Pendragon Rises Page 11
Instead he had only listened. The magnificence of the standing stones which marked Ambrosius’ grave was lost upon him. How pathetic his tribute had been!
It wasn’t until they reached Amesbury when another loss jarred him. Ambrosius’ death was not a forfeiture, not when he had achieved so much for Britain and her people. This, though…this was a sacrifice. Why had he not looked for her, in that brief moment of vision? He might have seen Anwen as she was, not as his mind painted her.
AMESBURY WAS BUILT UPON AN open plain with little but grasses and stones. Building, here, did not require the heavy and difficult work of clearing forests to make room. As a result, the town sprawled east from the banks of the Avon and the solid stone bridge the Romans had built to cross the river.
The market square in the middle of Amesbury was an open space of cobbled stones far larger than the only other market place Anwen had ever seen in her life, at Isca Dumnoniorum.
She guided Steffan’s fingers to the open gate at the back of the cart, while twisting her head to look around her, her eyes wide. The other women, including Igraine, had already alighted. They gathered about Igraine protectively and moved toward the tables.
There were braziers everywhere about the square, giving warmth and light to the day—although the sky was cloudless overhead. Around the edges of the square were many long tables. Some of them were merely boards resting on barrels, hastily put together by the townsfolk to host the royal company. A meal which was both the breaking of the overnight fast and a feast in celebration of Ambrosius was served upon the tables. Everyone was provided a platter or bowl, upon which the hot food was ladled.
There were porridges and stewed fruits, roast lamb aromatic with rosemary and pork with crackling rind. Winter vegetables cooked with more herbs and gravy and sweetmeats to satisfy any appetite. Bread, thick and crusty and still warm from the ovens, was heaped in baskets.
Pitchers filled with mulled wine and others with the rich white wine native to the region dotted the middle of the tables.
The steam from the hot food lifted into the air, as everyone gathered about the tables to eat.
The aroma of hot bread was overpowering, making Anwen’s mouth water. Her heart sank, though, as she watched the mourners stand at the tables, talking as they ate. She turned to Steffan as he took his staff from the cart and tucked it against his shoulder.
“There is food to be had,” she told him. “Although there are too many people here, all of them strangers, and everyone serves themselves. We can find an inn on the outskirts, instead.”
Steffan tilted his head, listening to the clack of the wine pitchers and platters and the buzz of conversation. “It smells delicious. Why should you be deprived? Perhaps…” He frowned. “If you would gather two meals, we can find a place away from everyone. If that suits you?”
Relief touched her. “Yes, it suits me. Stay here. I will return shortly.”
She hurried to fill two platters with meat and vegetables, selected hunks of bread and took it all back to the cart.
Steffan had not stood idle while she was gone. His staff was propped against the cart and his cloak hung from the top. Steffan rolled the second of two empty barrels up to the cart. A stack of similar barrels rested against the wall of the nearest building.
There were few people on this side of the marketplace, for the tables of food were on the other.
Steffan stood the barrel he was manipulating on its end beside the first.
“Here,” Anwen said, holding out a platter. “Pork and vegetables and bread on the side.”
He took the plate and sniffed.
“I want hot wine, too,” Anwen said, putting her platter on the first barrel. She went back to the nearest table and poured two mugs of the wine. No one stopped her or tried to speak to her, which was normal. Igraine would be at her husband’s side, she presumed. Even though Anwen was one of Igraine’s companion ladies, the work of teaching Morgan and Morguase removed her from that company. She would not be missed.
Not that she minded. The ladies of Igraine’s retinue and Mari’s before her were spiteful when the great lady was not present.
Anwen took the wine back to the cart. Steffan had put on his cloak, for the morning was chilly, but furled it over his shoulders to eat. He sat on a barrel, his long legs letting him keep his feet upon the ground.
