Pendragon Rises

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “No, you should not speak of that,” Steffan said in agreement.

  Uther made another harsh sound in the back of his throat. “You should leave Gorlois and come and serve me, Steffan. Then this silly problem would not exist.”

  Steffan held himself still, his heart thudding. “You would employ a useless blind man just to speak freely?”

  “Why not?” Uther said, his voice still harsh. “I know Tintagel well from the times when I lodged there and spied upon Vortigern for Ambrosius. I know its bleakness. You must not be happy there, with the women and children. You were a warrior, Steffan. One of the finest despite your age. You cannot tell me you do not miss it. You and I are alike in that regard. I would hate any life but this one.”

  Steffan swallowed. His heart was doing more than thudding, now. It seemed to be lodged in the base of his throat, making his chest ache. “What could I do to serve you?”

  Uther’s voice was warm. “I recall at least two men rolling upon the cobbles just here, this morning. You must show me how you use that staff of yours, one day. It is an unexpected weapon, which are the very best kind.”

  “Dropping drunk fools is one thing,” Steffan said, his voice hoarse. “I would be useless in a real battle.”

  “That is not why I ask you to join me,” Uther said. There was a touch of the old impatience in his voice. “I don’t think you realize how few people I can trust.”

  “You are surrounded by good men,” Steffan said.

  “All of them with lands and people of their own they must protect first, even against the High King’s wishes. I know that. So do they. It layers every conversation, no matter how much we see eye to eye.” Uther paused. “You have no lands,” he added gently.

  The tension in his chest and belly tightened even further. Steffan said carefully, “I thank you for the offer, my lord.”

  “My lord?” Uther chuckled. “That is an unsubtle reminder of the difference in our positions. You were less choosy, once.”

  “As were you, although you are to be High King, Uther. If I were to linger in your court with no visible use than as an ear for you to vent upon, then those who plot against you—and there will be such men, for every powerful man draws them—those men would know I am a weakness they can exploit to manipulate you.”

  Uther laughed. “You are not weak, Steffan. That was why I assumed you had not changed at all, this morning. You are anything but weak. You think I would make such an offer to anyone who was? I have learned a thing or two from my brother about vulnerabilities.” He made another soft impatient sound. “Think about it,” he urged Steffan. “Now is not the time to commit yourself. In the sober light of day, you can consider the idea.”

  “We return to Tintagel at first light, now you have released Gorlois,” Steffan pointed out.

  “I will be moving on tomorrow, too. The court will be in Venta Belgarum until spring. The coronation will be there and Gorlois must attend.” He added softly, “No matter how reluctant he may now be.”

  Steffan listened to him get to his feet and rearrange the cloak around him. “Good night, Steffan.”

  “Good night, my lord.”

  Uther sighed.

  Steffan added, “Sleep well, Uther.”

  “I doubt it,” Uther muttered.

  He had moved on, leaving Steffan alone at the fire with his racing thoughts and overworked heart. Steffan had finished the flask, trying to control the hot flare of hope and excitement. In the end, the only way he could clamp down on both was to dismiss the subject every time his thoughts returned to it.

  Now, though, as the cart jolted over every rut and tussock, Steffan let himself reconsider Uther’s suggestion.

  What sort of friend would he be to Uther, if he accepted his offer? What sort of man would Steffan be to abandon Gorlois at the first opportunity? Gorlois had given Steffan a place and work, when he had been obliged to do neither. When Steffan’s use as a soldier expired, Gorlois would have been perfectly in his rights to discard him and let him find his own way in the world. He had not, which spoke much about the man.

  Steffan could not now desert him. He was serving a purpose. A small purpose, it was true, but not an insignificant one.

  Yet, to serve Uther…to be part of the court and the army once more, in any capacity at all…! To be surrounded by the men Steffan admired—the leaders and loyal companions, the morally upright and good men Uther and Ambrosius before him had attracted… Steffan’s heart thumped at the prospect.

