“The tallest tree among others,” Uther said. It wasn’t a question.
Ilsa recalled the trees which had split and burned like kindling. “Most likely,” she said. “It was a long time ago and I don’t remember it well, only that a green tree burned like two-year-old cords.” The memory brought the smell of sizzling pine resin to her nostrils, sharp and clear enough to make her eyes water.
“Lightning picks out the tallest object to strike,” Uther said. “On a plain like the one we must cross, a man on a horse is taller than anything around him, even the standing stones.”
The old, scarred man at the end of the verandah added, “They say your hair stands on end just before the strike. If you move fast enough and lay down, it will move on. Jupiter is placated when you grovel for him.”
“Remember this is a Christian household you stand in, Glyn,” Ambrosius said, his tone mild.
“Aye, my lord,” Glyn replied.
Ambrosius nodded toward the plains which spread beyond the town, stretching out to the marshes which lay between Campbon and the sea. To the north, as a dark line on the horizon, the forest began. “Is that a lone rider on the road, there?”
Arawn gazed, his eyes narrowed. “Moving fast,” he said.
“News,” Ambrosius murmured. He looked at Merlin and raised his brow.
Ilsa had not noticed Merlin standing at the back of the verandah, silent among the warriors and officers and leaders.
Merlin didn’t see his father’s glance. His gaze was upon the lone rider, his body stiff with tension. His hands were curled into fists, hidden in the folds of his cloak. The high cheeks were drawn.
Ilsa’s heart beat heavily, hurting. Merlin’s tension and the waiting stillness in the air drove it.
Ambrosius turned back to the view. “Well, we will hear soon enough. If it is a messenger, they will come straight here. I, for one, would like food and drink while we wait.”
“No, you must pack,” Merlin said. He spoke as if someone gripped his throat and squeezed, barely above a whisper.
Ambrosius turned to him. “We can’t travel with those clouds over us.” He did not speak sharply. His tone was one of enquiry.
“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin said. His gaze was on the far-away rider. “Eat as you travel. You must prepare the horses and yourselves. You will not want to delay when the rider brings his news. Leave the women and the carts behind and men to escort them. They will be safe enough. You must travel as fast as a man can and catch the great tide as it turns.”
“The tide?” Glyn muttered. “Thought we were taking horses.”
Ilsa’s throat felt as Merlin’s sounded, as if someone gripped it hard. Her heart threw itself against the inside of her chest, hurting with each beat and echoing in her temples. She could not rid herself of the images Nimue’s gasping non-prophecy had spawned. Blood. Terror. Death.
Was this, then, the moment when the message that Merlin and Nimue and others with the Sight had seen would finally make sense?
Ambrosius looked at Uther.
Uther rolled his eyes. “I’ll ready the damn horses,” he muttered and left in a swirl of blue frustration.
Arawn gripped Ambrosius’ arm. “As will I.”
Fright tore through Ilsa. As Arawn hurried back into the house, she followed him.
“You mean to go with Ambrosius?” she asked.
“If this is Ambrosius’ time, then my place is by his side.” He shoved the door aside and strode into the room, flinging his cloak aside and unbuckling the ornate belt he used for ceremonial occasions. His traveling gear laid on the chest, yet he did not reach for it. Instead he strode back to the door, opened it and leaned out and shouted for Rhodri and Sawyl and the other officers who had traveled with them. Colwyn and Stilicho had remained in Lorient to protect the house and the town.
The first officer to reach the door was Sawyl, who nodded breathlessly, buckling his sword into place. “My lord?”
“Prepare the horses. We will leave shortly, and it will be a fast ride. No carts, Sawyl. Pack beasts only and light-packed for speed. Rouse the others.”
“Leave, my lord? With those clouds?”
“You heard me. See to it.” Arawn shut the door and turned back to the chest and stripped his good tunic off. “Why are you standing still, woman? Prepare yourself.”
Her heart leapt high and hard. “I am to come with you?”
His gaze met hers. “I assumed you would not be content to sit in a cart and plod back to Lorient.”
