Mabon had given Arawn a room in the far back of the house, with apologies for the location and the size. “I would give a king a grander chamber, but there isn’t one,” Mabon told him. “At least your lady wife can rest comfortably, for the bed is soft and large enough for two.” His dark eyes twinkled with good humor.
Ambrosius did not rest that day, even though his men took keen advantage of the moment of leisure. Instead, he fell to planning the next stage of the campaign. A man was found who knew the twin hills of Doward and could describe the fort there. Ambrosius interviewed him, asking sharp questions about the land around the fort, the valley which led to the lesser hill where the fort was built, the amenities and water supply inside the walls and more.
In his mind, Arawn formed a picture of a high, flat-topped hill surrounded by bare plain with no cover, approachable only from the north. Inside the ramparts and palisades was a spring which had never failed and cellars holding enough food to feed a thousand men for a year.
The walls had never been breached since the Iceni built their first defenses there. It was said the only way to breach the walls was with treachery.
“No wonder the King picked Doward,” Cadfael said, when the man had gone. “It sounds formidable.”
“There is always a way to break any wall if one has the time, and I do.” Ambrosius said calmly. “Vortigern will answer for his actions, come what may.” He let the book he was reading roll shut. “I suppose we must wash and dress and honor our host’s generosity this night.”
Cadfael clapped Ambrosius on the shoulder. “It will do you good to relax for a single moment. This may be your last for a long while.”
Arawn got to his feet. “For all of us,” he added.
“Except you, hey, Arawn?” Cadfael replied, with a wink. “No other man had the cheek to bring his wife with him. Perhaps I should find out for myself what her magic is, hmm?”
“Oh, leave him, Cadfael,” Ambrosius said. “When it comes to Lady Ilsa, Arawn cannot be teased. He takes the matter of curses too seriously.”
Cadfael lifted his brow. “Definitely, I must talk to the woman. Come along, Ambrosius. I will force you to relax, even if I must pour the wine down your throat and hold your nose to make you swallow.”
The pair walked out of the great hall, leaving Arawn alone at the table. He pushed the scrolls and tablets away from him with a convulsive jerk. Is that what everyone thought? That he was so fearful and superstitious he had brought the woman who would break his curse with him to war?
That is what you told Ilsa. Why would anyone believe otherwise?
Arawn pushed to his feet with a hiss of impatience and went back to his borrowed room to wash and smooth his travel-worn clothes. He laid off the leather armor and armguards and most of the accoutrements of battle, so he looked as though he had at least tried to appear presentable.
By the time he had done, the rumor of many voices collecting in the hall rose in volume.
Through the window came faint sounds of cheerful music. Shortly before sunset, barrels of ale and roasted haunches were sent to the soldiers who must camp beyond the walls. They were making the most of their night, too.
Ilsa did not return before Arawn was ready. He was impatient to return to the hall. What did it matter if he did not arrive with her on his arm? He was not besotted with her, not the way Gorlois was with his wife and his children. Gorlois had a way of turning conversation back to hearth and home every time it paused for breath, his adoration for his young wife patent in his eyes and his face and his words.
He did not seem to care that men jested and rolled their eyes behind his back. Comments Arawn had overheard men make about Gorlois said he was a strong leader and a vicious fighter. His prowess as a warrior was not in doubt. If anything, defending his home and his family gave him added passion for the fight.
No, Arawn was not like Gorlois.
He strode into the hall and did not look around to see if Ilsa was already there, even though it was difficult to resist the impulse to do just that. Instead, when Uther raised his hand and beckoned, holding up a cup of wine, Arawn nodded and made his way through the gathering to Uther’s table. He took the cup from Uther with a murmured thanks and drank deeply.
He raised a brow at Uther. “You aren’t hunting for a companion for the night, Uther? With thirty thousand men surrounding us, I would imagine available bed partners are hard to find.”
