The Dragon Prince

by Mary Gillgannon

  She looked at him, wanting to tell him what she had done, but fearing that if she did so he would never trust her again. And he had survived the attack unscathed. No real harm had been done. She swallowed the incriminating words. No point revealing her foolish mistake if she didn’t have to. He was already wary of her because she was a Saxon. If she was to have any hope of making him fall in love with her, she must win his trust, not make him even more suspicious of her motives.

  She smiled at Rhun. “No matter what the reason for the attack, I’m just very glad it did not succeed. You were magnificent, Rhun. You struck them down like Teutones himself, my people’s god of thunder and lightning.”

  Their gazes met and held. As always, she could feel the magic move between them. That sense of closeness, of two spirits seeking out each other as if they were halves of a whole.

  Beside her, Bridei cleared his throat. “I think I will take the first watch, since I slept most of the day anyway.” He rose and walked off.

  Rhun stared into the darkness, trying to forget the woman sitting nearby. She was so beautiful. And when she looked at him like that, it made him weak with need. He wanted to reach out for her and press her to his chest and hold her so close they could not be any closer but to be joined.

  He indulged the fantasy briefly, then thrust it away. He was not a callow boy entranced by exquisitely lovely face and an enticing female form. He was a warrior, hardened and tempered by near fifteen years of fighting and hardship. No matter her allure or the stunning, worshipful way she gazed at him, he could not forget his duty. With effort, he forced himself to his feet. “I need to speak to my brother,” he said. “The tent nearest the fire is yours.”

  He walked away quickly, a part of himself resisting every step. It was as if there was another person inside of him trying to force him to go back to her. But years of discipline would not be denied, and he was able to make himself do what duty and reason demanded.

  Bridei turned to greet him as he reached the edge of the patch of forest. “Still playing the saintly martyr?”

  “Not saintly, but sensible,” Rhun said. “There can be nothing gained by further complicating things between Eastra and myself. I do this as much for her benefit as for my own.”

  “Of course.” Bridei’s voice was sardonic. “Always the noble one. And sensible, for certain. She might be a Saxon spy, after all.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have a clear look at her face when we discussed the attack. But you, you were watching her closely. Do you think she knows something she’s not telling?”

  “I would swear she is innocent. But there is still the fact she might be a tool used by others.”

  “Of course,” said Bridei. “You never know who you can trust these days.”

  Rhun nodded glumly. He was fortunate to be alive, yet he could not feel triumphant or content. All he could think of was what might have been.

  Eastra rose restlessly and started toward the tent. Halfway there, she paused, overcome with frustration. Rhun was drawing away from her. They’d had this brief chance to be alone—an opportunity to talk, if not to kiss or embrace. But instead of seizing the moment as she’d longed to do, he had walked off. The attack in Londinium had made him see her as his enemy.

  She took a few steps in the direction he had gone, then paused. The moon was high and bright, and if she strained her eyes, she could make out Rhun’s tall silhouette in the distance as he stood talking to Bridei. Somehow she would have to change his mind and convince him to trust her. But how could she do that if he would not even talk to her?

  The next day dawned hot and bright. They returned to the Roman road and followed it west. Rhun and Bridei rode at the front of the troop, with Eastra behind them and the rest of the escort to her rear. She’d had a chance to wash her face and hands in a stream they passed early that morning, and she felt somewhat refreshed, although she could see that this kind of travel, camping out every night and riding for long stretches, would soon grow tiresome.

  They passed a few farmsteads, mostly deserted. Observing the rich land around them, Eastra was puzzled. She wanted to ask Rhun why this part of Britain seemed so sparsely inhabited. But something about the set of his shoulders, the careful distance he put between them, warned her he would not welcome any questions from her.

  A grim mood overtook her. For the first time on the journey, she began to feel like a hostage. There were armed men all around her, and although she knew they were there primarily for her protection, given her changed circumstances with Rhun, it gave her the sense of being a prisoner. Had she made a terrible mistake in offering to serve as hostage? Would she end up alone and miserable, locked away in a foreign king’s fortress in Gwynedd? She had not been happy in Cerdic’s household, but at least there she was treated with respect and deference. At least on some level she belonged there, with her own people.

