“But as for making peace with Arthur,” Cerdic continued. “I can’t do that. War will come. It must come.” He glanced at Ossa with an expression of satisfaction, then back at Eastra. “And knowing we will soon do battle, we must get you to safety.” He motioned. “I’ll have Beornwold escort you out of the camp.”
She was being sent away! Dismissed! A kind of fury rose inside her. “Nay,” she said. “I will not go. I will stay here and speak and you will listen to me!”
Cerdic was clearly startled by her words. Then he grew angry. A hot flush spread up his face and his eyes glowed like blue flames. “While you were a hostage, you apparently learned the bad manners and shameless boldness of a British woman. But now you are among your own kind, and such behavior will not be tolerated. What you have to say is of no consequence!”
“You must listen!” Eastra exclaimed. “As hostage, I risked my life for you. I might well have died at the hands of Arthur’s men. For that sacrifice, I think I deserve to be heard!”
“Let her speak. It might be amusing.” Mordred interjected, his expression coy and condescending. All at once, Eastra realized he was not acting like a hostage. His posture and tone of voice implied he was Cerdic’s equal. What did that mean? Had Mordred betrayed his father? Did he conspire with his father’s enemies to bring down the high king?
Eastra experienced a wave of dismay. If Cerdic and Mordred had planned this, deliberately spread the false report that Mordred was dead in order to incite Arthur to act... She felt sick. To have come so far and confront failure...complete failure. She searched her mind, struggling to find some line of reasoning that might sway Cerdic. “Arthur’s army is huge,” she lied. “And they are well-equipped, experienced soldiers.” She glanced in the direction of the Pictish camp, her voice thick with scorn. “Not undersized savages with ancient daggers for weapons.”
There was a flicker of interest in Cerdic’s eyes. “Did Maelgwn the Great decide to join Arthur?”
Eastra hesitated. She wanted to answer that the king of Gwynedd meant to bring his full army north and that she had never seen such stalwart, fearless warriors as the Cymry. But something told her the lie would serve no purpose. Cerdic had scouts. He would find out soon enough that Maelgwn had chosen to remain out of the fray.
“Nay, but there are others.”
“Name them,” was Cerdic’s response.
Miserably, Eastra shook her head. “I don’t know their names. Only that their army is huge and, as I said, much better equipped and trained than your allies.”
“The northern men may be small, but they are fierce,” Cerdic said. “And they are the best archers I’ve ever seen. They will cut Arthur’s front line to pieces before they even reach us.”
She remembered many Picts had carried quivers of arrows on their backs. She also remembered Rhun discussing what fine archers the Cymry were, and how if he had them in his army, Arthur would finally have the advantage he needed to defeat the Saxons once and for all. The queasy feeling in her stomach intensified. She had lost this war of words. And because of her failure, Rhun might well die. She had a sudden, horrifying vision of him with a goose-fletched arrow in his throat.
“The lady doesn’t look well,” Mordred said. “Perhaps you should have someone take her to my mother’s dwelling. I’m certain she’d be happy to make a tonic for the princess.”
Eastra decided she did not like this young man. There was something sneaky and sinister about him, and the lustful way he looked at her aroused her disgust. He reminded her of Bridei—charming and handsome and flirtatious. But he lacked something, some innate quality that made Bridei’s glib, cynical manner more amusing than repelling.
She considered that Mordred had not only betrayed his father, but that his betrayal might well bring about Arthur’s death. A shudder of loathing went through her. Mordred was corrupt. There was no other word for it.
She was led to another building with a colonnade in front and a small, dirt-filled fountain near the doorway. Despite her inner turmoil, Eastra could hardly wait to meet Mordred’s mother. She could not help being curious about the woman who had given life to this cruel, monstrous youth, the woman who had enticed Arthur, the high king of Britain. It must have taken place twenty-some years ago, judging by Mordred’s age. Arthur had not been high king then, but he must still have been a powerful and important man, one whom Eastra would have thought too serious and high-minded for casual love affairs.
