Pendragon Rises Read online

  Anwen took a slightly deeper breath. “I’m here.” Her voice was weak and pathetic.

  Uther frowned. His vital gaze ran over her. “So a woman is at the root of this. I should have guessed.” He let go of Steffan’s hand, then walked over to where Anwen sat on the cobbles.

  The women who had been trying to help her drew back, perhaps worried what the High King might do. Everyone knew of his legendary temper.

  “My lord, I do apologize,” Igraine said quickly. “Anwen is one of my women, although she has an independent spirit…”

  Uther bent and gripped Anwen’s arms. He lifted her to her feet with little visible effort.

  She gasped as he steadied her. His gaze was kindly. “Are you hurt?”

  Anwen caught Gorlois’ gaze upon her, just behind Uther. Gorlois shook his head. She understood. This should be contained within Cornwall. “No, my lord, but thank you for your help,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as strong as his.

  “Yes, thank you, my lord,” Igraine added, from just behind Anwen.

  Uther’s gaze shifted from Anwen to Igraine. His smile faded. Anwen was close enough she saw his eyes widen slightly. His lips parted.

  Anwen shifted so she was not standing in front of the High King. She glanced at Igraine.

  Igraine stood as still as Uther, her gaze on the High King’s face. Then Igraine remembered where she was and who she was. She dropped her chin and stared modestly at the ground, bringing her morning veil closer around her face.

  Gorlois moved up beside her. “There has been no time for formal introductions, my lord,” he told Uther. “May I present to you the Duchess of Cornwall?”

  Uther stirred and glanced at Gorlois. Then his gaze slid back to Igraine. A tiny furrow appeared between his brows. “You are welcome here, Lady Igraine,” he said. His tone was absent, as if he spoke the words automatically.

  Igraine was forced to look at him once more, to acknowledge the welcome. Her eyes were wide as she dropped into a shallow curtsy. “King Uther,” she acknowledged. Her voice trembled.

  Anwen’s heart thudded in response to the heat and tension swirling between the two. Neither of them moved, while they were surrounded by people who pushed and leaned, trying to see what was happening.

  Gorlois’s eyes narrowed as he took in the two still people. His face tightened. He could sense the tension, too. He gripped Igraine’s arm, his fingers digging in. “Come, wife,” he said. “Let us take this concern out of the King’s sight and deal with it in private.” He pulled on her arm.

  For a moment, Anwen thought Igraine would resist her husband’s tugging and her heart leapt with alarm.

  Then Igraine drew in a tremulous breath, turned and let herself be pulled away.

  A tall man with dark hair and a petite woman with red hair the same color as Uther’s swept up beside Uther. The man took the King’s arm and spoke to him quietly, shepherding him as he spoke. Uther drew in a breath of his own, blinking. He frowned as he listened to the man.

  The three of them moved in the opposite direction to Gorlois, huddled together as they conversed.

  Anwen felt as though a disaster had been only narrowly diverted.

  “Anwen?” Steffan called. There were too many people swirling about in the little space between the cart and the nearest building for him to risk moving.

  Anwen moved to where he stood, his grip hard on the staff. Walking made her stomach ache, although she no longer felt as though she would be sick. She touched Steffan’s arm. “I’m here.”

  He frowned. “What in Hades just happened?” he demanded, his voice even lower. “The air wasn’t that thick when we faced armed Saxons.”

  “I think,” Anwen said slowly, “a civil war may have just been averted.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ilsa held the tent flap aside for Arawn to lead Uther inside. She dropped it behind them and pulled the edges together to discourage interruptions.

  Arawn pushed Uther toward the big chair at the back of the outer room of the pavilion. “Sit and draw breath, Uther.”

  Uther turned to face him. “What is this? My captain telling me what to do?” A dangerous note colored his voice.

  Arawn hesitated. He recognized Uther’s tone, as did Ilsa. Eight years of campaigning with Uther and Ambrosius had taught them to take care when Uther’s anger stirred.

