Edward must live.
Alex pressed his lips together.
“What have you done?” Rafe said softly. “I know that look of yours. You’re feeling guilty about something.”
Alex shook his head. He dropped the last pot of salve into the chest and closed it. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Alex knew he would not be able to hide this from Rafe. He hated lying to him or Sydney in any degree and this was more important than a secret birthday present. “Llewelyn and I spoke about finding a way to sue for peace between Powys and Mercia.”
Rafe’s mouth opened. Then he shut it, frowning heavily. “That’s not what happened…” he said slowly.
Alex nodded. “I know.”
“You can’t talk to the king about peace!” Rafe said. “You can’t give him ideas. How many times have Veris and Brody said that? No whispering in the ears of kings and statesmen. You run a real risk of fucking up the future!”
“Well, I did talk to him,” Alex said. He made himself say the rest. “I will continue to talk to him about peace. Emptying out Powys to continue this stupid argument with Mercia will leave the whole country wide open. The Vikings will march into Mercia unopposed.”
Rafe jumped to his feet. “They’re supposed sweep through, Alex! For heaven’s sake!” He lifted his hands in a gesture of anger and futility. “You’re not even meant to be here and now you’re trying to change established history? Did you learn nothing from what Veris and Brody and Taylor have been saying all these years?”
Alex rested his hand on the medicine chest. It hid the trembling. “I heard,” he said flatly. “And I was there in Jerusalem. I saw the outcomes.”
“Then what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Rafe cried.
“Finding peace, any way I can.”
“No! Powys lays siege to Chirbury, the Vikings raid while our backs are turned. I die. The king dies. So does Aethelfreda and her army. And so does the King of England! That’s what happened. That’s how Gronoya was established. That’s why the Herskers get to lob ballistic missiles at Iraq in the twenty-first century! You have to take it back, Alex. You have to encourage Llewelyn to go pick his fight with Aethelfreda. You have to stop this before it’s too late.”
Alex picked up the medicine chest, feeling the heavy weight of it against his belly, the corners digging into his arms. Right now, this was real. The ‘history’ that they knew was a future concept. This was the only moment that counted. Except he knew what the future moments would be. “What if this isn’t the way things were supposed to go?” he asked Rafe.
Alex could see the fear in Rafe’s eyes. This was something even the Council itself was afraid of—that vampires with their long lives could arrange history to suit themselves and by their self-centeredness, destroy the future for everyone because no one knew all the consequences of change.
“You don’t know how it’s supposed to go!” Rafe’s voice was hoarse. “We only know what did happen. You can’t, you must not change that!”
“What if we’re supposed to change it?”
Rafe swiped his hand to one side in a sharp cutting-off motion. “No. I will not go down this path of reasoning. Reasoning!” He laughed hollowly. “You’re playing with forces you don’t understand, Alex. I beg you, drop this. Let history take its course.”
Alex shook his head. “I can’t.”
Rafe crossed his arms. Even though he was naked, he had drawn the invisible aura of power around him that he habitually wore as a judge and as one of the official representatives of the Council. “Don’t make me make it an order,” he said softly.
Alex unlatched the door. “You can make it an order if you want.”
“Will it stop you?”
Alex looked at him. “No.” The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
* * * * *
Two days later, despite Alex’s best efforts, the entire fighting force of Powys was mustered at Mathrafel, to march upon Mercia. Every man capable of holding a sword or a knife was ordered to the fortress to take arms, including the king’s newly recovered scribe.
Alex was also ordered to pack his things and attend the marching army…and the king, for he had arranged to lie upon a straw bed in a cart. “I will ride like a woman if that is what it takes!” he had bellowed at Alex and the room full of captains. “Mercia will not go unpunished for the abduction of our ally’s queen!”
That had earned the approval of the entire army, who had cheered as Llewelyn was carried out to the cart that stood waiting for him.
Alex’s horse was brought for him, a snowy white stallion that reminded him sharply of the horse his father had given him as a gift on his sixteenth birthday. Among the piebald mares and stocky hill horses Powys rode, Atiya stood out like glowing neon.
Even though no one told him directly, the knowledge was there that he had brought Atiya with him on his travels from the Caliphate of Cordoba, on the Iberian Peninsula. He had been travelling for years, selling his services as a superior physician, and writing his journals and books about the lands and people he saw.
Alex patted Atiya’s nose as the stallion pushed it against his shoulder with affection. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” he murmured. Atiya nickered quietly in agreement. Alex remembered the rest of the Shakespearean quote with irony.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger. . . .
“I must become a tiger, it seems,” he told Atiya and lifted himself up onto the broad back.
The main body of the army passed through the gates of the hill fortress of Mathrafel as the sun passed behind thick banks of clouds and shadow fell over the land.
Alex was too busy looking along the sinuous line of cavalry and only peripherally noticed the pall that had fallen. He was trying to see where Rafe might be. Rafe had not spoken to him since their argument. He wondered what he might say if he were here right now. Rafe was not one to crow about victory yet in this instance, he would be justified.
