Pendragon Rises Read online

  Idiots. Fools.

  As they surged toward Steffan, he raised the staff. Their sour breath and heavy steps told him exactly where they were. He didn’t need his sight to deal with them.

  Chapter Two

  Tintagel, Duchy of Cornwall, 464 C.E.—the next morning.

  Cador’s arrival at the gates shortly after prayers sent a ripple of whispers through the stone corridors. Everyone hurried to the Duchess’ rooms to attend Igraine while she received Cador, driven more by curiosity than because their attendance was expected. Cador had not set foot inside the high stone walls of Tintagel for years.

  A woman passing the door of Anwen’s room hissed, “Hurry! The Duchess has called for us!”

  Morguase and Morgan looked up from their slates. Morguase, who was twelve and just showing the first signs of adulthood in her small frame, frowned. “Why would Mother call for us?”

  Morgan pursed her perfectly bowed, full lips. “I heard our brother comes to speak to her.” Morgan was six, yet often spoke like a much older child. The doting and favors her perfect beauty engendered had not spoiled her at all. Instead, they had imparted a cynical maturity.

  “How did you hear that, Morgan?” Anwen asked curiously, for both girls had been sitting at the table since prayers had ended. She moved over to the small chest by her bed and took out her brush and pulled it quickly through her hair. She had left her hair loose this morning, although that would not do for a formal reception in the Duchess’ quarters. Not that anyone would notice, even if she did leave her hair out.

  Morgan shrugged in answer to Anwen’s question. “I just know.”

  It was possible she did know. Perhaps she had heard Cador’s voice in the keep, below. Perhaps someone had spoken his name in the rooms beyond Anwen’s. Or perhaps she had learned the truth a different way. Anwen was still deciding if Morgan’s astonishing insights were the product of other-world gifts, or merely the fruits of an inquisitive and swiftly reasoning mind.

  For sure, she was smarter than Morguase, who still struggled over her reading, while Morgan had barely needed to be taught her letters. Anwen would never speak of Morgan’s cleverness to Morguase, who tried hard to please.

  Morgan, alas, did not have to try hard to please anyone. A pout, a dimple, a sunny smile, and the toughest heart melted.

  “Stand up, both of you,” Anwen told them. “Let me see what you are wearing.”

  The girls got to their feet. Anwen inspected their gowns for stains and tears. Miraculously, both gowns were whole and clean. “Morguase, come here. Let me tie your hair back.” She bent and retrieved the ribbon from her chest and bound Morguase’s hair at the back of her neck and patted her shoulder.

  There was no mirror for Anwen to check her own appearance, for which she was grateful. Her reflection in the wash basin was plain enough.

  “Hurry, we must be in the room before Cador arrives,” Anwen said. “If it is Cador,” she added.

  “It is,” Morgan said, with a confident tone.

  They moved along the narrow corridor. Anwen’s room was in the depths of the main tower, while Igraine’s rooms were, naturally, at the top. Anwen was lucky to have a room to herself. The other lady companions to Igraine all shared a single drafty chamber with windows which faced north. Anwen, though, needed a place to teach the girls their lessons. There was just enough space in the room assigned for those lessons to install a bed in the corner, too.

  The circular stairs were full of women hurrying to the same place as Anwen and the girls. They climbed a step at a time up the narrow stairs to the Duchess’ chambers and filed into the big anteroom.

  This was one of the finest rooms in the fort. When the Duke, Gorlois, was home, the room was his reception chamber. When he was away, the chamber was for Igraine’s use, as she acted on Gorlois’ behalf in matters of domestic justice and dispute resolution. The chamber reflected that function.

  It was not a square room. The circular walls of the tower shaped the east and west sides of the room, giving them a gentle outward curve. As the room was close to the top of the unscalable tower, which sat upon the impregnable rock of Tintagel, windows too small to allow the body of a man to pass through were not necessary. There were three windows in each curved wall. The two center windows were huge. Their sills were only as high as a man’s knee, and they soared up at least as high as two men. It took three long paces to traverse the width of them. When the leather was lifted and folded to one side, as it was now, the view from the west window was breath-taking.

