“Murder is nothing?’ Ambrosius asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“‘twasn’t murder,” Madog replied. He pointed at the dead man. “He took a camp girl away from another.”
“By the gods, man, I don’t condone the killing of any man over a woman!” Gorlois burst out. “Especially not an officer of mine!” He turned to Ambrosius. “My lord, I apologize. This is not a behavior I tolerate—”
Ambrosius held up his hand. “I want to hear this,” he said softly. “The officer who slew the man…what does he have to say about this?”
The man being held lifted his head. He was also wearing one of the white cloaks of Cornwall. “Braises was beating the girl because she wouldn’t cooperate.”
Gorlois’ face turned as red as his hair. “So you killed him?”
The man shrugged, an abbreviated movement because his arms were held. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
“Where is the girl?” Ilsa asked.
The one called Madog glanced at her. His eyes rolled. “Who gives a damn? Gone for the surgeon, I suppose. He split her eye open.”
“Speak civilly, man,” Gorlois growled. “You’re addressing a queen.”
Madog glanced at Ilsa again, startled.
Ambrosius waved everything aside, his gaze still on the captive officer. “What do you mean, it just happened?”
“I don’t know,” the man said heavily. “I wanted to stop him beating the woman. Then…it was like a cloud came over my thoughts. Then he was lying there, where he is now.” He seemed stoical, even indifferent about-facing execution, which was the sentence for cold-blooded murder.
“For the sake of Mithras, Merlin, will you stop that incessant pacing?” Uther bellowed.
Everyone looked at Uther, startled.
Uther threw out his hand. “He’s a wolf among sheep. Stirring up the men with that blank gaze of his.”
Ambrosius jerked his head at Merlin, who crossed the space in the middle of the circle, heading for them. He stepped over the dead man’s legs with his own long ones, then whirled to look down at the body.
Ilsa’s heart lurched once more. No one but she could see Merlin’s face, for she was far from Ambrosius’ group.
Merlin’s gaze ran over the body, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Then his eyes widened and grew blank and still. He straightened with a snap, as if someone had pulled him up by his hair.
“For the king shall fall and rise again!” he cried, in a voice which was deep and booming and not his own.
Ilsa drew in a shaky breath.
Everyone spun on their heels to look at the tall figure in the center of the ring.
“What did he say?” someone muttered.
Merlin threw out his arms, in a gesture which encompassed the entire camp. “The white dragon has fallen! The red dragon has risen! And so it will again! The path of the once and future king lays before all of you, for his time has come. The winter shall witness his fall and his most glorious rise, for he comes! He comes!”
The muttering of the men grew louder. They drew away, the tight circle fragmenting.
Merlin gave a groan which sounded as though he was in mortal pain and fell to his knees. He thrust out a hand, propping himself upright and spoke. He used no language Ilsa knew or recognized. She clenched her hand against her chest, which ached with tension, her breath held.
No one around Ambrosius moved, either.
Merlin’s guttural voice ground on, rising and falling, making the hair on the back of Ilsa’s neck prickle hard and send shivers down her spine. She did not understand what he was saying, yet the tone implied dark deeds and misery.
She edged around the circle toward Arawn and the men and saw Merlin’s face. Her fear fled.
Agony contorted his features. The strange eyes were not his. Did something or someone speak through him the way they spoke through the Lady of the Lake, as Merlin had once explained to her, many years ago?
He fell silent, his chest heaving. His eyes rolled up and his arm bent.
Ilsa threw herself forward, with barely a thought except that Merlin was not himself and in pain. She caught his shoulders as they sagged toward the mud. He was shuddering, his eyes closed.
Ilsa rested his head on her knees. This, she remembered, too. All one can do is ensure they do not come to harm while they writhe so, he had said, while protecting Nimue’s head.
“Everyone, return to your billets!” Gorlois bellowed. “Break it up! There’s nothing to see here. Go on. Go!”
