by Anna Elliott
The procession of men moved slowly on. Owain of Powys. Madoc of Gwynedd. Owain’s face was composed and grave. Madoc’s eyes were reddened, as though he had indeed wept for his king. The king of Gwynedd’s dark, ugly face looked more angry than sorrowful, though. Madoc, she thought, is not a man to submit easily to feeling, even grief.
Huel. Marche, moving slowly as though the old wound pained him, dark head bowed. And then Isolde’s blood ran suddenly cold. She looked quickly up and down the line of petty kings and nobles, then scanned the group again, but the figure she sought was not there.
Coel of Rhegged had not after all come to bury his king.
Even as the realization struck, a touch on Isolde’s arm made her turn. She noted automatically the blue boar on the man’s tunic, but his first words banished every other thought.
“My lady, will you come to Lord Coel? He’s been taken badly ill.”
COEL HAD BEEN HOUSED IN AN upper floor of Tintagel’s guest lodgings, a long, narrow room, the walls hung with tapestries, the air thick, now, with a fug of sickness and the heat of the fire blazing in the hearth. Isolde had gone first to her workroom for her medicine scrip, and now, as she stood in the doorway, she had an impression of many people crowded round the great carved bed in the room’s dim light.
Father Nenian was one, his tonsured head bowed, his lips moving as though in silent prayer, while at the foot of the bed Coel’s son Huel stood rigid, his narrow face a twisted mask of worry. And—Isolde stiffened. And Marche was there as well, standing beside Huel, one hand on the younger man’s arm.
Isolde saw Huel look up sharply as she entered the room, and Marche’s hand tighten its grip on the other man, but her gaze was fixed on the figure that lay on the bed amid a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. Coel looked smaller, Isolde thought, the strong frame suddenly fragile. His eyes were clenched shut and his face was chalky white. He was curled tight on his side, and his hands gripped the edge of the sheet so tightly that the bones showed white beneath the stretched skin. His teeth were gritted and bared, and Isolde knew he was trying to fight back a scream or groan.
Almost before Isolde realized she had moved, she was beside the bed and taking one of the clenched hands. Coel’s fingers felt clammy, the beating of blood through the wrist a fever-fast, unsteady thread, and his head was twisting violently on the pillow, as though he was trying to break free of the pain. At her touch, his eyes flew open and stared at her, though without a trace of recognition in their gaze.
Instinctively, she put a hand on his forehead.
“Be easy. It’s all right. You’re safe, my lord Coel.”
The words were almost meaningless in this place of certain death, but they seemed to bring Coel a moment’s peace, for his body relaxed a little. Keeping her hand on his brow, Isolde went on, speaking in a low, soothing murmur as she’d done countless times while sitting at other sickbeds. Then, slowly, Coel’s gaze cleared, his eyes fixing with a kind of desperate urgency on Isolde’s face. Isolde broke off, and for a long moment, the golden hawk’s eyes held hers. Coel’s lips moved, and Isolde swiftly bent her head to his. But she—or he—was too late. Before he could gather strength enough to speak, a spasm shook him and his face twisted, his eyes sliding closed.
For a moment he lay still, the breath coming in little puffs through the gray, flaccid lips, his every muscle gone suddenly limp, mercifully freed, now, from pain. But Isolde had seen death too often to doubt what would follow. She sat still, Coel’s cold hand still in hers, until she heard a harsh rattle deep in the sick man’s throat, followed by a small, soft sigh.
Coel of Rhegged was gone.
For a long moment after Coel’s breathing stopped, the room was utterly silent. Then, in a low, shaken voice, Father Nenian began the prayer for the dead.
“Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions. Shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings. Make—”
And like shattering glass, the stillness broke, the room coming to life in a flurry of movement and sound. Isolde was only peripherally aware of Huel, flinging himself toward his father with an anguished cry; of Marche, stopping him with a restraining hand; of Father Nenian, making the sign of the cross above Coel’s forehead as he continued his prayer. She found she was shaking, the blood drumming in her ears as she stared at Coel’s death-smoothed face, the lined cheeks pathetically fallen in on what she could see now were nearly toothless gums.
