High King of Britain Read online

  Bors The Younger: Bors & Evaine’s son. King of Guanne

  KERNOW

  Tristan the Elder

  Tristan The Elder: King of Kernow

  Brandegoris: Cousin to Tristan (see below)

  Mark: brother to Tristan (see below)

  Tristan: Son of Tristan the Elder

  Dinadan: Friend of Tristan’s.

  Brandegoris of Estangore & Julia

  Brandegoris: Cousin to Tristan

  Julia: Princess of Rome, wife to Brandegoris

  Sagramore: Son of Julia and the King of the Magyars

  Claire: Daughter of Brandegoris & Julia

  Mark of Kernow

  Mark: brother to Tristan. King of Kernow

  LISTENOISE

  Pellinore

  Pellinore: King of Listenoise, descendant of Joseph of Arimathea (see below)

  Tor: Pellinore’s bastard son and heir

  Dornar: Pellinore’s bastard son

  Pellinore & Alis

  Pellinore: King of Listenoise, descendant of Joseph of Arimathea

  Alis: Pellinore’s queen (see Dunoding)

  Percival: Pellinore & Alis’ son

  Aglovale: Pellinore & Alis’ son

  Dindrane: Pellinore & Alis’ daughter

  Lamorak: Pellinore & Alis’ son

  Elaine: Pellinore & Alis’ daughter

  LOTHIAN

  Lot & Morguase

  Lot: King of Lothian & Duke of Orkney

  Morguase: Lot’s queen. (See Cornwall, and also Pendragon)

  Gaheris: Lot & Morguase’s son & heir

  Gawain: Lot & Morguase’s son

  Agravain: Lot & Morguase’s son

  Gareth: Lot & Morguase’s son

  Idris & Rhiannon

  Idris of Lothian: Hero, War Duke of Britain

  Rhiannon (see Galleva): Heroine, War Duke of Britain

  Anwen Idria: Their daughter

  Emrys Myrddin: Their son

  Kay The Stalwart: Their son

  MORBIHAN

  Budic of Britanny

  Budic: King of Morbihan

  Isla: Budic’s bastard daughter

  Hoel: Budic’s son & heir (see below)

  Hoel & Mared

  Hoel: Budic’s son & heir. King of Morbihan.

  Mared: Hoel’s queen. (see Guanne)

  Tewdwr: Hoel & Mared’s son

  Kahedin: Hoel & Mared’s son

  Isuelt of the White Hands: Hoel & Mared’s daughter

  PENDRAGON

  Ambrosius: High King of Britain (see below).

  Uther: Ambrosius’ brother & heir (see below)

  Ambrosius & Vivian

  Ambrosius: High King of Britain (see below).

  Vivian: Princess of Dyfed

  Merlin: Ambrosius’ bastard son by Vivian

  Uther & Igraine

  Uther: High King of Britain

  Igraine: Uther’s queen. (see Cornwall)

  Arthur: Uther & Igraine’s son. War Duke of Britain. (see below)

  Arthur & Morguase

  Arthur: War Duke of Britain

  Morguase: Wife of King Lot (see Lothian)

  Mordred: Arthur’s bastard son by Morguase

  PERILOUS FORREST, The

  Nimue: Lady of the Lake

  Vivian: Nimue’s second in command and partner

  RHEGED

  Urien & Morgan

  Urien: King of Rheged. Cousin to Lot of Lothian.

  Morgan: Urien’s queen. (See Cornwall)

  Owain & Morfydd: Urien & Morgan’s twin son & daughter.

  Maps

  Some reading devices do not display these map images well, or at all. If that is the case, use this link to jump to a webpage where the maps are reproduced. (Tip: Bookmark the page, which allows you to refer to it while reading, and not lose your place.) http://tracycooperposey.com/once-and-future-hearts-series-maps/

  Chapter One

  Bedegraine, Greater Britain. 488 C.E.

  Idris, as War Duke of the North, stood on Arthur’s left. He witnessed Lot and Urien, Accolon and the lesser lords of the northern faction bend upon one knee and bow their bloody heads in stiff, furious submission.

  A soft sound lifted from the armed men who circled the defeated lords. The sound was equal parts relief, pleasure and recognition. They understood this was more than a simple defeat. All eyes were upon Arthur as he gazed at the kneeling lords.

  The pale sky of late summer was cloudless, marred only by the crows and carrion feeders who circled over the bloody field. Apart from their cawing, all other sounds, even the wind, abated.

  Arthur stirred and rested the point of his sword between his feet, his hands on the pommel. “For your treachery and the trouble you have caused me, I am inclined to take your heads. All of you.” His blue eyes snapped with anger, although his tone was calm.

  Not one lord raised his head. Idris watched Urien’s gaze slide upward to take in Arthur’s face, to assess how determined Arthur was to see such a punishment through.

  Arthur’s expression, though, gave away nothing. The man had learned to keep his thoughts contained and hidden. “Idris has argued for leniency, against the opinions of every lord who stands around you.”

  Lot scowled. He kept his head down, yet Idris saw the man’s neck tendons flex, the big nose flaring with anger. He did not like his former slave arguing that he be patted on the head and sent back home? No, Lot would not like it at all. Lot’s humiliation was not why Idris had insisted upon mercy, though.

