As they passed through the main gates, the horn sounded again. Arawn paused, just outside the gates and looked to the north.
Nimue rode with a party of only five. Her powers and her reputation were such that no man would dare try to attack her. She could defend herself if they did. It gave her freedom Arawn envied.
They would have set out yesterday to reach a point in the woods last night that would allow them to arrive here at dawn. Nimue rode at the front of her party, her white hair unbound and gleaming in the morning sun.
Like Ilsa, she wore clothing that seemed highly practical, yet was nothing like a man’s garments.
Arawn studied her as she approached, wondering at the similarity in the women. “Have you been talking to my queen?” he demanded of Nimue as she approached.
Nimue smiled. “And good morning to you, my king and lord.” Her gaze moved toward Ilsa, who was on Arawn’s left, as requested. Nimue gave her a small smile. “I see,” she added. “Perhaps we think alike, Arawn. I see everyone is on horseback. Good.”
“We should start at once if we are to reach the Via Strata before noon.” The Via Strata was the Roman road which drove through the center of southern Brittany.
“We will travel via Étel,” Nimue said, her tone steely. She patted the neck of her horse, a restless gray.
Colwyn muttered something. He was too far back for Arawn to hear it. He didn’t need to, though. “Étel!” Arawn said, his voice rising. “There is a perfectly good road to the east. Why would we travel down the coast through unmarked swamps and the gods know what else?”
“Because I know the way,” Nimue said. “Because it will take more than a day off the journey. And because I ask you to trust me and do this. You have catered to my whims thus far. Now I ask this one thing more.”
“It will take us hours just to cross the rivers here,” Arawn muttered. “What other rivers will we meet? How are we to ford them? Now I understand why you insisted upon horses only.” He shook his head. “This is folly, Nimue.”
“You will arrive safely, if you will only trust me,” Nimue said. She didn’t sound apologetic.
Ilsa caught Arawn’s gaze. Because her face was half-hidden behind her hood, she only had to turn it a little so no one but he could see her face. She gave him a small smile. “I would like to see the coast. And it is the unexpected route.”
Arawn held back more objections. The journey had already started on an unexpected note. Changing routes this way would fit with the pattern. “Very well,” he told Nimue. “We will do it your way.”
He prayed his trust in the Lady of the Lake was justified. He was the cursed king, after all. If the gods wished for him to suffer, now would be the time to deliver another reminder of his wretched grace.
For the rest of the day, Arawn kept his gaze more on Ilsa than the road ahead, absorbing her appearance and the competent air with which she handled the war horse. More than once he found himself tracing the curves of the jerkin under her cloak, too, and marveling at the difference
After all, he must guard her.
Chapter Thirteen
The journey to Carnac via Étel took only two days, when it should have taken four. Ilsa found the journey easier than she had expected. The coastal lands were flat and windswept, with only sea grasses and sand underfoot, stretching back from the sea for miles. There were no trees for thieves to hide in and surprise them, which let the men relax.
Nimue picked her way across the land, following signs and markers invisible to Ilsa. Nimue would change directions and head inland, which puzzled Ilsa, until they rounded the end of a deep bay which would have cut off their progress if they had continued south. At other times, Nimue led them into marshes, dotted with picked-over carcasses of animals caught in the treacherous bogs. Each time, Nimue found a hard-packed causeway through the marshes indistinguishable from the rest of the muddy landscape. They would follow her in single file, stretched out for a half-mile behind her, each horse following the tail of the one before.
They reached Étel an hour before sunset. It was a tiny village of three round huts, each with a large family wearing skins and leathers. The village sat on the headland over a mighty river. As Colwyn and his officers inspected the river and muttered to themselves, Nimue announced they would camp here for the night. She seemed to be unconcerned about the impassable river.
Ilsa gathered the women together. They set out the leather sheets and furs they had strapped to the back of their horses, placing them in a tight circle. A fire was set in the middle. Almost as if they had rehearsed it, the officers and soldiers settled their gear in a larger circle enclosing them and struck campfires on the outside perimeter.
Stilicho and his three slaves hung pots over the fires to warm stew they had brought with them in wide-mouthed water skins. As the sun lowered over the sea and turned it red, the meal was declared ready.
Afterward, the outer guards passed wineskins and built the fires high.
Arawn came to where Ilsa had laid her skins and furs. “I would speak with you, alone, madam.” His tone was courteous. “You will be safe enough with me.” He touched the hilt of his great sword, then held his left hand out to her.
Ilsa took his hand and he hoisted her to her feet. She bent and retrieved her cloak from beneath the warm furs and pulled it around her. It was much cooler beyond the radius of the big fires.
Arawn walked beyond the rope lines of horses to where they could see the moon shining on the sea. Ilsa looked behind them at the camp. No one watched them.
Farther toward the seaside cliff was the soft sound of a sword being drawn. A quiet challenge sounded.
“It is I. Arawn,” Arawn replied.
The sentry shifted and in the moonlight Ilsa saw the sword slide back into the scabbard.