  Now she was among strangers. The Britons looked and dressed and behaved differently than Saxons. If Rhun was at her side, it would not have mattered, but now he was not, she was acutely aware of the imposing, silent warriors gathered around her, of the vivid colors of their cloaks, the leather tunics and trousers they wore, their dark or ruddy hair, even the different way their eyes seemed to be set in their faces and the sharpness of their features.

  Although the day was as brilliant as ever, she shivered. What had she done? Rhun, the light of her existence for so many years—the very stuff of her dreams—had drawn away from her, and she was alone... and afraid.

  * * *

  “You should go back and ride with her,” Bridei spoke quietly, then glanced backwards. “Exchange a few pleasantries with our guest.”

  “She’s not our guest,” Rhun responded. “She’s a hostage.” Even as he spoke the harsh words, something inside him winced. In truth, he didn’t feel that way about her, but it was dangerous to behave otherwise.

  “All the same, she’s a young woman, far from her home and family. In the interest of simple courtesy and kindness, you should make some effort to put her at ease.”

  Rhun gritted his teeth. “If it matters so much to you, my gallant brother, then you go back and speak to her.”

  “All right, I will. But don’t ever say I tried to steal your sweetheart away from you.”

  Rhun stared grimly ahead. A few moments later, he heard Eastra laugh. He cursed himself—for ever agreeing to serve as Eastra’s escort, for stopping in Londinium on the way, and for being such a fool as to rescue a beautiful Saxon child all those years ago.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh,” Bridei said. “I’d feared your experience in Londinium might have frightened you so much you would ride the rest of the way in silence, like a terrified coney.”

  “I don’t scare that easily,” Eastra answered.

  “Good.” Bridei smiled at her. “So tell me, what do you think of this part of Britain?” He gestured expansively to the landscape around them.

  “It’s very green and pretty. Fertile, too, I imagine. Which is why I have to ask—why do so many of the farmsteads around here appear abandoned?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  She nodded.

  “Saxons.” He nodded. “I’m afraid it’s true. These farms were burned out and ravaged years ago, back when your people came to destroy and plunder rather than to settle. They took what they could carry and moved on—to the next farmstead or the next holy house or whatever else they could find to ravage.”

  “Didn’t the people fight back?” Eastra asked. “Didn’t they try to defend themselves?”

  “I’m certain they did. But you have to understand, there was no organized army back then. The legions had left a generation before, and the farmers and merchants who were left behind had never learned how to fight. Now, those of us who lived on the western coasts, we have been fighting and waging war the whole time. But the eastern and southern Britons had grown complacent under the eagle standard o
f Rome. They never realized they were going to have to face such a terrifying threat from the sea.

  “And so the Saxons came and burned and murdered and stole whatever wealth they could find in their pathway. They penetrated deep into Britain, until they perhaps realized that they were too far from their boats and their bases on the coast. Then they left, carrying their booty. But by the time they came back, the pickings weren’t so easy. They had Ambrosius to face.”

  “Who is he?” Eastra was intrigued by his tale. She’d never heard any of these things from her own people.

  “Arthur’s grandsire.”

  Eastra stared and Bridei nodded. “Aye, his father, Uther, was also Roman, or mostly Roman. His mother was a Briton, though. Through her he’s related to my tribe, the Cymry.”

  “Arthur is your kinsman?”

  Bridei nodded. “But that’s not why Rhun and I joined his army. Among my people, blood ties don’t always make for strong alliances. In fact, interestingly enough, although I have Irish blood in me, I still consider them my deadly enemies.” Eastra gaped at him, and he nodded once more. “It’s little talked about, but when I was in the north visiting my mother’s people, I discovered that my great-great grandsire, Cunedag, was Irish. In fact, the Romans brought him in Gwynedd to subdue the Decanglia and the Silurians, the two tribes that once controlled the area.”

