“What do you know of it, outlander?” Morgause spat back. Igierne lifted a hand in protest, and Morgause bit back her next words. She had grown unaccustomed to self-control.
Hæthwæge gazed back at her, unfazed, and Morgause glared. She had been raised to think of the Saxon kind as enemy, and found Hæthwæge’s name and race alike disturbing, but Igierne had welcomed her, and in truth, the old woman who had helped to raise the child-king of Cantuware had knowledge they could use.
“I was not happy when the time came for me to give up Eormenric to the care of men—it still seems to me that seven is too young,” Hæthwæge said then. “But it is true that a child needs the teaching of both male and female to grow. Let Medraut’s father take him if he needs a stronger hand.”
There was a short, charged silence.
“His father is the high king. . . .” Through clenched teeth Morgause got out the words.
“Ah—and he is your brother. . . .” Hæthwæge nodded. “I know that the Christians are not understanding about such things.”
For a moment longer Morgause stared at her. Then she began, rather helplessly, to laugh. Weathered and bent like an old elder tree, Hæthwæge played the role of a simple village wisewoman very well, but Morgause could see past the mask. If the wicce had made light of the danger, it was on purpose, to comfort her.
She was trying to think of a polite rejoinder when there was a knock at the door. In the next moment it swung open and they saw Verica, one of the young priestesses who had been set to guard Medraut.
“He’s gone!”
Morgause felt suddenly cold.
“Did he harm Cunovinda?” asked Igierne.
“Oh Vinda is just fine—unless you call a broken heart a wound,” Verica said bitterly. “I left her guarding a locked door, and when I returned it was open and she was crying her eyes out because he had persuaded her to open it and then left her!”
It could have been worse, thought Morgause numbly. He could have taken the girl with him, and then killed or abandoned her. Who knew what Medraut might do?
“He is beyond your reach, daughter,” Igierne said then, and Hæthwæge added, “He will make his own wyrd now. . . .”
“That is so, but this child’s wyrd could shake a kingdom,” said Igierne.
Morgause nodded. What that fate might be she dared not imagine, but she knew where he was going, and for the first time in her life, felt pity for Artor.
The high king of Britannia sat in his chair of state to receive the ambassadors. The basilica at Calleva would have been more impressive, or the one in Londinium, but the long chamber that had once been the pride of the commander of the fort at Isca had been restored when he rebuilt the town’s defenses. The walls bore no frescoes, but they had been newly whitewashed, with a bright band of geometric designs painted along the top and bottom, and there were touches of gilding on the columns that ran down the nave. The cloaks of the chieftains and princes who had crowded inside, chequered and banded or bright with embroidery, made a vivid spectacle. Artor had been in Castra Legionis for a little over a month, long enough for everyone in the area who had a petition or a grievance to travel here.
But for this audience Artor had chosen to wear the full panoply of an emperor, and the length of time it had been since the previous occasion was marked by the difficulty they had in finding a jewel-sewn mantle in a shade that would match the deep green tunic, with its orphreys and apparels of gold woven brocade. That had been when they made peace with King Icel, said Betiver when Artor tried to remember. Then, thought the king as he tried to shift position without dislodging the stiff folds of the mantle, he had wanted to impress barbarians. Today his purpose was to appear as an heir of Rome’s imperium before other heirs of Rome.
Artor felt Betiver stir nervously in his place behind the chair and turned his head to smile reassuringly.
“I should have been the one to welcome him,” muttered the younger man. “But I didn’t know what to say. Christ! It’s been more than twenty years!”
Twenty years ago, Betiver had been an awestruck boy and Artor himself just learning to wield the power of a king, and now the child who had been left with him to seal an alliance was one of the supports of his kingdom.
“He is your father,” Artor said aloud. “He will forgive. It is I who should earn his wrath for keeping you here—”
Then the great double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and men moved aside to clear an aisle as the embassy from Gallia marched in.
