The aroma wafting from the kettles was of rich meat and vegetables.
Nimue touched Ilsa’s arm. “Let us leave the men to their talk of war and weapons. We can eat at another table.” She nodded at Ambrosius, who gave her a short nod back and turned away.
The nine women in the riding party moved to another of the long tables and sat on the benches which ran the length of the table. It left the tenth position empty.
Shortly after they had served themselves from the kettle placed between them, a black-haired boy stepped up to the table and bowed low toward Nimue, then again toward Ilsa. “My ladies, may I join you at this table? There is no other seat.”
Nimue smiled at the boy. “You are Myrddin Emrys, yes?” She waved toward the empty position, which was opposite Ilsa.
“I am,” the boy said. He was a tall lad, but slender, with fair skin unmarked by stubble. Ilsa judged him to be around twelve years old and tall for his age. He served himself from the kettle and settled on the bench. His gaze met Ilsa’s.
She shivered.
Merlin Emrys. She remembered the name now. Nimue had mentioned it at the unsettling supper in Arawn’s antechamber. The boy whose arrival foretold the coming of kings and the fall of kingdoms.
Nimue had suggested the boy was Ambrosius’ son and now Ilsa was looking at his face, she knew it was true. Merlin’s resemblance to Ambrosius was startling. No one looking at them together would doubt the familial relationship.
Only Merlin’s leanness made the lines of his face sharper and more defined. His cheekbones were stark, the corners of his jaw sharp, his chin aggressive. His cheeks were hollow and his skin Celtic white, while Ambrosius’ skin was Roman olive and tanned from days spent outside, training and fighting. Merlin’s mother had imparted that much of herself upon Merlin. His hair was tousled, thick and longer than Ambrosius wore his own.
Even though Merlin’s eyes were Ambrosius’, there was a far-seeing look in them which reminded Ilsa of Nimue’s habit of staring into the future.
Merlin, then, was another with the Sight.
“You have recently arrived in Carnac yourself, have you not?” Ilsa asked him, as he ate sparingly.
Merlin nodded. “It was dangerous for me to remain at the palace in Maridunum. Ambrosius was kind enough to allow me to serve him.”
With a start, Ilsa realized Merlin was unaware of the connection between him and Ambrosius. Surely, everyone who met him must see it, yet no one had told the boy.
“You lived in Maridunum?” she asked. “Maridunum is in Britain?”
“The kingdom of Dyfed, on the Severn,” Merlin said, with a nod. “My grandfather was the king.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead.” Merlin spoke without visible grief. “My mother is his daughter, and with his death, she was free to retire to the convent as she has wanted to most of her life. My uncle, though…”
“The new king,” Nimue added.
“Yes,” Merlin said, frowning. “My mother was older than my uncle, you see…”
“Your uncle thought you wanted to be king?”
Merlin’s smile was that of a much older man, filled with bitter knowledge. “I am not the material of kings and princes, even though I am one, in fact. My uncle was being cautious, as new kings usually are. I knew I could not stay there, so I came here.”
“You stowed aboard a ship, I’m told?” Nimue said, as if she had heard the gossip from a servant, not seen it in the stars for herself.
Merlin grimaced. “I was sick all the way, too. I do not look forward to returning.”
“Then you intend to go back to Britain when Ambrosius does?” Ilsa asked.
“If Ambrosius wants me to, yes.” His frown this time belonged to an uncertain boy. “I learn everything he requires of me—Greek, medicine, engineering, Latin, mathematics and more. Yet I am still to learn how I am to be of service to him, although he says there is time, yet.”
“Years, perhaps, before Ambrosius makes his move,” Ilsa said. “He must time it correctly.”
Both Nimue and Merlin studied her, startled.
Merlin’s gaze shifted to the lamp sitting on the table beside the kettle. He glanced at the flame, Ilsa realized, for the light reflected in his eyes. “You are Budic’s seed,” he said softly.
Ilsa jumped. She had pushed the knowledge far to the back of her mind. “So I am told.”
“You are told the truth,” Merlin said. His tone was flat with certainty and Ilsa shuddered. “When you meet him, you will see for yourself.”