  “How strange to be related to your enemies.”

  “Not so strange for us Britons,” Bridei said, grinning. “I think sometimes we fight more bitterly among ourselves than we ever do against our enemies from the outside.”

  “Rhun said something like that.” Eastra glanced to the front of the troop, wondering what he was thinking. “He said part of the reason he fought for Arthur’s cause was because he admired Arthur’s goal of uniting all of Britain.”

  Bridei shook his head. “A worthy goal, but it will never happen. It’s the curse of my race to squabble and fight each other endlessly. It’s the reason we will never be successful at ruling Britain the way the Romans were. I’m a bard,” Bridei added. “And most of the songs and stories that are passed down from generation to generation tell of kings fighting kings and never is there peace. If it has always been that way, why should Arthur be able to change it?”

  “But his grandsire Ambrosius apparently succeeded in gathering together the people to fight the Saxons. So why don’t you think Arthur will succeed now?”

  “Because already the Saxon threat has changed and become less frightening and potent. Men like your uncle are willing to negotiate and make treaties. They seek farmland and security and peace for their families. They are no longer terrifying marauders who destroy everything in their path. And because the danger is no longer so obvious, men begin to whisper among themselves, wondering at Arthur’s right to lead them, wondering if they would not have more to gain from staying home and guarding their own territory against their neighbors.”

  “The thought that Arthur will fail doesn’t seem to distress you very much,” Eastra pointed out.

  Bridei smiled. “I’m not like Rhun. He believes in dreams and quests, and in fighting for something because it ‘should’ be. I’m a practical man. I can see the world has been this way for a long time, and no man, no matter how dedicated and noble he is, is going to change it.”

  A pang went through Eastra. Although Bridei’s words made sense, she did not want to believe them. She preferred to hope, as Rhun did, that things could change for the better. Was that not what this journey was all about? She had offered to be a hostage not only because she wanted to be with Rhun, but because she believed that by forming a bond with one of the enemy, she might be able to help bring peace between Saxon and Briton.

  She stared wistfully ahead at Rhun’s tall form. Although she was pleased Bridei took the time to talk to her and explain things, she would much rather spend time with his brother.

  * * *

  Although he couldn’t hear what they were saying, Rhun was aware Eastra and Bridei were engaged in an intense conversation. The sound of their voices—Bridei’s, low and musical, and Eastra’s, light and feminine—made his stomach clench. His brother would charm her, as he did every woman, and she would forget all about him.

  He told himself that it was better that way, but the thought still aroused a harsh ache inside him. He’d never felt for a woman what he felt for Eastra. The very sight of her made his heart swell in his chest and an exquisitely sweet longing rush through his body. It wasn’t merely the hunger to touch her, to press flesh to flesh, but a craving for her spirit, her very essence.

  But it was not meant to be. He’d known that from the very moment when he said farewell to her in the forest all those years ago—urging her to run to freedom, away from him, away from her deadly enemies. Their blood cursed them, made any future impossible. For a time he’d forgotten that, but it was time he remembered the bitter truth. And Bridei, curse his glib, handsome face, was exactly the man to remind him.

  Chapter 8

  They paused near midday to eat a meal, then resumed riding, traveling west and north. Rhun led the way, with Bridei and Eastra riding behind him, side by side. The rest of the warriors were arrayed around them, speaking seldom, their eyes always watchful and wary, as if they were wild beasts passing through a predator’s territory.

  During the break for the meal, Eastra had thought a lot about what Bridei had told her of the old Saxon threat, of Ambrosius and of Arthur, and how they had organized the Britons to fight their enemies. While she found it fascinating to learn the history of this conflict, she longed to speak of other things. Rhun’s name seemed always on her lips. She wanted to know more about this man who had so beguiled her.

  Finally, she let her horse drop back a little farther from Rhun’s silvery gray mount, then faced Bridei and asked casually, “You’ve told me a great deal about Arthur and his cause, but tell me, how did you and your brother get involved in all of this?”

