by Anna Elliott
Whatever lies I may make men like Hunno and Erbin believe.
“MY LADY.”
The voice at her side made Isolde turn, heart pounding as before, afraid that Hunno and his companion had returned and heard what she and Myrddin had said. But the man who stood beside her wore the dark robes of priesthood, and his face was still flushed with outside cold, his eyes watering from the wind.
Isolde caught the rich, sultry scent of incense and holy oil that clung always about his robes, and, as always, the scent clutched at the back of her throat. She swallowed, though, and waited while Father Nenian hesitated, then, looking from the coffin to Isolde’s face, said, “I am sorry, lady, for your loss. Trust and believe that my lord king your husband is safe in the arms of Christ. He watches over you from Heaven.”
Isolde’s eyes moved to the altar, with its cross of gold. Sight and memory she had lost seven years ago. Given them up of her own free will. But faith—that she’d not lost until later. Four years ago.
She’d heard many times the tales of the fort the Old Ones had built in this place, long before Tintagel’s walls had risen over its remains. The story of how the gods they had worshipped—the small gods vanished now into the mists and caves and hollow hills—had demanded the sacrifice of a child before they would allow the fortress walls to stand.
And those gods, Isolde thought, those gods I might believe in. Or at least understand.
But Father Nenian had meant to be kind. He was middle-aged, with a round, mild face and pale hazel eyes that looked always a little surprised, his crest of fine dark hair turning to gray at the temples and standing up on his tonsured head. A good man, with the simple, bright faith of a child.
And so Isolde only nodded and said gently, “I thank you, Father. I know my husband would be glad now to lie in your care.”
“In God’s care, lady.”
Isolde’s eyes moved again to the altar. Despite the voices, she’d never once felt any sense that the dead yet lived somewhere—much less that any were with her still. She shivered, unsure which was worse. To believe that the dead were swallowed by blackness, vanishing to nothing. Or that they were trapped somewhere like flies in amber, endlessly repeating their stories to the wind.
But she’d never want to shake Father Nenian’s faith, and so she said only, “Did you wish to speak with me, Father?”
Father Nenian hesitated, lowering his pale, kind eyes. “I thought…I thought that it would be well, my lady, if you were not seen to be alone here for too long. There are rumors—”
He stopped.
“Rumors?” Isolde repeated.
Father Nenian fingered the rope belt of his robe. “Yes, rumors. Lies, of course,” he added quickly. “Not worth repeating. But all the same, I—”
“You may as well tell me what the rumors are, Father. You do me no favors if you lie to spare me pain.” Isolde paused. “And I will almost certainly have heard them before.”
Father Nenian let out his breath slowly, then nodded, though the mild eyes were still troubled. “I suppose so, my lady. Very well. You know that when Arthur died, it was whispered that it was through sorcery—witchcraft—that he met his end. Well, now that the young king here has also been cut down, there are those who say…”
“That he died by sorcery, as well?”
“Lies, of course—all of it.” The priest rubbed his nose. “One must have patience with the superstitions and beliefs that continue to abound here. It will take time to win the common folk over—the ones who pray at the altar here, but still light the sacred fires at Beltain for the Horned One and the Goddess.” He sighed. “Or come to Mass, and then go to pour milk and wine over the standing stones on the moor. Or—”
Isolde scarcely heard him. Con meeting his death through sorcery, she thought. That might almost be funny.
With an effort she said, “Thank you, Father, for telling me. And for coming here to guard against further tales. That was kind.”
Father Nenian bowed his head. “Of course, lady.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “And if there’s anything…any comfort I can offer you…”
He trailed off. Then: “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve not come to a confessional in some time.”
“No,” Isolde said quietly. “I have not.”
Father Nenian seemed about to say more, then apparently changed his mind, and said, instead, “I was asked to bring a message to you, Lady Isolde, if I should find you here.”
Isolde stiffened. “A message? From whom does this message come?”
“The message was from my lord Marche, lady. He asks an audience with you straightaway.”