“They are indeed,” Uther said with a grin, his blue eyes dancing. Since the ships had sailed and Uther faced real action, he was a changed man. His seething impatience and frustration had all but vanished. He smiled more frequently and he was as eager as a hound dog with the scent of fowl before him. Uther was a man who thrived upon action. “Why do you think I am hiding here in the hall, away from the quarrels and fights? I won the toss for the girl and Brithael is out there sulking with his men.”
Arawn laughed and took another deep mouthful of the wine. The tension sitting in his chest eased, although it did not completely disappear.
What was wrong with him? Since when had he become so sensitive to what anyone thought about him and his curse? For years he had ignored the jibes. It didn’t matter what others thought. His people believed the curse. It was his duty to break the curse so they would not suffer.
That was why she was here. That was the only reason she was here.
Uther lowered his cup, his eyes narrowing as he took in something behind Arawn. “At least I won’t have to fight you for a bed companion, Arawn.”
Arawn turned on his heel. Ilsa entered the hall with Mabon’s queen. Everyone around them bowed and curtsied, for this was Maela’s hall and they were honoring their queen. For a confused moment it seemed to Arawn they were bowing toward Ilsa.
She looked…different.
Arawn blinked his eyes, trying to clear his mind and think properly. How many times had Ilsa changed her appearance? He had lost count. She was as changeable as the weather, shifting like the seasons, a mood and an appearance for each.
Tonight she looked like a queen more than any other night he remembered.
The dress was clearly borrowed, for Ilsa rode as he did, with the barest of baggage so the horses were not slowed. The length was too long for her, yet not extraordinarily so, which meant it must be Maela’s gown, for Maela was only a finger’s width taller.
The soft green might have been made for Ilsa, though. The gown curved over her full breasts and hips and drew in around her waist, only to fall to the ground in graceful folds. The sleeves were wide, revealing the tight sleeves of the underdress. It was similar to the new-style gowns Ilsa and Elaine had made for themselves. There was a hint of Roman fashion there, too, for Ilsa wore a queen’s circlet about her brow, with a green gauze veil trailing down behind. The veil was so fine, every ripple and gleam of her hair could be seen beneath, for Ilsa wore her hair loose, brushed until it was burnished copper, curling around her hips and elbows.
Heavy copper and enamel earrings dangled from her ears beneath the hair, swinging with every step she took. A necklace of the same copper and enamel laid about her neck, the pendant sitting between her breasts.
Uther made a sound at the back of his throat. “Who would have thought such a beauty laid beneath all that mud, the day we met her, hmm?”
Shock jolted Arawn, making the wine in his cup lurch. There was too little of it left to spill and betray his surprise, for which he was grateful. Arawn gripped the mug, as the memory of that day flicked through his mind, a series of images and impressions.
Had the fates put Ilsa on his path? Or had she in truth merely been the next suitable woman to cross it?
It was hard to tell, for now he saw her as Uther just did. Now he saw her with the blinders removed. Ilsa was almost a stranger in comparison to the urchin covered in mud he had hauled out of the forest three years ago. When had this lovely woman taken her place?
Arawn’s heart creaked in his chest and he covered his confusion by lifting the mug a
nd drinking the last of the wine and wishing there was more.
Maela parted from Ilsa and joined her husband by the two tall chairs at the head table. Ilsa moved through men, who silently parted to make way for her, her eyes on Arawn. Her hips swayed in an enticing way that heated his blood and…other parts.
She watches me and no other man. The realization made his heart work even harder.
Uther clapped Arawn on the shoulder. “I’d call you a lucky bastard, only you might take it the wrong way,” he breathed into his ear.
Ilsa came up to them and held up her hand to Uther, who took it and bowed over it with grave politeness. He did not hold her hand for too long, or let his fingers wander over her skin.
“Uther,” Ilsa acknowledged, her chin up.
“Queen Ilsa. Did you sharpen your arrows today? I understand there is a place for you in this man’s war.”
