“After months of being treated like a princess, I finally realized I was one. I had value and power, and I could change things instead of letting life pull me along like a leaf carried away on the current.” She nuzzled his ear. “Do you like your Saxon princess?”
“Mmmm, it’s what I’ve always wanted... I think.”
“You think?” She slapped him in mock anger.
Then he rolled over on top of her and the playful mood vanished. Pushing down his trousers, he was soon deep inside her. His rhythm was urgent, rough. Eastra clutched his shoulders and gave in to the fierce, primal sensations. He was like a proud stag mounting a doe. She trembled and moaned, hungry and yearning for every thrust inside her. Her womb, already ripe with life, contracted and pulsed.
Her mind was filled with visions. She saw the great horned god of the hunt silhouetted in the light of the full moon. And in the moon was a woman’s face, the Lady. As she floated down upon the silvery light the stag god’s shadow moved to meet the light and became a man. They were joined, their bodies merging, becoming one. Male and female, unique and wonderful. And in their joining, the power was unleashed. Eastra felt it inside her own flesh. She was the Goddess, the giver of life, and Rhun worshiped her as only a man could, offering her his strength, his dark, wild essence, his seed.
The waves of pleasure subsided, and with them, her strange dreams. She opened her eyes to see Rhun, his face flushed and slit-eyed with contentment, his nostrils still flared as he took long, deep breaths to recover from his climax. “This must be a dream,” he said. “I can’t imagine this is happening.” He focused his gaze on her. “I can’t believe you are really here.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. “I should have been more gentle. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She shook her head, still dazed and wondering herself. “It was... magical... like the night this babe was conceived. Morguese said that the child was special, that it was blessed of the Goddess.”
Rhun shook his head, then gave a kind of shudder. “I will be pleased to be away from Morguese and her enchantments. I want our lives to be simple and real once again. No sorcery, no spells, no curses. Just you and me, a man and a woman who love each other.”
Eastra nodded. “I would like that, too.”
“Perhaps, when this is over...” Rhun sighed. “The thing is... I want Arthur to live, but if he does, I wonder it will begin all over again.”
“I don’t think that will happen. Morguese said she could heal him, but he would never be high king again.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but I have hopes it means this war is finally over.”
“Now that would be a miracle.”
She smiled at him. “I believe in miracles. Don’t you?”
Chapter 20
The wind blew ripples across the lake, patterning its surface. Across the water, its form half obscured by wreaths of mist, the Isle of apples appeared to float, a dreamy mirage of green. Morguese stood on the shore and faced those gathered there. She wore a sheer white gown, and the breeze caught the gossamer fabric and made it billow and dance around her. Her long hair—which had turned completely white a few days after the battle of Camboglanna—drifted in tendrils around her pale face. She had lost flesh, and to Eastra, who had seen Morguese dance in Urien’s hall, a creature of flame and heat and sensuality, the northern queen now appeared as a lovely bloodless wraith. It was as if with Mordred’s death had leached all the life and passion from her, leaving behind a transparent shell. And yet Eastra was also reminded of the Goddess’s incarnation as the Lady of the Moon, cool and silvery and full of ancient power.
Morguese raised her arms. In her left hand was Arthur’s sword. The huge ruby set in the hilt glinted like a glowing red eye. Eastra heard a ripple of awe and half dread pass through the crowd. Excalibur seemed like a living thing, and she wondered with the others if the weapon were protesting being torn from the hand of its rightful owner. She thought of the bier draped in royal purple slowly being lowered into the crypt in the chapel at the priory. The king is dead, the people had whispered, despair in their hearts.
Eastra’s attention focused again on Morguese, a pale specter on the shore of the lake. Morguese began to speak in a voice of power and authority, belying her ethereal form. “We come here today to say farewell to Arthur, high king of Britain. His body has been returned to the earth, the Mother. Now we bid farewell to his spirit, sending it back to the Otherworld. The king is dead, but his spirit, his memory, will never die!”