A warrior, she thought. A king. A man of honor and pride. And he was brought here, to die like this.
She had still the memory of Coel’s last look, etched bright in her mind in that moment when sheer strength of will had forced open his eyes and allowed him momentary awareness in spite of both fever and pain. And she knew, as clearly as though Coel had spoken aloud, that he had been willing her to remember his last words as they’d stood together on the headland.
If anything should happen to me before I can prove the accusation before the council, I would not carry what I have learned with me to the grave.
The memory steadied her, clearing the boiling mist from before her gaze, and she became aware that a man she’d not noticed before—a plump, black-bearded man with soft white hands—was speaking in a hushed tone, edged slightly by fear, to Marche and Huel.
“All his food was tasted, my lords, before ever it touched his lips. The death must have been caused by exposure to the rain this morning. I saw my Lord Coel was ill, and I much feared…”
He must, Isolde thought, be Coel’s physician. Though the words prove nothing but that the man either is ignorant or has been bribed by Marche to hold his tongue.
She had seen the ring of white flesh, like burn marks, about Coel’s mouth, and she was certain—as certain as she’d been when Nest told her of Branwen’s death—that Coel had been poisoned by Marche’s will, if not actually by his hand.
Isolde stared down at the dead man’s face, the burned, gaping lips open, as though still struggling for air. She was remembering Coel, raising the medicine flask to his lips while they’d talked on the headland, grimacing as he swallowed the draft down. Add poison to his medicine, she thought, and Coel would never have known—the herbs’ bitterness would have masked the taste.
Slowly, she turned away and rose. She had no proof that could be brought before the king’s council. Any more than Coel himself had possessed proof of Marche’s alliance with Octa of Kent.
Huel still stood between the physician and Marche. The physician was still speaking, though Isolde doubted whether Huel understood or even heard the words. His brown eyes were dazed; his face was a taut white mask.
“My lord Huel,” she said quietly, “I am more grieved than I can say for your loss. I wish that I could have done more.”
Slowly, still as though he scarcely heard, Huel’s ravaged face turned to her, his look for a moment utterly blank. “Done more,” he repeated. He moistened dry lips. “Done more.” And then, suddenly, something like rage kindled in the dull brown eyes. “You can say that, when—”
But Marche stopped him with a hand on the younger man’s arm, the grasp hard enough to make Huel draw in a sharp breath.
“I must beg you to excuse us, Lady Isolde.” Marche’s voice was quiet, the tone calm. “We must prepare for tonight’s meeting of the council. Grieve though we do for Coel, we have still to choose a king.”
Isolde felt suddenly sick, and she had to clench her hands hard to keep from striking out at the coarse, handsome face before her. She nodded. “I assure you, Lord Marche, I have not forgotten. I will be there.”
ISOLDE DUCKED HER HEAD AND STEPPED through the low doorway and into the prison cell. Cyn still lay amid the filthy straw like a sleeping child. But she thought that this time the bearded prisoner must have expected her, for though his head lifted at her entrance, he remained seated, arms crossed on his chest, his legs stretched out before him.
The blue eyes flicked over her in a look that ended at her hands, empty save for the burning lantern. “No food this time.
”
“No.”
Isolde waited, but he said nothing more, only watched her in silence, until she said abruptly, “Is there a name I can call you by?”
The prisoner shifted position, eyes still on her face. “Any reason I should tell you?”
Isolde set the lantern on the floor and took a step more into the room. “No,” she said. “None at all. But then there’s no reason, either, why you shouldn’t.”
He gave a harsh cough, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then said, “Nifaran. That will do.”
“Nifaran.” Isolde knew enough of the Saxon tongue to recognize the word. “Stranger,” she thought, or maybe “traveler.” But not a name. She judged, though, that it was as much of an answer as she was likely to get. “I asked because I’ve a bargain to put to you, and I’d rather treat with someone whose name I know.”