  This was no time for delicate side stepping, though. Ilse moved around the two so she was facing Uther. “Arawn is not your captain right now. He is your friend. And I am your cousin, Uther. We speak as friends now.”

  Arawn nodded. “You have never hidden your indiscretions, Uther. The gods know men have admired you for them and for your tirelessness. The Lady Igraine is no camp follower, though.”

  Uther’s jaw worked. “What are you prattling about?” he demanded, with a patently false innocent air. “I was talking to another old friend and greeting his leaders.”

  Ilsa laughed. “Uther, no one who saw what just happened will believe that.”

  “I’ve seen you fall for women too many times to miss it,” Arawn said. “You’ve risked baleful husbands before but this…this is an altogether different matter.”

  Uther swallowed, his eyes narrowing. “I am your king…” he growled.

  “Not until Easter,” Arawn said sharply. “We’re just cousins and friends, trying to warn you to think this through.”

  Ilsa gripped Uther’s sleeve. “Gorlois is your most loyal ally. He supported you and Ambrosius from the very beginning. He has not left the King’s side since Ambrosius landed in Britain and his army has fought your wars valiantly.”

  “If you slight Gorlois,” Arawn continued, “if you pursue Lady Igraine, then Gorlois will be forced to redress the insult. You would risk open war against your strongest ally, just to bed a woman?”

  “And if you think that is a small price to pay,” Ilsa continued, “remember what happened when Vortigern and Catigern fell out. The Saxons took advantage of the moment of weakness and flooded across Britain, slaughtering everything in their path. It took your brother seven years to wrest back control of the country, after that.”

  Uther flinched. His gaze slid from Ilsa to Arawn. Then he sighed and dropped into the chair and put his chin on his fist. “You speak truly,” he said. “I am not that much of a fool—I would hope I am not, at least.”

  Ilsa drew in a breath, relief touching her.

  Arawn let out his own breath in a gusty exhalation.

  Uther dropped his hand. “By the gods, she is beautiful, though! No wonder Gorlois kept her locked up in that great fortress of his.”

  Arawn’s gaze met Ilsa’s.

  Uther pushed his hand through his hair in a mannerism Ilsa remembered. She had not seen him do that in years. It was a habit from the days when he had been frustrated beyond belief, perched upon the very brink of war but not yet unloosed upon Britain.

  “There is a day of feasting to get through,” Arawn said sharply. “Then the camp can be struck and Amesbury can return to being a village. The sooner we reach permanent accommodations and a decent hearth for the winter, the better. We’ve tallied here too long.”

  “Are you cold, Arawn?” Uther asked, sounding surprised. His gaze ran over Arawn’s layers of furs and wool.

  “Are you not?” Arawn shot back, irritable. “It is mid-winter—long past time for sane men to be tucked inside. It is eight years, now, since I last slept on a real bed.”

  Uther got to his feet and rested his hand on Arawn’s shoulder. “After the coronation, you should go home, you and Ilsa. You well deserve it.” His grip tightened. “A day of feasting, hey? One where I do not tear the country apart by insulting my ally.”

  “That would be nice,” Ilsa murmured, her voice tight.

  Uther patted her cheek. “You know me far too well, kinswoman,” he said. “Let me surprise you, for once.” He winked and left the tent. “Let’s find some wine, Arawn!” he shouted from outside.

  Ilsa dropped into t
he chair Uther had vacated, trembling.

  Arawn let his head roll back and blew out his breath once more. “And now he will insist upon us keeping him company while he drinks himself to a standstill.”

  Ilsa gave him a shaky smile. “Tomorrow’s headache will be a small price to pay if it helps us avert a disaster.”

  BEFORE ANWEN HAD FINISHED EXPLAINING what had happened between Uther and Igraine, and Gorlois’ reaction, music began in the square beyond the cart. The space between the cart and the building where they stood emptied of everyone but them. Even the two men Steffan had beaten stirred from their positions on the ground and crept away.

