A moment after he had the thought, there was a knock at the door. As soon as he snarled the word “enter,” his stepmother appeared carrying a tray of food. She looked at him and said, “You seem out of sorts this morning, Rhun. What’s wrong?”
“I had a dream,” he answered, surprising himself. Since waking and realizing the heady, sensual fantasy wasn’t real, he’d sought to put it out of his mind. But now, seeing Rhiannon, he couldn’t help thinking about Eastra’s swollen belly and the way her flesh had rippled beneath his fingers, magically alive. “I dreamt of Eastra,” he said grudgingly. He paced across the small room. “She was with child.”
“Maybe it’s a true dream,” Rhiannon said.
He turned to look at her, and a prickling sensation ran down his spine. His stepmother’s expression was as serene as usual, but was there not a hint of amusement in her soft blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, smiling faintly. “You’ve been intimate with Eastra, and that’s the purpose of coupling, after all.” She raised a brow. “It’s not all about pleasure, Rhun. There are other reasons for a man and a woman to be drawn to each other.”
He took a step toward her. “Are you telling me...” He let his voice trail off. “But she said nothing to me... and I held her in my arms, saw her naked...”
“The signs are subtle in the beginning. Sometimes a woman doesn’t even know herself.”
He took a sharp breath. “Tell me. Is Eastra with child?”
Rhiannon nodded.
“How long have you known?” His tone was accusatory, angry.
“Since she came to Deganwy. Nay, it was before that. I saw her in a dream, much as you did.”
“And you said nothing?” He was outraged. Always before, he’d trusted Rhiannon, seen her as an ally against his father’s uncertain temper. But now she allowed him to be kept a prisoner, and had just revealed she’d kept a momentous secret from him for weeks.
“Eastra asked me not to, and it really is her place to tell you.”
“Why?” He felt as if a hole had opened up in the ground in front of him. If only he’d known, he would have done so many things differently.
“You would have to ask her that. Maybe she wanted to feel that when you finally told her you loved her, it was because of what you felt for her, not because of the babe.”
“Of course I love her. How can she doubt that?”
“Ah, but you love your duty more, don’t you? You were planning to leave her, to go off and fight Arthur’s war, knowing you might be killed.” Rhiannon shook her head. “That’s hardly love, as I reckon it.”
“But... I had no choice.” His voice came out hoarse and agonized. How vividly the turmoil returned, the sense of being torn in two. “I swore an oath. I was Arthur’s man long before I met Eastra.”
“That’s how you see the matter. But Eastra saw it differently. Because she’s a woman, not a warrior.”
Rhun inhaled sharply. The urge to see Eastra, to hold her in his arms, was almost overwhelming. “If I’d known, I would have at least said a proper good-bye to her. Told her I loved her.” He shook his head. “Made some preparations to see she was taken care of, that the babe was named my heir...” He looked at Rhiannon. “But now it’s too late. She’s gone back to her own people.”
Her expression was tender. “As long as you both live, it’s never too late.”
“Aye.” He looked around the room, trying to think what he needed to take with him. Again, he met Rhiannon’s gaze. “The battle is probably already over, or soon will be. Can you convince my father to finally set me free?”
She nodded. “I think I can. He has wrestled with his conscience in this matter. He feels guilty for imposing his will upon you, a man grown.”
“He’d better feel guilty,” Rhun muttered. Then he began to pack.
* * *
“We’ll go no farther.” Owain turned to look at Eastra, his face stern and forbidding.
“But we can’t see the whole battlefield from here,” she protested. “What if Rhun arrives with reinforcements and I can’t reach him before he joins the fray?”
Owain gave her another forbidding look. “Oh, and certainly if he does appear, I’m going to let you go riding across a battlefield to find him! You can forget that nonsense. You’re going to remain on this hilltop if I have to tie you to one of those rocks!” He jerked his head toward a stony outcrop overgrown with heather.