As she stepped into the entryway, she smelled something sweet, a heady mixture of herbs and flowers. Her first thought was that it must be from some wild blossoms in the tangled overgrowth outside the building, some remnant of the garden that a fine Roman dwelling such as this would certainly have had. But then she considered that the fortress had been abandoned nearly a hundred years before. It seemed unlikely any cultivated blooms would survive that long.
The scent grew more familiar, tickling a memory in her mind. She froze in place. Nay, it could not be true!
“Don’t be afraid,” the warrior escorting her soothed. “She’s a witch, aye, but she won’t hurt you. Indeed, she’ll be pleased to have another woman in camp. She’s been grumbling for days about the fact we Saxons don’t allow wenches into our war camps. What utter foolishness.” Beornwold shook his shaggy, golden head at the thought.
Eastra’s throat was so dry she could not answer him.
She remembered the first time she’d met Morguese and observed her brilliant green eyes and catlike demeanor, the first time Urien’s queen had spoken of her contempt for Arthur and her hints of a plan to ruin him. A shudder went through Eastra.
Leaving behind her escort, Eastra entered the main room of the dwelling. It was dim compared to the daylight outside and it took a moment for Eastra to be certain it really was Morguese. The northern queen was seated cross-legged on a fur rug on the stone floor, surrounded by jars and baskets, cushions and chests. In front of Morguese was a bowl of oil, glimmering faintly in the lamplight.
Morguese looked up and smiled. “Eastra! So the Goddess has answered my prayers after all. I was hoping She would send me another woman. Even a whore or the wife of one of the Picts would have pleased me. But here you are, my lovely Eastra, a Saxon princess carrying a British babe in her belly. How absolutely perfect.”
“Hush!” Eastra exclaimed, moving nearer. She gestured toward the doorway, where her Saxon escort had halted. “No one must know about the babe! No one!” she implored in hushed tones.
“Of course.” Morguese’s smug smile did not falter. “I need you. I need to work a spell of protection for my son. You carry the blood of his enemy. With your energy added to mine, we will keep him safe.”
“I won’t do it!” Eastra cried. “Mordred is a traitor to his own people and a cruel, self-serving monster. If Arthur dies, it will be his fault. Patricide is considered a vile thing among my people. I’ll have no part in this!”
Morguese raised an auburn brow. “Of course Arthur will die. I have seen it in the scrying bowl and in the flames. Mordred is going to kill him.”
Eastra took a step back, aghast. “How can you even say such things? What sort of creature are you that you would plot against the man who once was your lover and use the son you bore him as the instrument of his death?”
Morguese’s smile vanished and she suddenly looked bitter and angry. “It didn’t have to be like this. If only Arthur had accepted Mordred, loved him as a father is supposed to love his son.” She shook her head. “Arthur never understood. He believed Mordred was conceived in sin. Because I used a spell to bring him to my bed he thought the act was tainted by magic and that the child would grow up to be some sort of monster. He told me to go away and have the baby in secret, then leave it out for the wolves.”
Her smile returned. “Of course, I did not. And you’ve seen Mordred. Is he not handsome and well made? Arthur’s fears have come to naught. Although I have since decided it was not that Arthur feared Mordred would be deformed, but that he sense
d his son was going to usurp him someday, and proud arrogant Arthur could not bear that.”
She does not understand the high king, Eastra thought. Having been in the man’s presence several times and heard many accounts of him, Eastra could not believe Arthur was obsessed with power. Obsessed with his vision for Britain, aye, but not with personal glory. Still, that Arthur would tell a woman to kill her child, his own son, that was disturbing. It bespoke a kind of madness. Did Arthur despise Morguese that much? Did he also despise the Goddess from which her powers arose?
Eastra realized she had many new questions, although some of her old ones had been answered. Knowing Mordred was Morguese’s son, she could guess a little at their scheme. By sending word that Mordred had been killed, they meant to force Arthur into this battle. Mordred was obviously going to fight against his father and try to kill him.
She shook her head. “If Arthur dies, what purpose does it serve? Cerdic will never allow Mordred to be king. What has he to gain by killing his father?”
“Certainly Mordred will be king!” Morguese stood gracefully and smoothed her gown. “Cerdic has promised it!”
