She shivered at the thought, wondering at the forces at work around her. Her faith in Morguese’s power had been shattered. What did that mean for her and the babe growing in her belly? She touched herself, wondering how many weeks it would be before the babe quickened and she experienced the first real stirrings of new life inside her.
Rhun’s child. It might be all she had left of him. And yet she did not believe that. She did not think Rhun had died in the battle. As the conflict raged, she’d become convinced that for some reason Rhun hadn’t arrived in time to honor his oath to Arthur. Had it been the Goddess who delayed him and saved his life?
The thought gave Eastra hope. Although Morguese was wrong about Mordred, that didn’t mean she was wrong about everything. The Goddess might yet have a plan for her, and for her child.
In the morning, Eastra washed in the river and redid her braids, then went off into the bushes to change her clothing. Morguese did nothing, sitting on an old log and staring into space.
After they ate more of the dried meat they always carried and drank the last of their wine, Owain asked Eastra, “Where to now, Princess?”
“I would like to find Arthur,” she said. “I would like to pay my respects to the high king ere he is buried.”
“Arthur’s not dead,” Morguese spoke softly, her voice flat and bitter. “He should be, but he’s not.”
“What are you saying?” Beli asked. “We were told he was mortally wounded when he... killed Mordred.”
Morguese laughed, a harsh mirthless sound. “He will never be high king again, but he is not dead.”
“How do you know?” Eastra asked.
Morguese shrugged. “I know. He is my half brother, and the tie between us is close.” She glanced at the cloak-wrapped body. “That’s why Mordred was so special. He had the power from both of us.” She gave a pathetic sniff.
Eastra, Beli and Owain all looked at each other. Morguese would never understand how flawed her son was.
“Where is he, then?” Eastra asked. “Where is Arthur?”
“They plan to take him back to the priory at Avalon, in the hope the monks there can heal him,” Morguese answered. “But there is naught they can do. They haven’t the skill to save him.”
Eastra gazed at Morguese thoughtfully. “Who could save him? Could you do it?”
“Of course.” Morguese sniffed again. “If I wanted to.”
“He’s your brother,” Eastra coaxed. “Your kin. Now that Mordred’s dead, he’s all you have left.”
“Oh, I have other children, but none of them have the power. They’re all slow and cow-brained like Urien.”
This almost made Eastra laugh. She felt giddy. Arthur was alive. And so was Rhun, she was sure of it. As certain as Morguese was that Arthur lived, she felt the same way about Rhun.
She looked at Owain. “I’ve never heard of Avalon. Is it far?”
Owain shook his head “Clear on the other side of Britain. But if we start out now, we will easily find them before they reach the place. They must be carrying him in a litter or a cart and can’t travel very fast.”
* * *
He was too late, Rhun thought bitterly. He’d feared it was true the entire journey, but as they began to meet the few stragglers traveling south, his fears became real. The survivors told of the victory of the Saxons, the terrible losses the Britons had suffered, of Arthur wounded and dying. But that was the part where their stories grew vague. Some said Arthur was dead already, but no one had seen his corpse. There was talk the Saxons had carried it away, or the Picts. But there were also tales he wasn’t dead after all. One man, limping and his right eye a crusty, ruined mess, said Arthur had been taken to a house of holy men and they were going to heal him.
Rhun didn’t know what to believe. Whatever happened to Arthur, it was surely out of his hands. His purpose, his goal, was to find Eastra. He assumed she would be in Cerdic’s camp. He had to find her and tell her he loved her and wanted her to be his wife, if she would have him. But would Cerdic allow such a thing?
Mentally, he flogged himself for all the chances he’d had and wasted. If only he’d wed her while they were in Gwynedd, she would never have left. She would be safe now at his father’s fortress, their babe growing in her belly. A wave of longing went through him at the thought. What if he never had a chance to see his child? Cerdic might decide to marry her off to one of his thanes. And all of this because he’d been such a stupid, selfish fool!
