire, to check if anyone had heard Rawn’s hoarse declaration. Then she made herself meet his gaze. “Yes, I did,” she said, as calmly as she could. “And you did complicate things for me, for a while, just as you warned me. Only, I have recovered now—”
“Recovered!” He seemed to choke over the word.
Mair threw out her hand. “What do you want of me, Rawn? A declaration of love? My devotion and gratitude? I can offer neither of those things, not with any truth behind them. I am to return to Corneus at mid-summer, while you are to go on with Arthur. Would it be fair to either of us to speak of anything other than my thanks for your company on a night when I didn’t want to be alone?”
His chest lifted and fell quickly. Nothing in Rawn’s eyes told her what he was thinking. “You resent me,” he said, his voice so low, she could barely hear the words. “For staying with Arthur, while you must go home.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And I hate myself for it, but I do.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he sighed. “Truth, at last.” His tone was bitter.
The bitterness frightened her. He had never used that tone before, not when speaking with her. “I have so very few days left to serve Arthur, Rawn. And now, after today, it is the only thing I want to do. Let me have those days. Let me be as perfect as I can be, for Arthur.”
Again, Rawn did not speak at once. Was he angry? Some men would be angered by the slight to their manhood.
Rawn straightened his shoulders and tugged his cloak back into place. “You speak with uncommon clarity, Lady Mair. I would be selfish and inconsiderate if I impinged upon your time with Arthur. Thank you for the…small part you did share.” He bowed.
Mair’s chest locked tight. “Rawn…” she breathed, her throat aching. “Please, don’t be that way!”
His gaze met hers. “What way? The way of a perfectly proper warrior?” He whirled away and strode back toward the fire.
Mair clenched her hands, so her nails bit into her palms, watching his large shadow blend with the night.
Then he turned and the new moon bathed his face with pale light. “But know this, Mair,” he said, his voice harsh. “No one can be perfect. Such a man does not exist. The Christians go their entire lives searching for it and not one of them has found it. You will not, either.”
It hurt, as he had intended it to. Mair drew in a ragged breath.
“We all must compromise,” he said bleakly. “Some more than others.”
He turned and left.
Chapter Twelve
Arthur’s return to Venta Belgarum with Excalibur should have caused no more than the usual flurry his arrival created. Only, word moved ahead of them, borne on the w
ind and in the water, the way important news traveled. Rumor of Arthur’s great sword spread ahead of them, passed on by wood cutters and traveling singers and physicians, travelers of all types, spreading out across Britain.
When they rode into the permanent camp outside Venta Belgarum, all the city’s dignitaries waited for them, and most of the city, too. The gates had been thrown open and hundreds of people stood upon the dusty road to watch Arthur and glimpse the sword at his side.
The cheering and shouting and acclamations grated upon Mair’s nerves. She wheeled Leolin about and rode around the edges of the camp to reach the Corneus tents and pavilions.
There, she scrubbed Leonlin’s hide, watered him deeply and gave him extra oats for his loyalty and hard work.
The camp still had not returned to normal by the time she was done. The surrounding tents were empty. No one sat at the cooking fires. Instead, she heard the steady murmur of the big group of people standing in front of the city gates. They pressed against each other in a tight circle, trying to see and perhaps touch the great sword.
Mair collected more fresh water and boiled it in the fire closest to her tent. When the water was just short of scalding, she carried a bucket of it into her tent. She stripped and washed herself until her flesh was pink with the heat and the scrubbing.
She found a clean tunic, slid beneath her furs and was asleep before anyone returned to the tents. When she woke next, it was dark and the air heavily perfumed with the scent of meat grilling over flames.
She still was not hungry. Instead, she rolled over and made herself sleep once more.
The next day, Mair discovered Queen Morgan had been appointed Arthur’s official physician, a position which Merlin had held until that moment. While Mair ate tepid porridge, she listened to the chatter of the men around the closest fire, talking about Morgan’s healing abilities.
Bedivere and Lucan were not here, of course. They would be in the command tent with Arthur. Her resentment that they could stay and fight with Arthur flared once more. Mair squashed it and considered instead the arrangement of the Cohort and what changes she might make.
When she was done eating, she made her way to the Calleva section, and Bevan and Lowri’s large pavilion. The Queen’s Cohort met here daily, for drills and practice, and to discuss strategies.
Lowri could not conduct that practice. Mair and Lynette, as the two leaders of the wings, could coordinate training together. Mair sat on one of the benches placed around the fire pit for these occasions. She waited for the other women, who arrived in ones and twos to settle and lift their faces to the warm sun.
Lynette was one of the last to arrive. She nodded at Mair and pushed her golden tresses aside impatiently. “A messenger arrived this morning. Cai’s father, Ector, is dead.”
Mair considered it. “Who controls Galleva now?”
“There is no one but the blind man. Steffan. He has asked for help. Cai is refusing to return, of course.” Lynette scowled and kicked at the big stones circling the fire pit.
Mair’s middle jumped. “How is it you are privy to this news, Lynette?”
Lynette’s scowled deepened. “Eogan…” She grimaced. “Bricius took him to the war council this morning.”
Eogan was Bricius’ youngest brother. It was not unusual for commanders and officers to take their seconds or junior officers to the daily war council. Here in Venta Belgarum, the council sessions were far more general and all-encompassing. There was room for more people in the big square in front of Arthur’s pavilion, where the council met.
“Eogan being permitted to attend the council displeases you, Lynette?” Mair asked curiously.
