Uther urged his horse up beside Arawn’s. He nodded at Winoc’s back, for the hunter was ten paces ahead, leading them. “He has been heading directly north-east without deviation. Any man who knows where he is going takes the easiest path, not the direct route, even if it winds around obstructions.” His handsome face was marred by a suspicious scowl.
It didn’t surprise Arawn that Uther had been tracking their direction and was puzzled by it. Uther was only twenty-six, yet he already had the sizeable reputation that an older man accumulated over a lifetime. He was a brilliant soldier—one whom no one wanted to face on the battlefield. Warriors across Gaul traveled to Brittany to learn his ways with weapons. As a leader, Uther was surpassed only by his older brother Ambrosius in strategic thinking. Uther’s handling of men was deft. He could read a man’s weaknesses and strengths and judge within a hair’s breadth a man’s true nature, the instant he laid eyes upon him.
Arawn smiled at the man. “Not even Winoc knows where he is truly going. No one knows where the spring is. He heard a rumor, that is all.”
Uther’s blue eyes, so different from his brother’s Celtic black, narrowed. “Then we are upon a fool’s errand?” The blue of his eyes was pure summer sky, above high, hawk-like cheekbones and cheeks that often looked gaunt, or taut with anger. The jaw was made stronger by the outline of close-cropped red beard. He had a red-head’s temper, which fit with his general temperament. He was full of quicksilver energy and fiery passion—which rumors said he put to good use every night, no matter where he found himself.
His temper was stirring now. Arawn could appreciate why. He didn’t like having his time wasted, either. He lifted his spare hand. “Patience, Uther. We are still upon land I know. When we reach the parts of the forest no one will enter, our quest will begin.”
“The enchanted heart of Brocéliande I’ve heard so much about?” Uther did not quite roll his eyes, for he was smart enough to not disparage his host’s country.
“You are a follower of Mithras, yes?” Arawn dropped his voice, for gods and religion was a private matter.
“The soldier’s god is mine,” Uther replied. “Why?”
“Is there not magic about the story of Mithras and the Bull?”
Uther’s gaze slid toward him and away. “It is sacrilege to even speak of it.”
“Then do not speak of it. Instead, tell me you believe the story. They call it faith, do they not?”
Uther cleared his throat. “You believe the stories about the forest, then?”
“My people do. I cannot ignore their beliefs, or their trust in me will wither. It is already stretched taut.”
“They call you the cursed king,” Uther said and held out the wine flask he had been carrying in his left hand.
“Among other things.” Arawn took the flask and drank.
“Budic is not labeled such. Nor is Bors. Their kingdoms also struggle for lack of water. It has beset all of Lesser Britain. Why, then are you the cause of everyone’s misfortune?” Uther’s tone was merely curious.
It was the mildness of his enquiry that allowed Arawn to answer with uncharacteristic frankness. “The drought is just the last affliction of many, one which all neighboring kingdoms must share if mine is to properly suffer.” His mouth turned down. “I know you have heard the stories.”
“Frequently,” Uther replied. “More often of late, as wells dry and rivers thin.”
“Pestilence, plague and drought.” Tension squeezed Arawn’s chest and made his gut roil. “Two harvests mown to the ground by hoppers, then three years of plague which killed most of the people that empty bellies had not. Now this—a third year of inadequate rain. Budic and Bors have seen little of the tribulation I have and it all began the year I first married.”
Uther’s frown deepened. “Curses are always accompanied by prescribed cures.”
“The cure was prophesied by Rhonwen the Great, Lady of the Lake, before she passed. The mother of my first born child will save Brocéliande.”
“I have heard of this prophecy,” Uther admitted. “I did not know it was intended to break a curse.”
“Neither did I,” Arawn said. He took another deep swallow of the wine and handed the flask back. “When Rhonwen spoke the prophecy, I was not aware Brocéliande was in need of saving. As she gave it at my first wedding, I presumed it was a blessing upon my marriage.”