Isolde had known what the answer would be, and so she felt no surprise—nothing but a slow, cold chill. She said, in the same quiet voice, “Thank you, Father. At present I must return to my duties among the wounded. If Lord Marche wishes speech with me, he may find me there.”
WHEN THE PRIEST HAD GONE, ISOLDE found she was shaking with a cold that had nothing to do with the damp, mist-filled air, and she had to press her eyes shut to block the memory that threatened once again. The memory of a darkened war tent, partially lighted by the orange glow of a fire outside the goatskin walls. And a man lying on a narrow camp bed, his eyes closed, his breathing even and deep.
At last, though, the shaking ceased, and Isolde opened her eyes. Reaching out, she lifted Con’s right hand. The stiffness of death had come and gone, and the hand lay limp and cold in hers, the flesh of the palm rough, callused by years of wielding sword and spear and shield. Taking out the golden serpent ring, she slipped it onto Con’s third finger once more. I wonder, she thought, whether I will now hear Con’s voice, too, when the wind blows from the west.
Very gently, she reached to smooth the strands of soft brown hair away from Con’s brow. “A blessing go with you on your journey, Con. Wherever you are.”
The hollow silence seemed to draw in around her, and her whisper was scarcely more than a breath of sound in the vaulted shadows. “And I won’t let him seize the throne. That I promise you, by whatever power I once had.”
Chapter Three
THE ROOM THAT HAD ONCE been the king’s ceremonial audience hall was hot and close, the sound of the sea blotted out by the thick, windowless walls and the groans from men who lay in rows of straw pallets on the floor. Isolde stood in the doorway a moment, consciously locking all thoughts of Myrddin—and of Con—away.
She had been in many rooms like this one these last seven years. Converted fire halls, stables, even chapels or leather-sewn tents pegged into bare ground, from the hill forts of the north to the grass marshes of the summer land. And everywhere, whatever the place, the smells and the sights were the same. The thick, iron-sweet tang of blood, the stench of wounds gone bad, and the pale, sweat-streaked faces of soldiers tossing and turning on beds of dirty straw.
Since the Roman Eagles had turned their backs on the British Isle, the Saxon armies had raided and burned, raped and ravaged the land, and pressed on ever farther in from the eastern shores. And through it all the Britons had fought. Led by Ambrosius, led by Uther, led by Arthur, and lately by Con. Britons had fought and died in battlefield mud—and carried the wounded away to be healed in places like these, or to die all the same.
This room was long and narrow, lit by torches held to the wall by iron brackets, the air faintly acrid with the smoke of a fire used to heat water and cauterizing knives. Two rows of pallets for the wounded stretched on either side of a central aisle. And I suppose we are lucky this time, Isolde thought. This time the battle was less than a day’s ride away, so the wounded could be carried here, where the water at least is clean. And we have only one man to a bed instead of two or three.
As Isolde entered, a girl at the far end of the room straightened from where she was bending over one of the men. Isolde threaded her way through the pallets to her side.
“Hedda. You needn’t have come in to help today,” she said. “After riding in so late last night.”<
br />
Hedda shook her head. She was a tall, broad-framed girl, her face heavy and plain-featured beneath the straight flaxen hair, with pale brows and pale blue eyes fringed by almost colorless lashes.
“It’s…all right, lady. I come.”
Isolde could vividly remember the time when Hedda had been brought to court by a band of Con’s fighting men, manacled and chained by the neck to the other prisoners from a raid on the Saxon borderlands. Hedda had been the youngest, and the only girl among the boys and men. A tall, heavy-built, fair-haired girl of fourteen or so—almost the same age as Isolde herself had been. Her skirts had been torn and blood-stained, her mouth slack and half open, her eyes dull and without a shadow of interest in what went on all around.