Anwen carefully placed the tankards on the floor of the cart behind them, where they could reach them through the slats on the side of the cart. Then she picked up her meal and tried to arrange herself on the barrel. It was too high to sit. Her platter jiggled, threatening to spill the meal upon her.
Steffan held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“How did you know?” she asked, handing him the plate.
“I know that irritated sigh of yours,” he said.
She scowled and hoisted herself onto the barrel. Then, because her feet did not reach to the cobbles and she had no desire to swing them like a child, she lifted her feet, too. She and crossed her ankles and rearranged her gown around her knees and over her feet.
Then she took the plate back. “Thank you.”
Steffan returned to eating. He had not waited for her and his plate was nearly empty.
Anwen ate quickly, using the bread to sop up the gravy. She was starving.
This was the first time in her life she had traveled beyond the borders of Cornwall. She did not like traveling. It was a dirty, uncomfortable experience. The cold was unrelenting. They were never in buildings with doors and windows which could be closed against the outdoors.
Yet the most surprising thing about traveling was that she was often hungry. Meals were chancy upon the road, unless one stopped and set up camp to prepare a proper meal or found an inn which could serve such a large company. As the message summoning Gorlois’ household to Amesbury insisted they arrive before mid-winter, stopping on the way to eat properly had been impossible.
Most of the food Anwen had eaten in the last few days was cold—a snatched handful of dates or other fruit, cheese, or dried and salted meat. At first, there had been bread to gnaw upon, although the bread had soon run out and no chance arose to replenish their supplies. Most of Britain was on the road, summoned to Amesbury just as they were. Towns and their bakeries were stripped of supplies before they reached them.
After decades of Saxon raids and internal wars, most of Britain had little food to spare even for those who could pay for it. The lands they traveled through seemed barren. They passed no fallow fields or harvested crops. The herds and flocks she spotted were small, the creatures lean and sallow. Few birds flew overhead. People hid away from the large company traveling the roads. Anwen was left with the impression that life clung by the fingernails. A year of near-peace had not been enough to reverse the shortfalls and deprivations of a generation.
This was the first hot meal she had tasted in five days.
“Is traveling always so rough?” she asked Steffan.
He smiled. “Try traveling upon horseback and carrying all your armor and shields and weapons, from earliest light to sunset.”
“That is how an army travels?” she asked.
“When not in enemy territory, yes.”
“And when you are in enemy territory?”
“Your armor is worn, your weapons held in your hands and you trust your horse to follow the others and find his own way, for you dare not put down your blades to pick up the reins. No matter the heat or the discomfort, you remain alert, while your sweat gathers beneath your armor and your brain cooks in your head, because you wear a war helmet and dare not put it aside, either.”
Anwen shuddered. “This is the life you like so much?”
“There are ugly sides to any life,” he said. After a pause he added softly to himself, “Yes, there is good and bad everywhere.”
He twisted to put the empty plate on the boards of the cart. With a sideways motion of his hand, he found the nearest cup of wine and picked it up. He sipped and nodd
ed. “Good.”
“What’s this, then?” came a rough voice from the corner of the cart, making Anwen gasp. “The eunuch keeping company with a woman?” The man stepped around the cart, his arms crossed. He was a short man, yet solid with muscle. He wore the white cloak of Cornwall over his shoulders. His leathers were stained and his armguards slashed. His arms were thick with muscle. His muddy brown eyes shifted from Steffan to Anwen and back.
“Maurgh,” Steffan said, lowering his mug. “I did not realize roaches like you were invited to attend. I’m glad you stayed with the Dimilioc end of the company. The road was foul enough without your presence.”
Anwen recognized the name. This was the soldier from Dimilioc who had made Steffan’s life so unpleasant, Steffan had beaten him with his staff.
Anwen slid her half-eaten meal onto the cart. She wanted her hands free.