Uther’s eyes widened. “You have married twice since,” he pointed out.
“Three times,” Arawn admittedly heavily.
Uther sat back in his saddle, his eyes gleaming. “Then you must marry again, no?”
Arawn understood the glimmer of interest in Uther’s eyes. Women were a sport for him, one at which he excelled. His appetites were large enough that he would take any amenable companion to bed. Although, if there was a single camp follower or unattached woman, or even a married but willing woman, anywhere near the army, Uther would win her over for the night. It was a small wonder he had not left a trail of bastards across Brittany.
“You do not understand,” Arawn replied. “It is not simply a matter of getting an heir. Kings are reluctant to offer me their daughters, for all my wives have died while bearing their first child.”
Uther’s smile was knowing. “Then don’t marry a princess. The prophecy does not insist upon it.”
Arawn thought of Mair, the last of his wives. It had only been two years and already he had trouble recalling her young face. “I tried that, too,” he admitted.
“Yet here we are looking for a magic spring to break the curse, instead,” Uther said. “You would risk bringing the power of Brocéliande down upon you, yet you will not take a fifth wife, when one of the greatest Ladies of all history has told you that is what you must do to save your kingdom.”
Arawn shifted in his saddle, his chest clamping even harder. “You are young, Uther. You do not understand the challenges of a ruler.” His tone was sharper than he intended. Uther was brazen and his questions impertinent. Ambrosius had thrust Uther at Arawn, to smooth out his brother’s rougher edges. The man would not learn subtlety living in the middle of an army camp as he did in Carnac.
Uther stared at his horse’s ears and said nothing. He was sensitive enough to know he had overstepped his bounds.
Arawn relented. “Hunting for a spring does not bring death upon an innocent woman.”
“Perhaps the next wife you take will be the one to break the curse,” Uther said. “You cannot know until you marry her.”
“Therein lies my quandary,” Arawn said, with a gusty sigh. “If she is not the one…”
Uther grinned, showing white, even teeth. “We are hunting the wrong prey today.”
“I assure you, where we are going there are no suitable wives.”
“Suitable?” Uther repeated. “A cursed king cannot demand his next wife meet any standards.” His smile made his eyes dance.
Arawn laughed, drawn into Uther’s mischievous mood. “Very well, then. Any woman at all…only, she must be healthy and young enough to bear children.”
“And unmarried,” Uther said gravely. “As you are a king, you must wed the girl to bed her. I, of course, do not have that limitation.”
“I will not be inviting you to the wedding, then,” Arawn replied.
Uther’s laughter sent a raven flapping into the air, cawing his objection. The other men were far behind them, now, busy with their own conversations. Winoc was far ahead. It was just the two of them, which let Arawn relax a little more.
“It would be nice if she was of passing prettiness,” Arawn added, warming to the subject.
“And with all her teeth, too,” Uther said.
“I’m surprised you are so choosy, Uther.”
“It is your bed we are planning to fill, not mine,” Uther replied, his tone urbane.
“Of course, she must be a maiden,” Arawn said.
“Now you are objecting purely to narrow the field to nothing,” Uther said. “The more conditions you add, th
e less chance we have of finding her.”
“As I have no idea how many suitable women there are in the first place, I’m unlikely to know that adding conditions would make it an impossible task. You, of course, know every beddable woman in all three kingdoms.”
Uther smiled. “Perhaps I prefer to wonder, like you.”
Arawn laughed at the notion.
Uther patted the neck of his war horse. “Then we are agreed. The first woman we come across who matches the criteria, you will wed.”
Arawn drew in a sharp breath. “I was jesting, Uther. One does not enter a marriage with the casual approach you are suggesting.”
“Why not? The proper approach to marriage has not served you.”
“You have not been wed—”
“And have no intention of being so bound,” Uther shot back. “I am not a king and have no heir to get. You have a kingdom to save, or so I understood from your lecturing a while ago. Do you want to save your people, or not?”
