“I heard a dozen different languages on the way from the gates to the castle,” Steffan said. “Most of them I’ve never heard before.”
“There is even a man here from the Emperor of Eastern Rome,” Uther said. His voice was strained. “He’s demanding fealty, as if Britain is still a province of Rome. I’ve sent him packing twice, yet he keeps returning.”
“You sound tired.”
“More than tired,” Uther admitted. “Ah, there is still a thousand things to see to before this madness is over.”
Steffan wondered if the madness which strained Uther would end once he was confirmed as High King. He said, instead, “What can I do to help?”
Uther’s hand settled on Steffan’s shoulder. “Being here is help enough. For now, Steffan, I must meet with an eastern potentate, I’m told. Have my steward find you a room and a soft bed and recover from your travels. I will send for you as soon as I have need of you.”
Steffan bowed. “Thank you, my lord.” He turned and found the door once more. It was closed again. He fumbled with the latch until it opened and stepped out.
The conversation in the antechamber ceased when he appeared. Then even more quiet whispers broke out.
“Merlin?” Steffan called.
A hand on his arm. “Here,” Merlin said.
“I’m to find a room.”
“I know one you can use. It’s beside mine. Come. I’ll show you the way.” Instead of gripping Steffan’s sleeve and tugging, Merlin picked up his left wrist and curled his fingers around Merlin’s arm.
“You must hold on,” Merlin said, his tone even softer. “There are too many rugs and furs and clutter for you to trip upon. Keep your staff out.”
Steffan appreciated both the warning and the way Merlin guided him. It took the sting out of being led.
He waited until they had moved out of the antechamber and were traversing the passage beyond it. The passage felt wide yet muffled. Furs and rugs, Steffan presumed, for it was not unforgiving stone beneath his feet.
“Uther sounds strained,” he murmured.
Merlin’s tone was light. “Politics is not Uther’s greatest strength, as we both know.” He paused, as they turned into another corridor. A narrower one, this time, and there were no rugs. “If you are here to help, that is where you can help him, for I will not always be here.”
“You help Uther with politics? I thought magic and medicine were your forte.”
“What is magic and healing, if they are not other forms of power?”
Steffan considered it. “I see, yes.” It was his turn to hesitate. “I am a fighter, Merlin. Politics is not my forte, either.”
“You were a fighter, which is why Uther trusts you. You’re much more than that, now.” Merlin’s tone was sincere.
Startled, Steffan could find no response.
Merlin did not seem to need one. He continued. “Uther commands the loyalty of fighting men. You know that. You’ve seen it at work. He makes men willing to follow him anywhere, including into death.”
“I have seen it,” Steffan said. “I have felt it,” he added.
“What he does not know is how to win the hearts and minds of ordinary people,” Merlin finished. “Here we are.” A door opened and Merlin moved through it.
Steffan tapped out the doorway and stepped through, too. The room was airy and felt large. He would explore it later. He turned back to where he presumed Merlin was standing. “Why does Uther not know how to deal with ordinary people?” he demanded. “It is simple enough. By being a good man, who lives according to his values, Uther will win over anyone.”
“You’re thinking of Gorlois, of course,” Merlin said.
“The perfect example,” Steffan said.
“Yes,” Merlin said. “Although it is odd to have you of all people say it.”
“Why?”
“You and Uther were much alike when we first met.”
Steffan was startled. “Are we not still alike?”
“Not at all,” Merlin said. “You have not changed physically. That is the only way you have not changed.” He paused. “You studied the eastern philosophers in your search for answers, did you not?”
“How did you know that?”
“I have spoken to Cador at length. The values you instilled in him shine through everything he says. I recognized their roots.”
“Cador is well, then?” Cador had remained behind with Uther’s company when Gorlois had returned to Cornwall.
“He flourishes,” Merlin said. Then he added, his voice rising, “You want something, Madog?”
A soft sound behind Steffan made him turn.