Gwen was not here. There was no wash bowl and she had no idea where her comb might be. She didn’t care. Ilsa retrieved her own dark green traveling clothes from the packs stacked against the wall and changed. She stuffed their possessions back into the packs. By then, Sawyl had returned to collect the packs and take them to their horses.
From outside the house, she could hear shouting. It sounded as if it was coming from the gates into the royal keep. The window of the room was facing the wrong direction for her to check. “Listen,” she said to Arawn, as he strapped on his second armguard.
He lifted his head.
The loud voices were coming closer.
“The messenger is here…if it is a messenger,” he added heavily.
“You do not believe Merlin?” Ilsa asked.
“I do not want to believe Merlin,” Arawn said, scowling, as he picked up his heavy cloak and shrugged it about his shoulders. “Shall we find out what the messenger has to say?”
Ilsa walked with him to the big hall, where everyone who had been standing upon the verandah when Merlin gave his instructions had already gathered. They were strapping on swords, settling knives and armor, setting cloaks around their shoulders, ready for the road.
Others in the house hurried into the room, pulled by the sound of raised voices and many feet.
Merlin stood by the big, unlit hearth. He wore black as usual, the short tunic girt with a heavy leather belt and a knife which was more than an eating implement yet not quite a hunting knife. It appeared to be his only weapon and he wore no armor. The rumors that he was not a fighting man, despite his lineage, were clearly true. His cloak was folded back over his shoulders to hang down the back out of the way. The red pendragon brooch was prominently on display at his throat.
He looked at no one. His gaze was upon the great doors where a mass of men moved through them.
In the middle of the men was a dust-coated man wearing the red cloak of Ambrosius’ army. His face was wet with sweat, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes outlined by the dirt. He had been peering ahead, squinting.
He saw Ambrosius sitting on the corner of the big table by the hearth and saluted. “My lord, a man arrived at Carnac three days ago. A messenger.” He dug at the pouch on his hip, yanking at the ties. “He insisted on riding for Campbon when he found you were not in Carnac, so I came with him. We rode day and night. The man insisted. His horse threw a shoe late last night. He gave me the message to bring on. He said he would pull his sword on me and take my horse if I didn’t deliver the message. It was that urgent, he said.” The man swallowed.
“Give him wine,” Bors said quietly, from behind the table.
“The message, first, Linus,” Ambrosius said, holding out his hand.
The man, Linus, stepped forward and dropped the sealed roll onto Ambrosius’ hand. Then he turned and took the cup thrust at him with a sigh of relief and drank deeply.
Ambrosius unrolled the letter and read. The room was silent while he read. Everyone watched him, even Merlin.
Ambrosius’ face was impassive, giving no hint of what lay in the letter, which was long. When he finished, he let the letter roll itself up and handed the loose scroll to Merlin, leaning across the table to reach him.
Merlin read, as Ambrosius stood and cleared his throat, even though everyone was already watching him.
A small figure pushed through the house servants and slaves at the door. It was Nimue, moving slowly. Her ethereal glow was still dimme
d.
“The letter was from King Mabon, in Calleva,” Ambrosius said. “Mabon is loyal to me and through his influence, so is most of the south, including Gorlois in Cornwall. Mabon says that throughout the summer the Saxon raids into the west have been increasing. They were not content to stay upon their shores, likely because they learned of the rift between Vortigern and his son and tried to take advantage of the disharmony.” Ambrosius paused, checking the faces in the room, tallying their attention.
There was no need, Ilsa thought, for every man stood unmoving, their gaze fixed upon Ambrosius. Every woman, too. Everyone had seen and heard Nimue’s prophecy. Word had passed about the new messenger and Merlin’s commands, too. Even people who had not been on the verandah were donning traveling clothes and accoutrements, swords and heavy leather armor and cloaks.
Ambrosius continued, “Vortigern in his usual fashion reached out to the Saxons through his queen, to see if an arrangement could be reached. The Saxons agreed to meet only if Vortigern could demonstrate he spoke for the entire country.”