  The music was sprightly, with pipes and harp and a quick drum beat designed to make feet tap.

  Steffan, though, frowned. “Uther has an eye for women—”

  “Which everyone in the land knows about,” Anwen assured him.

  “He has never tarried with one so dangerous, though,” Steffan added.

  “He didn’t tarry,” Anwen said. “He hid his reaction and let himself be drawn away by his friends. There wasn’t a wrong word spoken by either of them.”

  “He hid it?” Steffan sounded even more startled.

  “He tried to. It was enough for everyone to pretend nothing was wrong, yet I saw his face, Steffan. It was as if he’d taken the end of your staff right against his heart.”

  Steffan considered. “In the short time I knew him, Uther never hid any lust he felt. He was open about it, which made the men admire him all the more. And stand back and cheer as he indulged himself.” His frown deepened. “No one could cheer about this, though. It would force Gorlois to act, which would split the army…this is not good, Anwen.”

  She sighed. “That is why he let himself be led away, I think. He knows it, too.” Her heart pattered unhappily. “What can we do about it? I am not Igraine’s favorite companion. I never have been. She would not listen to me.”

  “And I am no longer a soldier with a channel to Uther,” Steffan said bitterly.

  Anwen gripped her hands together. “Those men…Maurgh and Madog…they are the people you miss, Steffan?”

  His clear gaze shifted to where the men had been lying, as if he could see them there. “Maurgh and Madog and others of their ilk…they are the worst type of soldier. No, they are not the people I miss. The people I miss are like Uther, who has worked his entire life to fulfil his brother’s dream of a peaceful Britain. I miss people like Gorlois, who are faithful and stalwart and ruthless in the protection of their leaders. There are dozens more. Arawn and Mabon and Bors and Ban, all of them good kings and leaders of men, dedicated to a greater vision than their own little kingdoms. I am not their equal yet because Uther liked me, I got to meet them and know them.” He swept his hand out. “There were others. Ector and Pellinore and Cadfael’s son, Bricius. Even Cador will be among them, now. They are the next generation of great men. They are the people who will change our world. And yes, I miss the company of such men.”

  Anwen pressed her hand to her chest. The light, happy music seemed such an odd note, compared to Steffan’s ringing voice. “No wonder you chafe from the company you keep now.”

  Steffan shifted, as if she had startled him.

  “Women and children and Latin,” she added. “How mundane it must all seem. No wonder you are angry all the time.”

  Steffan jerked. “Angry?”

  Wary, Anwen said, “You have much to be angry about.”

  Steffan’s knuckles whitened on the staff. “That is what they say about me? That I am angry?” He seemed astonished. “You believe that, too?”

  She swallowed. “When you first came to Tintagel, it seemed you were, yes.”

  “And now?” he asked, his tone tight with control.

  “I don’t know what others see—”

  “I don’t care what they see,” he growled.

  “You scare me,” Anwen said, her heart jumping at his growl.

  He grew still, as if he listened to something she could not hear.

  “Sometimes,” she amended.

  “Sometimes…” he muttered heavily.

  “You must understand,” she said quickly. “I had never spoken directly to a man, before I met you.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “Not once? Not at all?”

  His astonishment made her cheeks heat with shame. “I have lived in the women’s quarters at Tintagel all my life,” she said, unable to lift her voice above a murmur, for it seemed so pathetic.

  “Then this is the first time you have traveled beyond Cornwall.” He shook his head. “The first time I crossed the Severn, I could barely stay on my horse for terror. The mountains to the north are so much bigger, the trees taller, the enemy stronger and more ferocious—everything was new. How is it you have shown nothing but calm gracefulness since we left Tintagel?”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” Anwen said. Because you were there. The words stayed in her mind, unspoken, yet shocking. The presence of a blind man had changed a journey which terrified Steffan to one of simple wonder for her? How could that be?

  “Then you have courage far beyond mine,” Steffan said. “I already suspected it was so. Now I know for sure.” He moved over to where the cart sat and rested the staff against it. He held out his hand. “Come here.”

