High King of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Long ago, a pile of old barrels had been stacked at the back of the surgery and left to bleach in the sun. Weeds grew around their bases. When the surgery walls were down, Mair and Rawn used the softer grass at the foot of the barrels instead of the barrels themselves.

  Mair settled on the grass and brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. She had neither wine nor food. And no company.

  When she spotted Rawn moving between pavilions, in a direction which seemed to head toward her, her heart leapt. She held her breath, watching, to determine if he really was coming here.

  As he drew closer, she knew for certain he was. He spotted her at the base of the barrels and his gaze remained on her. He didn’t smile until he reached the barrels, then the smile was a small thing, barely there. “I thought you might be here.” His blue eyes were steady. He wasn’t angry at her.

  Mair shifted, making room for him. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so used to coming here.”

  Rawn rested his boot on the space she had cleared for him and leaned on his knee. The day was warm enough that he had discarded his cloak and wore the dark tunic, the one with the Brocéliande shield stitched on the center. It had no sleeves, of course.

  Mair tore her gaze away from his arms, when she realized she was remembering the way they had flexed and stretched over her. She cleared her throat and pulled her gaze back to Rawn’s eyes.

  He didn’t seem to notice her shifting attention. “I was wondering if you could help me with something. A small matter.”

  Relief touched her. She let out a breath. “Name it, and it will be done.”

  “The woman with the green eyes, the companion of Queen Lowri…the youngest one. I understand you know her.”

  “Tegan?” Mair said, confused. “What of her?”

  “I would like you to introduce us,” Rawn said. “It would smooth my way and hurry matters along.”

  Mair realized she was sitting as still as Rawn sometimes did…the same way Claire had sat that morning. For a moment, she couldn’t think for the roaring sound in her head.

  Her heart hurt as it hurled itself against her chest.

  Rawn tilted his head. “It is a small matter. A few minutes, then you can return to your affairs.”

  Fresh hurt slashed at her.

  Rawn’s brow lifted, just a little, as he waited for her agreement to help with his simple matter.

  Mair drew in a breath which shook. This is exactly what you asked for. He is leaving you alone, to take your last days as you want. The voice was hers, the tone jeering.

  She could not dispute the voice, though. She had asked for this.

  Mair didn’t know how she managed it but somehow, she found her voice. “I would be happy to introduce you to Tegan.” Her tone was stiff. Rawn didn’t seem to notice. “Now, if you like.”

  He straightened. “Waiting would be pointless,” he said, his tone as polite as hers. For a tiny moment, his gaze shifted, and she glimpsed something in his eyes which didn’t match the polite tone. Then it was gone so swiftly, she wasn’t sure she had seen it at all. Perhaps she merely wanted to see something other than the distant polite look now in them.

  He didn’t help her up with the usual haul on her hand which often sent her stumbling forward, making him laugh at his ability to move her about. He simply stood to one side.

  Mair pushed herself to her feet, brushed the grass and dirt off her hands and her rear, and went to find Tegan. The woman with the pale strawberry blonde hair was, as Mair suspected, at the Calleva fire pit. Tegan’s time was her own for now, for Lowri was still in the surgery. Mair beckoned from the edge of the open space and led Tegan to where Rawn waited with his arms crossed.

  Her throat closing up, Mair made herself say, “Rawn, this is Tegan, daughter of Aaron, Master at Arms to King Bevan of Calleva.”

  Rawn nodded his head.

  “Tegan, may I introduce to you Prince Arawn Uther, brother to King Alun of Brocéliande, and warrior in King Arthur’s permanent army. I have known Arawn Uther for many years and I commend him to you.” As Tegan’s eyes grew larger, Mair made herself add, “You will not find a more honorable and courageous man, Tegan. Enjoy his company.”

  Mair spun and walked away, her heart hammering and her chest so tight she wasn’t certain she could draw breath. She strode around camp fires, between tents, her gaze unfocused. Then she realized she was heading back to the surgery and veered away.

