Pendragon Rises

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  The staff ran along the wall, then tapped up against Anwen’s bed. Anwen moved out of the way, bringing Morgan with her, as Steffan moved down the length of the bed and found the wall it hugged, then the other corner. The tall lamp stayed in that corner until it was needed to light the work upon the table.

  He found and measured the width of the door with both hands, then swept the staff along the wall to touch the other end of Morguase’s bench, nodding as he reached it.

  Then he rested the staff on the floor and gripped it at the top, as he had in the Duchess’ chamber. “You will move nothing in this room. It should remain as it is.”

  Hot fingers clutched at Anwen’s chest. “Who are you to tell us what we can and cannot do in this room? It is my room.”

  He shifted his chin so it appeared he was looking at her. “It is a room with a purpose common among four of us at least,” he replied. “If I am to teach effectively, I cannot waste my time searching for objects which are not where they should be.”

  “And what must we do when the lamp is required to see? Stand in the corner beneath it?” she snapped.

  He frowned. “At least have the courtesy to inform me when the lamp is shifted.” His tone was mild.

  “How are you supposed to teach us, if you can’t see?” Morguase demanded. “You can’t read anything if you can’t see.”

  “Knowledge doesn’t always come from what is written,” he shot back.

  Morgan tugged on Anwen’s dress. “He isn’t like other priests,” she murmured. “He’s rude.”

  Steffan drew in a sharp breath. He had heard that, too, then. He dropped his chin and addressed Morgan as if he could see her. “I am not a priest, little one.”

  “What are you, then?” Morgan asked.

  “I was a warrior once. I served your father.” His mouth shifted into a hard grimace. “Now I serve him again by teaching you Latin and Greek and Breton, among other things.”

  “Anwen teaches us,” Morgan said. “I can read.” She considered Steffan. “You cannot,” she added, her tone superior.

  Anwan shook Morgan’s hand. “Now you are being rude.”

  Steffan lifted a brow. “Do you know what barba means, little one?”

  “My name is Morgan,” Morgan said, with the full haughtiness of a child raised in a royal household.

  “And do you know what barba means, little Morgan?”

  Morgan scowled. “No.”

  “It means beard,” Anwen said. “It is Latin.”

  “Indeed,” Steffan said. He spoke to Morguase. “Have you heard anyone say barba tenus sapientes?”

  Morguase frowned. “My father says it sometimes, after meeting people.”

  “And what does sapientes mean?” Steffan replied.

  Morguase shrugged.

  Steffan frowned. “Do you know?” he insisted.

  “He cannot see you shrug, Morguase,” Anwen said.

  Steffan’s frown smoothed out. “Sapientes is the present tense of sapiens, of which you are one.”

  “I am?” Morguase looked offended again.

  “Homo sapiens,” Anwen murmured. “Humans. People.”

  “Creatures with the ability to think,” Steffan added. “So what does bara tenus sapientes mean?”

  “What does tenus mean?” Morgan asked, her tone curious.

  “As far as, up to, down to…” Steffan replied.

  “Beard, as far as, thinking,” Morgan murmured. Her hand loosened and fell away from Anwen’s. “Thinking as far as a beard?” she guessed.

  “Very good,” Steffan replied. “Put another way, a man who is said to be barba tenus sapientes is said to be as wise as far as his beard.”

  Both girls frowned.

  Anwen held her tongue. She understood what Steffan was doing.

  “What if a man has no beard?” Morguase demanded. “Does that mean he isn’t wise?”

  “The Romans think a man with a long beard is wiser than others,” Steffan said. “Or perhaps he is just older and has had time to grow his beard. An old man is often a wise man, or he would not have grown so old.”

  “That’s silly,” Morguase said. “My father shaves, and he is the wisest man in the world.”

  “He is a wise man indeed,” Steffan said, his tone sincere. “What the Romans mean when they say a man is barba tenus sapientes is actually the opposite. They mean a man might look intelligent yet be far from it.”

  “Then they’re being sarcastic when they say it?” Morguase asked.