He rode along the old Roman road thinking these grim thoughts. It could not be that much farther to Eburacum; the trickle of weary soldiers had increased to a steady stream. At least the Saxons had shown mercy by allowing the British survivors to return to their homes. They clearly thought they had broken their enemies’ will to fight and that the Britons would not dare make war against them for a long while.
Rhun recognized a few of the men, but he could hardly bear to face them. He felt like a traitor, and he experienced their puzzled, sometimes accusing, looks like physical blows. At least he hadn’t met any of the Companions. Of course not. They were dead, every one of them. Except him.
He grimaced at the thought, and when the next group of travelers approached, he hunched over and looked away as the cart and handful of riders passed by.
Then someone called his name and he looked up despite himself. He found himself staring into the stunned face of Tristan. He’d been one of the youngest of the Companions, and always in awe of Rhun. He appeared to have aged years. His dark eyes were smudged with shadows of weariness, his dust-smeared face gaunt and grim. The two soldiers with him were not much better off. They looked barely past boyhood and were obviously dazed by what they’d been through.
Tristan motioned for the others to halt, then said “Jesu, I can’t believe it’s you. Where were you? Arthur held out hope until the very end that you would come with some of Cynglass’s warriors. Or a troop of Cymru archers, at least.”
Rhun gritted his teeth. “My father imprisoned me,” he said. “He would not let me leave his fortress until he thought it was too late for me to reach the battle in time. He was worried I would be killed.” It sounded like the lamest of excuses. He wanted to hang his head and look away.
“Oh,” was all Tristan said. “Well, perhaps it’s just as well. It’s good to see another Companion alive.” He glanced back toward the cart. “And we could use your help in getting the high king to safety.”
“Arthur?” Rhun’s gaze fixed on to the contents of the cart. There would be those who would try to steal Arthur’s corpse. He’d already heard tales of it. “Where do you plan to take him?” Wincing, he glanced again at the blanket-covered lump in the back of the wain. To think that this still, lifeless shape was all that was left of the high king, a man he’d once very nearly considered a god sprung to life.
“Our goal was Avalon, the Isle of Apples, but that seems far-fetched now. He’s already feverish and weak. More traveling might finish him off.”
“He’s alive!” Rhun almost fell out of the saddle in amazement. He took a deep breath to recover himself. “By all means, you must stop somewhere.” He looked around, scanning the landscape in desperation. There must be some farmstead nearby. Some kind of shelter, a place to build a fire, someone skilled in herbs and medicine. His heart sank. This part of Britain had been the site of too many battles in recent years, and most of the people had moved to safer locales. Shelter and food they might be able to find. But a wise woman or midwife, that was unlikely. And without treatment, Arthur would surely die, especially if he were already fevered.
Rhun dismounted. “Where is the wound? Show me.”
Tristan also dismounted. They walked back to the wain and Tristan lifted the blanket. Rhun gave a gasp. Arthur looked pale as death already and his breathing was shallow and uneven.
“His arm is mangled,” Tristan said. “But that’s not what worries me. It’s the wound in his groin that’s like to kill him.” He lifted the high king’s long mail shirt to reveal
leather trousers completely caked with dried blood.
“My God,” Rhun said. He wished fervently he’d paid attention to Rhiannon when she’d brewed decoctions for his brothers and sisters when they’d had fevers, or could remember what she used to clean wounds with so they wouldn’t fill with poison. But he knew nothing about healing. He’d always depended on wise women like Rhiannon or the army surgeons, most of whom were holy brothers who’d made healing their special calling. “Where’s Geriant? Or Hywel?” he asked, thinking of the surgeons.
“Probably back there somewhere. We had to get him away.” There was a note of hysteria in Tristan’s voice. “We feared the Saxons would follow us and finish him off. While Arthur lives, so does the dream. The Saxons know that as well as we do.”
Rhun shook his head. “But he’s like to die anyway. I don’t know how to aid him, what to do, except to somehow get him to shelter and keep him warm.”