  The west side of the tower dropped for the height of ten men to the curtain wall of the fort. The wall had been built upon the very edge of the cliffs which made the Tintagel headland. The cliffs dropped into the sea, far below. The sea churned and sucked at the rocks with ceaseless motions of deep green water. On stormy days it was possible to feel the spray of the waves, standing at the window.

  Yet if one lifted their head to look directly out from the window, they saw nothing but clouds and birds and the endless green sea, clear to the horizon. Nothing of man was visible, unless a ship risked the dangerous navigation to the stony, tiny beach between the Tintagel headland and the mainland. The beach was at the foot of the narrow, natural rock bridge which was the only access to the fort.

  It was said Tintagel could not be taken by any force known to man. For that reason, Gorlois kept his wife in this fortress, while his army resided in Dimilioc.

  The two other windows on the curved walls were smaller and higher. Their view was only of the sky.

  The east window looked out upon the fortress courtyard. Beyond the fortress walls and on the other side of the narrow channel between Tintagel and the shore laid the lands of Cornwall. Today, those lands were mist covered, the mist rolling over the jagged edges of the cliffs and down to the restless sea. Gulls and cormorants cawed as they fished for their breakfast.

  The air passing through the chamber was redolent of sea and weed and green growing things. It was not unpleasant, even if it was a little chilly. Soon, the sun would touch the west wall and warm the stones and this room along with it.

  It was another day in Tintagel, made novel by a most unusual visitor.

  Anwen took the girls over to their mother. Igraine was just settling into the big chair where she would receive Cador. She smiled at them and held out her hand. Morgan slid her smaller one into her mother’s hand, while Igraine studied Morguase. “You must stand quietly and listen,” she told them. She glanced at Anwen and moved her head, with a glance to the side of the big chair.

  Anwen shepherded the girls to stand to one side and behind their mother’s chair. Anwen stood well behind the girls, her back almost against the rug hanging against the wall. She watched Igraine as the Duchess arranged herself and her gown to her satisfaction.

  Igraine had such great beauty it was possible to admire the woman without a shred of resentment or envy. Her flawless features raised her above mere mortal womanhood. Even though she was no longer considered young, Igraine’s skin was smooth. No scars or wrinkles marred her face. Her flesh was pale and her cheeks touched with the blush of an apricot. Her hair was thick, black and untouched by gray. It hung to her hips. Today, pearls had been woven through the curls and waves.

  Her brows were firm, arching over her black eyes, which were large and expressive. Igraine’s chin was small and pointed and her lips full and the color of strawberries.

  Her perfection did not end at her chin. Igraine was a tall woman and her figure, despite the carrying of multiple babies, was still slender. Her hips were perhaps a little wider than they had been as a maiden and her breasts fuller, although men liked such curves. Yet her waist was still small and she made the most of her advantages. She favored gowns which outlined her figure, and transparent veils—when she wore veils at all.

  The necklace and earrings she chose drew one’s attention to her slender throat and the line of her gown beneath.

  Yes, Igraine knew how to portray her charms. She adjusted th
e folds of her blue gown now with particular attention upon getting it exactly right. As she put her foot upon the cushioned stool in front of her, she cleared her throat.

  Anwen suspected she was the only person in the room who detected Igraine was nervous about the coming meeting. As Gorlois’ second wife, her relationship with Cador, whose mother had been replaced by Igraine for failure to provide more children, had always been strained.

  Cador climbed the last of the stairs and stepped into the chamber and everyone fell silent.

  Anwen was startled. It had been several years since she had seen Cador even from a window of the tower. He had grown, in the meantime. He would be seventeen this autumn and he was already a man. He had dark blond hair which must surely come from his mother, the unfortunate Mari. He was taller than the steward, Daveth, who followed him into the chamber, and his shoulders and neck had filled out with strong fighters’ muscles. Living amongst the soldiers at Dimilioc, Cador would have little choice but to become a fighter. He wore a well-used and burnished sword, and metal armguards which were the minimum armor for days when battle was not expected. He was tanned and fit and his gaze was direct…just like his father’s.