Arawn swallowed. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I would do anything to save them. Look at where we are and what we do today. I am to sprinkle spring water upon stones and hope that a miracle will occur.”
“Then why not add a wedding to your list?” Uther asked with a reasonable tone.
Arawn tried to consider the matter in the straightforward way Uther was. Stripped of the burden of emotions, the concept of marriage to any woman was reduced to nothing more than a step on the path to breaking the curse. Following forms and protocol had not served him. He had not lied—he would do anything to see his people suffer no more. Anything.
Including this.
“Done,” Arawn said.
Uther sat up. “The first woman we find, you will wed?”
“The first young, healthy, marriageable woman,” Arawn amended.
“With all her teeth, yes,” Uther finished. He looked up at the blue sky peeping between the trees. “Now the day is interesting.”
Arawn let Uther enjoy the moment, instead of spoiling it with simple facts. As they wound deeper into the heart of Brocéliande, the chances of coming across a woman who met the few criteria they had agreed upon would grow smaller. After today, Uther would return to Carnac and the business of war and forget this inane agreement.
Arawn would not be breaking his word, either, for they had agreed upon him marrying the first woman they came across. Once Uther left Brocéliande, Arawn could go back to ruling his kingdom, instead of entertaining the brother of the true High King of Britain.
Chapter Two
It took half a day to draw close enough to the deer to take her shot. Ilsa didn’t begrudge the effort. Meat had been missing from the dinner pot for more than a week. Bread only sustained a person for a few days before the belly cramped in a way that was hard to ignore. She could almost smell the rich scent of searing meat, enticing her to push even deeper into Brocéliande on the trail of the stag.
She rarely came this far north. Another mile and she would be into the thick, shadowed core of the forest, with its enormous beech trees, tangled old oaks and dank shadows. People who went there never returned, it was said. Her father had warned her away from the place more than once. As tonight’s meal—and all other meals—depended upon her returning with fresh meat, being caught by the witches of Brocéliande would not help her ambition.
The stag’s trail led directly to the forbidden place, though. Ilsa gritted her teeth and followed. The prints were fresh, telling her she was not far behind. She hurried her pace a little more, picking her footing. No fresh grasses or weeds muffled her steps. Anything green had died from lack of water. The remaining leaf rot was dry and crackled when stepped upon too heavily.
Ilsa consulted her memory of the land hereabouts. Before the forest grew thick and forbidding, a boggy spring emerged in a tiny glade. It was merely an upwelling of water that in normal years made the ground damp and encouraged thick grasses and orchids to flourish.
Whole rivers had dried up in the last few years of little rain. It was likely the bog was now a sandy, bare patch beneath the trees. The stag might hope to find water, anyway. Perhaps even damp ground it might lick for the moisture.
Ilsa moved even more quickly. If the stag was so desperate for water it would try this inadequate watering hole, then its caution would be lowered. She could approach with impunity.
When she spotted the clearing just ahead, Ilsa eased up against the mossy, gnarled trunk of an enormous oak. She pulled her bow off her shoulder and an arrow from the pouch on her back. She nocked the arrow and edged around the trunk, the arrow tip swinging across the clearing, quartering it.
There!
The stag stood with forelegs splayed, its massive horns lowered, its fine nose pressed against a small patch of dark, gleaming earth among ailing grasses. The creature’s sides were hollow, the ribs clear. The coat was tufted and uneven, showing the strain of the inadequate summer feeding.
It was making soft slurping sounds as it tried to draw water from the ground. There were foot prints from a dozen other animals who had hoped to do the same thing, churning the mud.
If it had been any other day, Ilsa might have pitied the creatures of the forest, lowered her bow and instead used her knife to dig into the soil until the water gathered freely, giving them a few cupfuls of precious liquid.
Now, though, she could not afford pity. Her mother and father were relying on her to return with food.