A second man moved around the cart. This one was taller and also wore Cornwall white. His armor was of better quality. “There are fresh pitchers over…” His voice trailed off, as he looked from Maurgh to Steffan, to Anwen. His eyes narrowed. As he had deeply set eyes and a crease over the bridge of his nose, narrowing them made him looked both angry and puzzled. “Steffan of Durnovaria. How the mighty have fallen. Look at you.”
Obeying her instincts, Anwen plucked Steffan’s mug from his hands and put it back on the cart.
Steffan didn’t seem to notice. His chin turned, making it appear he was looking at the second man. “Madog. You keep appropriate company.”
“That would be Captain Madog, to you,” Madog said.
“Nah, it wouldn’t,” Maurgh said, with a cruel quirk of his mouth. “He’s a eunuch now. Not a drop of soldier left in him. He teaches children.” He spat.
Steffan did not appear to react, although Anwen could see a pulse throbbing at the base of his neck. He didn’t shift off the barrel. “Gorlois must be desperate to promote the likes of you, Madog.”
Madog’s scowl scrunched his creased eyes even more. “You always were too good for us men. Off drinking with princes and kings. Only, I’m a captain now…and you’re no one.”
Anwen sucked in a breath at the cruel words.
Steffan gripped her arm and squeezed gently. It was a warning to remain silent.
She swallowed.
“Look, he’s reaching for help,” Maurgh taunted. “Can’t even feed himself without a nurse.” As he spoke, he shifted his boots, moving in tiny increments. His gaze flickered toward the cart.
Anwen stifled another gasp. Maurgh was aiming to take Steffan’s staff away from him, the one he had used to beat him at Dimilioc.
She untucked her feet and let them hang. The staff was on the other side of Steffan from where she sat. Maurgh was closer to it than she and she didn’t know what she might do to prevent him from taking the staff.
Madog laughed. It was thick with derision. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re blind, Steffan. You always found the only beauty worth bedding within a day’s ride. Now you can’t tell you’re reaching for the plainest hag of a woman in Amesbury.” He paused, considering. “Ugly is all you deserve,” he added.
Anwen froze, her heart jolting.
Maurgh lunged for the staff. Anwen’s throat locked tight. She couldn’t draw breath to warn Steffan.
It didn’t matter. Steffan heard or felt Maurgh’s motion and guessed his intentions. He stood and snatched his hand out and sideways, to grip the staff just as Maurgh got his hand on it.
They grew still, both pulling at the staff. Steffan seemed to stare directly at Maurgh.
Maurgh snarled. “Eunuch.”
“Fool,” Steffan replied in a flat voice. He jerked the staff forward, toward Maurgh. The top of it rammed into the underside of Maurgh’s jaw. The man staggered backward with a sharp click of his teeth, his breath escaping with a grunt.
Madog leapt, as if he had been waiting for this moment—and perhaps he had. He was a cruel man and he was a soldier. He had survived enough battles to be promoted to the higher ranks of Gorlois’ army, so he knew how to fight with or without weapons.
His fist crashed into Steffan’s jaw. Steffan didn’t see it coming as a sighted man would. He didn’t brace himself. The blow sent him staggering across the cobbles, his staff scraping across the stones.
He recovered quickly—more quickly than Anwen thought he might after such a hit. Steffan pulled the staff closer and gripped it with a hand at one end and the other nearly half-way down the length of the staff. He lunged at Madog, the staff lifting high, as if he could see exactly where the man was. Perhaps he could—he saw shapes and colors. What color would Madog be? A deep, dirty bruised gray, Anwen hoped.
The staff slammed across Madog’s shoulder with a thud which seemed to echo. Madog cried out and his arm fell against his side, useless. Steffan rammed the staff into his stomach and Madog gave a sickly grunt and folded onto his knees, his hands at his stomach.
Maurgh leapt upon Steffan’s back, his fingers hooked into claws, as he reached around for Steffan’s face. Steffan staggered up against the barrel upon which he had been sitting. He gripped Maurgh’s wrist, to stop the fingers from digging into his flesh.