Eastra looked at Beli, wondering if, when the time came, he would help her. But maybe she wouldn’t have to face that circumstance. Maybe Rhun wouldn’t come.
But why not? The question gnawed at her. He’d been so determined, so insistent he must go to Arthur’s aid. What had happened? Had he been hurt on the way here? Killed? Her already distressed stomach heaved at the thought.
She’d wanted to ride south and try to intercept Rhun before he reached the battlefield, but Owain had dissuaded her. There was no way of knowing which direction Rhun might arrive from, the Cymru warrior insisted. It was better to ride along behind the British army train and hope they would see him. But they had not. And now the battle was about to begin and there was no sign of him.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the horror ahead. The idea of watching two armies clash, of seeing men kill each other, repulsed her like nothing she’d ever faced before. Yet if there was a chance Rhun might be fighting this day, she could not forsake him. She would call upon the Goddess to send him strength, to guide his sword arm, to see him safely through this battle.
She wished fervently she’d learned enough magic from Morguese to know how to make a charm of protection. But another part of her mind wondered why there was any reason to think the Goddess would intervene. Rhiannon had told her the Great Mother cared nothing for the petty concerns of men, their childish search for power, their passion for killing and death.
The battlefield was spread out below them, and they could see the two armies filling the valley. From this distance, they looked like a swarm of insects, or two snakes, the flash of warriors’ helms and mail shirts like the scales of two huge serpents slithering into the vale from opposite directions. She could make out a banner here and there, a splash of color amid the grays and browns. “Do you see Arthur?” she asked the men.
“Nay,” Owain answered. “But he’s probably leading one of the cavalry wings. They won’t move in until the infantry has engaged.” He pointed. “See? Both sides have reinforcements hidden in the trees and massed along the river. It will be a long battle. It might last all day.”
Eastra nodded, grimacing. If she could spot Arthur, then perhaps she would find Rhun.
The Britons’ warhorns sounded, harsh and strident. The Saxons’ answered. Eastra forgot everything else as her heart leaped into her throat. She gripped the sapphire necklace around her neck so tightly her fingers went numb. Watching, she could tell the Pictish archers had begun their work, for here and there along the British line, men began to fall. She turned away, sickened.
“Aye,” Beli said. “It’s best you don’t watch. It might mark the babe.”
Resolutely, Eastra faced forward once again. She’d made a vow to see this thing through, and so she would.
The two armies seemed to seep together. She saw churning dust rise where they were joined. Now the valley was like a hive of maddened bees, roiling with movement. A dull roar rose up to the hilltop where they watched. The sound vibrated through her flesh, filling her with dread.
It seemed to go on for hours. Sweat dripped down Eastra’s brow. Since she could judge so little about what was taking place below, her attention gradually shifted to other sights and sounds around them. She was aware of a curlew scolding from the grass nearby, warning that they were too close to its nest. She felt the soft breeze blowing past, sweet with pine and heather. And she saw flocks of large dark birds flying by.
“Ravens,” Owain said, observing the direction of her gaze. “It’s said they can hear the clash of arms from miles di
stant. They’ve come to feast on the entrails of the fallen.”
“Llud’s silver hand!” Beli exclaimed. “That’s no way to speak in front of a lady!”
“She should know what gruesome sights she might behold if she decides to ride down into the fray,” Owain answered coldly.
Eastra shivered, even though the sun blazed down on them. Owain was right. Brave and determined though she might be, she knew she could not bear to go down into the valley and see the horrible slaughter taking place there. Men were falling faster; the ground was thick with bodies. She thought surely it would be over soon. But then there was the blare of more horns, and horsemen surged forward from the British side. She looked again for Arthur and glimpsed a flash of purple at the head of one cavalry wing. Did Rhun ride at his side? Frantically, she searched for the familiar red and white banner. There was no sign of it.