  “Everyone here would prefer your heads in a bag, and the bag flung into a river,” Arthur continued. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, saw the blood on his hand and grimaced. He was not the only man still bleeding from the vicious battle. “You have vexed Britain for three years,” Arthur continued. “You have made us fight on two fronts, dividing our strength. The Saxons push farther west every year, taking advantage of our distraction. I would save myself a sea of trouble if I give everyone what they want.” He paused. “What I want,” he added, his voice low.

  Idris held his tongue. He had said everything there was to say. Arthur had listened. Nothing he could do would change Arthur’s mind now, not here in front of his men and officers.

  He swept his gaze around the circle of lords and men watching justice dispensed. They were angry. Rightfully so.

  Idris spotted Bedivere’s dark brown hair, Lucan’s lighter head beside him, along with their sister Mair, with her pure white hair. Mair’s face was as pale as her hair. Bedivere and Lucan were taut with tension. Their father, Bedrawd, was one of those who had fallen to the northern faction’s swords, last summer.

  Lot relaxed, sensing leniency in the air despite Arthur’s heartfelt, quiet wish.

  Arthur wiped his forehead again, smearing the blood more than removing it. “Idris, explain to them how things will go, now.”

  Lot’s black eyes narrowed. His jaw worked. The glare he sent Idris was one of pure hatred. Even now, on his knees, bareheaded and defeated, Lot was still calculating, keeping score. Planning.

  Idris stepped forward. “If Arthur takes your heads,” he said, “more of your kind will take your place, forcing us to go through this tedious business of demonstrating that Arthur is the War Duke of Britain and you are answerable to him. Today, you have learned the truth of this. Now you will return to your kingdoms and guard your borders against the Saxons. Never again will you be welcome in Arthur’s court—”

  “Court,” Urien scoffed. “He’s not even a king.”

  Idris heard Arthur’s tiny indrawn breath. None of his surprise showed, though.

  Idris cuffed Urien across the face with the back of his hand.

  Urien cursed and spat blood.

  “Arthur is the highest lord in this land,” Idris told him. “You swore your allegiance to him, three years ago. You have broken that allegiance. If you value your hide, Urien, you will, from now on, do as Arthur bids you. Or I will take your head and present it to Arthur. Do you understand?”
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br />   Urien’s muddy blue eyes glowed with fury. “Yes,” he ground out, his teeth showing bloody outlines as he curled his lip back.

  “Urien, Lot, you will return to your kingdoms. Accolon, you will remain in Arthur’s court, in disgrace and his to command and send into battle as he wishes. Lot, you will send your two other sons, Agravaine and Gareth, here to Arthur’s court, where they will take up places in Arthur’s permanent army.”

  Gawain and Gaheris, standing together and as far away from Lot, their father, as the circle of lords would allow, both nodded grimly. They had fought for Arthur with loyalty and courage for three years. They were more appalled and angrier at the actions of the northern factions than anyone here, except Idris himself.

  “That leaves me with no officers!” Lot cried. “Who will lead my army?”

  “You,” Idris said coldly. “Or any lieutenant of your choosing, if you can find one who will serve you.” He paused. “Be certain, Lot, that it is not just Arthur who will suffer if you do not maintain your defenses in the north. Even now, the Saxons will be crawling over your lands, while you dally here in the south. You and your people will only flourish if you defend your borders properly.”

  Lot looked as though he wanted to spit, or curse. His lip curled. Then he glanced at Urien, who still wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, and thought the better of baiting Idris any further. Instead, he nodded stiffly.

  Idris had been Lot’s slave for twenty years. He knew Lot was merely biding his time. Even on his knees, with his neck bared to an axe, Lot was dangerous.

  “IT DOESN’T FEEL LIKE VICTORY normally does,” Lucan murmured, as the three of them moved back over the battlefield to where their horses waited.

  “It shouldn’t feel like victory,” Bedivere said, just as softly. “This battle should never have been fought. Lot and the northern lords brought us to it.”

  Mair gripped the hilt of her sword with her damp hand, mindless of the leather binding. Normally, she would not dare touch the hilt without first donning a glove. “They get to go home!” Her voice came out louder than she intended. “Where is the justice in that? Our father died and Arthur does little more than glare at them.”

  Bedivere’s expression tightened and his brows came together, the way they always did if anyone dared criticize Arthur. “No, it is a smart decision.” His tone was pedantic.

  “Yes,” Lucan said.

  “You, too?” Mair was surprised.

  “Think about it for a moment, Mair.” Lucan stepped over a large puddle of congealing blood which had not yet soaked into the parched earth. He took a second step over a broken sword. “Urien and Lot—especially Lot, who led the northerners—they must return to the north and submit to Arthur’s commands. And who gives Arthur’s commands in the north?”

  Mair halted as she put it together. “Idris…” Idris, the man who had been Lot’s slave.

  Lucan turned and walked backward, facing her. “See? You know what Lot is like. He will hate it.”