“You heard your sire!” Madog shouted. “Get out of here, you mangy curs!”
“Madog, take Garnet to my tent. I’ll deal with him there,” Gorlois said.
Merlin shifted and twitched, his eyes closed. It was as if someone moved his limbs about for amusement. Ilsa pressed her lips together and held onto his shoulders, so he would not roll fully into the mud, as the sound of men muttering and squelching across the mud faded.
“Here,” came a gruff voice.
Ambrosius’ thick red cloak settled over Merlin, the edges trailing in the dirt.
Ilsa looked up. Ambrosius stood over them, his gaze dark as he studied his son.
“Once he is himself again, I can arrange for him to be taken back to his tent,” Ilsa said.
“You have practice dealing with what ails him?” Ambrosius asked, surprised.
“I have a little experience,” she admitted. “He is not ill, my lord. He would tell you he is suffering from the raw power of having gods speak through him.”
Ambrosius grunted. “I’ve heard him say such things before, yes. He’s stopped moving now.”
Ilsa looked down. Merlin’s eyes were tight slits, as if the low dawn light was too bright for him. Awareness gleamed in them.
“Here. I will help him back to his tent,” Ambrosius said. He bent and slid his arm under Merlin’s back and hoisted him to his feet. “Can you walk?” he asked him.
“A little,” Merlin croaked.
Ilsa caught Ambrosius’ cloak as it fluttered toward the ground and bundled it up in her arms. She followed the pair as Ambrosius walked his son through the maze of campfires and billets. Everyone who saw them turned their gazes away, as if they were giving them privacy which was rare here.
The interior of Merlin’s small tent was spartan spare, with only a single mat to protect feet, a small chest and a pallet in one corner. The pallet had thick furs upon it.
Ambrosius grunted with effort as he laid Merlin upon the furs, then crouched beside him and studied him. His brows were tightly furrowed.
“This will not harm him,” Ilsa assured him. “Merlin will sleep and when he wakes, he will be as normal.”
For a long moment, Ambrosius did not move. His gaze shifted to her as she settled on her knees on the ground beside him and pulled a fur up over Merlin. “Your sons must be near grown now, yes?”
Ilsa gave a soft laugh. “Not quite, my lord. Alun is seven. Elen is five. Arawn Uther has just turned two.”
“You have watched over them while they are sick, yes?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then you know a little of what I feel right now.”
Ilsa glanced at Ambrosius, startled, for deep feeling shaded his voice. “He is your son,” she murmured. “Of course you feel helpless. It is quite natural.”
“Is it? This power he wields…it frightens normal men. It makes me afraid for Merlin. What price will he pay for the use of it?”
“I think you are looking at a part of that price right now.”
Ambrosius settled on the ground, one knee bent in front of him, his gaze on Merlin’s peaceful face. “Merlin found me when he was nearly a man. For all the years before that meeting I thought myself childless. I assumed Uther would take my place, when the time came.”
“Merlin has assumed that, too. He has no interest in ruling,” Ilsa assured him.
“I know.” Ambrosius’ jaw worked, as if he struggled with a thought. “Merlin told me that between hi
m and Uther, they would make another king. The greatest king of my line.”
“My lord?” Ilsa asked, puzzled.
“The once and future king,” Ambrosius said softly. “I suppose I am the ‘once’ part of it.” He glanced at Ilsa and grimaced. “In all these years, Merlin has never prophesied my personal future, until today.” He got to his feet. “I’ll have food sent for you to break your fast and for Merlin, when he wakes.”
Ilsa watched the High King leave, his shoulders square, as the meaning of what he had said coupled up with Merlin’s shouted prophesy. She shuddered as she put it together.
Merlin had seen Ambrosius’ death, which would happen before mid-winter.
Chapter Seven
The air was still and few sea birds called.
The older folk muttered about summer storms being the worst as the household shuffled into the chapel for morning prayers and devotions.