“A bargain?” He shifted position again, mouth tightening as the movement stretched the lash marks on his back. “I thought we’d had all that before. Just what do you think you can offer me? Thinking of letting me go free?” Then, as Isolde made no reply, he said, “No. You might feed us, might even set Cyn’s wrists. But you’d not risk that.”
“And you think I’d expect better if I fell into Saxon hands? Or if our places here and now were changed?”
The man opposite didn’t respond. His face and voice were almost expressionless, but all the same Isolde was abruptly aware of how alone they were. Of the thickness of the walls, and the strength of the hands that rested on the man’s knees.
Despite his anger, she’d liked him for the way he’d spoken to Cyn the day before, and she’d not, until now, been afraid. But it came to her suddenly that she knew nothing whatever of him, save that he bore the brand of slavery on his neck. That he had every reason to hate her as one of those who kept him prisoned here. And that he’d killed the boy who lay now at their feet.
She pushed the flicker of uneasiness aside. If she was to win his help, she’d have to believe that her inclination to trust him was justified. There’d at least been honest grief in his face when he’d looked down at Cyn. And she supposed there was honor, of a kind, in the way he’d dealt with the boy.
She drew a breath and said, more quietly, “Risk has nothing to do with letting you free. You and Cyn were spies, sent to carry back word of our defenses to the Saxon command. I may—I do—grieve for Cyn. But we stand on opposite sides of a war. And letting you go would leave Britain’s forces open to a death blow from the side you serve.”
The man Nifaran studied her, the anger fading, to be replaced by the look of something like appraisal she’d seen the day before.
“And if I told you,” he said finally, “that you were right in what you guessed before? That I was Briton-born and had no loyalty to the Saxon side save services bought and paid?”
Isolde’s eyes went first to the scar on Nifaran’s neck, then to the mutilated fingers of his left hand. “You could tell me that,” she said. “And is there any reason I should believe you spoke true?”
He gave another short, humorless laugh, the sound more bitter than angry. He turned away.
“None. As you’re probably about to point out, even a slave can decide where his loyalties lie.” He paused. Then: “All right, what is it you want to offer me?”
Isolde wondered, for an instant, whether she was correct in her assessment of his character. She could think of other offers she might make an imprisoned man: food, blankets, warmer clothes. Even the shriving of a priest, if he was a believer in Christ. She had simply to hope that the bargaining piece she’d decided on for this man would be right. “A decent soldier’s burial,” she said, “for Cyn.”
Instantly, the anger was back, cold, now, and iron-hard. “So you’re going to ask me to bargain for burial of the friend I’ve just killed?”
“No.” Isolde met his gaze and said, her voice quiet, “No, I’m not asking that. I would do my best to ensure a decent burial for Cyn in any case—and whatever you decide. But knowing that, I would ask from you—” She stopped, lifting one shoulder. “You can call it a favor, if you wish.”
“A favor.” Absently, he picked up a strand of straw from the floor, twisting it into a quick knot and rolling it idly between his fingers. “Of what kind?”
“The answer to a question. Nothing more.”
There was another pause while the silence stretched between them like strands of hot glass. Then Nifaran jerked his head in a curt nod. Whether he was still angry, Isolde couldn’t tell, but at last he said, “Ask.”
Isolde let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “All right. My question is about Lord Marche. He—”
What stopped her was not movement on the man Nifaran’s part, but rather that utter stillness, of breath and body both, that she’d seen before. Nifaran didn’t speak, though, and after a moment she went on.
“I’ve heard a report that Marche was seeking alliance with the Saxons. That he was in the process of exchanging messengers with Octa of Kent.”
As she spoke, Isolde had the impression first of surprise, then of a faint slackening of tension in her companion’s frame, as though he’d expected something else altogether. Then he frowned.
“And you want to know…?”
“I want to know whether you’ve any knowledge that could prove the report either false or true.”
Nifaran was silent, frowning. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No. I’ve heard nothing—not even a whisper.”
“Would you have heard?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe not. Depends on how skilled the messengers were at avoiding being seen.”