The strategy was obviously for the two groups of horsemen to surround and engulf the Saxon and Pictish footsoldiers. But Arthur and the other riders were hampered by narrowness of the valley, and there were so many of the enemy, wave upon wave of them, surging down from the hills beyond. Cerdic had chosen well, Eastra thought grimly. He had the advantage in numbers and the perfect terrain from which to launch his attack. And, if they had to, his army could fall back to the ruins of the old Roman fort.
But retreat would not be necessary, Eastra could tell. There were too many Saxons and Picts for the Britons to overcome. No matter how many of the enemy they killed, there would always be more. She saw the British line sag and fall back. The cavalry surged in to fill the gap. Then they were surrounded. Her gaze scanned the hills behind the Britons, wondering if they had more warriors hidden there among the trees. Had Rhun come through with reinforcements?
There were no more charges by the Britons. Those men left did not retreat, but fought steadily, yielding ground with painful slowness. She looked again for Arthur and could not see his banner anywhere. Had it been dragged down into the morass of bodies littering the field? Had the high king himself fallen?
“What’s happening?” she demanded. Throughout the battle, Beli and Owain and the other men had exchanged only a few words, and then they spoke so quietly she couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“It’s as we expected” Beli answered in a taut voice. “Your uncle has prevailed.”
“Aye,” Owain added. “But what I don’t understand is why Arthur doesn’t sound the retreat. If the Britons pulled back now, it would not be a complete massacre.”
“Perhaps Arthur can’t sound the retreat,” Eastra said “Perhaps he’s already dead.”
Both men looked at her. “What makes you think that?” Beli asked. His expression made her realize he thought she had experienced some premonition of the outcome of the battle.
“I know no more than you,” she assured him. “But I heard Mordred vow to kill his father, and since Arthur’s banner is no longer visible, I fear the worst.”
“Will you mourn him?” Beli asked. “He was your uncle’s enemy, and I know his hold upon Rhun cost you dear.”
Eastra nodded gravely. “I will mourn him. I’ve never met another man like him.” Perhaps there were no others, she thought to herself. A king who fought for a dream, rather than his own power. A warrior who fought for peace.
Only her beloved Rhun was as noble as Arthur, and she could not admire his urge to self-sacrifice the way she could admire Arthur’s. His life belonged to her and to their child, and in her mind he was not free to squander it for the sake of a dream.
“Oh, Rhun,” she murmured. “Where are you?”
Chapter 19
It was almost nightfall before Owain thought it safe to go down into the valley. Even then, the men rode on either side of Eastra, swords drawn. The only light to see by came from torches and the pale glow of a half moon rising over the hills. The battlefield was dark, hiding the carnage Eastra knew must be there. The moans and screams of the wounded and dying echoed through the night, filling her with dread. Was Rhun among those poor souls? How would she ever find him?
Owain had decided it would be wisest for them to seek news of the battle from the Saxons, since they were the victors. They left their horses in a thorn grove and walked cautiously toward the fort. Before they’d gone far, Owain accosted an exhausted-looking Saxon and dragged him over to Eastra. “Speak to him in his own tongue,” he told her. “That way he will know we are not the enemy.”
She told the man she was Cerdic’s niece and she had come for news. Haltingly, he answered her questions. Aye, the Britons had been totally routed. Arthur was believed to be dead and, with him, all of the Companions. A few of the Britons had escaped, but so few Cerdic decided it was not worth the trouble to chase them down and kill them. The losses on the Saxon side had not been grievous, but the Picts had suffered heavy casualties. It was the way they fought, the warrior explained, throwing themselves into the fray like madmen.
At some point, the man seemed to snap out of his battle trance and question what she was doing there. He warned her it wasn’t safe to remain so close to the battlefield. Looters roamed the area, unscrupulous wretches who stole from the corpses and finished off the wounded so they could steal from them as well. He also told her Cerdic had returned to the fortress, but it might be best if she waited until morning to seek him out.
Eastra agreed with this advice. She had no desire to meet with her uncle this night. He was likely still angry at her for speaking to him so boldly and then leaving his camp. The man started to walk away, but then she called out as an afterthought, “And Mordred Arthur’s son and Cerdic’s ally, where is he?”
