Rawn’s face tightened. His eyes narrowed. “Alun feels as Bedivere does about this way of fighting—despite your best efforts to change Bedivere’s mind, including grinding his face into the earth for his men to see.”
Mair sucked in a breath. “I did not! It was a completely fair bout. Is that what they are saying?”
Lancelot cleared his throat. “I shall leave you to talk,” he said, his tone polite. “It is far too hot to linger in the sun today.”
It was hot. Mair headed for the trees and the deep shade beneath them. Rawn followed.
Lancelot moved ahead of them.
Mair turned back to face Rawn. “Are you upset that I beat Bedivere, or that I let others see it?”
“Neither,” Rawn said, his blue eyes glittering. “If he was beaten fairly then it should be witnessed.”
“Then why do you mention it?” she demanded. “And why now? That was days and days ago!”
Rawn gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. “You’re training the Cohort and Corneus, Mair.”
She stared at him, flummoxed. “Yes,” she said finally. “I am. What of it?”
Rawn threw out his hand. “If Brocéliande was here, would you train them, too?”
“If you wanted me to,” she said slowly, trying to feel her way ahead. “Rawn…what is this about?”
“You’ve changed,” Rawn ground out.
Mair rubbed her brow. “I don’t think so.” Great weariness settled over her.
“Of course you have!” Rawn cried. “When were you ever interested in politics?”
Mair laughed. “Never!”
“Yet you have almost single-handedly convinced most of Arthur’s army to learn Lancelot’s way of fighting! It is any wonder Lancelot adores you? You’re his champion. The perfect warrior maiden from the house of perfect warriors…she, the people will listen to, while they roll their eyes over Lancelot’s strange ideas. You, they take seriously. The old guard—Pellinore and Bevan and King Mark—they’re looking green around the sides because you’re building far too much influence over the army, while their power is steadily declining! Gods, Mair, you can’t see it for yourself?”
Rawn breathed heavily, his passionate speech done. His eyes gleamed. He meant every word he said.
Mair swallowed. “That isn’t politics,” she whispered.
“Of course it is! It’s power! Influence! Half the men in this clearing would die for you, if you asked it of them, in gratitude for showing them the way, for giving them this great gift! The other half would do whatever you asked of them! You think it hasn’t got old Pellinore shaking in his boots? You think Arthur is not aware of it by now?”
“Is that what you are trying to tell me? That I should watch my back?” She was appalled. “We’re supposed to be colleagues. All of us. Companions in a single army. Why do they resent me training people to fight better?”
Rawn let out a breath. “They don’t. But they do watch you. You are a person of influence, whether or not you like it, and the ones who do resent it…well, if they haven’t circled already, they soon will.”
Mair wiped her brow. “I don’t want to be a person of influence,” she muttered. Her belly swirled with a sickening sensation. The hidden by-plays and strategies of politics were an anathema to her. She only had to look at the way the northern factions had brought Britain to the very brink of complete disaster before Arthur wrested back control, to know that politics was a dangerous thing. A useless thing. “I just want everyone to know how…how perfect Lancelot’s way of fighting is.”
Rawn let out a slow breath. He seemed to lose all his anger, all at once. “That is what makes you dangerous, Mair. People sense you are only trying to help, and they respond to it.”
Mair grimaced. “Only now I know it, I will be awkward and useless. Only, everyone should learn to fight this way.”
Rawn laughed.
His reaction was unexpected. Mair’s face prickled with more heat than the day provided. “Why did you want to speak to me, anyway?” she demanded.
Rawn’s humor faded. She could almost feel a shield of wariness build in him. “To point out to you what you had failed to see yourself,” he said.
She had him backing away, now. Mair pushed again. “You only spoke of politics after I mentioned Brocéliande.”
Rawn’s jaw flexed. “It’s of no matter,” he said. “Not in your estimation, at least.”
Her heart lurched. Wariness flooded her. Mair moved around him. “Then good day to you.”