Lynette sighed. “I am annoyed because I am so pleased.” She rolled her eyes. “I am a fool, Mair. I think you have been right all along. Women cannot be both fighters and…and partners of men.”
Mair nodded. “Or wives,” she added.
Lynette jumped, as if someone had pinched her.
“Lynette. Mair,” Evaine said softly. She lifted her chin, pointing.
Claire of Kernow stood in the space between the two closest tents. The space formed a portal to the open area in front of the Calleva pavilion. Claire gripped her hands together, her gaze upon the women sitting about the cold fire pit.
Lynette lifted her hand and beckoned the young woman forward.
Mair watched the white-haired woman move hesitantly into the open area. Mair couldn’t help but recall the intimate and painful conversation she had heard between Claire and Bors. The woman still looked unhappy. She did not smile as she approached them. She stopped on the other side of the fire from Lynnette and Mair, her hands working against each other. “I am told I must speak to either you, Lynette, or Mair of Corneus.”
“And now you have both of us at once,” Lynette said.
Claire’s gaze flickered toward Mair. “I see.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I want to join the Cohort. I want to fight with the Queen’s wing.”
Lynette patted the space beside her. “Come and speak with us, Claire.”
The other women of the Cohort assessed Claire as she walked over to the bench and sat gingerly on the edge.
Mair could guess what they were thinking. Even Elaine’s brow had lifted, and Elaine was the newest woman in the Cohort. Elaine had found it difficult to adjust to the facts of war, and she had already known how to use a sword and control a mount.
Claire was a lady in all senses of the word. She was the daughter of a high-ranking lord—a delicate, frail-looking woman with a fine, pointed chin, large brown eyes and a slender figure which made men’s heads turn. She wore robes and gowns which clung and displayed her figure. She lifted her hems now to keep them out of the ash at the edges of the fire.
She even wore light slippers, rather than boots.
Mair hid her doubts about the woman.
Lynette smiled at Elaine. “Why do you want to fight with us?”
“Why does any woman?” Claire said. “To help Arthur. To win peace for Britain.”
Lynette nodded. “Have you trained in the arts of war?”
Claire gripped the edges of the bench, her knuckles turning white. “I am willing to learn, if you will teach me.”
Lynette showed none of her disappointment at Claire’s answers. Most women were not trained in war or fighting. The Cohort had a well-worn process for training women in the basic skills. Sword fighting. Controlling a horse. Using spears and bows and even the edge of one’s shield. They could train a hundred women, yet even after training, not all of them were suited to fighting.
Mair shook her head. “Why do you really want to fight, Claire?”
Claire’s gaze swiveled to her. “I gave you my answer.”
“You gave us the answer you thought we wanted to hear.”
Lynette frowned, looking from Mair to the white-haired woman.
Claire’s lips worked. She was flustered.
Mair leaned closer to the woman and dropped her voice. “Do you think to win Bors in this way? Show him your pretty shield and he will no longer dismiss you?”
Lynette drew in a sharp breath. “Bors…?”
Claire didn’t move. Her eyes grew larger and larger. Tears pooled at the bottom, but didn’t fall. “Does it matter why I want to do this?” Her voice was remote. “Are your reasons any better than mine?”
“Mair wants to be the best fighter,” Lynette said. She looked steadily at Mair. “It is one reason among a dozen which are just as good. Every woman fights for a different reason. We don’t exclude people because they fall short of perfect.”
Mair accepted the rebuke. “You are right to chide me on that point,” she said. “I ask only because why a woman fights is what will keep her in the saddle and her sword swinging. Have you ever seen a man’s guts spill from his body because you have split his middle open, Claire of Kernow? Have you felt the hot spray of blood against your knee as his throat gapes open? Have you ever taken an arrow through your arm? Because all those things are p
ossible once you are upon the field. If you are too much a lady, if such things distress you, don’t join the Cohort. You will hesitate at the wrong moment and in hesitating, you will die.”
“Mair…!” Lynette breathed, her tone shocked.
Mair shrugged. “You know I speak truly.” She glanced around the fire pit. “You all know I am right. Dispute me, if you do not think so.”
Silence.
Mair looked at the white-haired woman and raised her brow.
Claire’s face was pale. Her chin lifted though. “If you can do it, I can.” Her voice didn’t waiver.
Lynette laughed. “Oh, you will fit right in, Claire. Elaine, bring the armor over so she can feel the weight. We must measure her for a jerkin, while she drills. Do you have a trained war horse, Claire?”
The chatter went on. The drills, the training, were well understood processes. Mair let the talk wash over her, while she stared at the cold ashes and wondered why she resented Claire’s joining the wing so greatly.
Then she remembered. Mid-summer was approaching. Claire joined the Cohort just as Mair must leave it.
AFTER SUPPER, MAIR SAW TO Leolin’s needs, then wandered the camp. There were a dozen tasks she could tend to, including the making of basic armor for Claire. The women would gather in front of the Calleva pavilion, and chat while they stitched and cut, or mended harnesses and other gear. Such evenings, filled with chatter about war from a purely feminine point of view, were always pleasant.
Only, Mair could not make her feet move in that direction. Great reluctance weighed her every step. She found herself turning aside.
When she arrived at the back of the surgery tent, she realized she had been easing her way here all along. With a touch of relief, she saw the old barrels had no one sitting on them. Rawn was avoiding this place, too.
The surgery tent was an almost permanent structure, with a solid wood roof and open sides. In winter, tenting was strung up under the roof. In warm weather, as today had been, the awnings were removed so the wounded and sick could see the sun, breathe fresh air, and watch the world go by.
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