  There was nowhere else to go but her own tent. She couldn’t remain out in the open, drawing attention.

  Mair almost ran back to the privacy of her little tent. Once she was inside, though, she couldn’t settle. She walked in little circles around the narrow space beside her bed. The tightness in her chest ached. She thumped the side of her fist against it, trying to dislodge it.

  She walked until the sun set and for hours after that.

  Only when the camp was still, when it was not possible for anyone to be still awake, was Mair able to sit on her bed. After a while, she laid down, certain she would not sleep.

  …only to wake to bright sunshine piercing the tiny holes in her tent, dazzling her. It was day once more and she must face what the day would bring.

  Bedivere stood at the campfire when Mair at last emerged, a cup in his hand. He looked up. “Finally! The council finished ages ago. I have been waiting here since.”

  “I have not slept well this night, brother,” Mair warned him. “Say what you must. Is that wine?”

  He held the cup toward her. “With herbs, heated with a poker. Go on. You need it more than me.”

  She sipped. It was still warm and soothed her throat.

  Bedivere squared his shoulders under his new armor. The decorations on the breastplate had been painted, the patterns picked out in red and yellow and orange. Against the leather, the colors made Mair think of the autumn, when the leaves fell. It was a far more subdued decoration than some younger officers preferred. It made Lancelot’s black and gold armor look garish in comparison.

  “There are processes and systems you must know about, for your return to Corneus,” Bedivere began. “You’ve spent years fighting and never paid a moment of attention to the laws of our land—”

  Mair put her hand to her head and groaned. “No, Bedivere. I beg you, not now.”

  “Then when?” he demanded. “You must know these things. You must learn them.”

  “Why? Why? I simply return to guard the door against incursions. A wolf could provide the same service!”

  Bedivere’s brows came together. “You will be their leader, Mair, in all but name. And if something happens—”

  “No.” She shook head and thrust the cup back at him. “Not today. Please, not today.” She skirted around him and hurried away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As she had once before, Mair escaped the camp entirely and headed into the trees. They had reached full summer growth now. Walking beneath them was to be cast into deep, cool shade. It helped her headache subside and her heart to calm.

  She should not linger out here for long. She had nothing but her eating knife, and while the Saxons would not dare come this close to Venta Belgarum, there were more dangers than Saxons abroad in the woods. Most of them went on two feet, although bears were also dangerous at this time of year.

  When she heard the clash of metal, her heart skipped and her wariness zoomed high. Perhaps the patrols had found something.

  Then she heard laughter.

  The knock of sword upon shield.

  More laughter and voices, none of them raised in anger.

  Intrigued, Mair crept forward, her knife out. She followed the sounds, which grew clearer as she drew near, although she could still make nothing of what they were saying. Voices echoed flatly through the trees, distorting the words.

  She spotted movement ahead, a slight glimpse between the thick trees, and slowed her steps even more.

  Even as the hand shot out from behind the great oak she was passing, Mair recogni
zed Rawn’s bare arm. The wrist, thick with muscle, and the tanned flesh. He gripped her knife arm and drew her up against the tree he stood beside.

  “Look.” He turned her around, so her back was to him.

  Her heart thudding from more than being ambushed, Mair peered through the trees.

  Rawn had picked his spot well. From here, a clear line of sight ran between trees and bushes, giving him a narrow view of the clearing beyond.

  Men were training there. They wore old tunics and cast-off shields on their arms, as they moved through rigorous sword movements. Hector and Lionel were there, along with Bryn and Druston, among others. Nearly everyone part of Arthur’s counsel and considered senior officers.

  “Watch,” Rawn breathed.

  Mair would have been caught by the view and would have lingered to watch even without his advice, for the patterns and movements these men were using were different from any sword training she had ever seen.

  She couldn’t make sense of the arm positions. They looked wrong.

  How could anyone defend themselves with their sword up in the air that way?