Rawn caught her arm, halting her even though his touch was the lightest thing.
Mair made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Even though many days of hard, endless work had passed, it was as if no time had elapsed at all. Her body had forgotten not a single moment they had shared and now it flamed to life, reminding her that Rawn had once looked at her this way, too.
She ached to touch him but could not. Would not. “The Lady Tegan…” she breathed, hoisting the barrier Tegan created in front of her like a shield.
“Who?”
Mair fought to find her voice. “Green eyes, gold hair. Calleva.”
Rawn’s thumb drifted over her cheekbone, high up by her eye. “Ah.”
Her flesh rippled at his touch. “Rawn…” she began in warning.
“No.” His fingers slid farther, to curl around her head and bring her to him.
The kiss was everything she remembered and more. Mair trembled as his arms came around her. Heat and softness of flesh over iron-hard muscles pressed against her. His lips roused in her all the neediness which had driven her to rise each day and find more and more work.
When his mouth hovered just above hers and all she could hear was the wild beating of her heart, Mair looked into his eyes once more.
Rawn cupped her face. “I miss you,” he breathed.
Mair gripped his tunic, holding herself upright. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “We don’t matter. Arthur will dismiss the houses…mid-summer is in three days’ time.” Her heart broke as she heard her own words and the awful truth in them.
Rawn brushed away her tears. “Three days, three lifetimes. I don’t care.” His tone was violent. “You want the days for you to be a perfect warrior for Arthur. Let me have the nights.” His voice was deep, hard with emotion.
Mair was helpless to refuse him, not when he held her, when she could feel his strength against her and see the shuttered heat in his eyes. Even though it could only end in pain and loneliness, she found herself nodding, because she didn’t have the strength to turn him away a second time.
The heat leapt and blazed in his eyes. Rawn kissed her again, as Mair trembled with pleasure and terror.
“Mair. Rawn.”
Rawn cursed and pushed her behind him, then relaxed. “Lancelot…” he growled.
Lancelot stood by the nearest tree, in a way which spoke of his reluctance to interrupt. “You should not linger here today,” he told them. “Something is happening in the camp. Come.”
He turned and strode toward the camp.
Rawn took Mair’s hand and they hurried after Lancelot. When they emerged from the trees, they saw what had made Lancelot turn back and warn them to come quickly.
It appeared the entire population of the camp gathered at the command tent. They pushed and fought to get closer. Voices raised, as everyone tried to be heard over everyone else. The rest of the camp was empty, with stools overturned and fires left unattended.
“Gods!” Rawn breathed. He let her hand go.
All three of them moved faster and faster, until they were jogging…then running.
They reached the outer edges of the big group of people and tried to edge their way in.
“It’s hopeless,” Mair said. “Not everyone can squeeze into the tent. Not even most of us.”
Lancelot tapped Druston on the shoulder. The older man turned and raised a brow at Lancelot.
“Is there news?” Lancelot said.
Drusto
n nodded. “The messenger galloped in here, bellowing about Saxons razing lands to scorched earth.”
“To the north?” Rawn asked.
Druston grimaced. “South.”
“Here?” Lancelot said, startled, for Venta Belgarum was close to the borders of the South Saxon Shore—a reason Uther had chosen the city as his capital.
Druston shrugged. “That’s an answer we’d all like.” He waved toward the packed crowd. “The messenger is in there, now, giving the news to Arthur.”
Rawn tapped Mair’s shoulder. “Here.” He drew her over to a cart which stood to one side of the command tent and put her on it.
“I can’t see from here,” Mair pointed out.
“Not yet.” Rawn picked up the yoke and heaved on it. He dug his heels in, his tendons straining and his arms flexed mightily.
Lancelot grabbed the other side of the yoke and hauled, too. The wagon rolled grudgingly forward. The two jumped onto it and stood beside Mair. Now they had a perfect view of the front of the tent.
Druston slapped Bryn’s shoulder. The pair joined them. Another dozen people scrambled up behind them.
