Ilsa waited, too.
“The ships are to leave at high tide at sunset, tomorrow,” Arawn said. “By then, the soldiers living in cots and villages around Carnac will have heard the call and will be here and the ships loaded.” He shook his head.
“What is it?” Ilsa whispered, as her heart sank. Tomorrow!
“Ambrosius wanted to leave with tonight’s tide. It took Merlin and a dozen officers to talk him out of such haste. The man has waited thirty years. You’d think a single day more…” Then he shook his head again. “Although, I understand his anxiety. The messenger from Mabon was at sea for a week. It will take a week more to return, plus whatever time we spend here in Carnac before we leave. A month, say. What has happened in Britain in the meantime? That is the question which drives Ambrosius now.”
He fell silent again, as he often did. Now, though, Ilsa could not bear to remain a properly considerate wife and queen. There were too many questions gnawing at her, each bite delivering a jab of fear.
“You will sail with him, of course,” she said.
Arawn nodded. “It was always my intention to help Ambrosius win back Britain. He is my High King and always has been. This timing is not good, yet the fates have decreed the moment to be now.” He shifted. Stirred. “There will be little sleep before the ships leave, Ilsa. There are many messages to be sent. Letters must be written, to arrange matters while I am gone. I would ask you to help me with those. You write more neatly and quickly than I.”
Their eyes met and Arawn’s smile formed slowly. “Yes, we have both come far since then, have we not? Able to write our own letters, which frees us from having to find a scribe—there will be none to spare today, for everyone has letters of their own to write. Ambrosius will tolerate no delays.”
He stretched and sighed. “Colwyn must lead them now. He has spent his life watching me and before me, my father. He will do well enough until I can return.”
Ilsa’s middle jumped. She said nothing, even though her heart ached. What was there to say? She would not plead with him to stay. Arawn had to support Ambrosius. All of Brittany did. Ambrosius would need every ally he could pull to his standard.
Arawn’s fingers touched hers, where they both gripped the edge of the bench, between them. His gaze met hers. “Can you withstand another few weeks of rough living, Ilsa? I don’t know how long it will take for the household to reach us in Britain. Until they do, you must live with the few things you carry with you, just like a soldier. If it is too much to ask of you, tell me now and I will arrange for an escort to take you back to Lorient with the messengers. Or you could stay here in Carnac until the household arrives.”
A high buzzing sounded in her ears. “You want me to sail with you?” she breathed.
Arawn’s gaze shifted from hers. “Yes, you must come with me. How else are we to continue to try for a child? It is the only way to break the curse.”
It felt as though someone had driven a stake into her belly and let out all the air. She sagged. Desperately, she sought for an response which would not betray her. “Would it not be dangerous for me to be among the fighters? You ride to war, Arawn. Just these three days of riding have given me a small taste of a soldier’s lot.”
“You are free to choose, of course,” he said stiffly, his gaze on his knees. “I have learned—we both have—that trying to keep you from all harm does not work. The fates will deliver their promise no matter what I do. So choose. Come with me to Britain tomorrow or travel with the family, later. I would prefer you sail with me.”
The dryness of his tone!
In all this time, she had forgotten why Arawn had married her. She was a means for him to break the curse. He wanted her in Britain where the work could continue even as he fought Ambrosius’ war to win back the High King’s chair and drive the Saxons out. Arawn was so devoted to the well-being of his subjects he would drag a woman with him to war to fulfill his duty to them.
“The family?” she said, her heart lurching. “You want the family with you, too?” It was the only part she did not understand in this sudden rush for Britain.
Arawn pushed his hand through his hair. “I see you have not grasped what this summons to Britain means, Ilsa. We are not speaking of a mere few days. Ambrosius may well spend years dealing with Vortigern and bringing the Saxons to heel. Until he dismisses me from his service, I cannot return home. Nor can any of the kings who sail with him. We swore to serve Ambrosius and so we shall. I am not the only man who will arrange for key members of his household to come to Britain as soon as they may. For the next few years, messengers between Greater and Lesser Britain will fill the coffers of a great many ships’ captains.”