Johannes Rutilius seemed smaller than Artor remembered, worn by the years. For the men of Gallia, as for Britannia, those years had been filled by fighting. Rutilius walked with a limp now, and there was abundant silver in his hair. But he still stood erect, and the only change in his expression came when he realized who the warrior standing behind Artor must be.
But the formal Latin greetings did not falter, nor did Artor’s welcome.
“Is your lord in good health?” he asked. “He must be ripe in years.”
Rutilius sighed as he sank into the chair they brought for him. “He is old indeed, and not much time is left to him. Hence this embassy. When I came before, we offered you alliance. Now I come to ask for the help you swore to give. Riothamus is dying, my lord, but Chlodovechus of the Franks is in the flower of his age, seeking to extend the Frankish lands in the north, while Alaric II leads the Visigoths of Tolosa against us in the south.
“The only son of Riothamus, Daniel Dremrud, was killed some years ago, fighting in the German lands. My lord’s grandsons intrigue against each other—” He cast a tired glance at a dark young man who stood glowering among the warriors who had escorted him into the hall.
“Budic, there, is one of them. Five years ago, he and his brother Maxentius attacked Civitas Aquilonia in the south of Armorica, to which they had a claim from their mother’s father. Now Budic’s brother has expelled him in turn. He hopes you will give him an army with which to take it back again.”
“Then Riothamus is not asking my support for Budic as his heir?” asked Artor.
“We are Romans,” Rutilius said simply: “And the Empire has always prospered when we sought heirs not of the body but of the spirit. Well, I know that it is so—does not my own son cleave to you before his own kin?”
He looked past Artor to Betiver, who flushed painfully, but he was smiling. He gestured towards Artor’s mantle. “And I see that you, my lord, also hold to the spirit of Rome—so you will understand.”
“What?” Artor said into the silence. “What does he wish of me?”
“You will make up your own mind whether to give aid to Budic in Aquilonia—but Riothamus judges neither of his grandsons of the stature to defend Gallia. The Emperor of the East is far away, and an Ostrogoth rules in Rome. The last strength of the West lies here, lord, in Britannia, where you have driven out the wild Irish and set the Saxon beneath your heel. What will your soldiers do now?”
There was a little stir among the watching warriors as Rutilius looked around.
“Bring them to Gallia, princeps, and Riothamus will make you his heir. Your fame is great in Armorica, and the grandsons of the men who followed Maximian will flock to your standard. Come to our aid, my lord Artor, and we will make you Emperor!”
The old dream reborn! Struggling to keep his face impassive, Artor sat back in his chair, the ghosts of Magnentius and Maximian, who had led the legions of Britannia to fight for the Empire, whispering in his ear. Constantine himself had been acclaimed in Eboracum before marching south to his destiny. Aegidius and his son Syagrius had tried to restore the Western Empire in Gallia, but without the resources of Britannia they could not endure. His foster-father Caius Turpilius had brought him up on these tales.
But with the power of Britannia and the blessing of Riothamus behind him, Artor might well succeed where no other man could. He had already succeeded in uniting Britannia, which neither Vitalinus nor Ambrosius nor Uthir had been able to do. Was it for this that he had been
healed of his injury? He blinked, dazzled at the prospect. Oh, what a noble dream!
“My lord?” said a voice close by, and Artor forced his attention to the present once more.
“This is . . . an unexpected . . . offer,” he managed to say. “It will require careful thought and discussion.”
“Of course,” answered Rutilius.
“You are my guest, and have scarcely tasted our hospitality,” the king said in a more normal tone. “Let Betiver be my deputy, and do his duty to both of us in arranging for your lodging. Budic shall be our guest as well. Whatever the future may hold, I am still king in Britannia, and there are men waiting whose petitions I must hear.”
Medraut ran his hand up the kitchen girl’s leg beneath her skirts and pulled her back to the bed. “One more kiss—don’t waste it. Once we reach the court you may never see me again.”
“Let me go, you silly boy—I’ll be late—” she protested, but she was laughing, and when he held her down and kissed her, she sighed and melted against him.