All the other women at the table had halted their conversations and listened to Merlin, avidly curious.
“I suppose I will meet him when we reach Vannes. I had not thought of that,” Ilsa admitted.
“If you are his and Budic is brother to Ambrosius’ father, then you and Ambrosius are cousins,” Merlin said.
Ilsa could find no words to say in response to that shocking revelation. She glanced at Ambrosius at the other table. He was sitting back in his chair, one arm resting upon it, the other holding a great bronze cup, as he listened to the men speaking.
Her cousin.
It made Merlin her cousin, too, although she would not speak that aloud. If Ambrosius had not seen fit to reveal his relationship to his son, then Ilsa could not. She studied Merlin with even deeper curiosity than before. “You are correct once more,” she said softly. “I confess the fact will require reflection. It is…startling.”
Merlin nodded. “You and I are both bastards, yet far more fortunate than most who bear that brand.” His side glance took in Ambrosius’ table.
Ilsa could only agree with the strange, gifted young man.
Nimue stood. “We would be best to sleep as soon as possible. Ambrosius will call for a pre-dawn start, tomorrow.”
Merlin nodded. “It is two hard days’ ride to Vannes.”
“You travel with us?” Ilsa asked.
Merlin nodded, his face lighting with enthusiasm. “It is a good opportunity to see Morbihan and Guannes. Bors’ new town at Campbon uses stone for their walls, which I want to study. They have the new, heavy plowshares, too.”
“They use stone because their enemies are relentless,” Nimue replied. She was not smiling.
Merlin did not smile either. “So, too, will be Ambrosius’ enemies. To overcome them, he will use strategies and tools never before seen in war.”
Ilsa realized Merlin was not speaking hypothetically. He was speaking with the certainty of someone who had seen that future.
Even Nimue looked surprised.
Chapter Fourteen
Arawn’s traveling party increased in size with the influx of Ambrosius and the men he took with him to Guannes. As the purpose of the journey was not one of war, he was accompanied only by Uther and Merlin and their servants, and a few soldiers as guards.
The larger company left Carnac well before dawn the next morning. The moon lingered on the horizon, a fat orange globe, as the horses clattered through the town gates and cantered across the plain where Ambrosius’ men trained during the day.
It was cold and still, silent the way night was before the dawn chorus. Not even a breeze stirred, except that which they made with their passage.
Ambrosius and Uther rode at the front of the company, with Arawn. Ilsa and Merlin and Merlin’s servant, Cadel, rode behind them, with Colwyn and his lady wife, Rigantona, trailing.
As they turned inland and put the moon behind them, the edge of the great forest rose before them. The stars above wheeled and glittered. From the right, moving across the night sky, was a bright red star, trailing a long red and orange tail. It was so bright that looking at it left a dazzling afterimage which clawed and reared in her eyes and her mind.
Ilsa halted her horse, blinking to clear her vision.
“The dragon star!” Merlin cried, pointing. “Look, it marks your presence, my lord!”
Ambrosius glanced back at Merlin, who had stopped beside Ilsa. He halted his horse and looked up, as
did everyone else, including Uther, who stared at the red star with large eyes.
“Why would it mark my presence?” Ambrosius said, sounding merely curious.
“You are the first dragon, surrounded by your kin!” Merlin said, his voice ringing in the cold night air.
Ilsa remembered with another small start of surprise that she was one of those kin. So was Merlin, although he did not yet know it. Merlin spoke more truly than he realized. Through his marriage to Ilsa, Arawn was now Ambrosius’ cousin and not just a good friend and future subject. Uther was Ambrosius’ brother.
“The first dragon, hey?” Ambrosius said, sounding amused. “I would be happier if it foretold my victory, not merely marked my family.” His gaze moved toward Ilsa and she realized he had learned of her parentage since meeting her. Had Arawn told him? Or Merlin? Merlin, she decided. He had Ambrosius’ ear in a way no one else did.
“Why would it proclaim your victory?” Merlin said, sounding surprised. “There is no need to repeat a fact which has already been settled.”