Eastra knew her uncle well enough to know he would never share his power with a man like Mordred. He would have only contempt for a man who betrayed his own people for the sake of his personal ambitions. Cerdic might be ruthless, but he was utterly loyal to his kin and countrymen. He would expect the same of his allies.
But Eastra did not say that. She knew Morguese would not believe her anyway. Instead she took a deep breath, feeling as if the ground beneath her feet had suddenly shifted. She had more questions, many more. “And what is my part in all this?” she asked. “Why did you detain me at Caer Louarn? Was that part of your plan to break the truce? And why did you put a spell on Rhun and me so we would make love and conceive this child?”
“It was Urien’s idea to capture you, not mine,” Morguese said nonchalantly. “He thought if you were killed, Cerdic would fall upon Arthur and destroy him. He also wants to see Arthur die, but not for the same reasons as I do. Urien thinks Arthur has too much power. When Arthur claimed sovereignty over all the kings of Britain, that was too much for him.”
Really how close she’d come to death, Eastra experienced a tingle of dread. “But nothing happened to me while I was at Caer Louarn,” she pointed out.
“Urien is not as ruthless as I am. Once he saw you, he was loathe to order your death. He thought you were too lovely and sweet to kill. And then I told him the Goddess would not be pleased if you died. I explained that She had plans for you.”
“What plans?”
Morguese shrugged. “I don’t know, but I have seen you in my visions, dressed like a queen. And the babe you carry”—she gestured to Eastra’s midsection. “The Goddess made it very clear that you and Rhun must couple and conceive a child, and that it must be done on a specific night. There’s something special about this babe, although I don’t know what. I have my own plans and ambitions, but if the Goddess asks for something, I don’t question her. I obey.”
It was all such a tangled web of deceit and treachery, Eastra thought, and she was at the very center of it.
“Come, my dear,” Morguese held out her hand. “You must sit down. A woman in your condition must be careful to conserve her strength.”
Eastra allowed herself to be led over to the bearskin spread on the floor. She sank down and Morguese propped several cushions behind her. “How are you feeling?” Morguese asked. “Has the child quickened yet?”
Eastra shook her head, feeling dazed and almost lightheaded. There were still so many questions left unanswered. “Did Urien plot my murder in Londinium?” She looked up at Morguese. “We were attacked outside the market by a half dozen warriors, but Rhun fought them off.” She remembered how magnificent he’d been, how awe inspiring. The familiar pain pierced her.
“Nay, Urien’s power doesn’t reach so far. But there are many other men in Britain who might have planned such a thing as a way to break the truce.” Morguese moved to the other side of the chamber and began to fuss among the clutter there. “And it was not Rhun who protected you that day, but the Goddess.”
Was this true? If a dozen chieftains wanted her dead but she remained alive, was that not a miracle? Had the hand of the Goddess truly shielded her all this while? Yet it had been Rhun’s strong sword arm that struck down her enemies. Poor Rhun. He hadn’t known what an enormous task he’d taken on when they set out on their journey. Nor had he known about the cunning, twisted plot against Arthur.
Eastra sat up straight. What if Rhun knew this battle was not a final, glorious stand for his dream, but a deadly trap? For that matter, what if Arthur knew Mordred was alive and plotting his death? She mentally shook herself, trying to get rid of the sense of helpless lethargy creeping over her. She had to leave this place, find her escort, and intercept Rhun and Arthur before they marched into battle. If she could speak to Arthur himself, tell him what Morguese and Mordred planned, she might be able to change the high king’s fatal course.
Morguese approached her, smiling. In her hands was a jeweled cup. “Drink this,” she purred. “It will ease your distress and help you sleep.”
Eastra took the cup and pretended to take a sip. She searched her mind frantically for some means of distracting Morguese. Finally, she said, “I’m very hungry. Would it be possible for me to have something to eat?”
“Of course you’re hungry. Shame upon me for not thinking of that. I know I was famished all the while I carried my own children. Wait here a moment and I will fetch someone to bring you food. What would you like?”