For a great while, nothing happened. The crowd was silent, waiting tensely for news.
In the south of Britain, there were many smaller kingdoms and tribes, far more than farther north where the kingdoms were vast and the populations smaller. Their names rifled through Mair’s mind. Cornwall, Logres, The Summer Country, Kernow, Camelard…they were just the kingdoms and lands near Corneus. There were even more beyond those borders. A successful drive into the south of Britain would bring devastation to dozens of lands. Everyone was anxious to hear where the Saxons had struck, and for permission to race back to their own lands, to defend them and preserve them.
It was hot in the harsh sunlight. No breeze brought relief.
Where had the Saxons struck? Mair curled her hand into a fist as she watched the closed tent, waiting for movement. Corneus was east of Kernow—their lands ran together down to the coast. What if the Saxons had struck there?
Mair recalled the graceful, stately lines of the estate where she had lived all her life. Like many of the family homes in the south, Corneus had been a great Roman family villa, generations ago. Mair’s ancestors had been part of the Iceni tribe, then they became Roman Britons and counted one of the great families of Britain. The estate had been handed down from ruler to ruler.
It was sickening to think of Saxons rampaging their way through the colonnaded walks of Corneus. The shady terraces where apricots grew, the pergolas with grapes hanging heavy and sweet, and the roses in the enclosed garden in the west wing…the fall of leaves in autumn, with the wind blowing the dry, rustling things along the mosaics. The bathhouse that, in winter, was a delightful luxury.
The large airy rooms with their long divans and silk cushions. Her room, with the fresco on the wall and doves cooing at the high window.
Just beyond the main house were the smaller homes of dozens of families who helped with the running of the estate. There were even more houses a little farther away, where the Corneus army was housed throughout the winter. Those houses surrounded the parade and drill ground, their placement based upon the old Roman legion model. As she had grown older, Mair had spent more and more time on that parade ground, learning the trade of war.
Were Saxons right now tearing through her family home, burning and raping and taking whatever old, precious object they saw?
And if they were, would it not be her fault? Should she not have returned weeks ago, as Bedivere had wanted? If she had, then she might be there now and able to defend the land she only now realized she loved.
Only, Arthur had not dismissed the houses for the summer. He had not released them so they could return for the harvest and the long, fallow winter.
She still might have gone! A tiny escort, perhaps two men, and she could have returned to take up her duties. Arthur would have allowed it.
Mair dug her fingernails into her palms. If Corneus fell to the Saxons, it would be because she was not there to prevent it.
A hand touched her arm. A light touch. “Corneus will be fine,” Rawn breathed in her ear. “The home guard will protect it, should it come to that.”
Not without a strong leader to direct them. This was what Bedivere had feared, all along. Yes, there were old men and young boys, and a small contingent of trained fighters left to safeguard the estate and the Corneus people living upon it. Only, they had been left behind for good reasons.
Hywel, the family steward, could make flowers bloom where there had been unyielding dirt. He could remember harvest yields going back twenty years. He was a farmer in his soul. Mair couldn’t remember him ever picking up a sword.
She trembled with worry and with a sudden urgent need to climb upon Leolin and ride like a dragon was on her tail, until she saw the red roofs of Corneus once more.
Movement at the front of the tent drew her gaze. Cai stood at the opening. He waved with his hands. “Back! Back, I say. Give the man room.”
When everyone moved reluctantly, Cai raised his voice. “If you want to hear the news, then move away from the tent! Come on, all of you. Behind the fire pit! Or I’ll send you all back to your tents and call on you one at a time and that will take a day or more. Now…move back!” The last was a bellow.
Cai was a big man and used to shouting commands on a battlefield. No one had any problem hearing what he said.
With murmurs and anxious movements, everyone shuffled away from the tent, until the ground between the tent and the fire pit was clear of all but Cai, who stood with his arms crossed, glaring at everyone.