  “Rhun hasn’t told you?” Bridei asked.

  “Some,” Eastra hedged, casting a careful glance at Rhun. “But not how it all started. He must have been very young when he went off to fight with Arthur.”

  “He was,” Bridei agreed. “When he was about sixteen, a holy man came to Deganwy. He ranted on and on about how all noble Christian warriors must join Arthur’s cause and fight to fling the barbarian hordes back into the sea. Rhun was quite taken with the idea of saving Britain and fighting for the one true God.” He grinned suddenly. “And then our father forbid him to go, so of course he went.”

  “And Arthur took him into his army, despite Maelgwn’s objections?”

  Bridei nodded. “Among our people, sixteen is counted pretty much a man. Besides, Arthur was not one to let a promising warrior slip through his fingers. But it has rankled with our father ever since. I sometimes think Rhun’s decision back then is what, more than anything, keeps Maelgwn from aiding Arthur’s cause.”

  “So Rhun joined Arthur’s army and ended up rising high in his favor?”

  “Well, it took him some years. Even my miraculous brother did not impress Arthur’s hardened commanders right away. He had to get a few battles under his belt. At first, he simply avoided being killed. Then he gradually learned how to defeat and kill other men. I don’t think it’s been easy for him. It’s not his nature to be bloodthirsty. He’s had to learn that it’s a matter of kill or be killed. Now it’s all instinct with him.”

  Eastra nodded. “I saw that. Before those men were even upon us, he had drawn his sword and attacked them. But he didn’t seem to take satisfaction in it.”

  “That’s his only flaw. He does not like to kill.”

  “You believe that’s a flaw?”

  Bridei shrugged. “Some will argue that it is in a warrior. Your uncle Cerdic might think so, for example.”

  What would Cerdic think of Rhun? Eastra wondered. If she wed with him, would Cerdic vow vengeance again Rhun, or would he accept the match? Rhun was certainly high born enough, a prince a
mong his people. And if ever they were to live in peace together, Saxon and Briton must begin mingling their blood at some point.

  But she was far ahead of herself. At this moment, it did not seem likely Rhun would ever speak with her again, let alone want to make her his wife. She repressed a sigh. The more she learned about Rhun, the more she admired him and thought he saw things very much the way she did, despite being a man and a warrior.

  To distract herself from the flash of pain that idea brought her, she glanced at Bridei once again. “And what of you? How did you end up in Arthur’s army?”

  There was a flicker of emotion in Bridei’s dark blue eyes. Then he answered, “My journey was much more complicated than my brother’s. I didn’t run off to fight the noble, Christian cause. Indeed, I was banished by my father.”

  “Why?”

  “I got into a bit of trouble, and my father lost his temper and said he was sending me north to live with my mother’s people—to see if they could make a decent man of me. I didn’t take kindly to the idea of being banished so I ran away instead.”

  “But whether you are banished or ran away, it amounted to the same thing,” Eastra suggested.

  “That’s true. But I didn’t see it like that back then. I was very young, even younger than Rhun. Only fourteen and looked it. I wasn’t a precocious giant like my brother.” There was a sharpness in his voice, and Eastra recalled Rhun mentioning that his brother was sensitive about his height. “I caught a ship for Less Britain and from there wandered east.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I was able to acquire a skill that served me even better than a fast and furious sword arm.” He gestured to his saddle pack, where the curved end piece of a harp poked out. “I learned to play the harp and sing. That’s how I survived after... “

  Bridei hesitated, his expression suddenly dark and somehow haunted. The next moment he seemed to shake off the mood. “I would go to markets and public areas and sit down and played my tunes. Sooner or later someone would come up and ask me if I knew this song or that. I seldom did, but I would do my best to sing something that would please them. I was so young that I was no threat to anyone, and as a bard, I was welcome everywhere. I had to learn a bit of this tongue and of that in order to manage, and I found out I was good at it. By the time I sailed back across the sea, I had picked up a smattering of Saxon, as well as the Frankish tongue and a dozen other variations of Latin.”