  “And what might you be doing, lingering here?” came the question from behind them.

  Mair whirled. Rawn cursed.

  Dinadan stood with his sword out, although the point was lowered toward the earth. He tilted his head. “Spying, are you?”

  Rawn’s jaw worked.

  “I was interested,” Mair said. “Why hold your sword so high, like that?”

  Dinadan’s expression shifted to the merry one he most often used. “You’d best ask Lancelot. Come along.” He gestured with his sword that they should move toward the clearing.

  Mair turned and followed Rawn through the trees. They stepped into the clearing and saw the whole area all at once. Mair caught her breath. There were dozens of men here. All of them were known to Mair. All of them were senior officers and lords, or the sons of lords. Tristan and Sagramore, the two Calleva twins, Martyn and Trevor. Cadoc, Aglovale and Percival and Lamorak. Even red-headed Gareth.

  From the far side of the clearing, Lancelot strode around to where they stood, their eyes wide. Dinadan moved to meet him. “She wants to know why the swords are on-high,” he said. He laughed and moved over to the end of the line of men moving through set swings and parries and took his place with them.

  Lancelot wore no armor. His tunic was simple and black, as usual. He considered them.

  “You train these men?” Rawn asked, sounding winded.

  “They asked me to teach them,” Lancelot said.

  “Why here, in secret?” Mair demanded.

  “It is no secret,” Lancelot assured her. “At least, not from Arthur and his officers. But why not here?” He looked around. “I like trees.”

  He had lived among trees in the Perilous Forest, Mair remembered.

  Lancelot smiled. “Besides, here among the trees, we are hidden from any spies who might note what we do and give that information to the Saxons.”

  “Why do they hold their swords so high?” she said, for the question prodded her, begging to be answered. “It exposes your trunk, your hips and belly. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Lancelot considered her. “No?” He beckoned with his finger. “Come with me.”

  He moved over to a nearby tree. At the base of the tree was a sack, half-open to show a great collection of old swords. He pulled out two of them and tossed one to Mair.

  She got her hand up and caught it, then turned it around and gripped the hilt.

  Lancelot came back to where she stood and lifted the other.

  Mair automatically shifted her feet into a defensive position and put the sword out in front of her, shielding her body. “This is a Roman short sword,” she complained. “You would have greater reach even if our blades were equal length.”

  “You can fight with whatever blade you have,” Lancelot said. “Even that little eating knife of yours, used the right way, will win the day for you.” He raised the sword he held high over his head. “Lunge for me.”

  Rawn moved around so he was between them and could watch. Intense curiosity and interest shone in his eyes.

  Mair rolled her eyes and lunged.

  Lancelot’s sword dropped in a slashing movement and jarred her blade aside.

  Instantly, he brought the sword back up. “Again.”

  Mair frowned. Where could she next attack? Surely, he could not guard every vulnerable point on his body with such a stance? She considered, then with a cry, threw herself forward, cutting at his thighs.

  Another ringing of steel, and this time, her sword went flying.

  Rawn made a soft sound, a mixture of astonishment and dawning understanding.

  Lancelot picked up the short sword and handed it back to her. “This time, put your sword up…so.” He demonstrated.

  Feeling foolish, Mair raised her sword over her head, imitating Lancelot’s position. It felt awkward and it felt dangerous. She was exposed this way.

  Without warning, Lancelot swung his sword at her. It was a classic side swipe, the first movement any child was taught. A basic drill, good for disemboweling the enemy if he didn’t have his guard up.

  There was no time to think. Mair whipped her blade down, to block the viciously swinging long sword.

  The clash of the blades jarred her to her elbows. The strength of Lancelot!

  “Mair, you stopped him,” Rawn breathed, awe tinging his voice.

  Mair looked down at the locked blades—her puny short sword and the long sword in Lancelot’s grip.

  Lancelot considered her, his black eyes grave. “Do you see?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand. It shouldn’t have worked,” Mair breathed.