Arthur stepped out, along with Merlin and a young lad covered in dust and the grime of hard travel. The boy looked terrified. There were two clean circles around his eyes, which were red-rimmed. Had he been crying?
Idris ducked beneath the flap and took up a place close to Arthur’s left.
Arthur held up his hand for silence, although the area in front of the tent was already still, as people waited to hear.
“It is not a practice of mine to share every scrap of news, or the content of messages, but in this case, a wrong impression has been made, which I will correct now. The Saxons have not raided the southern kingdoms.”
Mair let out a breath which shook. Even her knees were weak. Corneus still stood!
From the odd, wavy sounds rising from the people standing in front of the cart and across the square, Mair realized they were experiencing the same shaky relief.
No wonder the messenger looked so upset. If Merlin or Idris, or even Arthur, had taken him to task for scaring the camp in this way, then he fully deserved it.
Arthur held up his hand once more. The silence formed.
“Not yet,” Arthur added.
Gasps and moans sounded. Not many. Everyone held themselves still and silent to learn more.
Mair’s heart thundered. It wasn’t until Rawn pressed his hand against her shoulder that she realized he was holding her.
Arthur went on. “Kernow spies brought news just two days ago. The Saxons are reforming under Aesc, Hengist’s son, on the South Saxon Shore, two days’ march from the border. It is an army of such size that its purpose cannot be for anything but to smash us to pieces and open the way for the Saxons to spread across Britain.”
“A second battle, in one year?” someone muttered.
Arthur pointed to the speaker, although Mair could not see who it was from where she stood. “Yes, a second battle, as big and as brutal as Maisbeli,” he said flatly. His voice lifted. “Does anyone doubt the Saxons’ determination to win, this time? They are deserting their crops and fields and putting their harvest in jeopardy, in order to defeat us.” He paused. “Everyone, go back to your camps. Prepare to leave at any moment. It is entirely possible we will march tonight.”
Shock strummed in the listening people. Such speed!
Cador, Duke of Cornwall, spoke. His voice was clear, and the worry in it even more apparen
t. “Where will they strike, Arthur?”
Mair remembered that Cador’s wife, Elen, was in Tintagel, with only the Cornwall house guard to protect her. Even though Tintagel had never been taken by force, Cador was likely feeling the same overwhelming need to rush back home as was Mair.
Everyone waited for Arthur’s answer.
Before Arthur could open his mouth, though, someone shouted from the far side of the square. “Riders approaching!”
More messengers?
Mair was high enough to see over everyone’s heads. She bent to peer along the avenue between the encampments from where the sound of horses and rolling wagons sounded. The avenue ran almost directly west, ending at the walls of the city, with just enough room for traffic to skirt along the walls and the edges of the camp to head north or south.
The party of horses and wagons threw up dust as they galloped along the avenue. No banner flew over them. Nothing declared who they were. Rawn’s hand drop from her shoulder to settle on his sword hilt. She already gripped her own weapon. Lancelot drew his sword completely and held it across his body. From that position, it could be easily swung into the high position.
They were not the only fighters holding weapons.
The rider at the front of the file was a man with limp brown hair and a dimpled chin. His cheek bones were high and his cheeks thin…as was the rest of him.
Mutters of recognition ran through the crowd.
Merlin stepped to Arthur’s side and murmured in his ear. Arthur frowned.
“Who is it?” Mair breathed to Rawn.
“Caradoc of Brynaich,” Lancelot murmured. “Lot’s friend.” He jumped from the cart to land squarely on both feet, his sword flashing in the strong sunlight. He strode to stand in front of Arthur.
Idris moved closer, too. So did Cai, while Merlin stepped back out of the way. Mair saw Bedivere push and shove his way into the space around the fire pit, then hurry to take up a stance guarding Arthur.
Caradoc looked neither left nor right. He kept his gaze upon Arthur, as the people made room for him and for those who rode behind him. As Caradoc’s horse trotted into the space around the fire pit, Mair saw who followed him.
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