She raised the sword higher. The ruby in the hilt glowed, and ripples of light seemed to run down the length of the shaft. “Someday Arthur will return to reclaim his kingdom, to carry his sword into combat for the sake of all Britain!”
A soft sigh of satisfaction swept through those watching—widows and families of the Companions; Arthur’s footsoldiers and auxiliaries, some wearing bandages or leaning on crutches; the monks of Avalon; servants and retainers of the royal household; common folk who had walked long distances to pay their respects to the high king; and Guinevere herself, looking clear-eyed and composed.
“I, his sister, his closest living kin, have vowed to keep his memory alive.” Morguese’s voice rose rich and true, throbbing with emotion. “To watch over his sword until he shall come again.” She turned slowly and, at the same time, brought the sword to her lips and kissed the shimmering blade. Then she raised it once more. With a strength that seemed impossible for a mortal woman, she threw Excalibur into the air. It whipped end over end, making a kind of wild, haunting music as it flew over the water, then slowly descended in a graceful arc near the island. Before it reached the water, a gauntleted hand reached up and caught it, hilt first, and snatched it down into the depths.
Eastra blinked, then gasped in wonder, as did everyone around her. The people began to whisper and point, shaking their heads, their eyes wild and disbelieving. Eastra met Morguese’s gaze and caught her faint smile. The awed murmuring of the crowd grew louder, finally becoming a rhythmic chant. “Arthur is not dead,” they intoned. “The king still lives. He will come again! He... will... come... again.” Their voices swelled, exuberant and elated. Then, as the rejoicing people watched, Morguese raised her arms. It was as if her body had turned to light, as if she were glowing. The mist rose around her, like a nimbus of silver. The light faded. The mist slowly vanished...and Morguese was gone.
Eastra shivered, caught up in the mood of wonder and amazement like the rest of them. Then, remembering Rhun’s instructions, she quickly left the stunned gathering.
The aura of enchantment and mystery, of powerful forces at work, followed her as she made her way into the forest. She heard voices whispering around her, subtle and keening like the wind soughing through the treetops. From the thick foliage, she could feel eyes watching her. It seemed as if faces—gnarled, grimacing faces—peered out from the curving patterns of the rough bark of the elm and oak trees.
She hurried onward, trying to shake off a primitive sense of dread. It was as if Morguese had called upon forces that had slept for centuries, ancient powers living within the earth and in the depths of the lake. Eastra felt them swirling around her, unsettled and restless, and she thought again of her brother Cynebeold’s tales of the spirits of the fen, waiting to pull unsuspecting mortals down into their murky realm. She shuddered and then glanced down. The ground looked solid and ordinary, green turf brightened with purple loosestrife and white forget-me-nots, green-gold bracken and fern. But she was still uneasy, and so she hurried on.
At last she saw the glint of water through the underbrush. As she approached the lake, her breath caught in her throat and her muscles went tight with dread. She was not certain what she feared to see, why she felt so anxious.
But, in fact, the scene that met her eyes was perfectly peaceful. At the edge of the water, iridescent dragonflies and drab mayflies circled the white water lilies and the purplish pink blooms of the flowering rush. The smell of the marsh
came to her, strong and earthy, and clouds of tiny insects wafted over the still, green water. Across the way, the Isle of Apples appeared very ordinary, a tangle of vegetation, in places turning the brown-gold of autumn.
She stared hard at the island, amazed that it looked so different from this side of the lake. The sense of enchantment was gone, leaving behind only the gentle mellow beauty of water and green and growing things. Then she heard a sound behind her and turned. Rhun walked toward her. His chest was bare, his hair wet, and he was drying himself with his tunic as he approached. “Well,” he asked, grinning, “Did it work? Were we convincing?”
Eastra shook her head. “If you only knew. It was magic, pure magic.”
His expression sobered. “Aye, there was more than a little of that at work. Something sent the sword to my hand as a lodestone draws iron. When I pulled it into the water, it seemed alive, quivering and singing in my hand.”
“Where did you put it?”
