But always at the back of his mind was the thought that he had sent his wife away — and now she was in Eriu, where battles between the Laigin tribes were raging.
He locked his hands behind his back. He'd been praying for weeks to all the gods of Britain both old and new for word from Yseult, but none had answered.
He was inspecting a showy bay when Alun rejoined him, leading the dappled mare.
Alun shook his head reproachfully. "You could have gotten a much better price for her, you know."
"Yes, I know. But I couldn't take advantage of that man's desperation. And you have to admit she's a beauty. Just last year I would have paid more for her, even haggling."
"That's true too," Alun said grudgingly. "But what are we to do if you ever fall on hard times?"
"Avoid horse fairs?"
"Or send someone else."
Cador smiled dutifully, glancing back at the dappled mare. There was a nearly silver sheen to her coat that reminded him of Yseult's moon-bright eyes. With arched neck and aristocratic look and silver-white mane, the mare would make a striking mount for Yseult.
If she ever returned to him.
He worried about her safety, yes, but he also worried that the reason he'd heard nothing was because she was debating whether to come back. He'd sent her away, after all — and he was a fool for doing it. Despite the kiss he'd witnessed and Yseult's letter to Gawain, in the year of their marriage he had grown used to her company. With her gone, there was a gaping hole in his life. No, more than that: he realized now that he still hoped she would one day learn to love him. He was not asking for the kind of love he felt for her, a love that could lie forgotten for years and be rekindled in an unguarded moment of pain. If she could learn to love him the way he loved the land, as somewhere she went for comfort, that would be enough. Yes, deep down he wanted passion, but on a day-to-day basis there were many times during their year of marriage that had come close to being perfect moments, something he could not remember experiencing before. At the end of the day when they would listen to the songs and tales of a traveling bard; or when she would help him with the accounts; or as he consulted quietly with Alun while she wrote a missive to Kustennin or Brangwyn — and then he would glance her way and see her sitting there next to the fire, her long, pale-blond hair unbound and falling over her shoulder, while the flames lent it flickering glints of red and orange, as if the moon had borrowed color from the sun.
At the mere thought, his heart constricted. Whether she loved him or not, he wanted her with him. Perhaps his love for her would be enough.
He should write again — perhaps his first letter had not made it to Dun Ailinne. As soon as he reached the decision, he felt better. It was not in his nature to be proud and stubborn. He would apologize for the way he'd reacted when he found her writing Gawain — she had wanted to explain, and he hadn't allowed it. But instead of running off to her lover as he'd expected, she had gone to her mother.
"There's a likely stallion," Alun said beside him. "If a bit temperamental," he added as the beast snorted and kicked at a potential buyer.
Cador gazed at the handsome chestnut and shook his head. "Temper can be a good thing in a war horse, but not meanness. In the space of an afternoon, we can hardly determine which it is. Not worth the risk."
"That dun gelding has a sweet step. But you're not in the market for geldings at the moment, are you?"
"We need breeders right now, mostly mares. When and if Arthur goes to Gaul to keep Chlodovech from overrunning Armorica, he'll take a large number of our able-bodied war horses with him."
"Too bad," Alun said, gazing longingly at the gelding that had caught his eye.
"I'd like to find a stallion with the right temperament and good bones, but that's not as important," Cador said as they wandered between the many examples of fine horseflesh being offered for sale. "The stallions we have already are enough to service the mares."
Alun stopped and pointed. "Look at that black."
Cador turned in the direction his steward indicated. It was a stallion, and he had just claimed they were lower on his list of priorities. But what a stallion — with a coat of that rare shade of black that glistened almost blue in the sun, not red or brown, as was usually the case with blacks.
He drew in his breath. "I think this horse deserves closer inspection."
Together they wound their way through people and animals to join the crowd gathered around the black. "There will be no special deal to be had for this one," Cador murmured.
"What do you care for deals?" Alun replied. "Seeing as you paid much more than necessary for the mare."
Cador chuckled as he watched the owner put the black through his paces. "A horse like that could sire mounts Cai would go down on his knees for to have in Arthur's cavalry."
"Perhaps another stallion is important?"
"Perhaps it is." Cador knew he would never be the expert in horseflesh that Cai was, but over the years he had developed an eye and a feel for it, and he was sure Arthur's Master of Horse would agree with him on this beast. He felt a smile tug the corners of his lips despite all the worries that plagued him. This young stallion would be a pleasure to own and train.
"Trust the King of the Durotriges to have cast his eye on the most impressive animal at the whole fair," came a voice behind him.
Cador turned to see his neighbor to the east, Natanleod, king of the Atrebates in Calleva. Just behind him stood Cerdic, who ruled on the Island of Vectis with his Saxon wife — and who had sided with the Saxons all those years ago at the battle of Caer Baddon.
Cador nodded shortly. "Yes, you come too late; the stallion is taken."
The owner's eyes widened, but he didn't protest. It would not do to refuse to sell to his king. Cador was not happy with himself for using his position to get what he wanted, but neither did he intend to get into a bidding war with Natanleod, or, Gods forbid, Cerdic. He didn't know what kind of foolishness that might cause him to commit.