  It was the life he missed, that he had tried to explain to Anwen. And now he could reach out and have it once more.

  Anwen…

  He sighed.

  Yesterday, the entire delightful day, must be the start and end of the matter. For her sake…and maybe for his, too.

  A hand cupped his calf and squeezed. Steffan jumped. He had heard nothing above the creak of the cart and the wheels turning sluggishly.

  Anwen’s thin, long-fingered hand rested over his for a moment. She must be walking, to have approached so silently.

  Then he realized there was something in her hand. He turned his over, so the object settled on his palm.

  Anwen’s hand lifted away. “Merry Christmas,” she murmured, her voice drifting backward as she slowed her pace and fell back behind the cart.

  The spherical object was warm in his hand. Steffan lifted it and sniffed. Rich, fruity sweetness with not a hint of bitterness.

  It was an apricot.

  Abruptly, Steffan was back to questioning the future, doubts tearing at him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anwen did not have to search out Steffan from among the hundreds of people spread out between the trees. Everyone huddled about roaring campfires as last of the daylight disappeared and the cooking pots simmered. Or they carried food and furs and cushions from the carts or took care of the horses. The camp was a busy place.

  Despite the frantic activity, Anwen’s gaze was drawn to Steffan’s tall figure as he carried a metal platter heaped with stew away from the fires, his staff waving in an arc over the ground ahead of him.

  He was finding a private place to eat.

  She watched him tap against the trunk of a mighty oak, carefully navigate over the roots and move around to the other side. That was all she saw, for Igraine’s tent had been raised and the cushions and furs needed to be arranged inside before Igraine retired.

  Igraine was pale from the day’s uncomfortable travel. She was quiet, too. Her gaze would flicker toward Gorlois, who was eating with his officers. She ate little.

  It was not Anwen’s place to draw Igraine out. Anwen was the least favored and most frequently ignored of Igraine’s companions. The women Igraine sought for company and gossip must tend to her preoccupation, instead.

  The matter was straightforward enough in Anwen’s mind. Igraine was married and a Christian. She would be breaking her own religious vows to take Uther as a lover, no matter how kindly she felt toward him. Gorlois would not like it, either. Even though Uther was the High King, and such a liaison would confer favor and power upon Cornwall and Gorlois, Gorlois was a family man. He loved his children and his affection for Igraine was immense. He was also a Christian and would be forced to defend Igraine and Cornwall, if Uther pressed his attentions upon her.

  The liaison simply could not take place. Igraine must surely understand that. She was not a stupid woman.

  Anwen sat alone on the chilly side of the fire, staring at the dancing flames as she ate, her thoughts shifting from Igraine to Steffan. He had not emerged from behind the oak. He clearly intended to stay there for the night.

  He had not reacted to her Christmas gift. He had not sought her out to speak to her at all.

  Such things happened between men and women, Anwen assured herself. She remembered now the gossip of the women, bewailing a man who moved on, discarding them after a single dalliance. It was the way of it. Men were not easily tethered.

  Now Anwen could say she had been discarded, too.
Upon reflection, it was to be expected. She had no dowry, her father was not a king or a lord. She had finally come to understand she would never be married. A continuing relationship with a man was even less likely. She simply did not have the womanly assets to hold a man. She was not pretty or young or accomplished in the way men appreciated in a wife. She sewed badly, the yarn she spun was always uneven and inclined to break. She could not weave good cloth, either. She would rather read books than tend plants and gather food…no, she would not make a good wife or companion.

  It was therefore only reasonable that Steffan would not seek her out a second time. She had nothing to offer him.

  Yet she found herself on her feet and moving across the campsite, anyway. She stepped around people and slipped through them, weaving a path toward the oak. The firelight played redly upon the wide trunk and she could see nothing but night shadows beyond it.

  For the first time Anwen appreciated always being overlooked. No one would notice her cross the campsite, nor the direction she was heading. The gossips were blind to what she did now.

  Trembling, Anwen moved around the oak.