Ambrosius paused again. Ilsa could see a pulse beating heavily in his neck and his temple. He was controlling himself, holding something back. Her heart beat a little faster.
“Vortigern pressured and badgered and bribed and coerced all the petty kings and dukes and leaders loyal to him to attend the meeting. It was the first any of them, including Mabon, knew of a potential deal. Even though they did not like compromising yet again with the Saxons, they had little choice but to deal with them and get them back behind their walls. It would give Vortigern room to deal with Catigern once and for all and maybe, just maybe, they could have a peaceful summer next year.
“The meeting was to be held in Aquae Sulis on the full moon last month. Three hundred officers, leaders, dukes and kings arrived to demonstrate that Vortigern spoke for all of them. Mabon intended to be there merely to report back to me, only the ford across the Avon was flooded. They were forced to camp to one side to wait for the water to subside and did not arrive in time for the start of the meeting. When they did reach Aquae Sulis, it was all over.”
Ambrosius paused again. This time he did not pause for effect. The working of his throat told Ilsa he gathered his courage to speak the rest of it.
“Mabon spent a day learning what had happened from locals. The British contingent, including Vortigern, waited in the magistrate’s hall for Hengist to arrive. Hengist stopped at the town gates and sent word to Vortigern that he required a personal escort from the High King through a British town which held no love for him and his men.
“When Vortigern left to bring Hengist to the hall, the doors were barred and the hall set afire. The roof and walls had been soaked in oil and Britain’s summer was as dry as ours. Mabon says the hall burned to the ground before Vortigern reached the gates.”
Ilsa moaned. The blood. The death. Nimue’s shriek of horror. Three hundred kings and leaders of men. Now she understood. She looked at Merlin. The man had his eyes closed, pain etched in his face. The letter hung from his nerveless fingers.
Ambrosius swallowed. “Vortigern did not return from the gate. Whether he rides with Hengest or did not dare return to the place where his allies were betrayed, no one knows for sure.” He paused again. “All of Britain rises against Vortigern. He has no one to turn to and few allies. Hengest and his Saxons have returned to their nests on the Saxon Shore and why would they not? Britain will do for them the work they could not finish for themselves. Britons will hunt Vortigern down and smoke him from his nest.” He looked around the room once more. This time, he was gathering their attention, holding them in his palm. “I will be there to see it done and afterward, I will deal with Hengist.”
A soft sigh rippled across the room. At last, the time was here. Ambrosius would cross the channel and take back Britain.
“We ride at once!” Ambrosius said. “We ride hard for the coast and the ships to Britain. The horn will sound in an hour and we wait for no one. Do not be left behind!”
He whirled and strode from the room.
Merlin sank onto the chair at the table and put his face in his hands. Now he knew the meaning of the message from his gods. Now he understood it and was as horrified as everyone else.
Everyone who was not rushing to prepare to leave sat with stunned expressions. Soft sobs sounded.
Ilsa wiped her cheeks and went to collect Mercury.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was as wild a ride to the harbor as Ambrosius promised. Ilsa’s horsemanship had improved over the years since their first journey to Campbon, yet she still found the journey taxing of both sinew and thought.
The only other woman who rode with the men was Nimue. She had looked weak, yet she clung to the back of her white gelding like a bur, her face white beneath her hood.
Among the company which rode with Ambrosius was both Bors and Ban, who reckoned their debt to Ambrosius to be heavy enough they must travel with him to Britain. Elaine’s eyes had been damp, yet she was calm when Ban climbed into his saddle and bent to kiss her one last time.
They rode late into the night, until men slithered from their saddles onto the hard ground and laid uncaring. Only then did Ambrosius call a halt. The horses were gathered in a steaming circle about them, while the men laid on the ground without fire or food and slept. Ilsa, too. By then, she did not care if the ground was pure stone beneath her. It would be unmoving and silent. It would do. She pillowed her cheek on her arm and slept almost immediately.