She brought the arrow to bear. The deer was standing directly ahead of her and she could not hit the heart from here. She needed it to turn or lift its head.
Ilsa clicked her tongue in a soft little sound that any forest animal might make.
The deer lifted its head, alert. He turned, his nose quivering, as he searched for the source. The oak tree hid her. Ilsa waited for the deer to turn just a little more, her bow straining.
Instead, it returned to the muddy earth. It was too thirsty to care.
Ilsa lowered her bow, considering. She would have to move farther around the edge of the clearing until she had a clear shot.
The stag’s head came up with a sharp movement. It was looking at the other side of the clearing, away from her. Then it moved to face whatever it heard.
Startled, Ilsa fumbled her bow. She brought it up and re-nocked the arrow, just as the sound that had alerted the stag became loud enough for her to hear.
Horses. Many of them.
“No!” she whispered, as the stag leapt across the clearing, heading for the side farthest from Ilsa’s oak tree. She let the arrow fly. It missed and clattered across the dry earth just behind the stag’s kicking back legs.
Ilsa sprinted after the stag. She couldn’t let it escape after all this work.
As she ran into the clearing, the horses burst through the trees edging it, drumming the parched ground, their riders shouting. Colors and gold flashed. Metal jingled. A standard snapped in the wind of their passage.
Their swift appearance startled Ilsa. The clearing was not large, which placed them close to her. Ilsa tripped over a hillock hidden by the dry grass clinging to life about the edges of the mud and measured her full length in the mud itself.
The smell was ferociously rank. She pushed up and back onto her feet, gagging.
“Did you see it? Ten points at least!” came the cry from among the riders.
“I’ll beat you to it!”
“Crispin! Your bow!”
The horses wheeled, heading in the same direction as the deer.
They were stealing her food! “That’s my stag!” she shouted.
Instantly, four of the horses circled back to confront her. The rest, though, chased after the deer.
Vexed, she swiped at the mud on her face and resettled her cap, watching the riders push through the trees.
The four horses came right up to her, blowing and showing pink nostrils. Ilsa lifted her chin and looked at the two lead riders. A dark-haired man with an unshaved chin and lines of care about the corners of his eyes,
and a red-haired man with a piercing gaze. The red-headed man leaned on the front of his high saddle. “You think you could have taken down a full grown stag with that little bow, boy?”
Ilsa did not correct his assumption. She had learned not to. Her father encouraged her to look as much like a boy as possible while traveling through the forest alone. It was chancy enough for a boy, even one armed with a bow and a long hunting knife on his hip. As a maiden, her fate would be far worse if the wrong man took an interest in her. In the forest, all men were the wrong type. The woodlands were filled with thieves and vagabonds, criminals and homeless folk, more of them every year and all of them desperate.
She wore a short tunic and long undershirt, leggings, boots and a furled cloak. Her hair was tightly bound and hung down inside her tunic, most of it hidden by her cap. The tunic was loose enough to hide feminine curves and she left the belt hanging from her hips so her waist was hidden. The mud would add another disguising layer.
Caution screamed in her mind, though. She should leave and let them have the kill. To engage with them at all would risk exposing herself.
“Speak, lad,” the other man said. “You have nothing to fear from us.”
Just turn and leave, she told herself. Only, she needed the meat! Ilsa made her voice drop lower than usual. “I’ve spent half a day chasing that deer. I must have the meat. It’s mine. Tell your men to back away.”
The red-headed man laughed. “Listen to him,” he said, straightening. “High handed fellow.”
“Or a starving one,” the dark-haired man murmured, his gaze moving up and down Ilsa, measuring her. “How many look to you, boy?”
Ilsa swallowed. “My mother and father.”
“A stag that size would feed a small village,” the other said dismissively. “Besides, everything in this forest belongs to the king, even the stag to which you lay claim.” He looked at the other man. “Toss him the heart when we’re done. We should move on if we’re to find the spring and return before sunset.”
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 16