Arawn did splash the last dregs of the wine this time. He looked from Ilsa to Uther and back. “What do you mean, there is a place for her?”
“Yes,” Uther said, smiling. “And not on a hill overlooking the arena, the way Merlin will undoubtedly see out the battle.” His mouth turned down a little. “Have you not heard, Arawn? Maela takes her women into battle and has offered Ilsa a place in the queen’s cohort. Apparently, she could not make the offer quickly enough. Ilsa had barely dismounted.”
He patted Arawn’s shoulder again and added quietly, “I wish you good luck when you tell her no.” He laughed and walked away.
Arawn turned stiffly to face Ilsa.
Her small face was still. She did not smile.
“Is this true?” Arawn asked. His voice was strained.
“The women patrol the flanks, that is all,” Ilsa said. “Maela’s captain explained it. Women cannot fight armed men directly. They are not strong enough. They let the stallions do most of the work. That is why they need me. There are no archers in her cohort.”
“The Saxons send their women into battle,” Arawn said, his voice dry. “You seek to emulate them?”
“I seek only to help Ambrosius in any way I can. That is my role and my duty, Arawn. Nimue told me that.”
“Your duty is to me and my kingdom. Going to war is too dangerous, Ilsa. I will not allow it.”
Her blue eyes, so like Uther’s and Budic’s and others of her kin, flashed sudden heat. “We agreed you cannot hold back the curse by locking me up. If the curse determines I must die in battle, then even if I sit beside Merlin on his hill, an arrow will find me.”
“You do not believe in the fates and the curse!” Arawn said, fighting to keep his voice down and his tone constrained. There were too many people standing around them. They could not leave, either. It would be an insult to their hosts to leave before the first toast.
“If the curse exists, it doesn’t matter what I believe, does it?” Ilsa said bitterly. “It has not mattered since the moment you married me. You came here to fight for Ambrosius. If I cannot change the curse then why can I not fight, too? It will find me wherever I may be.”
He could find no chink in her argument. None. The heat in his chest swelled, rushed to his head and beat there.
“I forbid it.” His voice was distant. It was a stranger’s voice.
“Why?” Ilsa demanded, the single word a whiplash in return.
“Because I am your king and you will obey me.”
“Ambrosius is my High King. I am here to serve him.” She whirled and hurried away.
She was small and fit between men, slipping into openings, while Arawn stood with his heart and mind reeling.
Ilsa had just told him no. No one had ever told him no. Not since he had taken the crown.
Ilsa disappeared before Arawn came to his senses. He dumped the cup on the nearest table and hurried after her, making slow progress for he did not slide between shoulders with her grace and ease.
Outside the hall, though, there were far fewer people hurrying along the corridors and he could move faster. He picked up speed, until he was on the verge of running. He headed for the cramped chamber which was theirs for the night and was rewarded with a glimpse of her veil fluttering behind her as she turned the last corner.
Arawn did run, then.
She must hear his bootsteps, yet she did not stop. She did not hurry her pace, either.
Arawn gripped her arm, halting her. She was light and easy to turn. He pushed her against the wall and slapped his hand against it, close by her head, his fury boiling over.
Then he saw the tears.
There was not just one or two, or a solitary drop. She was crying, her body shaking with it.
His anger checked.
“I cannot go on being merely the answer to your curse,” she said brokenly. “I cannot bear the burden it puts upon me. I must find a purpose of my own.”
“Then learn medicine or magic or…” He stopped, his chest heaving. His heart ached. “Why must it be this?” he ground out.
“Because Nimue said I must. Because I am good at it. Because I believe in Ambrosius, just as you do.”
He did believe. It had nothing to do with dragon stars and fates, magic and prophecy. It mattered not that Ambrosius was the son of the last true High King. Even if Ambrosius had been a foundling, a bastard of low parentage, Arawn still would have followed him here to Britain because in his bones, he knew Ambrosius had the skill and the leadership, the determination to win Britain back from the Usurper and hold it against the Saxon hoards.