"Unfortunate," Cerdic said with his winning smile. "But then, you always had a talent for being in the right place at the right time, did you not, Cador?"
"Do you think so?" In the nearly fifteen years since the battle of Caer Baddon, he'd seen Cerdic less than half-a-dozen times, and those only since his daughter's marriage to Natanleod's son. He didn't trust the alliance, and he wasn't the only one.
Cerdic chuckled. "All Britain is asking itself how you won the hand of the Ice Queen of Dumnonia. Did you not know?"
Cador forced a smile to his face. "No, I had not heard. It must be because my friends have no reason to taunt me with such stupid speculations — and no one dares call Yseult that in my hearing. And now, Cerdic, Natanleod, I hope you will excuse us. We have business to discuss with the owner of this black."
"Certainly," Natanleod said, looking uncomfortable. Good for him. Even though he was associating with Saxons and Saxon-lovers, at least he still had the good grace to be embarrassed.
But Cerdic refused to take a hint. "We will be in Durnovaria for the duration of the horse fair. Perhaps you would be inclined to meet in a tavern for a round of wine or ale?"
Luckily, Cador was saved from the need to answer by a commotion at the edge the fair, accompanied by calls that sounded like, "The king! The king!"
The King of the Durotriges and the King of the Atrebates exchanged an amused glance — whichever king was on his way to the horse fair, he was apparently more important than either of them.
Cador turned towards the commotion, suddenly realizing what that meant. Kustennin, King of all Dumnonia. It had to be. There was no reason for Kustennin to be in Durnovaria now — unless he had news he wanted to bring Cador personally.
Yseult. News from Eriu would reach Caer Leon faster than Durnovaria. Cador found himself clenching his hands behind his back as the young king and his honor guard came into view, masses of people and horses melting away as they rode hard in Cador's direction, at a pace faster than was normally practicable in suc
h a crowd.
The news was urgent.
Kustennin pulled up next to them and dismounted, the bronze locks he had from his father glinting in the high summer sun. With his youthful good looks and the height he had from his mother, he dominated the scene even more than he would have as a result of his position.
"Good to see you, Kustennin," Cador said. "Although I am not sure I want to learn what brought you to Durnovaria in such haste."
His foster son grimaced before he pulled him in a hard embrace. "In Lindinis they told me you would be here," Kustennin murmured in his ear. "If you want to be of assistance to Cai, you will have to do more than buy horses. Loholt is dead, and Cai is blamed."
Loholt dead? The bad news refused to take hold immediately, except for one detail — Loholt, not Yseult. His fears on her behalf might not be ungrounded, but neither were they fulfilled.
Cador turned to Natanleod and Cerdic. "If you will excuse us, my stepson has just brought news we need to discuss. Come, Kustennin."
* * * *
They left Alun behind at the horse fair to make arrangements with the owner for the black, while Cador returned to his townhouse in Durnovaria with Kustennin.
When they arrived, servants ran forward to take their mounts. Cador called for refreshments and led the way into the atrium, while Kustennin told him of recent events in Caer Leon. As he listened, Cador gazed at the mosaic at his feet, which was sadly in need of repair. There was still an active mosaic workshop in Corinium, but otherwise it was a dying art. Cador had the gaps in the mosaic plastered over and hired a local artist to complete the pattern in paint, but the result was hardly satisfactory.
He took a sip of his wine and wondered where Loholt's death would lead. According to Kustennin, Arthur did not regard the accusations against Cai as true, but they had been uttered and could not be unsaid. And if Ginevra did believe them, clinging to the need to blame someone, anyone, then the rumors would not die as quickly as they should.
"I cannot shake the suspicion that it was Medraut," the young King of Dumnonia concluded.
Cador glanced at him, and Kustennin shook his head, answering the question he had not voiced. "I do not know for sure. His mind is a blank to me."
"Based on the blank look you saw?"
Kustennin's expression grew stubborn. "Yes. Besides, Loholt confronted Medraut after Ginevra's rescue. I think he might have told him to stay away from his mother."
"Are Ginevra and Medraut having an affair?"
Kustennin shook his head. "Ginevra is attracted, but —" He looked up from his wine and stared at Cador.
"But what?"
"At least until Cai was accused, she still thought she was in love with him," Kustennin said slowly.
Cador's gaze locked with that of his stepson. "It might not explain Loholt's death, but would explain the framing of Cai."
"Ginevra could not possibly imagine herself in love with the man accused of killing her son."
Cador put his glass on the low table with a clatter. He regretted now that he had not gone to Caer Leon after learning of Medraut's attempts at wooing Ginevra; obviously, the danger had been more serious than he thought. But at the time, it seemed to him that trying to persuade Arthur that his nephew had designs on his wife would be both futile and unnecessary. After all, adultery had not been committed and he didn't see how it was anything Arthur needed to know. And now Loholt was dead. If Kustennin was right, and Medraut was responsible, could Cador have prevented it? That was a guilt he did not want to bear.