It was his turn to laugh, then, as a single smooth movement brought him off the bed and upright. He crossed to the basin he had made her bring to the room, and began to wash. It was little more than a cubbyhole, with a single pallet that would hold two people only if they were very friendly. But if Medraut had not had a knack for gaining what the Irish liked to call the “friendship of the thighs,” he would not have been here.
He remembered, with momentary regret, the young priestess who had helped him to escape from the Isle of Maidens. Her kisses had been shy but sweet; it was too bad he had not had the time to take her maidenhead. To seduce one of the girls whose virginity his mother—the hypocrite—was guarding would have been a satisfactory first step to his revenge.
“You are mad,” said the kitchen girl, who still lay on the bed with her skirts rucked up about her thighs. “The high king does not hand out places at his court to every nameless wanderer. Even the lord Goriat served for two seasons in the kitchen.”
“Oh, I have a name,” answered Medraut, “though I have not shared it with you.” In truth, he had already forgotten hers. “But Goriat will no doubt remember you. Bring me to him, and you will have done all I require.”
“Oh, you are a proud one!” she exclaimed, lifting her chin with a mocking sniff. “I will bring you to my lord, and see how far you fly when he throws you out the door!”
Ignoring her, Medraut went to his pack and pulled out the garments he had carried all the way from Dun Eidyn. At the flare of crimson silk, the girl fell silent, her eyes widening as he pulled on breeches of finely woven brown wool and shoes of tooled calfskin whose laces criss-crossed up his calves. The silk unrolled into a tunic, ornamented at shoulders and hem with bands embroidered with silver thread. From the folds of his chequered mantle he pulled a silver torc, and twisting, slid it around his neck, pulled a comb through his dark auburn hair and picked up the mantle.
“Who are you?” breathed the girl.
“Take me to Goriat, and you may learn—” Medraut gave her a sardonic smile. “If you remember what I told you to say. . . .”
During the time it took for her to lead him from the cubbyhole in the old barracks through the narrow lanes of the fortress to the wide porch before the audience hall he refused to say another word.
He had learned that Gualchmai was newly wedded, and away on his wife’s lands in the south, and Aggarban still on sick leave. That did not matter. It was Goriat who would be most likely to recognize him, and who must stand, however reluctantly, his ally. He had no difficulty recognizing him, standing with Gwyhir in the midst of laughing warriors, for his brothers overtopped most of the other men by a head.
Only the court and its servants could enter. He had to depend on the girl to make her way through the men to Goriat. He saw his brother turn, frowning. Medraut grinned. He had told the girl to say a message had come for “Dandelion,” Goriat’s baby-name, but he gave it in the dialect of the north. In another moment both of his brothers were pushing through the crowd.
“It’s the brat!” exclaimed Goriat, staring at Medraut. Then he looked anxiously around him. “Where’s Mother?”
“With the holy bitches at the Lake, rump aimed at the moon and nose in the dust, muttering sorceries. . . .”
“Oh . . . my . . . mother’s baby boy has fled the nest indeed!” breathed Gwyhir. “I thought that you at least would stay with her in Dun Eidyn!”
“I thought she would have married you off to a Pictish princess by now,” said Goriat. “That’s what she tried to do to me!”
He blinked at the venom in Medraut’s answering glare, but it was quickly quenched. There was no way, he thought, that Goriat could know about Kea.
“I do hope that Gualchmai was not expecting to stand on the Votadini coronation stone—” he said aloud. “Cunobelinus rules there now, and even for Leudonus’ son I do not think he will give it up again.”
“And Mother did not fight it? She simply walked away?” repeated Gwyhir in amazement. “Has she gone mad?”
Medraut shrugged. When, he wondered, had Morgause ever been sane?
“I have come south to seek my fortune with the rest of you,” he said then. “They say that our mother’s brother is throned on high in yonder hall. Will not one of you escort me there and make the introductions?”