“I buried it on the island. It’s all wrapped up and protected in a wooden box. If Arthur ever wants it, it should be there for him.”
Eastra nodded. “Morguese disappeared afterward. Vanished, as if she were no more substantial than a moonbeam. How do you suppose she accomplished that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” Rhun shook his head then smiled again. “Come here. I’ve had enough of sorcery and spells this day. I want to hold a real living woman. You can warm me up.”
“Ooooh, you are cold.” She shivered as he embraced her.
“Aye, but not for long.” He bent his head and kissed her. In moments he did seem to warm. She ran her fingers over his chest and looked up at his face. Her golden warrior, her beautiful, wonderful Rhun, a flesh and blood man to hold her and love her and chase away her uneasy memories of spirits and ancient things.
“We’d better go join the others,” he said after they had kissed some more. “I don’t want anyone to think too much on my absence during Morguese’s performance.”
Reluctantly, Eastra nodded. As they walked back through the woods, she asked, “How soon will Guinevere leave?”
“Soon. Arthur’s already gone north, to an isle off Caledon. The Picts who live there have no quarrel with him, and they’re so closemouthed and secretive, they’ll guard his true identity as well as it can be guarded.”
“Does he regret he won’t be high king anymore?”
Rhun shook his head. “He said it’s time he stepped down anyway, to let some other man guide Britain’s destiny. He believes he accomplished at least part of what he meant to do. Besides, he deserves some peace and happiness. He’s given over nearly his whole life to this cause. In many ways, it’s a blessing Morguese could not heal his sword arm. Since he’s maimed and can’t lead men into battle, he can’t be high king. Now he can have a chance at a normal life.”
“Besides,” Rhun added. “He believes he can have more impact on the future as a dead martyred king than he could have had as a living but maimed man. Already the bards are composing songs about Arthur’s bravery and glory, about his wondrous deeds and how someday he will return from the dead to guide Britain to greatness.”
Eastra nodded. “Except for her blind spot about Mordred, Morguese really does seem to have the sight. It’s almost like a bard’s tale, the way everything has worked out. I’m certain Guinevere is delighted with this plan. She told me she never wanted to be queen. Now she can turn her full attention to her own passionate cause. Did you know she’s been taking orphans into the royal household for years? Irish and Saxon children, as well as British ones. She knew they’d either die or be enslaved, so she took them in and has been raising them as if they were her own. When things got so ugly with rumors about her and Lancelot, she went back to her father’s fortress in Dumonia and took the children with her. Now Arthur, Guinevere, and those poor orphaned children can all live in peaceful, happy obscurity on their northern isle.”
“And what happens when those children grow up and go out into the world?” Rhun asked. “Will they tell the true story of Arthur and his quiet retirement in the land of the north?”
“If they do, who would believe them? The legend the bards are creating is much more enthralling than the true tale, so that’s what people will remember. Speaking of bards,” Eastra added “have you had any news of Bridei?”
“Well, he wasn’t killed at Camboglanna, that’s for certain. He wasn’t even there. I guess at the last moment, before they marched into battle, he took off. Someone asked him where he was going, and he said something about ‘going to claim his heritage.’ “
“What does that mean? We know he didn’t go back to Gwynedd.”
“All I can think of is that he went to Manua Gotodin. Because Rhiannon is a princess of the Brigantes, he may have some notion they will welcome him as kin and even offer him some position of authority.”
“Do you think that will happen?”
Rhun shook his head. “Although one of the princes there may offer him a place as a bard, I can’t imagine anyone would give him any position of importance.”
“Poor Bridei,” Eastra murmured.
“Poor Bridei!” Rhun snorted. “There are a lot of stories about my brother, that he was an ally of Urien and Arthur’s other enemies from the beginning. That even when we were in Londinium, he was plotting with them.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t think Bridei would betray you, not if he thought it would mean your death.”
“But then, who did betray us?”