It was still dark when Arawn shook her awake. The pre-dawn air was still, carrying their voices and the clink of buckles and harnessing. Ilsa tried to jump to her feet as the others were doing. She yet could only move with slow, stiff movements. She bit back the moan which rose to her lips as her aching body protested, for Arawn watched, measuring her fitness.
Still gritting her teeth, Ilsa moved over to Mercury and tightened his girth straps and prepared to ride once more. She wasn’t sure how she would get into the saddle. All her limbs felt like tree branches, heavy and unyielding.
“Here,” Arawn breathed, behind her. His hands slid down to her knee and curled around it. She bent her leg and accepted the hoist upward. She scrambled into the saddle.
Arawn’s hand rested on her thigh. In the dark, she could not see his face. The moon had set and there was little starlight to illuminate his features. “Do you now regret escaping your safe cage, Ilsa? You could be asleep upon a soft mattress at this moment, if you had remained in your chamber the way I wanted you to.”
Ilsa fumbled for and found the reins and sorted them, giving herself time to think. “No, I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice low. “If I had still been in that cage, I would be quite mad by now. This is nothing, Arawn. I would suffer a thousand nights like this to be free.”
His fingers squeezed, then he moved away.
The horn sounded. The ride continued.
The tide was low when they cantered into Carnac shortly before noon, two days later. The town buzzed with energy. Engineering shops rang with the sound of hammers upon wood and metal. Forges blew and hissed and sizzled. Men shouted and beasts snorted and bellowed, their eyes rolling with alarm at the sounds of industry and urgency.
In the harbor lying a mile beyond the town walls, Ilsa could see the small figures of even more men piling cargo upon the wharf. The hundreds of ships which had stayed at anchor in the bay, waiting for this day, now jostled for their time at the edge of the wharf, to take on their loads and set sail.
With a jolt, she realized that most of the army town would be empty once the ships left.
Arawn would be on those ships.
As soon as the town gates shut behind them, Ambrosius threw himself from his horse. “Senior officers, to me!” he cried, striding into the house and yanking his gauntlets.
There were audible groans and sounds of protest as the men eased off their horses. Ambrosius was driven by the proximity of that he had worked toward his whole life, while the
y had ridden through three days and two nights to an uncertain future.
Ilsa lowered herself to the ground as slowly as they and held onto Mercury’s bridle until she was sure she could stand without assistance. Her legs trembled.
How did warriors ride like this and arrive fresh enough to fight in battle? Or did the advances of a murderous enemy give them strength denied her?
Arawn squeezed her arm and swung to hurry into the house behind Ambrosius.
As pages and grooms hurried to gather the horses and take them to the stables, Ilsa followed the men into the house. She didn’t for a moment consider staying in the hall where Ambrosius would hold his meeting. It was for warriors and leaders.
As she climbed the stairs to the interior verandah on the first floor, she could see Ambrosius moving in restless steps up and down the hearth. Officers reported to him on the state of readiness of ships and horses, battle gear and other supplies, men and equipment and more. The men who had ridden from Guannes with Ambrosius sprawled on the benches, or rested their arms on the tables, their heads upon hands or arms.
Merlin, as always, stood behind Ambrosius. He was a figure in black, standing in shadows. Only his eyes glittered in the dusty light pouring through the windows, as he measured and assessed Ambrosius’ men.
Ilsa found a servant and asked for an empty room and a washbowl and cloth. Cold water would refresh her at least, while she waited to hear how long it would be before Arawn left.
The room provided for her ablutions was so small, no bed could fit in it. There was a washstand and a stack of benches used for the hall, below, when needed. A wooden bench, even a narrow one, would be far more comfortable than the stony ground she had slept upon lately. Ilsa curled herself up on a bench, meaning only to rest.
She woke when Arawn shook her, startled, and tried to stand. He pushed on her shoulder. “Stay seated,” he murmured. With slow movements that spoke of his own great weariness, he sank onto the bench beside her. For a long moment, he simply sat, staring at the floor boards and the footprints they had made in the dust.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 38