  He moved to stand in front of the big chair and bowed. “Lady Igraine.”

  “Cador, it is good to see you,” Igraine told him and her tone was sincere. “This is a great surprise.”

  “I’m sure,” Cador said, his tone dry. “Unfortunately, I have an issue I must deal with that puts me in a quandary. I thought you might have insight into the way my father would resolve the issue, if he were here.”

  Igraine blinked. “You seek my council?”

  Anwen understood her surprise. When Gorlois was away serving the High King, as he had been for several years now, Cador was the nominal commander of Dimilioc, just as Igraine directed the affairs at Tintagel. However, for most of those years, the real manager at Dimilioc had been the steward, Daveth.

  Anwen glanced at Daveth. He looked old, she realized with a start. He had gray in his hair which had not been there when she last saw him. His chin was unshaved, and the stubble was silver. His brown eyes were faded and the lines on his forehead deeper than she remembered.

  Cador’s smile in response to Igraine’s startled question was small. “As strange as it seems, I believe you may be able to offer insight. The matter is not straight forward.”

  Igraine hesitated. “Perhaps you should tell me, then.” She waved to a woman. “Bring Cador a chair and some wine.”

  “Thank you,” Cador said.

  “Daveth, how are you?” Igraine asked the steward, as people flurried about, finding a chair and calling for wine.

  “I am well enough, my lady,” Daveth said. His voice wavered. “This is a troublesome business, though.”

  A stool was brought for Cador and a second stool settled beside him. A cup was placed upon it and a platter with one of the last of the summer’s apples sliced upon it.

  Another servant handed Igraine her jeweled cup. Igraine murmured her thanks and raised her cup toward Cador.

  Cador lifted his and with a nod of thanks, sipped.

  So did Igraine. Then she thrust her cup to one side for someone to take it. Her gaze remained on Cador.

  Cador skewered a slice of the apple with his knife and lifted it. “Last night I did not take my supper in the hall as I usually do. Unbeknown to me, neither did Daveth. We have learned the coincidence was…unfortunate.”

  “The men acted up, my lady,” Daveth said.

  Igraine’s smile was not forced. “Men do, when not properly supervised. Especially military men.”

  “Yes, well…” Cador bit into the apple and chewed. “There is always someone who becomes the focus of their attention. Last night and I suppose for a great many nights before that, it has been Steffan.”

  Anwen’s attention was caught.

  Igraine spoke the question which rose in Anwen’s mind. “Steffan? Are you referring to Steffan of Durnovaria?”

  “Is that where he is from?” Cador asked, sounding surprised.

  Daveth nodded vigorously. “That be the man, my lady.”

  A murmur ran around the room as everyone recognized the name.

  Igraine sat back. “I thought he was dead,” she said flatly.

  So had Anwen believed. She knew of Steffan of Durnovaria only by reputation. Rumor of his exploits as a warrior and Gorlois’ most favored captain had reached them even here in Tintagel.

  In the years before Ambrosius had taken back Britain, when the Saxon raids had been at their worst, the young warrior from Durnovaria had burst upon the fields of war like a star blazing across the sky. A fierce warrior, a gifted fighter and a natural leader of men, he had risen through the ranks and become one of Gorlois’ strongest captains. He was also the Duke’s most favored officer, winning battles and skirmishes with novel strategies, rousing the men to fight with a fierceness and passion which dismayed the enemy before them.

  When Ambrosius landed on the southern shores and swept up all of loyal Britain in his wake, Gorlois had been among the leaders and kings who followed the new High King into battle against first Vortigern and then the Saxons. Steffan had ridden with them and it was said Ambrosius called him “another Uther”—not for his prowess in bed, but in battle.

  Only, Anwen could not remember hearing anything more of Steffan of Durnovaria since Doward had been taken. Like Igraine, she had presumed the man had been killed in a battle and no one evoked his memory after, just as they rarely spoke of others who had fallen. It was the price of war. Men died, women were widowed.