He knew it. Ilsa knew it. Who was he to deny her what he wanted for himself—a chance to help Ambrosius claim the High King’s throne?
Arawn kissed her. The impulse came from somewhere other than his mind and when his lips touched hers, he knew it was a true one. Ilsa’s soft mouth opened beneath his and she breathed a sigh into him.
As the kiss grew heated and the air shifted between them and thickened, Arawn lifted her and carried her the eight paces left to their door and took her inside.
Ilsa woke and listened to the dawn chorus, which was muted here in the middle of Calleva, with an army camped around it scaring most of the birds away. There were few calls and warbles.
She laid on her side, naked. What was more, Arawn laid beside her, his big body as naked as hers, pushed up against her back. His flesh was hot where they touched. His arm was tucked over her and his hand curved beneath her.
Ilsa held her breath. She had woken many times with Arawn still in the bed beside her, for sometimes he fell asleep before he could return to his own chamber. He had never held her against him once their joining was complete, though.
Last night, he had not let her go. Her body felt the exertions of the night. And in the night, while she had slept, he had pulled her against him once more.
His hand shifted and eased under her shoulder, then lifted and turned her so she was on her back and looking up at him. Arawn’s black eyes studied her. “Must you do this?” he asked softly.
Ilsa didn’t need to ask him what he referred to.
“Would you turn aside, if I demanded it?” she asked.
He smiled.
“I mean it,” she insisted. “Would you, if I asked?”
“I am a man. It is my lot to fight wars.”
“It is my lot to fight in this one,” Ilsa told him.
Arawn’s smile faded. “I will worry. I won’t be able to fight, knowing you are in it.”
The strained note in his voice said he spoke a truth from deep in his heart.
Ilsa held his face. “No, you will not,” she whispered. “When the enemy is upon you, you will forget everything but the task at hand and that is the way it should be. My fate was sealed when you married me, Arawn. You cannot change it. I cannot. Let us do some good with our time, instead.”
He considered her, his brows pulled together tightly. Then he nodded. “I will still worry,” he muttered and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Doward, in the end, was not a battle but a mere skirmish. The skirmish ch
anged the world for Ilsa, one last time.
They reached the forest around the double peaks of Doward six days after setting out from Calleva, for a company that large could not move fast. Ambrosius was content with the speed, for the reports coming back from his scouts and spies said Vortigern was still tucked tight in the hillfort.
Some said he was afraid to emerge, because Merlin had sent the fear of gods and fate upon him.
Merlin had been one of the scouts Ambrosius dispatched from Clausentum as soon as the ship ground against the wharf stones. He had been captured by Vortigern’s own scouts and taken to confront the High King.
There, he had confronted Vortigern alone. He foretold the fall of Vortigern’s kingdom and Vortigern himself.
Not knowing he had the son of his enemy in his hands, Vortigern ejected from his keep the wizard who spoke such black prophecies. Merlin had waited upon the road for Ambrosius to find him and report in.
Vortigern, cowed by Merlin’s prophecies, remained in Doward, the greatest fort in the southern lands. Ambrosius did not seem bothered by Doward’s reputation, though.
Ilsa rode with the women’s cohort in the center of the company. They were placed just behind the commanders and senior officers, including Arawn, who kept Ambrosius company at the front of the line. Maela’s cohort consisted of twenty-five women skilled with horses and with an aptitude with blades. The women came from all corners of Mabon’s kingdom. They were base-born, poor, the wives of rich traders. Even Maela’s royal companions were a part of the group, for Maela had selected her women with this military function in mind.
Twenty-five women fell far short of a traditional Roman cohort, although Maela refused to call her group a band or unit or any other name which would diminish their role. “We are a military group. Cohort will do,” Maela explained to Ilsa. “Perhaps we will one day fill the ranks enough to meet the Roman definition.”
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 40