  Her heart jumped. She went over to him. With a great hesitation, she put her hand in his. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “There is music and there is dancing. Let me prove I am not as angry as you think.” He pulled her gently around the cart. She could see in the greater square beyond that couples were stepping out dance formations in time to the simple tune.

  Panic swamped her. “No,” she said, her voice nearly bodiless. She pulled on Steffan’s grip, trying to drag herself back behind the cart.

  “No?” he asked, halting.

  “No. No dancing,” she said. “I beg you.”

  Steffan’s smile was puzzled. “I’ve never before met a woman who does not like to dance.” His smile faded. “Or is it the company you object to?”

  “No. Neither,” she said quickly, still pulling against the hold he had on her hand. “Please, Steffan, let me go.”

  He frowned, moving closer to her. He didn’t release her hand. “What is your objection?” he asked.

  Her terror built. She would die of shame if he forced her to speak it aloud. “Ugly old hags don’t dance,” she said desperately.

  His eyes seemed to darken. “Neither do blind men. Tell me truly, Anwen. Why will you not dance with me?”

  “I don’t know how!” she cried and turned her back on him, her shame complete. Her arm twisted about her middle, for he did not let go of her hand even as she whirled away from him.

  He came up behind her. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, warming the chill air of the day. “You’ve never traveled and you’ve never danced,” he breathed. “Then there is something which terrifies you, after all.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Come here.”

  She resisted and shook her head, forgetting for a moment he would not see the movement.

  “Come, Anwen. Back behind the cart,” he said gently.

  She would be hidden behind the cart. That seemed safe. Anwen let him draw her back to where his staff rested against the end of the cart. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he pulled her into the middle of the open area between the cart and the building.

  “Now, curtsey,” he told her and bowed.

  For a moment, fear blossomed once more. She stood frozen.

  “Go on,” Steffan told her.

  “How did you know I had not?” she breathed.

  “When you move, the air brushes my face. Curtsey, Anwen.”

  She gripped the folds of her gown with clammy fingers and curtsied, spreading the skirt out of the way.

  “Now, do you hear the music?”

  She nodded. Then she cleared her throat and added, “Yes.”

  “On every second beat, take a step toward me. Three steps. Ready?
”

  Her heart racing, she nodded again. “Yes.”

  “One, two,” and he took a step. Anwen did, too.

  “Three, four.” Another step.

  “Five, six.” The last step.

  His hand found hers and lifted it high and they swayed closer as the other dancers had been doing.

  It was quite natural to take the step backward. She did it without instruction.

  “Now around,” he murmured.

  She walked around in the tight circle, just as he did. He found her hand once more and this time they moved around in a single circle, their joined hands in the middle.

  He released her hand. She turned and moved back three steps.

  “On the beat this time,” he said.

  Three steps forward. Hands together, raise and sway…then to circle and circle again.

  Her heart beat wildly. I’m dancing!

  The tune ended. Another began immediately. This one was slower and far more sedate, to give the musicians a chance to catch their breath. Anwen recognized both the tune and the dance, for she had sat in the corner of the courtyard at Tintagel more than once on late summer evenings, watching dancers come together, their heads close.

  Her heart pummeled at her chest as Steffan’s arm came about her waist. He turned her just as she had seen other men do with the women in their arms. Steffan’s gaze seemed to settle on her face.

  “Can you see me?” she whispered.

  “Almost,” he breathed. “Perhaps, if I stop being angry and you stop being afraid, I might really see you.”

  “Like you saw the standing stones?” she breathed.

  He shook his head. It was a small movement. “I suspect that seeing you won’t hurt at all.”

  Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. They were no longer dancing. She was in his arms, held there by the touch of his mouth.

  It was delightful. It surpassed any hint other women had given about the pleasure of kissing. Anwen sighed into his mouth.

  His tongue touched her lips and pressed deeper.

  Anwen recoiled backward. “You can’t kiss me.”

  Steffan let his hands drop. “Why not?”