  “It is called irony,” Steffan said. “You are in the middle of an irony right now. Both of you.”

  “We are?” Morguase asked, astonished.

  “You say a blind man cannot teach, yet I have just taught you some Latin and the meaning of irony,” Steffan pointed out. “There is also the secondary irony…do you understand it? About measuring a man’s beard?”

  Morguase frowned, looking inward. “Women don’t grow beards,” she murmured. “Romans don’t think women can be measured for wisdom?” She frowned. “They don’t think women can be taught,” she finished, her scowl deepening.

  Steffan spread his hand. “Yet here I stand, teaching young women.” His voice was dry.

  Morguase looked indignant and offended. Morgan frowned, her small mouth puckering. “You don’t want to teach us,” she said.

  The staff scraped on the stone floor as Steffan shifted his feet. “I want you to understand the gift of knowledge, no matter where it comes from, even if it comes from a man who cannot read. You presumed, both of you, that because I cannot see to read, I am incapable of teaching. You measured me by my beard.”

  Anwen squashed the flare of appreciation she felt for the multi-faceted lesson he had imparted. She didn’t want to admire the man.

  Morgan’s mouth opened. Morguase had the grace to look ashamed. She glanced at her sister, then at Steffan. “We did,” she said softly. “I am sorry, Steffan. I didn’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Morgan said in her lilting high voice.

  Steffan nodded. “And now you have a complete understanding of what barba tenus sapientes means. That is enough for today. Both of you may leave. I must discuss future lessons with Anwen. Be here tomorrow at the usual time.”

  Irritation flared in Anwen at his high-handed directions. She remained silent, though. She could not dispute him in front of the girls, for it would damage the fragile rapport he had just built with them. For their sake, she would not jeopardize his ability to teach them well.

  “That would be after prayers and breakfast,” Morgan said.

  “That is when I will be here,” Steffan confirmed.

  “Go now,” Anwen told them. “Enjoy the rest of the morning as you wish.”

  “Thank you, Anwen,” Morguase said as the two girls left.

  Startled, Anwen stared at the door that closed behind them. Morguase had never thanked Anwen before.

  Steffan stepped over to the bench and table. Instead of sitting on the bench as Anwen had expected, he swept his hand over the table, then sat on the edge. He propped the staff in the crook of his arm and rested his hand on it.

  He appeared to gaze at her.

  “Why does it look as though you can see me?” Anwen demanded, her insides jumping uneasily.

  “In a well-lit room, I can see shadows and shapes,” he said, his tone dismissive. “When you move, I see the shape move.” He tapped the staff. “It occurs to me that I may have measured by beard length, too.”

  Anwen threaded her hands together. “A woman teaching?” she guessed.

  “Very good,” he said with a small smile. The smile changed his face, made the harsh strength grow warmer. “How is it you were taught to read? I’ve never met a woman who could, not outside a nunnery.”

  “Nor within one, I would hope,” she replied.

  His smile grew a little more. “Tell me. Are you the daughter of a privileged king?”

  Anwen flexed and twined her fingers. “My father was a simple war chief
. I don’t believe he saw a single coin in his whole life. My mother died when I was small, so he gave me to the nuns to care for me while he waged Cornwall’s campaigns. There was a nun who could read. She taught me.”

  “That was kind of her.”

  “Kindness had nothing to do with it,” Anwen said. “I was an impossible child. Opinionated and inclined to more mischief than the nuns could tolerate. They needed to distract me.”

  “Capture the mind and the heart follows,” he murmured. “And were you tamed by words?”

  Anwen cleared her throat. Such a personal question! She had never spoken about her childhood before. No one had ever asked. “It wasn’t words which tamed me,” she said, shifting on her feet.

  “Ah. Then something else did the deed. What was it?”

  Anwen moved over to the high table and rearranged the books he had scattered in his exploration. “Did they tell you anything about me?”

  “Should they have?”

  “I know what they say,” she said bitterly. “The old woman in the corner. The ugly one.”