Arawn smiled at her expression. “There are a dozen sentries all around us, to give an early alert if someone should be drawn to the flames tonight. Did you think I would allow any risk to come near you?”
“It is comforting to know they are there,” she admitted.
“Only, see—he is moving away, to allow us to speak,” Arawn said. He turned to her. “I have spent the day considering your arrangements for this journey. I understand most of your plans, now. The gowns you wear, to allow fast riding. The furs, so you can sleep well and recover. The hair, even the weapons…these are all commendable and your efforts will help hasten this journey. You have my thanks for these. There is one point, though, which I cannot fathom.”
Ilsa strung her hands together. “My lord?”
“The horses. You all mounted the horses as if you were born to it. Not one of you showed any discomfort at having to control such a beast. Not even Gwen, who is so small the stallion would not notice she is there, let alone feel her knees commanding him.”
“That is why I put Gwen upon the smallest and oldest warhorse you found,” Ilsa said, with a smile. “The explanation, my lord, is that we did train. The day after you told me of Nimue’s request, I had Colwyn ask his men to introduce to each lady the horse she would use and teach her how best to command her horse. In between stitching riding clothes, we have been spending all our hours with our horses—talking to them, mounting and dismounting them, feeding and caring for them, so they became accustomed to us and our voices. Yesterday afternoon we spent the entire afternoon riding, until even Eseld was comfortable upon her horse.”
Arawn considered her for a long, silent moment. In the moonlight, his face was half-hidden in shadows, with a ghostly white light illuminating one side, casting his eyes into shadows.
Ilsa could not fathom his thoughts. She waited.
“You have repaid my trust,” Arawn said at last. “Thank you.”
Warmth touched the center of her chest. Ilsa smiled. “I thought you might disapprove.”
“I did, at first. Over the day, I have become accustomed to the changes you instituted. They are sensible ones.” He hesitated. “Without them, this journey through the marshes and grass
es would have been impossible. Yet we are traveling at a speed even the best trained armies would envy.”
The warmth spread. He approved.
“Return to the fire,” Arawn said. “It is not safe to linger here. Not even with a hunting knife on your belt.”
The next morning, at the first of the dawn light, Ilsa was woken by excited muttering among the men on the perimeter of the camp. She sat up, bleary and stiff from yesterday’s journey. It was cold outside the furs. Her breath did not fog the air, though, because the fog already laid all around them. It was a dense cloud that hid everything a few paces away.
“The river! It has all but gone!” someone exclaimed.
There were more excited comments about tides and seasons and estuaries. Nimue had brought them to the river on the very morning of a rare, extremely low tide. It would be possible to walk across the river on horseback. A cart could not have navigated the steep banks, while horses could pick their way down and splash across the narrow channel.
The tide was still dropping, the channel draining as they watched. Although how long until the tide turned was uncertain…
Ilsa got to her feet, shrugging off her sleep. She woke the women and told them to pack and prepare to move quickly. As they had finished rolling their furs and strapping them, Colwyn strode up to Ilsa. He studied the flattened grass where the women had been sleeping. “Where did the ladies go?”
“They stand by their horses, waiting for the command to mount,” Ilsa said. “I presume we are to cross the river as soon as possible?”
“Sooner. We wait for nothing, not even to eat or drink,” Colwyn replied. “If you failed to fill your waterskins last night, then you must go thirsty today.”
Ilsa made note to remind the women to always fill their skins in the evening or whenever the opportunity arose.
“We are ready,” she told Colwyn.
He nodded. “Thank you, my lady. Find your horse and your partner. We move out at once.” He moved back through the mist and disappeared.
Ilsa went to find her horse, as instructed.
By the time the sun rose high enough to burn off the fog, the riding party had forded the small stream left by the departing tide and climbed the other bank to the flat grassland on the other side. The fog had lingered long enough to hide their movements from any enemies who might take advantage while they were contained between the high river banks.
Ilsa heard more than one mutter about the Lady and her powers. She spotted strong signs against enchantment.
They reached Carnac just before sundown. Ilsa saw her first army town.
Carnac had been a tiny village before Ambrosius came. Budic used the village as a summer retreat in quiet years when he was not defending his eastern borders from invaders. For Budic, it had been a place where he could rest, while the household fished and gathered food for the winter ahead.
The king’s house was still there. In the twenty-three years Ambrosius had been living there, the house and the village had been surrounded by the businesses and housing for his army.
From the north, as they were traveling, the party passed through the miles of standing stones in their regimented rows. Silence gathered over the party as the stones rose around them and the wind whistled between them, lifting in a ghostly, thin voice. Not even the soldiers at the back of the pack traded quips.
Halfway through the stones, the road straightened and ran straight toward the walled town. The palisades were green and fresh, the sap still running in places.
“They build new walls every month, I believe,” Arawn said, “to enclose the expanding town. The sections of wall enclosed inside the outer ones are used to make more buildings.”
“Is Carnac larger than Lorient?” Ilsa asked, staring at the noisy, smoky town behind the walls.
