Kiss Across Kingdoms

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Moi?” Brody asked, touching his fingers to his chest.

  Taylor moved up to the front of the van and leaned through the seats. “We still have to deal with the Council, don’t forget.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Veris said. “Someone is going to have to break the news to Rafe that his beloved house has burned down.”

  Brody nodded. “You can do that. This was all your idea, anyway.”

  * * * * *

  Llewelyn’s soldiers were subdued, going quietly about their morning ablutions with minimal talk, as Alex walked around the camp to where Llewelyn’s cart was sitting. Alex brought his medical chest with him, for Llewelyn would need his dressings changed and the wound checked after four days of travel.

  There were a lot of side glances sent his way as he walked. It was a measure of how quickly word had spread of his attempts to persuade their king that a contest between champions was a better way to decide who was the stronger army than war itself. They had been keyed up to fight a battle that had not happened.

  Alex did not concern himself with the temper of the men. That was for Llewelyn to worry about and deal with.

  As he passed the small group of household retinue that Rafe usually camped among, he glanced at them. Rafe was not there. Nor was his horse tethered to the rope line there.

  Alex puzzled over his absence. There had been plenty of time for him to return to the camp before sunrise and creep back in among them and settle down as if he had been there all night.

  Perhaps the king had sent for him. If so, why was his horse not here?

  He would have to ask after him, once he had seen to the king. He could say he was concerned about the stomach wound Rafe had received in the last battle and wanted to check upon him.

  The king was sitting propped up against the wheel of the cart, his injured leg jutting out in front of him. An awning had been tied to the high side of the cart itself and was held up at the front with two spears. It protected Llewelyn from the damp and rain. Furs and cushions added more comfort and two fires in front of the shelter provided warmth.

  Rafe was not there, but there was no time to go looking for him now, even though doubt gnawed at Alex. Instead, he waited until Llewelyn beckoned, then ducked under the awning and moved to the king’s side.

  “Your negotiations worked?” Llewelyn asked as he raised himself off his butt and shifted to find a more comfortable position. “This ground is an unforgiving bed. I ache from the armpits down.”

  “You will surely be seated upon a cushion this afternoon, my lord,” Alex told him as he unwrapped the bandages. “The Lady agreed to almost all the terms.”

  “Almost all?”

  “She wants three champions put forward for each side. Three champions and three fights. She says that the greater spectacle will subdue the bloodthirst of the soldiers.”

  “She may be right,” Llewelyn said thoughtfully. “Three stages of combat will let them think that the honor of the kingdom has been upheld with suitable effort.”

  Alex was happy with the way the wound was responding. “In a day or two, you will be able to sit upon a horse,” he told him. “As long as that is all you do.”

  “No carving up the enemy while I am seated upon said horse?” Llewelyn asked him. Then he laughed. “If you get your way, there will be no need for carving.”

  Alex held his tongue. Everyone of this time thought the Vikings were harmless, because it had been three generations since they had last raided. The idea of Vikings invading England itself did not even occur to them. “Peace would be restored, yes,” he made himself say in agreement, instead.

  “And the stakes of these games,” Llewelyn continued. “What are hers?”

  “An apology for the death of her abbot.”

  “Of course,” Llewelyn said impatiently. “I’ll have the fools who killed him sent to her in irons to do what she will with them. What else?”

  “If Mercia wins the games, you are to present yourself to her brother, the high king, and swear allegiance.”

  Llewelyn sobered. “Aye, that would be a natural demand, I suppose,” he said slowly. “It would not sit well with the men to subjugate myself to an English king.”

  “She said allegiance, my lord. Not fealty or loyalty. And what harm is there in an alliance with the strongest force in England?”

  “Oh, I understand the benefits well enough.” He sighed. “If these games stop me from slaughtering the high king’s sister, he could be an ally in truth. Besides, we have to lose the games first. Better to lose a game than my head in battle.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way, my lord.”

  “And she accepted my stakes?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Return of the hostages? Payment of debts incurred? Safe passage back to Powys?”

  “All the terms, my lord, including the promise to ally herself with your forces if the Northmen should ever attack Powys.”

  Llewelyn shook his head. “That was not one of the terms I asked for.”

  “I asked for it, my lord,” Alex said as calmly as he could. “I thought it was important.”

  “You and no other man in this land,” the king replied dismissively.

  Alex looked around. “Where are your captains, my lord? Siorus always likes to watch what I do, at least.”

  “Because he does not trust you,” Llewelyn said shortly. “I sent him back to Mathrafel. He does not believe these games you have devised will properly settle matters between Powys and Mercia. He would rather have a nice, bloody war instead. It was better than he remain behind than infect the other captains with his doubts. If these games are to satisfy the men, what is in their hearts and minds is as important as the outcome of three simple matches.”

  It was an astute observation.

  Alex focused upon the fact that Siorus had been dismissed from the king’s presence and sent back home in disgrace. Siorus would not like that at all.

  And Rafe was missing.

  Were the two connected?

  He realized that he was sitting on his knees, staring at nothing, while his mind whirled and that the king was looking at him expectantly. He stirred and closed the medical chest. “Have you decided who your three champions are to be?” he asked.