As a companion of the Duchess, Anwen was permitted to sit on a bench behind Igraine, while most of the household stood or knelt as was required. Over their heads, Anwen could see Steffan standing at the back of the chapel, his staff in his hand, his gaze on the ground.
Just a glimpse of him made her heart squeeze and thrash like the waves against the cliffs.
She had supposed that being alone with and talking to a man would require constant fortitude and guarding of her honor. She had heard lurid tales from Igraine’s other women. From their stories, Anwen gained the impression that at the first possible moment a man would push his physical attentions upon a solitary woman, using his strength and weight to convince her to fall in with his wishes.
The little exposure she’d had to men who lived in Tintagel convinced her the women were not exaggerating, for Anwen was aware of male gazes following her as she crossed the yard, making her heart leap as it was now.
Or else, the women said, a man would pay no attention to the woman at all. He would barely notice her, only to demand she serve him food and drink and look as pretty as possible while she did it.
Steffan had done neither. He spoke to her as if she were a man, as if the ideas in her head and the words she spoke were worthy of his attention. He did leer at her…well, he could not leer. Only, she did not think he would even if he could see her. Not that any man had ever leered at her. She was not a beauty like Igraine. Even when Anwen was younger, plain was as charitable a description as could be spared for her.
Her hair was plain brown and lighter rather than darker. It was neither a pretty gold nor a pleasing Celtic black. It was thick and abundant and when she let it loose, it brushed the back of her hips. Yet it hung in straight hanks, with no interesting curls or waves. Her face was not objectionable, although it was not pretty, either. Her eyes were also brown, as were her brows. Her nose was straight and perhaps a little long, her lips were neither thin nor full and they did not beckon as Igraine’s full lips did. Anwen’s skin was Celtic pale, without scars or blemishes, yet it was not brushed with a delicate blush of color or dewy with youth.
She did not have curves the way Igraine did. Her breasts were full yet not large enough to draw a man’s eye. Her waist was small, but so were her hips. Her legs were longer than most women’s. Her feet were long, too. Not as long as a man’s yet they were not pretty and delicate the way a woman’s ought to be.
Anwen had spent many nights when she was younger, totting up the sins of her appearance, wondering if they were the sole reason she did not draw men’s gazes the way any silly young thing new to the court tended to do. It had been many years since she agonized over her shortcomings, though.
Last night, she had not lingered upon the long list of grievances. She considered them for only a short while, in light of the startling realization that Steffan could see none of her flaws.
Was that why he treated her as he did? For a while, when he spoke of their places in the world and the work ahead of them, she forgot this was the angry man she was expected to control and direct.
His anger had been there—it bubbled silently at the bottom of his words and thoughts, driving what he said. Yet he did not vent his anger upon her the way they said he had done to the soldiers at Dimilioc.
In fact, talking to him was interesting. When she had shuddered in anticipation of having to speak to a man alone, “interesting” was not a possibility she had entertained.
When prayers were done, Anwen passed through the kitchen and scooped into a bowl a spoonful of the oatmeal and dried fruit stewing on the fire. She took the bowl back to her room. It was not required of her to sit with the other women to eat, for which she was grateful. She sat at the teaching table instead. While she ate, she turned her thoughts upon the coming day.
Before she finished her bowl, the latch clicked up and the door opened. Steffan moved into the room with the same confidence a sighted man would. The staff stayed tucked under his bulging arm.
He knew the room now, she realized.
He shut the door. “Anwen?”
“At the table,” she said. “Have you eaten? I did not think to bring more food with me.”
He lifted his spare hand. There were three of the cook’s flat oatmeal cakes wrapped in a cloth. “I thought you would be with the other women.”
“You planned to eat alone?”
“I will not eat with the other men.” He moved over to the table, only pausing at the last second to bend and touch the edge of it. “May I?”
“The bench in front of you is empty,” Anwen told him.
“That is not what I asked. This is your room. Do you mind if I eat here?”