  “You are not ugly.”

  Anwen whirled. “As if you would know.”

  He shook his head. “There are people whose voices beckon attention.”

  Anwen snorted. “I cannot sing. My voice is not light and pretty like Igraine’s. Did you ever see her, before your sight was taken?”

  “She is a great beauty, to be sure,” Steffan said. “That was not my meaning.”

  “I speak too harshly at times,” Anwen admitted.

  “When you speak at all,” he added.

  Anwen pressed her lips together. “It is not my place to speak, except to Morgan and Morguase, when I teach them.”

  “That is the world’s loss,” Steffan said.

  Anwen shook her head, irritation building. “If you seek my cooperation by complimenting me, you will fail. I know my place too well, Steffan of Durnovaria.”

  “You are fortunate in your certainty.”

  “Am I?” Her voice emerged sour and dry. “My father died in battle when I was fourteen. Gorlois brought me to Tintagel, in return for my father’s life of service. I was made a companion to Gorlois’ new wife, Mari. Mari ignored me—as she should. I was young and naïve, despite my education. An ignorant child. I spent years in the corner, where no one noticed me. No man wanted me—I have no dowry and what man would want a wife with more education than him?”

  Steffan raised a brow. “One who is not a fool?” he asked.

  Anwen dismissed the notion. “When Mari was put aside, I was twenty-three. Two years later, Gorlois married Igraine, who insisted I remain in her household out of charity, I am sure, for I have nowhere else to go. I have been here ever since. I do not delude myself with notions that anything might change in the future. I will live out my days alone, the unnoticed companion of a great lady. Tell me, would you truly find it a comfort if you knew your place with such certainty?”

  “I might,” Steffan replied, his tone still soft. “You, at least, have a place.”

  “So do you. You are the Duchess’ appointed tutor.”

  “Ah. That.” His mouth turned down.

  “Is it really such a burden to teach women?” she snapped.

  He did not answer straight away. Even if he were not blind, Anwen suspected that at that moment, he would not see her. His thoughts were far away. “‘Tutor’ is a title given to me. It is not the one I would take for myself.”

  “As if any of us has a choice in the matter,” Anwen said dryly.

  He got to his feet with a flex of muscles and sinew and the room seemed to shrink around him. Anwen resisted the need to move out of his way. She was not in his way, even though he seemed to take up all the spare space in the room.

  “I was born the son of a soldier and was expected to be a soldier, too. And so I was. That is my true place. It remains my place in here.” He touched his chest.

  “How is it you came to read, then?” she demanded. If he could ask impertinent questions, so could she. “I mean, you can read, yes? You must have learned, to acquire your knowledge of languages, before you lost your sight.”

  He shook his head. “No. I could not read and I still cannot, even if I could see the letters. I learned, Anwen of Tintagel, from listening. I sought those who could read, those who spoke the languages I wanted to learn. I spoke to anyone who might provide insight.”

  “Insight into what?”

  “Into the workings of fate and the meaning behind it,” he said bitterly. He lifted a finger toward his eyes. “I wanted to know why.”

  Anwen could find no response which did not sound callous. To remind him that God did not explain himself would bring Steffan no comfort. None of the platitudes about patience and humility fit with the physical man before her. “Did you learn why?” she asked, instead.

  “I am still searching,” he replied. “You are I both chaff at our places. Yet, there could be use in the place where we find ourselves.”

  “How so?” she demanded.

  “Your books. I felt them. Do you read them to Morgan and Morguase?”

  “They are too young for Plato,” Anwen said quickly.

  “Greek…” He gripped the staff. “You know Greek.”

  “And Latin,” Anwen replied stiffly.

  “But…” He frowned. “Why, then, does Igraine want me to teach them, if you can?”

  “I suppose, because she does not know I speak either language,” Anwen said.

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “She did not ask.”

  His knuckles whitened. “The woman in the corner…” he murmured.

  Anwen straightened her back and raised her chin. Then she remembered he would see neither of those actions. “It is the Lady’s will which forces me to endure your presence. You might make it tolerable for both of us if you confine your thoughts to the education of the girls.”