“The eunuch,” Madog said. “I heard you were visiting. I had to come and see for myself. And I find you in the company of the black bastard. How fitting.”
Steffan held his face immobile.
“Madog, you’ve been misinformed,” Merlin said, his tone light. Nothing in his voice revealed how he felt about the epithet Madog had used for him. “Steffan is not visiting. He is Uther’s man, now.”
Madog made a choked sound.
“What was that?” Merlin asked.
“Just stay out of my way, eunuch,” Madog snarled.
“Done,” Steffan said flatly. “Unless…do you spend your time in the King’s chamber?”
“From the smell of it, I’d say no,” Merlin said. “The field by the cow barn, Madog?”
Madog made another straggled sound. His footsteps receded.
Merlin laughed.
“Please tell me what his expression was when you told him I was here to stay,” Steffan begged.
Merlin did, in satisfying detail.
VENTA BELGARUM WAS OVERWHELMING IN its size and grandeur. Anwen had never seen a city before and the scale and the people were hard to adjust to. She was grateful that today she had been permitted to ride in one of the covered wagons instead walking or riding one of the geldings brought for the ladies to use. While in the wagon, she didn’t have to watch her footing or control a mount. She could peer through the window, instead, letting her gaze sweep back and forth as she took in the marvelous pageantry and sights.
Everywhere, there was color—in the pennants fluttering from the walls of the city, in the drapes at the windows, to the astonishing range and variation of gowns and accessories upon the women in the streets. Even the men wore colorful cloaks and tunics.
The buildings were painted in gay colors, too, and the paint looked fresh.
The streets were narrow, taking up minimal space so as many buildings could be squeezed behind the walls as possible. The horses clopped on the cobbles, although the sound was barely discernable over the shouts and calls and noise so many people made.
Anwen brushed at the good, new cloth of her gown. Like all Igraine’s ladies, she had been given new clothes for the journey and a lovely gown with gold embroidery for the coronation itself and the feast, afterwards. She had considered the garments to be far too sophisticated. Now the gown she wore felt plain in comparison to the multi-colored, many layered ensembles she could see upon the street.
Igraine had anticipated this grandeur. Anwen recalled Igraine’s manic preparations for the journey and her strident demands for more and better quality everything. Only now did Anwen appreciated that foresight. Cornwall’s arrival matched the great city’s shining welcome. They were not the poor kingdom in the south.
By emptying Tintagel and most of Dimilioc of the people there, Igraine had swelled the Cornwall contingent to a company of over one thousand. Everyone was on horseback, or rode in a cart, or the new wagons. Everyone wore smart new clothes. The horses had new saddlecloths and bridles. The Cornwall emblem was upon shining shields and tunics and flew from the banner at the head of the company, where Gorlois sat upon his white stallion, tall and straight.
Heads swiveled as the company passed by. Pedestrians turned to one another and whispered behind hands or murmured, their gazes upon the newly arrived travelers.
A great hous
e had been put aside for Cornwall and his people, although not everyone could be accommodated there. The rest of the Cornish company were spread out among neighboring houses and stables. Venta Belgarum was filled to bursting point for the coming coronation, and many more people were sleeping in the fields beyond the walls, guarded by Uther’s men.
Anwen presumed she would be one of those to sleep in the fields. Igraine frowned when she saw Anwen carrying her sack of clothing and a bundle of furs toward the door. “No, you are to stay here,” Igraine said.
“I?” Anwen asked, startled.
“Find a bed or a bench, I don’t care,” Igraine said. “I want you within reach, Anwen. Morgan and Morguase need monitoring.”
Anwen held in her first response and said meekly, “Yes, my lady.” She recognized that Igraine was using the care of her daughters as a pretext to keep Anwen nearby. The girls had a nurse, Elen, who had been caring for them since infancy and Elen was a part of the Cornish entourage.