Isolde had known it would be pointless to beg freedom, or even mercy, for the captured men. But she had asked that Hedda be given to her as serving maid, and Con had agreed. Isolde could guess, from the sly whispers among the fighting men who’d brought the prisoners in, what had happened on that raid and on the march to the fortress where Con had camped for the winter months. But she had never known Hedda to speak of it, any more than she had known her to cry in all the years she’d served her as maid—and ridden out with the army, too, like many of the women slaves, who served as cooks and washerwomen to the soldiers on campaign.
Isolde had seen Hedda only briefly since she’d returned from this latest offensive at Dimilioc. There’d been just time to tell her of the meeting with Myrddin—though not the reason she’d summoned him—and so now Isolde lowered her voice and said, “It’s all right, Hedda.”
Hedda stared at Isolde a moment with something of the look Isolde remembered from years before, the blue eyes blank, her face showing nothing but stolid calm. The look had long since won her the reputation among the other serving women of being slow-witted and dull. That and her failure, even after all the years she’d served at court, to master fully the British tongue.
At last, though, Hedda bowed her head. Her voice, when she answered, was marked strongly with the Saxon accent, but the words were as quiet as Isolde’s own. “I glad, my lady.”
Isolde hesitated, but she couldn’t risk saying any more here, in the open space of the hall, surrounded by men who had served Con and the rest of the chieftains and petty kings. With a nod, she turned away and moved toward a pallet near the end of the row, where an old man lay, one bandaged foot stiffly extended from the blanket that covered the rest of his thin frame.
Ector was a wiry, bandy-legged man, his limbs twisted by rheumatism, his shoulders bowed and his muscles stringy with age. He’d fought as a soldier under the Pendragon’s banner, but now, unable any longer to wield a sword, he served—had served—as armorer under Con, riding out with the army to care for the men’s weaponry, oiling and sharpening swords, refitting shafts of broken spears. He’d been wounded, not in battle but by chance when the sword he’d been sharpening had slipped from his grasp and sliced across the arch of his left foot. A slight injury, but amid the filth and muck of battle it had festered and turned bad.
He’d been carried into the infirmary two days ago, cursing and swearing loudly that he’d allow no damn fool of a woman to tend his wounds, queen or no. Now, as Isolde approached the pallet where he lay, he gave her a single, furious glance from under heavy, graying brows and then turned his face away, his lips set in an angry line.
Isolde knelt and unfastened the wrappings on the wounded foot. She’d bathed the wound morning and night with seawater, and had tried garlic and honey and hot poultices of goldenseal on it, as well, but even before the final layer of bandages fell away, she could smell the stench of rotting flesh, tainted by poison that none of her treatments could draw off. And when the injury was revealed, she saw that the skin around the cut was oozing wet and green, turning to black at the edges.
“The wound’s still not healing.”
She’d spoken more to herself than to Ector, but the old man’s head snapped up and he gave her another fierce glare from under his brows.
“Suppose I can see that for myself, can’t I? And smell it, too. God, what a stink.”
He had a dour, wizened face, sunken cheeks and a narrow chin running into a wrinkled neck, his hair gray, greasy, and sparse with age. His eyes were small and dark and furious now, but Isolde saw, too, the shadow of anxiety in their depths. He’d have seen countless wounds like these end in the loss of the foot—or even the whole leg. And at the very least, she thought, seeing the lines that bracketed his thin mouth, the injury must be causing him a good deal of pain.
So she said only, her voice mild, “Yes, well, I’m a good deal closer to it than you are, you know.”
Ector’s heavy brows drew together. “And I’ve got to lie here and smell it day in and day out. Don’t talk to me about whether it’s healing or no. I’m here so you can do something about it, not stand there jawing at me.”
Isolde nodded slowly. “All right. There’s one thing I’ve not yet tried.”
Ector lay in rigid silence, arms folded, while Isolde sorted through the jars and pots in her scrip, but when she drew out the glass jar she’d selected, he jerked out, “And what in hell’s that, then?”
Through the walls of the jar a mass of wriggling white bodies could be seen.
“Maggots,” Isolde said crisply.