“Much larger,” Arawn replied without a shred of resentment in his voice. “I believe Ambrosius has thirteen thousand men and more of them arrive every day, drawn to serve Ambrosius because of Vortigern’s excesses and the threat of the Saxons. With those thirteen thousand come their wives and children, camp followers, prostitutes, priests, surgeons, engineers and many, many shipwrights to build the ships they will need to cross to Britain when the time comes.” He pointed beyond the walled town to where hundreds of masts and sails showed, gathered in an inlet which ran up almost to the walls of the town itself.
“It is a busy town,” Arawn added. “Once Ambrosius leaves and takes his army with him, Carnac will become a village once more.”
“Is he leaving soon?” Ilsa asked, for the bustle and roar of the town seemed to indicate a place in the throes of frantic preparation.
“It might be years yet,” Arawn replied.
“Years? Why do they wait? Is Ambrosius not ready?”
“To learn the truth, you must ask Ambrosius. Only, do not expect a frank answer. The precise moment to strike at the enemy is a question which taxes even the strongest and wisest leaders. If he strikes too soon, his army may not be properly prepared and the enemy too strong. If he waits too long, the enemy could be too entrenched.”
“Who is Ambrosius’ enemy?” Ilsa asked. “You mean the Saxons?”
“Vortigern,” Arawn said. He didn’t look around to see who heard him speak of the High King in such disloyal terms. “The Saxons, too. Ambrosius, when he strikes, will face a war on two fronts. Do you see why he waits? The timing must be flawless.”
The town circled about two great houses—Budic’s summer residence at one end and Ambrosius’ at the other. Between them laid streets of workshops, providing the support necessary for a standing army of so many men. Around the core were the cottages and houses for the men and their families.
Arawn’s party clattered into the flagged square in front of Ambrosius’ headquarters as the last of the daylight flung long shadows. Torches already streamed light and flame from every wall and brazier.
Arawn made a sound of approval as they came to a halt. “Ambrosius himself greets us. You are about to meet the future High King of all Britain, Ilsa.” He swung himself down to the stones and held her horse’s bridle while she dismounted, as everyone around them was doing.
On the steps at the front of the big, rough timber house stood several men. Ilsa realized the building’s only purpose was to house the business of war. There were no women here.
Among the waiting men was Uther. Even in the failing light, his red hair gleamed. He was not as tall as the man beside him, who was as dark as Uther was not. The man wore a short white tunic over trews and army boots, a dark cloak swirled back over his shoulders and out of the way, thick metal wrist guards and a heavy sword.
The sword was the only non-Roman touch about him. It was not a short sword, but one of the longer, heavier weapons Britons preferred.
This man must be Ambrosius. Arawn was heading directly for him, a smile on his face and his hand held out in greeting.
Ambrosius gripped his hand and held it, his other hand resting on Arawn’s arm, a smile on his own face. He had black eyes and olive skin. His black hair, with not even a hint of gray, was shorn short and brushed forward in the Roman fashion. He had a powerful neck and shoulders, and a hawk-like nose which Uther shared. It was the shape of their eyes, their build and height and their noses which declared Ambrosius and Uther brothers.
Uther was staring at Ilsa as she moved up behind Arawn. She realized with a start that Uther had not seen her since the day in the forest. Certainly, he had never seen her without mud from knee to forehead. A light glowed in his eyes which made her move closer to Arawn.
“Ambrosius, I present my lady wife, Ilsa,” Arawn told the man in front of him, letting go of his hand and touching Ilsa’s shoulder, instead.
“You are most welcome in my house, Ilsa,” Ambrosius said. “Although you may find the accommodations not as soft as you are used to.”
“If it is even slightly better than a spot of dirt in front of a camp fire, I am sure I will be comfortable,” Ilsa replied.
&nbs
p; Arawn smiled.
Ambrosius made no move to introduce any of the men standing about him, save for Uther, whom he drew forward. “Uther is known to you, of course.”
Arawn waved Colwyn forward, along with his more senior officers. Ilsa gestured to the women, who gathered beside her and waited, their eyes wide as they took in the rough accommodations.
While Arawn and Ambrosius spoke about the next leg of the journey, which would be to Vannes where Budic waited, everyone moved inside.
The interior of the house was startling. It appeared to be four sides of rooms with railed verandahs stacked three high, all facing an interior courtyard with a closed over roof.
The courtyard had large fires burning in pits at every corner. Inside the circle of fire pits were tables and benches where men ate and worked over smaller projects—including the burnishing of arms. Several men wearing the red cloaks which marked Ambrosius’ army were gathering up swords and knives and sharpening stones from a table, as servants waited to put down steaming cook pots.
The air in the big room was casual. No one snapped to salute Ambrosius or Uther, although when Ambrosius murmured to a passing soldier, he instantly changed directions to complete the command.
Ambrosius moved to a long table at the end of the room where a proper chair sat at the end. There were wax slates and rolled books in front of the chair, which he swept up and handed to a soldier, with the order to “put them in the chest in my room, then get some supper yourself.”
As everyone found seats at Ambrosius’ table and those surrounding it, the servants brought more of the steaming kettles and put them in the center of the table. Bowls were placed in front of each diner and spoons provided.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 29