Anwen grabbed a mug of wine. It was still nearly full, which made it heavy. She jumped up on the barrel, gripped the cup in her hand and swung her fist at Maurgh’s face.
Like Steffan had been, Maurgh was not braced for the unexpected blow. He grunted and fell from Steffan’s back. He sprawled heavily. Hot wine sent up steam from his shoulder and back.
Madog surged to his feet with a growl.
“Behind you!” Anwen shouted.
Steffan whirled, bringing up the staff, blocking Madog’s arm, which he had been bringing around for another blow at Steffan’s face.
Madog didn’t like that. His face twisted with fury. He stepped sideways and ducked under the lifted end of the staff. He rose in front of the barrel Anwen stood upon. His fist buried itself in her stomach.
The pain was immense—too much for Anwen to even gasp. Her knees folded. She fell onto the barrel, then tipped off the side onto the cobbles. The impact jarred her. Her bones creaked. The last of her breath pushed out of her.
“Anwen!” Steffan shouted.
She couldn’t find the breath to reassure him. She moaned, her knees curling up around the hand she pressed to her stomach. The meal she had just eaten stirred uneasily.
Her lack of answer triggered Steffan. With a roar, he wielded the staff, swinging it in three sharp blows—into Maurgh’s chest as he rose sluggishly to his feet, dropping him back onto his rear; against the side of Madog’s flat face, making his jaw snap sideways and blood to spray; then a slam into Maurgh’s temple, making his eyes roll backward and him to fall back upon on the cobbles.
Madog fell, too. He laid on his face, his hand making weak scrabbling motions at the stones.
“What in Mithras’ name is going on here?” The roar came from behind Anwen and she could not straighten or move to see who it was, although she recognized the voice. It was Gorlois.
Steffan turned to the voice, lowering the staff. He was breathing hard. The staff rested upon the ground once more and he held it as he always did, as a guide, not a weapon.
Madog moaned.
More running steps sounded—Anwen could hear them through the ground beneath her ear. Gasps and wordless exclamations. More people gathered around Gorlois.
“Steffan, what have you done?” Gorlois demanded, anger thickening his voice.
“We…had a discussion,” Steffan said.
Hands pressed against Anwen’s arm. “Can you get up?” It was Igraine’s voice. “Help me lift her to her feet,” Igraine added.
More hands gripped Anwen’s arms and tried to raise her. The movement hurt and she gave a soft cry and curled her knees back against her belly.
Gorlois glanced at her and frowned, then back at Steffan. “This is a day of peace, of reflection. Yet you fight like a drunken recruit after his first battle.”
He had broad shoulders beneath the thick, fine cloak. His clothing was richly embellished and his armguards were of finest gold, reinforced with polished copper, so they shone as red as his hair.
Red hair. Blue eyes. An air of command. It was the first time Anwen had ever seen him, yet she knew she was looking at Uther, the new High King of Britain.
Uther came to a halt, his eyes widening. He took in the men on the ground, Steffan’s position between them and Gorlois’s angry face. Behind Gorlois a dozen other people strained and pressed to see what the fuss was about.
Gorlois swallowed. “My lord, this is just a minor matter. I would not spoil this day with domestic squabbles. Let me clear this up, then attend you.”
Uther, though, swung his gaze back to Steffan. “Steffan! Gods above! It is you!” He stepped over Madog’s still body and thrust out his hand, the other gripping Steffan’s shoulder. “Look at you! You look exactly the same!”
Steffan couldn’t see Uther’s outstretched hand and didn’t reach for it. “My lord Uther,” he said, a small smile touching his mouth. “This is…unexpected.”
Uther looked down at his hand, which hung empty. He frowned. “I forgot,” he murmured. He picked up Steffan’s wrist and pushed his hand into Uther’s.
Steffan gripped his hand hard, the tendons in his arm working. “Uther,” he said, his tone pleased and warm. Then his smile fled. He turned his head. “Anwen?”