Turning history in its tracks was harder than Alex had suspected it would be. It seemed as though the whole world was hell bent on rushing to its doom.
Chapter Eleven
When Sydney demonstrated a complete inability to spin, weave or sew, the conviction of the women of Aethelfreda’s household that she was a waste of air and food was locked in for good. Their condemnation was unspoken but eloquent.
Sydney didn’t care for a second, except that she was forced to share their quarters and the mattress seemed to grow thinner every night. The comb she had begged from Mave disappeared, as did other small items Sydney had acquired and that Aethelfreda and Alfwynn had given her.
It would have been relatively simple to pack some food and walk through the gates and across country to Mathrafel. She had studied maps in Aethelfreda’s chamber and already knew the way to the dyke. The guards would not stop her from leaving. Everyone knew who she was, now. Although she didn’t remember doing it, they said she had sliced open the giant who had tried to protect Rafe and that had earned her a type of respect that made both women and men step aside as she passed. If she wanted to leave, the guards on the gates would not argue with her.
However, Aethelfreda’s scout had returned with news that Powys intended to march upon Chirbury, which made it unnecessary to steal away from the town and Aethelfreda. If she stayed where she was, Rafe would come to her.
She wore her sword and long knife openly, every day, making sure they remembered who she was, for it helped smooth her days. As she had none of the requisite skills that a woman needed simply to get by, she was forced to trade on her combat skills. She had learned more about combat in the few minutes she had been forced to fight Powys than mon
ths of training and instruction had imparted. She felt comfortable using the small amount of expertise she had acquired as leverage in any way she could.
She also adopted the split gunna and undershirt that Mave had designed for her, asking for and receiving a second set of the military style clothing. She wore them every day, leaving off only the heavy mail jerkin. It further differentiated her in the eyes of the town.
Aethelfreda and Alfwynn included her in their war sessions with their senior advisors, which included Wulfstan and the army captains, so she was privy to any intelligence that Aethelfreda received about the approaching Powys fighters.
“Llewelyn marches even though he cannot yet walk,” Alfwynn told her. “He is reaping the anger of his army while it is fresh. We will need to brace ourselves.”
The town was preparing for battle. Men hunted daily and the meat was dressed and salted down for long term storage. The summer crops growing outside the walls were harvested early and most of it put to drying for storage. The palisade fence that surrounded Chirbury was checked for soundness and the brush cleared a full bow-shot from the walls.
The smith forges were kept bellowing all day and night as they worked to produce more arrows, more swords, more spears and more knives and helmets. Carpenters hewed wood and produced shields. Women made bandages and sewed iron rings to leather hauberks.
Hundreds of barrels of water were carted from the river and stored, too.
“You’re preparing for siege,” Sydney pointed out, shivering at the idea of it.
“Siege?” Alfwynn repeated, sounding puzzled.
“It’s a French word,” Wulfstan said, surprising Sydney, for he had shown no great education before now. “Sege,” he repeated. “To be locked in, surrounded for a long time.”
“It is a good word to describe such a condition. However, I have no intention of being held behind my own walls,” Aethelfreda said firmly. “When Powys arrives outside our gates we will be in a position of strength behind these walls and we will use that strength to strike back.”
“And the hostages?” Sydney asked, for the queen of Brycheiniog had been sitting at Aethelfreda’s supper table, too. She was a wan, silent woman.
“They are Brycheiniog,” Wulfstan said. “Powys does not march here because we stole another king’s kin.”
“It is the reason Llewelyn will give,” Sydney said.
“A reason that serves a purpose, that is all,” Aethelfreda replied. “We could release them this very night. It would not halt Llewelyn.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked Sydney up and down. “Your appearance is not that of a woman of my household, Sunngifu.”
“That is because the women of your household have gone to great lengths to ensure she cannot maintain a suitable appearance, Lady Mother,” Alfwynn said.
Sydney looked at her, startled. She had not spoken about the petty thievery to anyone.
Alfwynn rolled her eyes. “I withstood their company for not much longer than you have. I am wise to their secret and spiteful ways.”
Aethelfreda sighed. “Arrange something, Alfwynn. I do not want to be troubled by domestic squabbles. Not now.”
Alfwynn’s arrangement was to move Sydney into the small house Alfwynn was residing in while her mother stayed in Chirbury. A more properly filled straw mattress was installed upon a sleeping shelf in the front room and furs and covers added, along with a plump pillow.
“You will be my personal guard,” Alfwynn told Sydney, “except for when my mother has need of you.”
The first night Sydney slept upon the flat, hard shelf was utter luxury. She passed into sleep inside a single breath and didn’t move the entire night.
After that, Sydney dedicated herself to practicing her sword craft with the soldiers in the square each morning, attending Aethelfreda and Alfwynn as needed…and waiting for Powys and for Rafe to arrive.
* * * * *
The second day of travel passed without incident and camp was struck only six miles away from the dyke and the Mercian border. The pace was slow because there were so many of them and some were on foot.
Alex attended Llewelyn as the campfires were lit and good cooking smells wafted over the campsite, as the last of the weak sunlight faded. “It looks like bad weather coming up,” he said, looking up at the clouds.