  The king smiled. “Indeed I have.”

  * * * * *

  Rafe came to with a groan and felt the bumping and trembling of floorboards beneath him. The creaking of wood and leather and weak sunlight on his face told him he was in an open cart that was moving.

  He had been unconscious far more frequently than he liked, lately. He was no longer used to sleeping so losing awareness in any way was disconcerting.

  At least the blow that stole his consciousness could do no harm. Alex always scoffed at the TV shows and movies that used a blow to the back of the head as if it was as safe as anesthetic. Too hard a blow could easily cause a human permanent damage.

  He opened his eyes a fraction at a time, trying to figure out his situation before letting any potential enemies know he was awake.

  “I heard your heart speed up,” came the drawl. “I know you’re awake. You can stop pretending.”

  Rafe opened his eyes. His hands were tied with rope. Lots of it. Too much of it for him to tear the strands apart.

  Siorus was walking his big stallion alongside the cart and from the angle and position of the sun, Rafe knew they were heading west, or slightly north of west.

  “Where are you taking me?” Rafe demanded.

  “Back to Mathrafel,” Siorus said. “The king has no need of my services now your physician friend has become his trusted advisor. I warned you, didn’t I, about interfering in the natural affairs of humans?”

  Rafe sat up. His head no longer hurt, although there was dried blood on the neck of his tunic. He looked around. Behind them was the high mound of Offa’s Dyke. They had crossed into Powys already.

  There were two other men, both far ahead of the cart and the boy who was leading
the horse that drew it.

  “You’re taking me back to Mathrafel out of spite?” Rafe asked.

  “I’m taking you back to where the Vikings will strike first and hardest. If your friend has any sense at all, he will do nothing to prevent this. The Vikings will burn this land from neck to knees and plunder the soul out of it while he and the king dance attendance upon the Lady’s whims. Or he can come and get you, and let the king battle the Lady instead.”

  Rafe smiled, even though he didn’t feel like smiling. “If you think Alexander will come for me, you’re sadly mistaken.” He made himself halt there. Alex was too focused upon making the two kingdoms find peace. He would not come looking for him because he would figure that Rafe could look after himself.

  Rafe looked down at his bound hands. He was doing a bang-up job of that right now.

  Siorus shook his head. “I know what lies between the two of you. I could smell it and see it in your eyes. You hide it from humans, but I know he will come for you.”

  Rafe didn’t bother repeating himself with a second denial. He studied Siorus instead. “How do you know the Vikings are going to invade?” he said.

  Siorus laughed. “When Alexander first mentioned Northmen to Llewelyn, it startled me. The Vikings haven’t invaded England in over fifty years. It’s as if humans have forgotten they are just over the straits, multiplying and biding their time. And here was a simple physician, speaking words that might have been plucked from my own mind.”

  “You didn’t say you thought they might attack,” Rafe said. “You said they were going to attack. You know the time and place.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Gods! You know. Are you working with them?”

  Siorus’ eyes narrowed. “You are far too astute for your own good.”

  Rafe stared at him. “Why?” he breathed.

  “For reasons that would surpass your understanding.”

  “Try me,” Rafe demanded.

  Siorus’ eyes narrowed. “An odd turn of phrase,” he said. His horse plodded on for nearly a dozen more steps before he spoke again. “If someone is powerful enough, they can consider themselves invulnerable. Yet there are ways to strike back, even through time itself.”

  Rafe stared at him. “Revenge,” he murmured. “Wait, you speak of time….” He looked about one more time for eavesdroppers and his gaze settled on the boy leading the horse that was drawing the cart.

  “Ban cannot speak, nor can he hear,” Siorus said lazily. He seemed amused by Rafe’s concerns.

  Rafe settled his back against the wooden palings that made up the side of the cart and studied Siorus. The man was not Welsh, although his Greek heritage gave him almost the right coloring to pass as one. Rafe remembered Siorus from when he had first lived through this time. He had never revealed himself as a vampire and he had “died” in the war when the Vikings invaded and took England for themselves.

  So why was Siorus speaking so frankly now, beside the fact he thought he was taking Rafe back to Mathrafel where the Vikings would first strike and would thereby eliminate a messy problem for Siorus?

  “Are you…a traveler?” Rafe asked him carefully.

  “We are travelling, are we not?” Siorus was still amused.

  “You speak of reaching through time to exact revenge. You’re not speaking of the past, of the days that have gone by. You’re speaking of…of the future.” It made him feel slightly dizzy to even say it aloud. Only among a handful of people had he ever spoken of time jumping. The risk he was taking now made his guts shift uneasily.

  Siorus didn’t look puzzled. The future was a concept he was familiar with, then.

  Rafe’s heart sank. “You’re a jumper, too,” he said softly. “You’re changing events that you remember from when you lived through these days before, just to get even with someone in the future. You want the changes you make to hurt them in some way.”

  Siorus’ amusement faded. “You know nothing, scribe. It is of no matter. Very soon, you will be dead.” He moved his horse forward. The conversation was apparently at an end.

  “How soon?” Rafe demanded, sitting up and shouting after him.