So Anwen found a narrow bench beneath a window which was wide enough for her to repose comfortably and spread her furs upon it. She removed the other plain gown from the sack, for the one she wore was stained from travel. As she was washing, the news swept through the big house, passed from mouth to mouth, that the King expected Cornwall at his dinner table that night.
The preparations to attend the fortress took on a hasty air for the sun was sinking.
The room where Anwen’s bench was located was within hailing distance of Igraine’s large chamber. When Igraine swept out from her room just as the sun was setting, Anwen hurried to the door to accompany her and paused.
Anwen knew the golden yellow gown Igraine intended to wear for the coronation. Its richness of thread and beads was overwhelming. The coronation was two days away, though. The blue gown Igraine wore now was simple in embellishments. A fine gold thread ran around the hem and the edges of the sleeve. The gown outlined her figure to perfection and the white belt she wore over it emphasized her trim waist. Jewelry blazed and glittered at her throat and ears, also silvery white. Her hair tumbled down between her shoulders in rich, thick waves.
Igraine glowed.
Gorlois smiled when he saw her. He wore one of the new tunics Igraine had arranged for him, and was a strong, upright figure beside her. He held out his hand and Igraine took it. “You do Cornwell proud,” he told her. “Thank you.”
Anwen fell in behind them, lifting the hem of her new gown, safe in the knowledge that no one would see her there. Igraine would draw all the attention.
They walked to the fortress, which sat high above the street, overlooking the city and the well-tilled fields which surrounded it. The air was cool, not cold. Everyone arrived with cheeks tinged pink.
Gorlois was familiar with the fortress. “Ambrosius thought he would use this place as his primary residence, once peace was established,” he said, with a wistful note.
He led Igraine and the Cornish company into a massive hall, with a vaulted roof which soared many times the height of a man overhead. Windows with colored glass shed the last of the daylight at the end of the hall, while hundreds of lamps illuminated the hall and the many tables set there.
The King’s long table was empty and would remain so until all the guests had assembled and stood waiting for the King. It seemed to Anwen that everyone was already waiting. The long table the page led them to was the only empty one in the huge hall.
Anwen found room on the bench at the end away from the King’s table, while Gorlois and Igraine sat at the end closest to the head table.
Almost as soon as they stood ready, the King arrived.
Anwen turned to watch Uther enter the hall from the private door at the back. His men filed in behind him. Merlin was the first of them, dressed in black as usual.
She had forgotten how tall Uther was, although she had not forgotten the power of his blue eyes to intimidate and draw the eye. Even from a distance, his gaze caught her attention, until she saw Steffan.
Steffan was at the end of the line of men who took their places at the table. Startled, Anwen studied him. Surely, he would not sit at the table with the King? He hated eating in public and having everyone see him finger his food like a baby. This would be torture for him.
Yet he took the last chair at the far end of the table and waited for the King to sit, then sat as everyone else was doing. Belatedly, Anwen stepped over the bench and seated herself, too.
She had been hungry on the walk to the fortress. Now she had no appetite at all. She glanced around the table as the Cornwall people reached for the loaves of bread in the center and broke them open and tore hunks from them. They were hungry.
Anwen sat opposite Igraine and at the other far corner, so she could see Igraine’s face and only the top of Gorlois’ pale red hair. Igraine sat unmoving, her gaze upon the King’s table.
Anwen glanced up and drew in a startled breath.
Uther stared at Igraine. He made no move to reach for bread, or to pick up any of the food which had been laid upon his plate first.
The hall grew still as everyone realized the King had not begun his meal and that they should wait. Heads turned.
Hectic red streaks appeared high on Igraine’s cheeks. She tore her gaze away from the King and brought it to her empty plate. Her chest rose and fell quickly, making the white necklace glitter.
A servant brought the wine flagon over to Uther and prepared to pour into the jeweled cup. Uther covered the cup and shook his head. He murmured to the servant.