She had thought herself bereft of air a moment ago. Now she was truly winded. Ilsa gripped the bench, digging her nails in. “I had no idea…”
“How could you?” Arawn asked reasonably. “You have never seen war. This will be total war. We fight for our existence, Ilsa. With Vortigern disgraced and unable to raise a single British hand in defense of the island, the Saxons will swarm over it like ants, destroying everything and everyone as conquerors do. Only Ambrosius stands between us and the Saxons now. That is why he seethes to reach Britain sooner than the fastest ships can bear him.”
Arawn’s gaze met hers again. “Which is it to be, Ilsa? Sail with me, or wait for Stilicho and travel with the household he brings with him? Either way, you are coming to Britain.”
He would ensure she did, to break the curse.
Ilsa sighed. “I will sail with you,” she said.
Arawn remained still for a moment. Then he nodded. He cleared his throat and got to his feet. “I will make the arrangements.”
Six days later, the fleet of thirty ships carrying the bulk of Ambrosius’ army and their horses arrived at the big harbor at Clausentum. More ships with supplies and equipment would follow and farther behind them, the households of the leaders of Brittany.
Of the kings and dukes of Brittany, only Budic remained to oversee the defense of all the western Lesser British kingdoms. With Saxons pouring into Britain and Claudas still licking his wounds, it was unlikely trouble would stir so late in the year, when everyone focused upon building stores for the winter.
Ambrosius’ army was twenty thousand strong, supplemented by the fighting forces of the kings who sailed with him. A bare day was allowed for the horses to throw off the effects of the sea voyage and the soldiers, too. While everyone recovered, Ambrosius sent out riders for news and pressed the local magistrate and bishop for any gossip.
Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwell, met the fleet in Clausentum, with another two thousand men at his back, for word had gone out that Ambrosius was coming. Late in the day, a single rider arrived at the harbor gates, his horse half-dead beneath him and lathered with sweat.
The message was from Mabon, who waited for them in Calleva, a good day’s ride north. Mabon’s news was urgent and fresh.
Vortigern, along with the few allies still loyal to him, his Saxon queen and his courtiers, had holed up in Doward.
Doward was only four days’ ride north, in the very heart of British and Roman lands.
The next day, the company rode for Calleva.
Like a fox sliding through hedges and skimming across meadows, like the shadows of clouds scudding over valleys, through the high hidden ways, through the valleys, traveling by the wind, word of Ambrosius’ arrival in Britain spread out ahead of the company.
In response, the few leaders left after the tragedy at Aquae Sulis, and every now-leaderless troop, unit and army was drawn into Ambrosius’ vortex. They stood on the side of the hard, good Roman road, or came up from behind the company, riding fast, or scrambled down from high hills, or hailed the company from nearly hidden camps. They sought speech with Ambrosius, to beg for a chance to exact their revenge from Vortigern for their losses.
Ambrosius gave no assurances on the matter of revenge, although he spoke to everyone with courtesy. He also made them swear allegiance t
o him on the spot and without hesitation they did, for Ambrosius was hard to resist.
He rode at the front of the company, instead of in among his strongest fighters for protection, and he was a fine sight on his great white stallion. Ambrosius seemed to gleam the way Nimue did. He was a man riding the great tide, as Merlin had predicted. The work of a lifetime was coming to the fore and he was more than ready. His determination shone from him. It was little wonder every man who approached the company devoted themselves to Ambrosius and his cause. It was their cause now, too. Hengist had seen to that.
The journey to Calleva, which was a long day’s ride, took nearly two days as they stopped frequently to speak to errant soldiers. They arrived at Calleva as the sun was sinking on the second day. The company had increased by another several thousand men with arms and horses. Too, there were hundreds of foot soldiers, made of local men carrying pitchforks and staves and old Roman swords long turned dull and rusty, yet still solid enough for honest work.
The tall man standing upon the steps into the king’s house could only be Mabon. He was around Arawn’s age, with the black Celtic looks common in this part of Britain. His people arrayed behind him. Beside him was a small woman with golden hair, arranged under a circlet and veil, and pale white Saxon skin. She would be his queen, Maela…and Vortigern’s daughter.