Everyone looked at the boy, startled. Uther rolled his eyes, his impatience registering. “The horses grow cold, Ambrosius.”
Ambrosius nodded. The company started forward once more.
Arawn laughed. “Head dragon, Ambrosius? It’s colorful.”
“Head dragon,” Uther repeated. “First dragon.”
“The pen dragon,” Merlin added.
Ambrosius laughed, too. “The ultimate dragon? Men say I am the ultimate Roman, not a dragon.”
“Perhaps the star is there as a sign to embrace Britain as a Briton, not a Roman,” Uther said.
Ambrosius’ glance at his brother was sharp and short and thought-filled. “Perhaps,” he said, as they rode toward the star.
Ilsa saw him gaze up at the red, pulsing star and its tail more than once, until the rising sun hid it from view.
For the next four days of travel, the star was visible every night they camped. It generated comments and speculations about its meaning, until even the lowliest soldier at the back of the company was calling it Ambrosius’ star, the Pendragon.
As Vannes drew near, Ilsa’s nervousness increased.
Arawn’s intent was to enfold Budic and his people into the larger company. The full party would then ride to Campbon, another two days’ travel south. As the kings would ride together with Ambrosius, it would put Budic just in front of Ilsa.
Would he speak to her? Acknowledge her, even?
What would this man who sired her be like in person? She had heard he was a hard man, a leader of men, who had taken in his brother’s children when the Saxons and Vortigern assassinated his brother. Budic had hidden and raised the sons, while inflaming Ambrosius’ ambitions to take back Britain and providing him with the means.
Did that make Budic a visionary? Or simply a man bent on vengeance?
Ilsa remembered Vannes as a large, imposing place. Now she saw it as an adult, it had not shrunk the way so many big things from her childhood now appeared smaller.
They arrived early on the third morning. The town gates stood open, although alert guards manned the towers to either side.
Budic and his small company were waiting just inside the main gates, already on horseback. There were no women among them, not even Budic’s queen. Budic was a tall, spare figure, with iron gray hair and beard and sharp, pale eyes the same blue as Uther’s…and Ilsa’s.
She was looking at her father.
Budic trotted his horse forward to where the company halted, a large smile on his face. “Ambrosius! Arawn! It is good to see you!”
He pulled up with his horse’s nose bare inches from Arawn’s. He looked at Arawn. “We got word late last night that you were on the road with Ambrosius, Arawn. I can’t tell you how it pleased me. We feared you were all dead after the news reached us.”
“What news would that be?” Ambrosius said sharply. “We saw nothing on the road at all.”
Budic shook his head. “I don’t know how you avoided them. A group of thieves and thugs—fifty or more, I’m told—have been harassing travelers up and down the Via Strata. They’re well-armed, have horses and know how to use both. They’re not afraid to tackle even larger parties.”
“We didn’t come by the Via Strata,” Arawn said, glancing at Nimue.
“Clearly,” Budic said, with a nod toward Ambrosius. “As soon as I heard about the band, I sent word to you. My messenger was caught by them and killed.” Budic scowled. “I sent two hundred men to repay the debt. They slaughtered the bandits to a man, only they were too late to save a large, rich company the thieves had waylaid. They couldn’t tell me who because the bodies were burned. I feared it was you and yours, Arawn, for you should have been on that road the last three days past.”
Arawn shook his head. “We came down the coast, instead. The Lady insisted.” He nodded toward Nimue.
Budic inclined his head. “You have proved you are a worthy successor, Lady. Welcome to Morbihan.”
Nimue bent her head. “Thank you, King Budic.”
Arawn cleared his throat. “Budic, there is someone you should meet.” He glanced at Ilsa and beckoned her forward. “I recently married again.”
“So I heard,” Budic said gravely.
Ilsa’s heart raced. She touched her knees to her horse, encouraging him to move up between Arawn and Ambrosius, whose stallion shifted sideways in a neat side-step.
Budic’s blue eyes blazed as they examined her.
He knows. The thought whispered in her mind. Then she remembered. Uther had hurried to inform him, the day Ilsa met Arawn.
“Budic, my lady wife and queen, Ilsa,” Arawn said.