Isolde nodded, pushing away a wave of black defeat. It was never more than a chance, she thought. A slight chance, at best.
“There’s nothing more, then, you can tell me?”
She thought Nifaran was about to refuse. But then his gaze fell on Cyn’s body, lying in the straw at their feet. A shadow of something passed across his face, and he frowned again, picking up a handful of straw and jerking the strands apart with quick, thoughtless twists.
“It could be,” he said at last. “Octa has faced and fought down war with Cerdic of Wessex—and a few of the petty kings who turned their coats and came to Cerdic’s aid when he took up arms. It’s left Octa in a weaker position than he’d like. And now this latest loss at Dimilioc—he may well feel it wiser to seek peace rather than war.”
Nifaran stopped, still staring at Cyn, but the slanted brows were drawn—as though, Isolde thought, his thoughts followed some inward track of their own. Then he tossed the straw impatiently away and looked up. “There’s nothing else I can tell you.” His voice was flat. “And you can believe me or not, as you choose. But I know nothing of what Lord Marche may plan.”
“MY LORDS.” MARCHE ROSE FROM HIS place and turned to face the council hall. He was dressed in the embroidered tunic and fur-lined cloak he had worn on the previous night, but now he wore a heavy gold torque about his neck and the thick gold fillet about his brow that marked him for Cornwall’s king. He paused, drawing the room’s attention to himself, waiting for the babble of men’s voices to die away. Isolde, watching, felt cold crawl the length of her spine.
Coel may not have carried his knowledge to the grave, she thought. But he might as well have done. I doubt there is one man present here who would not take Marche’s word over mine.
In the courtyard outside, the men-at-arms were sparring with staffs and calling out wagers on another dogfight; she could hear the snarls and baying of the hounds, punctuated by an occasional high yelp of pain. Isolde turned, her gaze sweeping over the council hall, and wondered whether she only imagined a change in the group’s mood tonight.
She had sat throughout the feasting, forcing herself to eat of the roasted meat, to sip at the cup of hot spiced wine one of the serving women poured. But she had seen, throughout, several of the men turn toward her, faces watchful and taut, then look from her to the empty place bes
ide Huel of Rhegged, where Coel had sat until today.
“My lords,” Marche went on, “as we gather tonight to mourn our lord King Constantine, we cannot help but mourn the loss of another of our number as well, and honor his memory and his name. As you will already know, King Coel lies dead.”
Again Isolde caught a stir of sullen, half-angry mutters from the men on both sides of the hall, and again she saw several faces turn toward her.
“But those of us who knew Coel—who fought at his side and knew his devotion to Britain and his king—will know that he would not want grief for him to blunt our purpose here. He spoke to us last night of the need to draw together, to let the victory won at Dimilioc be only the first of the heights to which the dragon of Britain may rise.”
The words were spoken in a resonant battlefield cry that echoed to the rafters of the long, narrow hall. Shrewdly done, she thought, on Marche’s part. Without seeming to, he had called into every mind the battle so recently won—reminded all those who lined the benches of who had led the charge that had made Dimilioc a victory for Britain.
Isolde’s eyes moved from the rows of painted shields that hung on the wall to the men about her, their faces shadowed, beards gleaming in the light from the torches above. The air was thick with the smell of them—oiled leather and ale and unwashed bodies and sweat—and the hall felt suddenly heavy, the timbered walls thrumming with a tale as old as Tintagel’s stones. A memory of countless battles fought and countless men who had once lined the benches here falling and dying on the points of Saxon swords.
And I wonder, she thought, whether the day at Dimilioc would have ended the same if Marche had not been the man he is. If Marche had not been the kind of man who can watch his own murder victim die in agony—and then speak, a few hours later, of honoring his name—would he have led that final charge that won us the field?
Marche had gone on, lowering his voice slightly, his dark eyes sweeping the room. “Last night we heard two viewpoints raised, arguments—valid claims—made on both sides. My lord Madoc of Gwynedd spoke out against Britain’s need of a High King.”