“I’ve thought that, too,” Tristan said. “But I didn’t feel I could leave him to go and search for a place to bed down for the night. Besides, he wasn’t this bad until the last mile. He even spoke to me, encouraging me.” Tristan looked as if he might weep. This was obviously too much for him. And what other horrors had he seen during the previous day? Who could blame him if he was so stunned he could not think clearly? Rhun had seen it often in the aftermath of battles.
“Stay here,” he said firmly. “I’ll go look for a place to spend the night.”
“But what if someone comes? We can’t leave the road with the cart. Nor can we carry him to safety very quickly.”
Rhun scanned the horizon, looking for anyone on the road behind them. The hilly nature of the landscape made it impossible to see very far. “I’ll be as fast as I can. If anyone comes, draw your swords and prepare to fight.”
Tristan nodded.
Rhun took a deep breath. Surely this was why God had not allowed him to take part in the battle of the crooked glen—Camboglanna—as the previous day’s conflict was already being called. He was meant to save Arthur’s life instead of fighting at his side. But if that was God’s purpose, why had He not given Rhun a better chance of succeeding?
It seemed hopeless, yet Rhun remembered Rhiannon’s words: while there is life, there is hope. Once again he must put aside his longing for Eastra. How could he not, when his dying king had been practically thrown into his path?
He focused his thoughts and began to search the area for shelter. No sign of farmstead or bothy or any sort of habitation on this side of the road. He retraced his steps and searched the other side. After he’d gone a short way, he halted. Wasn’t there something odd about that pile of stones in the distance?
He rushed to the place, pushing through the underbrush nearly hiding it, then took a step back and stared. Of all things, an ancient, square temple of worked stone. The faces of the old Roman-style gods stared blindly from their niches in the walls. He ducked his head to enter. The construction seemed solid, although the place smelled sourly of the droppings of some animal that had used it as a den. It would suffice for their purposes, providing shelter and hiding them from the road.
He left the temple and retraced his steps. As he approached the cart, he saw them in the distance. Riders. Four of them. They were bearing down on the cart and the soldiers guarding it. Rhun began to run.
He was about a hundred paces away. It looked as if he would reach Arthur and the others at the same time as the riders. His sword bounced against his side, and he wondered how long he should wait before drawing it. His hand went to the hilt.
Then he saw something that made his steps slow to a dazed, stumbling rhythm. One of the riders had long pale golden hair. It glinted in the sun like a helmet of light. Could it be...?
Rhun shut his eyes and opened them again, wondering if he were trapped in some sort of dream. A dream that had seemed like a nightmare, but now promised to turn as magical and wonderful as any dream he’d ever had.
He started running again. As he neared the cart, Tristan was shouting, but Rhun didn’t notice what he said. Beside the wain, he halted. “Eastra,” he whispered.
Her eyes were fixed on him also, as they drank in the sight of each other. She reined in her horse, and he ran to her. He reached up and dragged her off her mount, then twirled around with her in his arms. “Eastra, my darling, my love!”
He heard her laugh, wild and exuberant, sounding like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. Then he put her down and glanced at her stomach, then back at her face. “Is it true?” he asked. “Do you carry my babe?”
“It’s true,” she said, then laughed again.
Rhun embraced her, then looked around. He wanted to share their wonderful news with the whole world. Then he saw Beli and Owain... and Morguese. The sight of her amazed him as much as seeing Eastra, but in a different way. He started to open his mouth to say something sarcastic about her gloating over Arthur’s defeat. But then he saw how ravaged and pale she looked and the words froze in his throat. She wasn’t gloating. Nay, she looked as if she had been weeping for days.
Eastra touched his face. “Morguese’s going to help us,” she said. “She’s going to heal Arthur.”
He shook his head, more puzzled than ever. “But why? Has she changed her mind about wanting him dead? What’s happened?”
“It’s a long tale. What matters now is that she says she can keep Arthur from dying.” She looked around. “We need some sort of shelter, a place for her to work her magic.”
“I’ve found it,” Rhun said. “And it’s more perfect for our task than you could ever have imagined.”