Ilsa bent her head as Nimue had done. “King Budic,” she said. Her voice was strained.
“You have the look of your mother,” Budic said, his voice just as low. He stirred. “She was a beauty,” he added, with almost a sigh.
Ilsa blinked. Was that to be the sum of his relationship with her mother? He remembered her appearance with regret?
Arawn watched the older king with the same attention he would the approach of an armed enemy. He sat still upon his horse despite the stallion’s restlessness.
Budic shook his head and resettled himself. “Shall we move out?” he suggested, speaking to Ambrosius, not Arawn.
Ilsa was forced to turn her horse out of the way, as was Arawn, for Budic pushed between the two of them and through the semi-circle of riders, out onto the slate paved street. He broke into a trot, forcing the party to wheel about and follow him.
Arawn glanced at Isla. He did not smile.
She dropped her gaze to her hands in their heavy gloves.
Arawn hurried to catch up with Budic, as did Ambrosius and Uther, with everyone scrambling behind them.
It was a sour note in a day which had been free of such notes until now.
Arawn did not speak to Ilsa until that night. They made camp in a shallow valley beside a few stunted trees which the prevailing winds and salt ladened breezes had not killed.
Budic watched the women set up their positions around the large middle fire with his arms crossed and his legs spread, an amused expression on his face.
Uther and Ambrosius also hung back to watch them settle on the ground, instead of sitting and waiting for a tent to be raised for them. Ambrosius’ expression was one of approval, while Uther’s amusement was tinged with the same practical acceptance and a sharp interest.
When the fire was burning brightly, Arawn threaded his way through the men setting up their perimeter positions and stood beside Ilsa’s sleeping furs. “Your ladies are settled?” he asked, as she scrambled to her feet.
“Yes, my lord,” Ilsa replied, for she had watched Elaine, the youngest of them, and Eseld, the oldest, arrange themselves without complaint. Elaine was on the other side of the fire, next to her sister.
“A word, please,” Arawn said. He walked back through the soldiers and men arranging themselves with far less grace on the grass ab
out them, with their inadequate cloaks for mattresses and blankets, both.
As they had before, they stopped close to the rope line for the horses.
Arawn patted Mercury’s nose, then looked at her. “He cannot openly acknowledge you. I wanted to be sure you understood that.”
Ilsa flinched. “Budic?” she clarified, although it could be no one else.
“He has a son, Hoel. He’s only a small child still yet he is the oldest…” Arawn hesitated.
“Legitimate child?” Ilsa finished stiffly.
“I was about to say Hoel is the oldest son, although perhaps not even that is true.” Arawn sighed. “Budic will not publicly declare you as his, for the succession must remain clear and undisputed. Do you see?”
Ilsa looked past Arawn’s heavy shoulder to where the senior officers and men were arranging themselves around a smaller fire on the perimeter. Uther was sitting with his back to the fire, his chin on his knees, his cloak wrapped about him, watching the women with the same sharp, close attention as before. Ilsa did not think it was Uther’s usual preoccupation with the other sex which had captured his interest tonight. His gaze was one of measurement, not enjoyment.
Budic, though, watched Ilsa and Arawn.
Ilsa shivered again. The king had spread himself out, an arm on a cocked knee, the bronze wrist guard glinting in the firelight. He openly stared at the two of them. Even when a soldier moved between Budic and the fire, to stir the pot warming on the stone beside the coals, Budic’s gaze did not shift.
Ilsa brought her gaze back to Arawn. “I understand,” she told him.
“You yourself declared Budic to be merely the man who made you,” Arawn reminded her. “You claimed Pryce as your real father.”
“I did not lie,” Ilsa said. “I just wish…” She sighed.
“Kings cannot always be considerate, when it comes to their own affairs,” Arawn added. “The affairs of their people must always come first.” He nodded toward the big fire in the center of the campsite. “It appears your supper is ready. Go and eat.”
Ilsa moved back to the fire where Evaine and Eseld ladled stew into dishes with much laughter and clumsiness over the unfamiliar domestic task. Ilsa’s thoughts chased each other about.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 30