  Lancelot nodded and straightened, releasing her sword. “You think it should not because you, just like your brothers, have been immersed in the proper way to fight, all your life.”

  “The proper way works,” Mair said stiffly.

  “Until it no longer works,” Lancelot replied. “Here. Put your sword out, as you were taught.”

  Mair settled into the standard defense position, her sword out. From here, she could block every jab or slice.

  Lancelot copied her stance. “Now, move very slowly. I will bring my sword thus, to strike your flank…” He brought the sword back in a slow movement, then around in the flat arc which, if not blocked, could decapitate a man or slice him in two. It was a death blow.

  Mair brought her sword up in the classic blocking movement.

  “Stop!” Lancelot said urgently.

  She held still.

  “Look where your sword is,” he urged her.

  Mair lifted her chin, to look at the blade overhead.

  “It’s up over your head,” Rawn breathed.

  Lancelot let his sword drop, the point in the earth. He nodded. “When you keep your sword high, you are removing the first half of a classic blocking movement. You can respond faster and with strength.”

  “That’s defense,” Rawn said. “What about attacking?”

  “It’s still the same,” Mair said, as understanding flooded her. “Lancelot brought his sword back and up, to slash.” She demonstrated.

  Lancelot nodded. “You do see. Very good.” He stepped to one side and indicated the men moving through drills in the clearing. “Join us.”

  Mair didn’t hesitate. She nodded and moved over to the nearest line of men, beside Dinadan. It didn’t surprise her to see Rawn take up a place beside Lionel, farther along, one of the old swords in his hand. Rawn would understand how important this learning could be.

  It was a morning of revelations and inspiration…and sheer hard work. As the sun rose to the noon position, the training ended. Mair knew the rest of her day would be taken up with considering this startling and innovative form of fighting. It was of little wonder Lancelot was unbeatable on the field. This sword work made any man faster and stronger, no matter what his natural strength or the weakness of the blade he wielded.

&
nbsp; As Lancelot said, even Mair’s small eating knife would give her an advantage over a fighter who used the “proper” techniques.

  Hector, Lancelot’s older half-brother, stopped before Mair, mopping his brow with his sleeve. “Tomorrow, as soon as the counsel has ended, we will meet here again. Yes?”

  Mair nodded. She would be a fool not to come. She said diffidently, “May I bring the women of the Queen’s Cohort?”

  Hector smiled. “They would benefit from this as much as any man. They will be welcome.”

  The clearing emptied, everyone leaving in twos and threes, talking and laughing together. Someone had picked up the bag of swords. Nothing was left to show the purpose of the clearing.

  Mair caught up with Rawn. “Why is no one speaking of this openly in the camp?” she asked him. “Everyone would benefit. Imagine what an entire army trained by Lancelot would do to the Saxon hoards!” Her heart hurried at the idea.

  “No one talks about it for the same reason we didn’t,” Rawn said. His tone was thoughtful, his gaze far away. “How often have we sat and made fun of Lancelot and his ways?”

  Mair’s excitement stilled. It was true. They had spent years laughing at the man. “It’s just that…he’s so young. Who would believe he could know more about war and fighting than us?”

  “We were secure in the knowledge that our way was the best,” Rawn said. His mouth twisted. A grimace.

  “If he would only show everyone what he demonstrated to you and me. Everyone would understand, then.”

  Rawn’s gaze slid to her. “You’re only a few years older than Lancelot, Mair. I’m a few years older still. Yet even we are so mired in the old ways, it’s instinctive. I continually held my sword out, instead of up. You, too.”

  Mair nodded. She had been dropping back into the old habits whenever she relaxed. She had to concentrate to keep her sword up.

  “Can you imagine Pellinore trying to learn this?” Rawn asked. “Or Bricius? They’ve spent their entire lives fighting the only way they knew how. If we must fight our instincts to keep our swords up, imagine how difficult it would be for the older officers.”