Ector’s brows shot up. “Maggots? Jesus bloody Christ! You think you’re going to put maggots in my foot?” And then, before Isolde could reply: “Right, then, I’m off.”
He sat up, swinging his legs out from under the blanket only to stop abruptly as he caught sight of his own naked, spindly lower limbs. The filthy leather breeches he’d been wearing when he’d come in had been cut away so that they could be drawn as painlessly as possible over the wound.
Isolde nodded. “Yes. You’ll give the rest of the men in here quite a show if you get up and walk out that way.”
Ector swore savagely under his breath, then set his lips together and hitched the blanket around his narrow hips, his jaw hardening to keep back a grunt of pain as he struggled to get his good foot under him.
“Breeches or no, I’m leaving.” He spoke without looking at Isolde. “Between infection and your treatment, I’ll take the infection every time…my lady.” He fairly spat the final words.
Isolde’s brows lifted. “You know, I could just take you outside and slit your throat like a horse that’s broken its leg, if you’re so set on dying. It would be a cleaner death than having your body rot from the bottom up. And we could stop wasting food and drink on you a good bit sooner that way.”
Ector’s head came up once more, every muscle stiff with rage. Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed, and a faint, unwilling twitch of a smile touched the corners of his mouth.
He grunted. “Have a devil of a mess to clean up afterwards if you do, lass. Man or horse, a cut throat makes for a wicked lot of blood.” He was silent, studying her speculatively, then he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position on the bed of straw. “All right,” he said at last. “Maybe I’ll not go just yet. But just tell me why in blazing hell you’d put a lot of filthy crawling worms on my foot.”
“To help it heal. I’ve used them before in cases like yours—though usually they’re already in the wound, and all I’ve had to do is leave them in. They’ll eat the rotting flesh away and stop the poison spreading any farther than it has.”
For another long moment Ector stared at her in silence. Then, still without speaking, he turned and vomited, quietly and neatly, into the slop pot by his bed. But when his shoulders had stopped heaving, he raised his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get on with it if it’s to be done.”
“DOES THAT HURT?” ISOLDE ASKED, A short while later.
Ector lowered the cup of beer she’d given him to wash out his mouth and looked at her over the rim, brows raised. “Wasn’t feeling exactly champion to begin with, now, was it?” But he sighed, then, and set
the cup down. “Feels a bit twitchy-like,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders. “That’s all. With the little buggers crawlin’ around in there.”
“Good.” Isolde started to rewrap the linen bandages on the wounded foot, and Ector, after a moment’s pause, turned to the boy on the pallet next to his.
“Your first battle, was it, lad?”
Isolde looked up, her hands going momentarily still. Ector’s voice had been casual, but she doubted the question was as idly put as it sounded. She’d been watching the young man who lay beside Ector for several days; he was a slight foot soldier of fifteen or sixteen, with hair nearly as fair as a Saxon’s. He’d been one of the youngest of Con’s band of fighting men, and he’d taken an arrow in the upper arm during the battle most recently won. The shaft had penetrated deep into the muscle, and it had taken two of his fellow soldiers to pull the head free before he’d been brought in from the battlefield. Now, though, the wound was mending well, the flesh knitting together without infection, and he seemed in no great pain.
But where the other men in the infirmary—those who were able—talked and shouted to one another across the aisles, telling ribald jokes and reliving battles fought and won, this young man hardly spoke at all. Instead he lay with a white, strained face, his eyes fixed and staring at the raftered ceiling. Isolde had seldom seen him drift off to sleep on his own, and he took the poppy-drafts she offered him at night eagerly. But several times, now, he’d woken himself and the rest of the room with shrill, frantic screams, even dosed with the drug as he’d been.
Now, as the boy turned to look at Ector in response to the older man’s question, he blinked a moment, as though returning from a long way off. Then he jerked his head in agreement. “That’s right.”
Ector nodded. “Thought so. Can always tell.” He studied the boy’s face, then asked, “What’s your name, lad?”