Eastra pretended to ponder the question. “Perhaps some fruit—an apple or some apricots. And some milk.” She knew these things would be difficult to procure in an army camp where the men mostly ate dried meat and rough bread, perhaps supplemented by raisins or figs. Fresh food was a luxury and not readily available outside established settlements and towns.
“Hmmm,” Morguese said. “That may be difficult, but I will see what can be found.”
As soon as Morguese had left the tent, Eastra poured the contents of the cup underneath the bearskin. Then she got up and hurried toward the door. She peeked out and saw Morguese talking to a young slave boy—Irish from the looks of him. His expression was one of dismay, and Eastra could tell Morguese was speaking to him harshly, perhaps threatening him if he did not obtain what she wished.
Eastra glanced around, wondering if she could escape while Morguese was talking to the slave boy. It didn’t seem likely. In only a moment or two, Morguese would return, and, finding Eastra gone, send men after her. In broad daylight, it would be impossible to make her way through the huge army camp and not be seen and intercepted.
She returned to her place on the bearskin and pretended to be sipping from the cup when Morguese entered. “It may take a while,” Morguese said. “Perhaps you should sleep for a time, until the food arrives.”
Eastra nodded agreeably. “I do feel sleepy,” she said, guessing the drink was meant to have that effect.
Morguese made her a sort of bed on a pile of cushions and covered her with a brightly woven blanket. Then, while Eastra pretended to doze, Morguese went back to her place by the bowl of glistening oil. She chanted some words and began to burn some of the pungent herb in a copper bowl. Eastra realized Morguese was trying to see visions in the surface of the oil. She wondered if Morguese would see enough to know she planned to escape.
Time passed. Morguese began to sway and talk to herself. She seemed to be in a trance. Eastra sat up. When Morguese didn’t turn around or give any sign she was aware of her, she got to her feet. Morguese still did not move. Eastra picked up her pack of supplies from where Beornwold had put it on the floor and started slowly toward the door. Her body was tense and rigid, her underarms clammy with sweat. It did not seem possible she would be able to walk right past Morguese. But nothing happened as Eastra reached the door and hurried out. It was as if she were invisible.
Outside, the sky was deep twilight blue. There was still enough light to see by, but not enough that she could be easily observed. She took her mantle from her pack and put it on, covering her hair with the hood. Then she began to walk cautiously along the deserted, ruined streets of the fort. Here and there, groups of men were gathered around cookfires. No one seemed aware of her as she passed by. Eastra wondered if it were her cloak—woven in a soft pattern of blue and green—that blended into the shadows. Or if it were magic. Did the Goddess shield her from her enemies this night?
She made her way out the gate of the fort and looked around for the Picts who had escorted her there. Not seeing them, she decided she would have to try to find her way by herself.
She had walked some distance when she suddenly became aware of shadows to her right and left. Taking a deep breath, she threw back her hood so her light hair was visible, and said in a chilly voice, “I am Princess Eastra, Cerdic Hengistson’s niece. If you are wise, you will let me pass safely.”
“We know who you are, Princess,” someone answered. One of the shadows took the form of a man. She could not really see him in the darkness, only catch the gleam of his eyes in the fading light. But she recognized his voice as the Pict who had taken her to Cerdic.
“I seek the Cymru men who brought me here,” she said.
“We will take you to them,” the man answered.
Once again, she had an escort of small-statured warriors, bristling with weapons and adorned with the beautiful symbols of the wild beasts they honored. It was eerie to walk among these fierce, untamed men who struggled to survive in the harsh lands of the north. They lived close to the Mother’s heart, she thought, and surely She would not let them perish. But then she remembered the coming battle. One of these warriors might be the one to kill Rhun, her beloved. Nay, she would not let that happen. If the Goddess were with her, she would use Her power to stop this abominable war!
When they reached the edge of the Picts’ camp, she saw Beli. The moon had risen and by its light she could make out the expression on his face, see the questioning look in his eyes. She shook her head. “Cerdic would not listen to me. But I won’t give up. Now I must go to Arthur. I have learned many things, things that may well alter the course of this war after all.”
The Dragon Prince Page 29