“And if I say no?” she asked curiously.
“The horses in the stables are undemanding company,” he said dryly. “They do not snore, either.”
“You sleep there as well?” she asked, appalled.
“Is there somewhere I am expected to sleep of which no one has informed me?”
Anwen stared at him. “Surely a bed can be found for you.”
He shrugged. “Straw is very comfortable. I have slept upon it for many years.”
Anwen struggled to encompass that. “They gave you no bed at Dimilioc, either?”
“I considered it a blessing,” he said. “Eating with the men was trial enough.”
Anwen’s gaze dropped to the cakes in his hand. He had come here, expecting to eat alone. He made no move to sit, though.
“Oh, for goodness sake, sit down!” she said, abruptly irritated.
He moved toward the table until his knee touched the bench, then stepped over it and sat. Another sweep of his hand across the table told him it was clear. He put the cloth on the table and spread it beneath the cakes.
Then he lifted the first and bit into it hungrily.
Anwen made her attention return to the bowl before her. She ate slowly, enjoying the tart taste of the fruit. She risked staring at the man on the other side of the table, for he could not see her do so. Women had warned her many times that boldly staring at a man would embolden him to take liberties. That could not happen with this man, though.
Her gaze fell to his bare arms and the muscles which moved beneath the flesh as he shifted them. Tendons in his neck flexed as he ate. Even sitting upon a bench, he was full of movement. Vitality emanated from him which conflicted with his blindness.
Her gaze shifted to his sightless eyes. He had oddly colored eyes. They appeared to be green right now, yet when she saw them yesterday, she could have sworn they were brown. They were perfectly normal eyes. If she had not seen him quarter the room yesterday, and feeling the shape and placement of the furniture, she would have supposed he could see just like any other man, now.
Then she processed how swiftly he was eating. “You are hungry?”
“Yes,” he said, around a mouthful of cake.
“Did you not eat your fill at supper last night?”
“That would require sitting with the other men.” He shrugged.
“You had no supper at all?” Anwen asked, appalled.
; “Hunger was the more attractive choice,” he assured her.
Anwen remembered Cador and his man, Daveth, talking about the “entertainment” the men at Dimilioc found through taking Steffan’s bowl from him, and throwing things at him. She glanced at Steffan’s spare hand, which was curled protectively around the last cake sitting on the cloth. Likely, the entertainment had not stopped with simply stealing his food.
She shuddered. “You would be best to eat all your meals here,” she said shortly, before she could reconsider the wisdom of asking a man to return to her chamber so frequently throughout the day.
Steffan lifted his head. He swallowed the mouthful of cake and frowned. “Do you eat your supper here?”
“Often,” she admitted.
“I prefer to eat alone.”
“Then I am sure the wet straw in the stable will be a sufficient table for you.” She returned her attention to her bowl, to finish the last morsels.
Neither of them spoke again, until Morgan and Morguase pushed into the room and settled at the table for their morning lessons.
“Must we write more today?” Morguase complained as Anwen retrieved the wax slates from the high table in the corner. “I want to learn more Latin.”
Anwen hesitated.
“Do both together,” Steffan told Morguase. “Write the phrase you learned yesterday. Do you remember it?”
“A man is as wise as his beard is long,” Morguase said.
“And in Latin?” Steffan challenged her.
She frowned.
“Barba,” Morgan said, taking her slate from Anwen.
“Sapientes,” Morguase added, as Anwen slid the other slate in front of her.
They both picked up their styluses and bent to write the words, spelling them out together.
Anwen leaned over to look at their slates. “That should be an ‘i’ and an ‘e’ in Sapientes,” she told Morguase. “Not two ‘e’s.”
Morguase looked at Steffan. “Is that right, Steffan?” she asked him.
He hesitated. “If Anwen says that is how you write the words, then it is right.”
Morguase looked at Anwen, startled. Then she turned back to her slate once more.
Pendragon Rises Page 6