  “Oh, he’s not dead,” Cador said. “Although I’ve heard some say he might as well be. In the year of Doward, the first year of Ambrosius’ reign, Steffan met the Saxons in battle and received such a wound to the back of his head—”

  “The back?” Igraine said. “You mean, the Saxons struck him from behind?”

  “With one of their great war hammers,” Cador said.

  Anwen winced.

  “The wound healed well enough,” Cador said, “only Steffan has been blind since.”

  Daveth rubbed his bristling chin, making a scratchy sound. He looked as uneasy as Anwen felt.

  Igraine pressed her hands together. “How…unfortunate,” she said. “Are you saying that in all the years since—how many is it?”

  “Seven, my lady,” Daveth said.

  “You mean, for the last seven years, Steffan has been living at Dimilioc? My husband let him remain there?”

  Cador put his cup down with a sharp tap of metal upon the stool. “It may appear to be charity to you, madam. I assure you it is not. For those seven years, Steffan has been my tutor. It is thanks to him I can speak the Saxon tongue when I must, plus Latin and Breton.” He paused. “I would advise against arguing with him over matters of war strategy, history or reason, too.”

  Anwen was startled. A knowledge of languages was not unusual, yet the study of history and reason and war theory…that was the purview of scholars and priests.

  “You have been taught by a military man?” Igraine asked, sounding as shocked as Anwen.

  Cador smiled. “I am a better man for the education, I assure you. However, I am to join my father at the High King’s court and Steffan’s services would no longer be needed, even without last night’s business.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “The damned men pushed him,” Daveth growled. Then he bowed quickly. “Forgive my curse, my lady.”

  Igraine gave him a small, stiff smile and turned her gaze back to Cador.

  Cador sighed. “I’ve been up half the night interviewing everyone involved, which was too many, for my liking. I learned that during the evening meal, one of the men, Maurgh, decided to have some fun. There were pranks—”

  “What, exactly, do you mean by pranks?” Igraine interrupted. A fine line marked her brow.

  “He’s blind, my lady,” Daveth said, as if that was all the answer needed.

  “Ex
plain it to me,” Igraine said. A whiplash of command edged her voice which widened Daveth’s eyes.

  Daveth rubbed the back of his neck. “About what you’d expect when men look for distraction. Taking away his plate. Throwing things at him he can’t see coming. Moving his staff out of reach.”

  Anwen drew in a slow breath, reminding herself that the world of men was a harsher world than her own.

  “And this is…usual?” Igraine asked, her voice low.

  “I’ve seen it happen before,” Cador said. “It’s meant as a jest. I’ve seen the same men shove each other off their benches and laugh uproariously. Soldiers work hard. They play hard, too.”

  “I see,” Igraine said, her tone tight. “So they played these jests upon Steffan last night?”

  “And a bit more,” Daveth said. “We weren’t there to shut it down, you see.”

  “Yes, I gathered that,” Igraine said dryly. “What happened?”

  Daveth shrugged.

  Cador reached for his cup. “As far as I can establish from the reluctant mumblings of the men, one of them tripped Steffan as he was leaving the hall. He fell heavily. Then he got back up again and fought them.”

  “All of them?” Igraine asked, her tone appalled. “With what? He surely does not still wear a sword?”

  “Hasn’t the need for one,” Daveth said. “He used his staff.”

  Cador smiled. “I wish I had seen it. He put a dozen men in the infirmary, my lady. Broken arms, sore heads, bruises you would not believe. There are more limping around the yard this morning looking sorry for themselves.”

  A blind man had done this? Anwen didn’t believe it.

  Igraine looked as though she believed it even less than Anwen. There were other soft sounds of incredulity around the chamber.

  “I am still not certain why you bring this matter to me, Cador,” Igraine said. “It appears to be one of simple discipline. Punish the men involved, including Steffan, for brawling.” She shrugged.

  “It’s not that simple, my lady,” Daveth said. “Steffan is…well, he’s not liked.”