  Siorus didn’t answer.

  Rafe settled back against the wall of the cart, staring at Siorus as he moved ahead. “Very soon” was worrying. He remembered the Vikings invading a month from now, only after Llewelyn had laid siege to Chirbury and had been camped outside its main gates for weeks.

  How much had Siorus changed history already? How much would Alex change?

  How close were the Vikings to landing?

  Chapter Eighteen

  At noon the next day, the people of Chirbury were drawn to the town square by the ringing of the church bell. They filtered into the square and amassed on the edges of it. The center had been cleared and a barrier made of heavy tree branches resting on barrels kept the spectators out of the tournament area.

  A group of pipers and drummers were heralding the start of the games, the heavy, slow beat of their drums beckoning everyone.

  At the same time, the gates were thrown open and Llewelyn and his army entered the town, walking down the length of the main street that was lined with Wulfstan’s men and into the square. Llewelyn sat upon the only horse given entry, his injured leg thrust out in front of him.

  At the east end of the square, farthest away from the main street, was a series of awnings protecting chairs and benches. Aethelfreda’s senior advisors sat beneath the shade cloth with Aethelfreda in the center of them on her grand iron chair. Another chair of similar stature was sitting next to her.

  Llewelyn was offered the chair and with the help of his men, he dismounted and hopped over to it. He nodded his thanks to Aethelfreda before sitting upon the thick cushion, settling into it with a sigh.

  Even Alfwynn was in attendance, sitting in a smaller chair beside her mother, a cushion at her back. She was pale and spoke barely above a whisper and her mother would occasionally grip her hand and squeeze it.

  Sydney stood by Alfwynn’s shoulder, between her and her mother. She wore the full mail jerkin under her gunna, and her sword and her long knife in her belts. This was the position Aethelfreda had demanded she take during the games, when she had beckoned Sydney to her side after the breakfast meal. She was to protect both of them if violence broke out. “Which it may well do if the decision reached by these games is not to the liking of the men,” Aethelfreda added dryly.

  Sydney agreed with the Lady that it might go that way and had gathered all her weapons. She even tucked a knife into the top of her boot, just in case.

  For now, it seemed that every soldier in the square was merely curious to see how this odd arrangement would work. They were armed, yet they were laughing among themselves, jostling for the best viewing positions and calling out to the other army, with insults and jests. The soldiers of Powys spoke English well enough to be understood and the verbal one-upmanship continued until Wulfstan stepped into the center of the cleared area and held up his hands.

  The drums fell silent. So did the people watching him.

  “We gather today to settle grievances between our two kingdoms, by the matching of three champions apiece. The side with the greater number of wins will be determined the stronger of the two and their demands will be honored by the loser.”

  There was a great deal of murmuring among the audience. Many of the townsfolk and soldiers were hearing this for the first time. In a world where battle was the only way they knew to settle issues between kingdoms and countries, a formalized and limited combat to determine the outcome would be a startling idea.

  Sydney heard very few negative notes in the whispers around her. Good.

  She scanned the concentration of Powys fighters standing on the other side of the square. Somewhere among them would be Alex and Rafe, although she had spotted neither of them yet. She wondered if Alex would approve of the formality of the start of the games. He had suggested limited combat, while Aethelfreda had filled in the plan with pageantry, to help everyone fee
l that justice had been done.

  Wulfstan waited for the mutters to die down. “To win a match, a warrior must fell his opponent so that he does not get up again. A warrior can also choose to yield.”

  Sydney wondered if anyone would yield. On a battlefield, no one watched anyone else fight, for they were too busy fighting for themselves. Here in this square, every move would be observed and analyzed. To yield too quickly would bring shame upon the warrior and dishonor upon their army and leader. They would be motivated to fight as hard as they could.

  Not for the first time, she admired Alex’s idea of settling this dispute with games. It seemed simple on the surface yet there were subtleties she was only beginning to understand.

  “For the first match, warriors step forward.”

  On the left side of the square in relation to where Sydney was standing, the timbers were lifted off the barrels and a Mercian soldier moved through into the square. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing full battle gear, including the helmet. Sydney didn’t know him, but she had listened to Aethelfreda’s strategizing that morning and knew that the first champion was a man called Wilheard. Wilheard was reputed to be the strongest man in the Lady’s army and a good fighter. Dogged and determined.

  Wilheard swung his sword experimentally, a smile on his face. The blade swished through the air and an atavistic shiver rippled over the crowd. A soft sigh went up from dozens of mouths.

  From the other side of the square, the pole was raised and a Powys soldier stepped through. Like most of Powys, he wore no helmet. His mail shirt hung to his knees with the split in the middle. He wore leather armguards and no other armor or protection.

  As he entered, he raised his hands, his sword in one of them. A cheer went up from the watching Powys fighters. Llewelyn laughed. “Gethin has been looking forward to demonstrating his superiority with a sword,” he told Aethelfreda.

  “His grave will be no bigger than normal, I assure you,” Aethelfreda replied tartly.

  Llewelyn laughed even more loudly and drank from the cup of wine he had been handed. He was enjoying himself immensely.