“You are a prophet as well as a physician,” Llewelyn growled. He had to be in pain, for the bumping of the cart over every little rut and stone was putting stress on the stitches holding his leg together.
“I am prophetic enough to know that if you do not halt for a day and rest, you will lose this leg,” Alex told him firmly. “Look at the redness there and there.” He pointed at the inflammation raising the flesh around the stitches. “The stitches have been strained and those are just the ones I can see.”
Llewelyn hissed as Alex applied a warm poultice and re-wrapped the wound. “The heat will help draw out any toxins,” Alex told him. “If you would only give it a day of rest to do so.”
“Enough, Arab,” Llewelyn growled. “You seek only to slow my arrival in Mercia. My decision is made.”
“What is this?” Siorus said sharply, for he was standing by, watching Alex’s ministrations. “Why would he want to slow us down?”
Alex shook his head. “I would have preferred we not leave Mathrafel at all. Yet now we have, so the matter is closed.”
“Not leave at all?” Siorus repeated. “You mean, not fight?” Outrage tinged his voice.
“That is my meaning,” Alex said carefully.
“The learned physician is of the opinion that the Northmen of Dublin will rush to conquer us the minute I turn my back,” Llewelyn said. His voice was strained. He was tired and in pain and trying hard not to show any weaknesses to his men. “He would have me make peace with Aethelfreda and look to the west for invaders, instead.”
Siorus snorted. “They’re too busy fishing and praying to their endless parade of gods.”
“Not according to the good healer,” Llewelyn said dryly.
Siorus glared at him.
Alex sighed. “Not that it makes any difference now, but I believe two years of famine and disease will make them desperate enough to cross the straits once they know Llewelyn and his entire army are in Mercia.”
“Deheubarth stands between Powys and the coast,” Siorus pointed out. “They are strong allies.”
“Not strong enough,” Alex said. He didn’t expand on it. His attempt to change Llewelyn’s mind had failed, so he had nothing to lose now by speaking the truth. He also didn’t need to try and convince anyone, either.
He packed up his chest once more and made his way across the camp to where he had staked out his own small sleeping space. Atiya was cropping grass close by and the cart that carried his supplies had been left beside the fire for him. This would be a quiet night for him, a lull before the frantic work of dealing with war wounded.
Because he had spent years wandering the deserts with nomadic tribes, he knew how to take care of himself while travelling. In these green and lush valleys, he knew how to stay dry and comfortable while others suffered from cold and hunger. He was looking forward to some hours of solitude, to be alone with his thoughts.
Rafe was waiting by his camp fire, his arms folded, his head down as he kicked at the stones surrounding the firewood.
Alex’s heart gave a quick jump. “Rhys, your wound troubles you?” he asked when he drew closer. There were too many men sitting and lying within earshot to be able to speak freely.
“I was hoping you would come with me. There’s someone in need of your services.”
Alex put the chest back on the cart. “They cannot come to me?”
“No,” Rafe said flatly. “It’s…they’re not with the army.”
Alex looked at him. As the army physician, he should settle by his fire and dismiss Rafe. Yet this was an opportunity to talk to him, one that Rafe had not offered in three long days.
“What are the injuries?” Alex asked, opening the
chest. “So I know what to pack,” he added.
“He…lost a hand.”
Alex hesitated. The most common reason someone lost a hand was thievery.
“Please, Alex,” Rafe said softly.
Alex nodded. He tossed supplies into the chest on top of the tools that stayed in there permanently and picked it up again. “Show me the way,” he said.
Rafe moved away from the camp, into the night and the sounds of an army at rest dwindled behind them. The night was cool yet not uncomfortably so. There was a breeze higher up, moving the trees to soft whispers and that would keep the mist away until later.
They walked in silence until the camp was far behind.
“Is there anyone at all that needs my attention?” Alex asked at last. It would be like Rafe to use an excuse to speak to him. His pride often stopped him from more direct action.
“There is,” Rafe said briefly.
“You were wandering far from the camp to find them way out here.”
“I was hunting,” Rafe said. “His blood drew me.”
Alex nodded. That made sense except for one thing. “You shouldn’t need to hunt at all,” he said. “Veris and Taylor are feeding you blood, keeping the fever at bay.”
“I needed the distraction,” Rafe said flatly.
Alex didn’t know what to say to that. They kept moving along the side of the valley they were in, as it curved to the north. He looked up at the stars wheeling overhead and found the familiar patterns and arrangements. These were the same stars he had studied in his youth, two hundred years in the future from this moment. They were the same stars he could find if he looked up at the night sky in Los Angeles, too. Their familiarity was comforting, in this strange world he found himself in.
“It is very quiet here,” he remarked. “No animals moving through the trees, no night birds.”
“The army has scared everything away,” Rafe said. “It will return to normal once we move on.” He pointed. “There it is.”
There was a pin prick of light ahead, that spoke of humans. The light grew brighter as they drew closer. It was jumping and flickering. A fire, then, not a lamp.
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