  Clearly, Steffan had spent his time since the carts had stopped collecting gear and bringing it here. He laid upon furs and more covered him. A small fire burned on the earth in front of him, and the oak guarded his back.

  His staff rested against the tree, an arm’s length away.

  He looked up as Anwen’s feet crunched on the frosty ground.

  “It is only me,” Anwen told him.

  “Only you smell as you do,” Steffan replied, sitting up.

  Anwen settled on her knees in front of him, the fire warming her flank. “I will go if you want me to,” she said softly, speaking hurriedly. “Only, it occurred to me that you would not find me among everyone, if you had a mind to. So I came to you, to save you the problem…if it is a problem you want solved, that is.”

  Her chest and throat hurt, and her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for Steffan to respond.

  His sightless gaze met hers. How did he do that? It was as if he really could see her.

  “The gods above…” he breathed. “You have such courage.”

  She swallowed and made herself say crisply, “I am merely being practical.”

  Steffan’s mouth pressed against hers and she lost the air in her lungs with a soft gasp, as he kissed her.

  Then he drew back. His gaze was steady. “I will not compromise your position any further than I have.”

  It hurt. It hurt more than she had braced herself for. Anwen let her eyes close and her mouth tremble. He would see none of her agony. She held her teeth together so she did not make a single sound which might betray her.

  “Do you understand, Anwen?” Steffan added. “Igraine is Christian. She would not look upon—”

  “Of course I understand,” Anwen said, using the same crisp tone. She got to her feet. “I said I would go if you wanted me to, and so I shall. I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

  She hurried away, her heart throwing itself against her chest.

  “Anwen!” Steffan called behind her.

  She didn’t stop. As soon as she was among the other people around the fires, he would never find her, for she would be invisible once more.

  ILSA FOUND BAN AND HIS smaller company of men off to one side of the large royal host preparing to leave Amesbury at first light. Ban’s normally handsome face was drawn in lines of weariness which had grown steadily deeper over the last few weeks.

  He held Ilsa in a long, warm hold, then took her letters. “Of course I will deliver them to Elaine, and Evaine, too,” he said, tucking them in his belt pouch. “It will be my great pleasure.” His breath blew frost into the air.

  Ilsa patted his arm. “It will do you good to go home,” she said gently.

  “Home…” he muttered. “It will be like starting all over again,” he added, with a hint of bitterness.

  “Will you tell Elaine about…” Ilsa hesitated. “The child?” she finished.

  “I must,” Ban said, his bitterness rising and twisting his voice. “If Elaine is not able to bear a child, then this bastard will be my heir.” His mouth turned down.

  A horn sounded, gathering the host, warning them to be ready to ride. Ilsa wrung her hands. “It has not all been wasted time,” she told him quickly. “We have done great good here, Ban. Uther will not forget that. Britain will not. There is peace, the first in years and years. You can be proud of that. So can Elaine.”

  Ban scanned the company as men climbed onto their horses in response to the warning. “If this is what peace looks like…” He blew out his breath. “There was more glory in war,” he said shortly.

  “When your son and true-born heir sits upon your knee, at your hearth, with Elaine by your side, you will appreciate peace,” Ilsa assured him.

  “I hope so.” He swung up onto his horse. “We fought for seven years. There must be more we fought for than petty squabbling among bored kings.”

  The second horn sounded, forcing Ilsa to turn and run for her horse, before the company moved off. There was no time to say more. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could say to counter Ban’s disillusionment.

  She could only hope that Elaine’s arms would comfort him.

  GORLOIS’ LARGE COMPANY HAD BEEN on the road for several hours and the sun had burned off the last of the mist, when Igraine gathered her hems up in one arm and jumped from the cart while it was still moving.

  Igraine dropped her gown and smoothed it down, waiting for Anwen to reach where she stood. She gave Anwen a small smile, her full lips turning up at the corners. “I thought I might walk for a while. It could not possibly be any more uncomfortable than another day upon the cart.” She turned and matched Anwen’s pace.