  “An impossible task,” he returned and reached out with his spare hand, searching for the door. “My thoughts roam too far to be contained to such a simple chore. However, while I am in your presence, I will channel them to the task at hand.”

  “That would please me greatly.”

  He opened the door. “As I am to channel my thoughts, I cannot care one way or the other about your pleasure.” He nodded in her direction. “Tomorrow, we will begin.”

  He shut the door behind him with a soft click of the latch.

  The room was no longer warm. Anwen shivered.

  Chapter Six

  I tell you, this sort of stupidity will increase, the longer we sit upon these wind-blasted plains,” Uther said, his tone one of warning. He strode beside Arawn and Gorlois as the three headed for the edge of the war camp, threading through the tents and shelters.

  Ilsa could only keep up with them by skipping along and breaking into a jog every few paces. All three of them failed to notice she was trailing them. Their expressions were tight with concern.

  Soldiers stepped out of the way, snapping off salutes as they passed by.

  “There is always stupidity when soldiers grow idle,” Gorlois said in his gravelly voice. His hair, which was a lighter red than Uther’s thick dark russet and even Ilsa’s own auburn, lifted in the wind made by his passage.

  “Let us learn the facts, before we condemn the conditions,” Arawn added.

  Uther scowled. “Good luck with that,” he murmured.

  Ilsa suspected Uther would be right once more. The report of a brawl ending in murder, which had them sprinting for the edge of the camp to investigate, would end with the same puzzling lack of explanations as so many minor infractions had, lately.

  The location of the brawl was easy to find. A large circle of men gathered around the body. Uther pushed through the men, then shoved enough of them aside so Ilsa, Gorlois and Arawn could step into the space in the middle. A man laid on the damp ground, face down. It was not clear what had killed him, although he rested in a pool of blood which was sinking into the weed-tufte
d mud.

  Another soldier stood on the far side of the circle, his head down and his breath billowing in steamy clouds, for the morning was chilly. He had the powerful arms of a sword-fighter, with bronze arm guards and a good cloak over his shoulders. His nose was crooked from being badly set.

  This was no simple, untrained recruit. He was a disciplined soldier. Yet a bloody knife laid at his feet and two men held his arms. An officer wearing Cornwall’s white cloak, which was a dirty gray and tattered at the hem, whirled to face them as Uther and the others pushed into the circle. The officer had close-set eyes and a crease over the bridge of his nose, which gave him a mean, squinty expression. His jaw flexed when he saw them.

  “My lords, there’s no need to concern yourselves with this matter. I have it in hand.”

  “It’s a matter of murder, isn’t it, Madog?” Gorlois said.

  Madog rubbed his jaw. “It depends on how you look at it, my lord.”

  “A man lies dead,” Arawn pointed out, his tone mild.

  Madog shook his head. “It isn’t that simple—”

  A whisper and a shuffling of the surrounding men alerted everyone. The edge of the circle separated, as Ambrosius and Merlin walked into the center. Merlin glanced around the circle, his gaze missing nothing. Men cowered when his gaze touched them.

  Ambrosius moved up to where Uther confronted Madog and the captive soldier. “What happened here?” he demanded.

  Merlin didn’t join the tight knot of men standing by the body. Instead, he prowled the circle. Ilsa, who was not included in the center, either, monitored the tall man’s restless steps.

  Merlin’s gaze fell upon Ilsa’s face and she shivered, for his deep black eyes seemed both lifeless and depthless. It was like looking into a night sky bereft of stars. Merlin was strange at the best of times, yet he was friendly when he spoke to Ilsa and warmth of a sort showed in his eyes. Now, he was a stranger.

  No wonder the men flinched from his gaze.

  Ilsa’s heart pattered uneasily.

  She pulled her gaze from Merlin for the officer, Madog, was speaking nervously.

  “It’s nothing, my lord,” Madog assured Ambrosius. “A thing which happens when an army is camped for too long.”