The next few moments were busy ones. The cart was hauled closer to the temple, then the six of them—Tristan, the two footsoldiers, Beli, Owain, and Rhun—all carried Arthur down the slope to the temple hidden in the trees. Eastra had already swept it out with a branch and put down blankets on the cold stone floor. There was no hearth, but Owain started a fire near the door and lit a small oil lamp that he’d carried in his pack. Morguese, moving at the slow, lethargic pace with which she’d done everything since Mordred’s death, set out the bags of herbs, bottles of oils and essences, bowls and utensils she used for her spells.
When she was finished with her preparations, she waved them away. “Leave me,” she said.
Rhun hesitated, as did Tristan. With more force, Morguese repeated, “Leave me!”
Eastra took Rhun’s hand. “Come,” she said. “We can talk while she works her spells.”
“But what if... she does something to him?”
Eastra looked at him quizzically. “If she betrays our trust and kills him, then it’s no worse than the death he would have suffered anyway. His wound is mortal. Nothing but sorcery can save him.”
Rhun nodded. It was true. Still, it bothered him to leave his king alone with Morguese, who’d openly plotted his overthrow. It bothered him even more when Eastra told him about the scene by the river. “By the saints! Mordred was her son! But Arthur and her... why that’s... that’s incest!”
Eastra nodded. “So Arthur said. But it’s over now. Mordred’s dead. Arthur’s debt is paid. And Morguese...” She sighed. “Morguese has no one left to love. That’s why she’s doing this. I think she once loved Arthur and that’s why she tricked him into bedding her. And then when he rejected her and rejected the child they’d conceived, all that love turned to hatred. She’s spent the last twenty years of her life plotting his defeat. But when Mordred died, it changed something in her. She remembered her love for Arthur. She doesn’t want to lose him as she has her son. I believe she will do her best to heal him.”
“Well,” Rhun said. “You’re a woman, so perhaps that makes sense to you, but it makes none to me.”
“But you will trust my judgment?”
“Of course.” He leaned near and kissed her. It began as a light, gentle kiss, then quickly turned to something more. The very feel of her body in his arms turned him to fire. Soon they were one writhing, panting beast, pressed ag
ainst the back side of the temple.
He finally broke away. “This is madness,” he murmured.
“Why?” Her voice was teasing.
“Because Arthur may be dying and here we are, like a pair of animals in heat!”
“There’s nothing wrong with passion. Indeed, our lust may well add some power to Morguese’s spell. Although I do agree we should find some secluded spot so we can continue in privacy.”
That their lovemaking could give life to a dying man—it certainly was a strange notion. But it sounded plausible when Eastra said it. And Rhun didn’t think he could keep his hands off of her anyway.
He retrieved a blanket from his saddle pack. As he passed by the other men on the way to the temple, he said sheepishly, “I thought Arthur might need it.” No one commented and he wondered if they believed him. Or maybe they were too caught up in their worries for Arthur to care what he did.
He should be praying himself, he thought as he approached the thicket Eastra had selected. With every breath he took, he should be beseeching the Almighty to let Arthur live. But then would that not be hypocritical—to petition his God for aid when in fact he was putting his trust in a devotee of the Goddess?
He had to confront the fact that as deep as his faith was in some ways, it had its limitations. Some things remained the realm of the old gods. As high king, Arthur belonged to the land, the Great Mother herself, and only She could heal him.
This thought contented him, but perhaps it didn’t matter anyway, he thought as he pushed aside the concealing branches and beheld Eastra in all her naked glory. For a time, he simply stared at her, memorizing each lovely plane and curve, every facet of her beauty. His gaze lingered on her slightly rounded belly, the lavish abundance of her breasts, the deep rose of her nipples. She no longer looked like a maid, but an incarnation of the Goddess herself, ripe and lush and glowing with the splendor of the new life inside her.
He spread the blanket on the ground, then caught her up in his arms and pulled her down so they lay side by side. “What happened to you?” he asked between kisses. “I remember you as a shy maiden, not this bold, free-spirited, lustful woman.”
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