***
The messenger from Dun Breatann had been speaking for some time. Artor focused his attention with an effort as a change in the man’s voice heralded a conclusion. “And so, it is the request of my master Ridarchus that the high king journey to confer with him on this matter—”
What matter? Artor had been thinking of Gallia and had scarcely heard. The Irish—that was it—the king of the Dal Riadans had offered alliance. He cleared his throat and straightened.
“I will consider Ridarchus’ request, but it is my judgment that the men of Eriu will lie quiet at least until next spring. I will come, but I must consider the needs of the rest of Britannia before I decide on when.”
That was a tactful answer that would not bind him, but it was true. Even if he decided to accept Riothamus’ offer, he must spend some time settling things here before he could leave. Perhaps Betiver could lead a token force to Gallia. . . .
The man from Dun Breatann bowed and backed away. The crowd stirred, and he saw the fair heads of Goriat and Gwyhir moving above the others like swans on a stream.
“My lord uncle!” called Gwyhir. “We have brought a new recruit to your service!”
Another man was with them—no, a boy just beginning his growth spurt, with dark red hair. Artor caught the gleam of a silver torc, but the features were a blur. His heart pounded suddenly, as if he had come upon an enemy unaware.
“The last of my mother’s sons has come south to join us,” added Goriat heartily. “Here is Medraut, lord king. Will you welcome him?”
Artor stared down at the boy’s bent head. He had recognized him already, without yet understanding. But how had the time passed so quickly? This boy was almost grown! Medraut did not resemble his brothers, though there was the promise of height in those long bones. But as he began to get up, the king suppressed an instinctive recoil, for in that fine-boned face he saw Morgause. He wondered if his sister had told her son the truth about his parentage.
“Is it your wish to serve me, boy?” His voice sounded harsh in his own ears.
“You shall be as a father to me . . .” answered Medraut, and smiled.
II
A CIRCLE OF KINGS
A.D. 503
THE PLAIN STRETCHED AWAY TO A GREY LINE OF HILLS, A NEW layer of green grass poking through last year’s trampled straw. Medraut’s mare jerked at the rein, reaching for a bite, and he hauled up her head. Since joining Artor’s court the previous autumn he had gotten a lot more practice in riding. Even in winter the high king moved often, and his household went with him. Medraut found these southern lands fair and fat, with their thick woods and fertile fields, but to one accust
omed to the harsh vistas of the north, their very luxuriance felt confining.
From Castra Legionis they had travelled south to Dumnonia, and then to Camalot for the Midwinter holy days. He wished they could have stayed there, for Artor’s queen had been kind to him. Guendivar’s golden beauty reminded him of his lost Kea. But perhaps it was just as well they did not stay long, he thought then. She might not have been so friendly if someone had told her he was Artor’s son.
If so, he had only himself to blame, he thought ruefully. Or perhaps his brothers—when they persisted in treating him as if he were still a child there had been a stupid argument, and he had retorted that of them all, only he and Gualchmai could truly say who their fathers had been. They had only agreed to keep silent on the matter after tempers had cooled, but someone must have overheard. He could tell by the way people looked at him, afterward.
He would not make that mistake again, he told himself, shifting in the saddle. And yet perhaps it was just as well, if Artor was going to acknowledge him, that the news did not come as a complete surprise.
They had finished the winter in Londinium, and now they were on their way north once more. But the straightest way to Alba would have been to follow the old Roman road to Lindum, through the Anglian lands. Instead, the royal party had turned west through Calleva to Sorviodunum before taking the track that led north to this plain, the largest expanse of open land in Britannia.
Medraut shivered. It was cold here, with nothing to break the wind. Even at high summer, he suspected, that wind would blow. Now, a week after the Feast of the Resurrection, the wind probed the weave of his cloak with chill fingers and whispered like a restless soul.
Ahead he could see the first of the barrows that marched across the plain. Perhaps that was why the thought had come to him. He grimaced. His mother would have welcomed the ghosts, avid and smiling. His . . . father . . . riding near the head of the line, sat his big black horse easily, his watchful gaze revealing no emotion at all.
The Hallowed Isle Book Four Page 2