Mabon lifted a hand in greeting as Ambrosius’ stallion trotted up before the step upon which Mabon stood.
“Word of your arrival runs before you, Ambrosius,” Mabon said. “Fear, too.”
“Good,” Ambrosius said, swinging down from his horse, his cloak spreading like wings. “Fear will soften Vortigern’s determination. Let him stew in it, in his fastness.” Ambrosius held out his arm. “It is good to meet you after all this time, Mabon. I am in your debt for the news about Doward. How did you learn of it?”
Mabon drew his queen forward. “Vortigern requested Maela attend him.”
“A peace offering after fifteen years of enmity,” Maela added, her mouth turning down.
“Instead, you inform your father’s enemy of his whereabouts,” Ambrosius said and gave her a short bow of his head. “One day you must explain to me the reason for such deep hatred of your father, queen Maela.”
Maela curtsied. “It is not a story which would surprise you, my lord.”
“Not anymore,” Ambrosius said dryly. He turned to wave toward the senior officers and leaders of his company—all who could squeeze into the courtyard at the front of the house. “A night to rest, then tomorrow, we will all ride for Doward.”
“We are ready, my lord,” Mabon replied. “There is food and beds for your officers. Come and share wine with me, Ambrosius, and let the rumor of your coming draw ahead of you.”
“A fine idea,” Ambrosius said and moved into the house with Mabon.
Ilsa slithered down from her horse, feeling her body twinge. She was not as sore as she had been on the first fast ride for Carnac. To move freely, after five days on a crowded ship, was a blessed relief.
Arawn had already hurried to follow Ambrosius into the house. Ilsa instead walked to where the queen, Maela, waited for the stream of officers and lords entering the house to subside.
“I bring you word from Lesser Britain, queen Maela,” Ilsa told her. The woman was not much taller than Ilsa, now she was standing beside her, although she was older.
Maela’s gaze flickered over Ilsa and met her eyes once more. “You traveled with the company? How brave and strong you are! I always ache as if my whole body is one large bruise after a single day of it.”
“I, too,” Ilsa admitted with a small smile. “I am Ilsa, queen and wife to Arawn, King of Brocéliande.”
Maela’s smile grew even warmer. “You are most welcome, Ilsa. Tell me, can you really shoot that bow over your shoulder?”
“I am told I am a fair shot with it,” Ilsa said, touching her hand to the string running between her breasts. “Why do you ask?”
“To see if you will fit with my troop,” Maela replied.
“Your troop?” Ilsa repeated, startled. “You have a…troop?” Her heart jumped and fluttered. “You fight?” She glanced once more at the queen’s elegant gown and veil and the circlet, her smooth skin and small hands.
“Oh, not in the thick of things, to be sure,” Maela assured her. “My women wait on the flanks. We watch for the enemy trying to break from their ranks and circle behind the front lines and cut them off. Our horses do most of the work. A good bowman—woman—would be useful, though. You can teach the others.”
Winded, Ilsa could only stare at her.
Maela laughed. It was a gay sound. “I see you are not used to the idea of women mixed up in the affairs of men. I confess the idea once shocked me, too. Come inside and share wine with me, Ilsa.” She held out her hand toward the door. “You said you brought news from Lesser Britain? For me?”
“Yes.” Ilsa recalled the message. “Lynette, wife of Cadfael, sends greetings and hopes you remember her fondly.”
Maela halted, her eyes growing larger. Her lips parted. “Lynette? She lives? Truly? And she is with Cadfael?”
Ilsa tilted her head. “They have five children. Cadfael is one of Ambrosius’ most trusted and senior officers. You did not see him, just then?” She nodded toward the house.
“I was not looking for him,” Maela confessed. “I thought he had been killed, long ago. Lynette lives…!” she added in a whisper and pressed her fingers to her lips. Her eyes glittered with sudden tears.