  Anwen hid her mild irritation. She had been walking alone, which let her think. A night of heavy thinking had left her tired and still without hope. She was still dependent upon Igraine’s goodwill and always would be. Things had returned to exactly where they had been through all the long years.

  “This ground is rather rough, isn’t it?” Igraine commented.

  Anwen glanced at Igraine’s slippers. “We can walk on the grass at the edge of the road,” she suggested.

  “Yes, that might help.”

  They edged closer to the side of the road, which let Igraine walk on the softer growth, while Anwen continued on the dirt which had been compressed by traffic into a flat, frozen path. The sun had burned off the frost which had left it white and glistening. Now it was merely a dark, damp route through the trees.

  Walking along the side of the road put them out of listening distance of anyone on the carts which moved beside them.

  Igraine glanced at the cart she had been traveling in, which was now farther ahead than they. “What did you think of Amesbury, Anwen?”

  “I didn’t see much of it,” Anwen admitted. “The standing stones are majestic, of course.”

  “A fitting tribute for Ambrosius, and for the leaders who died at Vortigern’s hand.”

  “Indeed,” Anwen said. “Did you meet Merlin, my lady?”

  “I did.”

  “Is it true he is taller than any man alive? And his eyes spark fire?”

  “You didn’t see him at the standing stones?”

  Anwen dropped her gaze to her feet. She hadn’t been looking at the stones. “No,” she admitted.

  “Merlin is a normal man,” Igraine said. “Although he is younger than I expected. He is tall, but no taller than any other man. Uther is just as tall…although they are blood kin.”

  “Then Merlin has red hair, too?”

  Igraine shook her head. “Uther’s cousin, Ilsa, has the same red hair, but no one else in their family.” She glanced along the road, toward the head of the column. “Uther is the only man.”

  Anwen sensed Igraine was not speaking of hair color now. She said carefully, “Uther, the High King.”

  Igraine pressed her lips together.
“Yes,” she said, with a sigh.

  “Of course, Gorlois has red hair, too,” Anwen pointed out.

  “It is fading now,” Igraine said. “As he grows older.”

  Anwen hesitated. “As he is your husband, surely it does not matter? Gorlois has many admirable qualities. He is fiercely loyal to the High King.”

  Igraine flinched. She stopped walking, forcing Anwen to turn back to face her. Igraine’s face worked. Her hands trembled. “God help me, Anwen,” she breathed, so softly Anwen barely heard it. “I cannot stop thinking about him! Even now, all I can see is his face. His eyes. The…the passion there.” She put her hand on her belly, her fingers spread.

  Anwen glanced around uneasily, to see who noticed that the Duchess had halted and appeared to be stressed. She took Igraine’s arm. “Keep walking.”

  Igraine obeyed.

  Their steps were slower than before, although they would not draw attention, now.

  “You must let this go, my lady,” Anwen said firmly. “You know that as well as I do. As a Christian…”

  Igraine sighed. “I have prayed for guidance. None comes.”

  Anwen shook her head. “You need none. The facts are simple, my lady. If you indulge yourself in this, you will tear the kingdom apart, just when Ambrosius and Uther put it back together again.”

  “I know that,” Igraine said. “I know it all too well. I am not a vapid woman, yearning for romance and adventure. I was raised to consider the political side of everything. I know it is impossible. Yet I cannot rid myself of the memory of him. It is as though, now I have seen him, I can see nothing else. If I was permitted by the Church to believe in magic, Anwen, I would say I have been bewitched.”

  She spoke quite seriously.

  “You must keep that to yourself,” Anwen said quickly. “There are many others who do believe in witchcraft and they would not look kindly upon a woman of your rank professing to be the victim of a spell.”

  Igraine chewed at her lip thoughtfully. Her gaze shifted to Anwen. “Of course, you are right.”

  Anwen relaxed. “I am sure Yvette and Mary told you the same thing, when you explained it to them.” Yvette and Mary were Igraine’s closest companions, the ones she trusted with everything.