“Dead” the man answered. “They say Arthur stabbed him in the throat even as his own life’s blood was draining away. Cerdic ordered no burial or death ceremony for Mordred. His words were, ‘That one can rot in the mud were he lays.’ “
“Where did Mordred die?” Eastra asked. “Do you know the place?”
“Down by the river, near where it curves.”
Eastra immediately began to contemplate where she could get a torch.
“What did he say?” Beli asked.
“He said Arthur and all his companions are dead. Mordred was also killed.”
Eastra glanced around. Seeing a man with a torch, she approached him and smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m Cerdic’s niece. I’ve come from the fortress where they are tending the wounded. We need more torches there. Would you let me have that one?”
The man gaped at her. “Cerdic’s niece? And he has you tending the wounded?”
“I wanted to help.” She lowered her eyes demurely.
“Here,” the man thrust the torch at her. “I suppose the living have more urgent need of it than do the dead.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Now what are you planning?” Owain asked, coming up beside her.
“We’re going down to the river. We’re going to look for Mordred.”
They returned to their horses. Owain held the torch and led the way, grumbling. Their course took them through the woods where Arthur’s cavalry had waited. They encountered few bodies. Those Britons left alive had made it their mission to collect their fallen comrades. All the corpses that remained, scattered among the trees, were Picts. Eastra felt a stab of grief each time Owain shone the torchlight on another of the small, fierce warriors.
Even to herself, she could not explain what drove her to find Mordred. She knew even if Arthur had fallen nearby, the high king’s body would have been borne off hours ago.
But then there was a keening sound, a bone-chilling cry of grief and pain, and Eastra knew why she had come.
They hurried to the river. At the water’s edge, the torchlight revealed the spectacle of a wailing woman standing knee-deep in the shallow water, struggling to drag something to shore. Her hair was unbound and wild, but Eastra recognized Morguese. “Help her,” Eastra said to Beli and Owain, her voice shaking. Even though she knew Morguese had brought this tragedy on herself
and her son, Eastra could not help pitying her. She thought about how she would feel if it were her child lying lifeless in the water, her own flesh and blood, cold and dead.
The two men dismounted and helped the hysterical woman get Mordred onto the riverbank. Morguese immediately threw herself upon his prone form, weeping. She seemed oblivious to everyone and everything around her. They all stood there, listening to her moan and cry until Eastra could endure it no longer. She approached Morguese and touched her shoulder. “Come with me and warm yourself,” she said. “You can do no more for him.”
Morguese whimpered. She stroked her son’s face tenderly. In death, Mordred looked very young, and much more innocent than he’d been in life. The wound in his throat had bled out, so there was no sign of his violent death. His face looked peaceful and relaxed, as if he were sleeping.
“Come,” Eastra said again. Morguese allowed herself to be helped up. She was haggard and wild-eyed, her hair tangled around her body in limp strands, her gown torn and filthy. Eastra could scarcely recognize this woman as the powerful priestess she remembered dancing with supreme hypnotic confidence in Urien’s hall.
She put her arms around Morguese. “Owain will build a fire.” She nodded to him as she said this. “We’ll wrap you up and get you warm.” Morguese clung to her hand as they waited for the men to fetch the flintstone and other supplies from the horses’ packs.
They camped there for the night, with Mordred’s body lying a few feet away. Owain had covered it with his cloak. Strangely, Morguese dropped off to sleep almost immediately. It was Eastra who lay awake, staring up at the few stars visible through the trees. She felt numb and empty. Too much had happened this day. Death was all around her. Far in the distance, she could still hear men screaming in pain. And not a dozen paces away, Mordred dreamed the endless dream of the dead. She tried to imagine it in her mind, Arthur wounded and bleeding, but still strong and canny enough to manage a last swordthrust. With that one blow, he had sent his son to the Otherworld to pay the debt he believed must be paid.
The Dragon Prince Page 31