"Still, while I have never particularly liked or trusted Medraut, I fail to understand what he would have to gain from murdering Loholt. Dux Bellorum is an appointed title, not hereditary. Ambrosius Aurelianus gave Arthur the position as defender of Britain on the basis of his proven talent as a military leader. Besides, Arthur has a living son in the north."
Kustennin snorted. "Llacheu mac Arthur? When was the last time you saw him? He is a king of the Rheged in his own right and shows no interest in becoming involved in the politics of southern Britain. If he had intended to make his life here in the south, he would have joined Arthur's forces in Caer Leon years ago, just as his cousins Gawain, Gaheris, and Gareth did."
"True enough," Cador said. "But the fact remains that Dux Bellorum is not an inherited title."
Kustennin shrugged. "And who is to appoint the next Leader of Battles, can you answer me that? No one inherited the position of High King after Ambrosius. Arthur is the closest we have to a king over all the Britons — and that is exactly what many regard him as. Medraut might well be among them."
If the situation weren't so serious, Cador might have smiled to himself — he knew well enough where Kustennin got many of those opinions he pronounced with such authority. "You have a point," he said instead. "So you think Medraut might be positioning himself to 'inherit' the title of Dux Bellorum?"
"Why not? Britain is in a state of transition. Generals become kings, magistrates become kings, even former tribal chieftains no one remembered existed have become kings. Everyone with any power calls himself king and starts defending his territory. Look at me: Marcus Cunomorus was protector first and king later — and that only through the connections his first wife brought into the marriage. Why shouldn't the Dux Bellorum be a king just like all the rest?"
Cador nodded. "True. There was no such thing as high king of Britain until Vortigern declared himself so. And when Ambrosius Aurelianus took over from him, it was on the basis that he could trace his lineage back to the Consul Constantinus."
"Exactly." Kustennin put down his wine and faced Cador, no smile in the eyes that so often laughed the way Drystan's had. "If I am right about Medraut's motives, then Arthur needs his friends around him now — one of whom is unwelcome in Caer Leon at the moment."
Cador did not want to be part of that life anymore; he loved working the land and raising horses, harvesting apples and planting radishes, contributing to everyday life rather than to war.
At the same time, he knew that Arthur's role went far beyond war; he also kept the peace. With the petty kings of Britain well aware of the expertly-trained standing army in Caer Leon, they were much less likely to attack each other. They still did, of course, but then Arthur's forces were there to quell the skirmishes — and keep them at just that before they blossomed into something more serious. It was a mystery to Cador why so many men had the need to attack their fellows, but as long as that was the case, there would be need for figures of authority like Arthur.
Cador knew he belonged with his older cousin if he needed him. Arthur had once told him that anyone who had fought beside him at the decisive battle of Caer Baddon would always be one of his companions.
It was both an honor and a responsibility.
"After the harvest," he said. "Then I will go to Caer Leon. I can bring some likely war horses for his inspection."
The wide smile that made Kustennin look so much like Drystan burst across his stepson's face, and he leaned over and clapped Cador on the shoulder. "Perfect! Arthur is without a Master of Horse for the time being, until the accusations against Cai sort themselves out or Ginevra sees reason, whichever comes first. Who better to help him chose a temporary replacement than you, who set up your own stables with Cai's expertise?"
Cador nodded, hoping the accusations could be proven false. He could hardly imagine Ginevra seeing reason.
Chapter 21
The midnight wind roared through the oaks of Kildare,
And a clang from the round tow'r at intervals came,
While St. Bride, at the altar, was kneeling in pray'r,
And her sisters attended the mystical flame …
Richard D'Alton Williams, "The Hymn of St. Brigid"
Yseult was in the house of healing, tending those who still had not recovered from their wounds — and wondering why Illann had not yet come to their aid, even though the new moon had gone nearly to half since her mother and brother had escaped Druim Dara. Had they not made it to D
un Ailinne? But if anything had befallen them, Yseult was sure she would have felt it. No, something must have kept Illann from sending warriors, perhaps even fighting in Dun Ailinne itself. Now time was running out; they had food for perhaps another week.
She applied a new poultice to the inflamed wound in Lupida's thigh. The older woman had fallen into a fevered sleep and did not wake.
The door to the house of healing opened and Mel entered. "How is she doing?"
Yseult rose, shaking her head. "No change."
The Christian priest went down to one knee next to his aunt and took her hand. "Lupida, it's me, Mel. Wake up, dear. Talk to me a little."
Lupida's eyelids fluttered open at the sound of the beloved voice, and she lifted her hand to his cheek.
Yseult let herself out; she could look in on the sick woman again later, when her nephew's visit was over.
She found Brigid at the hawthorn hedge near the eternal flame, watching the changing of acolytes tending the fire of Danu.
"If the Laigin warriors outside our walls take Druim Dara, or even starve us, then that will be the end of the sacred fire," Brigid murmured.
"Yes." They had sent a message to the besieging warriors that Nath was no longer in Druim Dara, but the siege continued. The warband at their gates had not seen anyone escape — as if there was no such thing as something they did not see! That way of thinking was much like the Britons, and it occurred to Yseult that the land she'd once longed to return to no longer existed.
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