Eastra chewed her lower lip. “Perhaps now I can tell you and you won’t be angry. The attack on us may have been my fault. I felt sorry for the slave girl who waited upon me while we were staying at Aurelius’s house. I told her I had once been a slave myself and I also told her who I was, to give her hope she might someday be free and have a decent life.”
“And you think she carried the information that you were Cerdic’s niece and Arthur’s hostage to our enemies?”
Eastra nodded. “It’s possible, isn’t it? After all, the slave girl was a Pict. She had the blue markings on her hands, the same as the ones the Pictish warriors wear on their faces, and they are Arthur’s enemies.”
“But the Picts weren’t allied with the Saxons back then. So I doubt very much you caused the attack by talking indiscreetly with a Pictish slavegirl. Perhaps we will never know who betrayed us. Although I could ask Cerdic about it when I meet with him.”
Eastra clutched Rhun’s arm more tightly. “Are you certain you should do that? What if my uncle takes you prisoner, or even kills you? You’re the last of Arthur’s captains. If he got rid of you, there would be no one to lead the British cause.”
“I don’t think Cerdic is concerned about that. If anything, he needs to find a way to restore relations with my people. Although they would not fight him in pitched battle, there are still any number of British chieftains who consider Cerdic their enemy. If he truly wants his people to enjoy some years of peace, he must deal with those men and come to some agreement with them. I mean to offer to aid him in setting up treaties and restoring trade relationships with those chieftains. They know me, both as Maelgwn’s son and as one of Arthur’s Companions, and I imagine they would rather bargain with one of their own than with Cerdic.”
Eastra gazed at him in surprise. “You would do that—offer to smooth the way for Cerdic so he can gain even more power?”
“Why not? He’s shown himself to be a gracious victor. He didn’t pursue the fleeing Britons and slaughter them. Nor has he immediately marched into British territory and begun confiscating land and property. For all that the treaty between Arthur and Cerdic failed. I think the intent of it is still attainable. There must be some way for us to divide up this isle so that there can be peace.”
“But what about...” Eastra touched her stomach. It seemed to swell larger day by day.
“That you carry my babe gives me more leverage in dealing with your uncle, not less. I can argue I am capable of being im
partial in my negotiations because I will soon have a child who carries Saxon blood as well as British. My bond with you is further proof that I am the ideal man to mend the rift between our peoples.”
“If only Cerdic will see it that way,” Eastra said.
Rhun hugged her. “We will make him see it, you and I. Together we represent the future, as Arthur was the past.”
She pulled him down to kiss her one last time before they walked back to the priory.
Londinium, A.D. 542
“They’re coming, they’re coming!” The excited serving woman rushed down the peristyle and into the garden. “Lord Rhun and the Saxon king.”
Petra, who worked for wages rather than being a slave—as did everyone employed in Eastra’s household—came to stand beside Eastra. Eastra didn’t move from her seat beside the beds of dog roses and lilies that filled the courtyard with their fragrance, but waited for the fair-haired babe at her breast to finish suckling. Then she sat him up on her lap to burp and said, “Your papa has come, little Ceawlin. Won’t he be surprised at how big you’ve gotten?”
Ceawlin stared at her with solemn blue eyes, then screwed up his face and turned bright red as he filled his diaper.
“Oh, dear,” Eastra said, laughing. “Now I will have to change your swaddling before your father arrives. Although it would serve him right if I left the mess for him. He needs to learn there is more to being a father than one night of pleasure. Doesn’t he, my sweet, my darling little one?” She leaned back to look at her precious babe, then kissed him on his perfect tiny nose.
“I think you will have to change as well,” Petra said. She pointed to the bright yellow streak on the skirt of Eastra’s gunna.
“Oh, my!” Eastra laughed again. “I will be glad when he is old enough to eat solid food.”
“Don’t wish him to grow up too quickly.” Petra took the baby and wrapping him carefully in a blanket to protect her own clothing, put him over her shoulder. “For now you can keep him safe from danger, spoil him and pet him as you wish. But all too soon he will be wanting to go off with his father and be a warrior.”
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