She dropped her hand and sniffed heavily, then took Ilsa’s arm. “I see there are stories we must exchange, Ilsa of Brocéliande. Come, come. The wine awaits.” She walked beside Ilsa, up the broad, shallow steps to the big doors which stood open in greeting and gave another small laugh. “Do you know Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall?”
“I saw him in Clausentum,” Ilsa said, “although I have heard his name spoken by Ambrosius and Arawn many times over the years.” She thought of the tall, red-haired man who had waited for their ship to berth, standing on the wharf at Clausentum. His hair was not as deeply red as Uther’s, although they shared the same hard, disciplined carriage. Gorlois was a fighting man, through and through. “He has been loyal to Ambrosius from the beginning,” Ilsa added.
“Yes, and he brought a large company of men with him. I can see the Boar on tunics everywhere,” Maela said. “If you have only heard of him from men, then you may not have heard tell of his wife, Igraine.”
“No.”
The great hall was ahead, lined with shields and devices and many men, milling about with cups and talking loudly. Maela skirted the hall doors and drew Ilsa farther into the house, which was bright and airy and smelled of herbs and lemons. “Igraine is Gorlois’ second wife, a princess from Venta. They say she is the most beautiful woman to walk the earth since Cleopatra yet no one ever sees her, for Gorlois keeps her in his fortress at Tintagel and is jealous of any man who steps in her presence.”
Ilsa’s heart skipped a beat. She had been a wife trapped in a keep, once. She shrugged. “‘They’ always think they know why a man does what he does. They are not always right.”
“Very true,” Maela said and squeezed her arm. “My husband, Mabon, is more friendly with Gorlois than others, as they have both served Ambrosius for so long and both have lands in the south. He has got to know Gorlois well over the years and he says Gorlois does not keep Igraine captive as men would like to believe. The truth is that Gorlois loves his wife deeply and Igraine is not interested in affairs beyond the walls of the keep. She stays at home to care for her children and await Gorlois’ return. He always does return, too. He will leave his men and ride back to Tintagel every night, just to be with her.” Maela’s smile was warm. “It is romantic, is it not?”
“I suppose,” Ilsa said reluctantly. “Dukes are free to marry for love. Kings are not.” The words emerged with more churlishness than she intended.
Maela’s smile did not falter. “Mabon says this campaign
of Ambrosius’ could last for years, winter and summer alike.”
“Arawn says that, too,” Ilsa admitted.
Maela nodded. “Yet, knowing he would not be excused to hurry back to Cornwall whenever he missed his wife and that he might be on the road for years, Gorlois still did not bring her with him, despite loving her as he does. She will not follow him in the women’s caravan, either.”
Ilsa gave up. Her uneasy heart would not allow her to think. “You have a point to make, Maela?” she asked bluntly.
Maela paused in front of a closed door and looked at her. “Gorlois would not bring his wife with him, not even to trail behind him in the camps, yet your husband insisted you travel right by his side. He must love you very much.”
Ilsa jerked, her arm pulling from Maela’s grip. The words were right there on the edge of her lips. He brings me only so he can work to break the curse, that is all. She did not speak them, for Maela’s eyes were shining.
“Come and tell me about Lynette,” Maela said, pushing open the door and waving Ilsa inside.
With heavy, slow steps, Ilsa went in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ambrosius was true to his word. The company remained in Calleva the next day, to rest and to allow rumor of their coming to spread far and wide.
“The longer Vortigern has to brood about our arrival, the more he will stew in the stink of his own fear,” Ambrosius told Arawn, as he wrote and dispatched messages, and listened to spies’ reports.
“The longer you stay here, the more men with arms flow through the town gates,” Mabon pointed out, from his seat by the window. “The gatekeepers are having a devil of a time sorting them out.”
“If they come bearing arms, let them in,” Ambrosius said. “There is no enemy anywhere who would dare attack your town today, with thirty thousand troops camped around it.”
So the town gates were left open to all comers. The recruits poured in. That evening, Mabon—who was a thoughtful host—announced a feast for all the lords and officers to attend. Even the men camped in the fields outside the town walls were invited. The town could not accommodate everyone, but the king’s hall could contain them for an evening.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 39