The man’s eyes widened almost comically. He swallowed.
Uther waved him away. “Do as I say,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry across the silent hall.
The servant walked around the head table and came over to where Gorlois and Igraine sat. He gave a jerky bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice high and strained.
The whole room whispered and murmured in dismay and surprise.
Igraine pressed her lips together, hiding her reaction. With an infinitesimal movement, she nodded. Now her entire face was pink.
Anwen leaned forward to check Gorlois’ reaction, her heart thudding.
Gorlois said something to the servant, who nodded with alacrity. He stepped over to Gorlois’ side of the table, and filled his cup, too.
Gorlois picked up the mug and got to his feet, the bench scraping loudly in the stunned room. He turned to face Uther and raised the cup. “I toast High King Uther, who never fails to acknowledge the great friendship and regard he has for Cornwall.” He paused. “The High King.”
Everyone scrambled to their feet, reaching for cups which had not been filled, to raise them and repeat the oath, then pretend to drink.
Anwen sat down again, relief touching her. Gorlois had turned the moment and made it a compliment to Cornwall, not an insult to Cornwall’s Duke.
The crackling tension in the room lessened. Everyone waited as the servant poured wine into Uther’s cup. Uther lifted it and drank.
Sighs of relief sounded around the room.
Uther waved to the room. “Eat. All of you. I insist.”
While he sat drinking, everyone returned to their meals. Slowly, conversations began and grew louder.
Anwen’s appetite did not return. She accepted a small amount of venison and did not finish it. She sipped the wine yet did not finish that either. Her heart would not steady and slow. It swung wildly from high and fast to hard and heavy. It did not help that she only had to lift her head and look toward the end of the table, to see Steffan at the end of the other.
He was not eating, either. His face was pale, his gaze thoughtful as he sipped his wine. He did not speak to the diner beside him. He stared sightlessly ahead, alone with his thoughts.
Igraine also ate little. She drank nothing. Her cheeks had lost the slashes of color and now she was too pale. She kept her gaze upon the platter in front of her, not even looking up at her husband.
Gorlois ate steadily and mechanically. As soon as Uther got to his
feet and left, so did Gorlois. He held out his hand to his wife and swept from the room, leaving the rest of the Cornish contingent to scramble from their benches and follow.
The night air was considerably colder as they walked back to the great house. Anwen welcomed the chilly touch. Just being away from the great hall was a relief of its own.
When they reached the house, Igraine turned to look behind her. “Anwen, help me prepare for bed.”
Surprised, Anwen threaded through those who had not yet hurried for their billets to reach Igraine. “My lady.”
Igraine turned to Gorlois. “With your consent, my lord, I will retire.”
Gorlois was no longer smiling. He nodded shortly, then turned and stalked away, calling for the pot boy.
Igraine did not react to Gorlois’ dark mood. She turned, too, lifted her hems and hurried through the house, with Anwen behind her.
Anwen shut the heavy door of the inner chamber behind them and only then did Igraine release her control. She sank onto the bench beside the big bed and raised her hand to her forehead. Her hand trembled. Her deep blue eyes glittered. “Mother Mary, help me,” she murmured.
Anwen moved closer. “My lady?”
Igraine looked up at her. Her eyes glittered because tears were building there. “He has lost all sense,” she breathed.
“The King, my lady?”
Igraine pressed her fingertips into her temples. “He looked like a man driven to the edge of reason. Did you see his eyes?”
Anwen threaded her hands together. “You were closer to the King than I.”
Igraine laughed. It was a shaky sound. “Yes, and why was Cornwall so close to the King’s chair? Mabon is just as faithful, just as stalwart.” She closed her eyes. “Ah, god, Anwen, what am I to do? There will be no peace if what happened tonight happens again and peace must be kept!”
Anwen’s heart hurried. “Do you truly ask for my advice, my lady?” Her voice trembled.
Pendragon Rises Page 17