  “He’ll gather the kings and come south once more,” Mair said. “Watch out, there is a shield right behind you.”

  Lucan spun and caught his balance as his toe snagged the edge of the big shield. He stepped over it and Mair caught up with him. She glanced at the shield. Bronze and bent. It wasn’t worth picking up.

  “Lot is smart enough to know he only had this one chance to take Britain from Arthur,” Bedivere said. “Now Arthur has proved he is stronger and that more of Britain stands behind him than will rise for Lot. Lot can’t afford a second attempt. Idris was right—Lot can’t sit on a cushion in his fort and let the Saxons pour over the lands. He’ll lose Lothian inside a year, if he does. Just to keep his lands and his people together means he must work with Arthur and defend the north.”

  Mair considered it. “That wouldn’t sit well with Lot, either.”

  “Not at all,” Lucan said. “It’s better to have a king in Lothian who knows Arthur cannot be defeated and is still strong enough to hold his lands, than a weak replacement.”

  “What of Gaheris?” Mair asked. “Has Lothian not declared him the next king, yet?”

  “Not yet,” Bedivere said. “Although now Lot has been so soundly defeated, I imagine Lothians will feel kindlier about Gaheris’ decision to support Arthur.”

  Mair sighed. “Politics is far too complicated. It gets in the way of fighting.”

  Both Bedivere and Lucan gave great belly laughs. Lucan bent, clutching his stomach.

  Mair scowled. What was amusing about wanting to fight?

  “Wars are politics,” Bedivere told her. “You haven’t learned that yet?”

  “I do not care to learn it.” She kept her tone cool. “How can anyone worry about such matters on a battlefield?”

  Bedivere shook his head. “I must report to Arthur. There are plans which must be made to control Lot and his friends.”

  Politics. Mair scowled as Bedivere and Lucan parted from her and strode toward the big white tent on the far side of the battlefield. She veered to the right, where the Corneus tent was encircled by carriages and camp fires. Time to wash the blood away and find a cup with plenty of wine in it.

  ONCE THE MEETING BROKE UP and Arthur’s senior officers left the tent, Arthur stretched and flexed his shoulders.

  Idris recognized the movement and said, “Now we can get on with defeating the Saxons.”

  Arthur laughed. “Exactly what I was thinking, Idris.” His blue eyes danced. “Three major battles in three years…are we likely to face another one this summer, Merlin?”

  Merlin sank onto the high seat where Arthur never sat. Only Bedivere, Cai and Lancelot were there or he would not have sat at all, even though Merlin had as much right to the high seat as Arthur. He sighed. “My spies report back almost daily. There will be more battles, Arthur. You have defeated Lot, but you have barely dented the Saxon determination.”

  Merlin was always frank when they were alone.

  Idris kept his face rigid, so it revealed none of the sinking sensation in his middle to Arthur. Both Bedivere and Cai also remained still. Idris saw Cai’s throat work, as he swallowed.

  “Gwydion preserve us!” Lancelot breathed.

  Lancelot’s exclamation, coming from behind them, made everyone turn. The man sat on the big, flat-topped chest where Arthur kept his clothes, his knees bent as he hunched over the object in his hands. Idris recognized the goblet Lancelot held. It was one of the old bronze cups they had found in an abandoned villa, over a year ago. Arthur’s army had stripped the villa of anything which remained, for Arthur’s traveling court was short on cups, plates and cooking pots.

  They were short on everything. Three years of constant war and patrols had diminished their resources. What little they had was used to support battles.

  Lancelot lifted his head, the thick, wavy hair gleaming in the light from the braziers. His black eyes shone. “Arthur…look at this!” He got to his feet and moved over to Arthur’s side and thrust the goblet at him. “Look at the figures on the side, there.”

  Arthur glanced at it. “Boudicca,” he said shortly. He lifted his brow at Lancelot. “You remind me of defeat just as we speak of more Saxon battles?” He made his tone sound irritated.

  Lancelot’s spirit was unquenchable though. He shook his head. “No, no, that is not my meaning…” He frowned. “Who is Boudicca, anyway?”

  Cai rested his hand on Bedivere’s shoulder. “He means no insult. You know Lancelot.”

  Lancelot glanced from one to the other. “I do not know this Boudicca,” he said, his tone quiet. “Redress my ignorance, please.”

  “Boudicca is one of Corneus’ greatest ancestors,” Bedivere said. “A queen and warrior. She fought the Romans to a standstill before they defeated her and destroyed her family.”

  Lancelot’s eyes widened. “Camulodunum,” he said. “Yes, yes, I know of this battle.”

  Cai snorted. “The lad knows the battle but not a single person in it. You focus too much on
wars and not enough on warriors, Lancelot.”

  Lancelot shrugged. “Wars are won by skill and strategy, no matter who is holding the sword.”

  “Who holds the sword makes a difference,” Idris said. “If it was Cai who stood before me, I would fight one way. If it was Mark or Leodegrance, I would fight a different way.”

  Lancelot’s mouth twitched. “I have no need to fight a different way. My way always succeeds.”

  Bedivere and Cai and even Arthur chuckled, for Lancelot was speaking a simple truth. He was good enough to defeat anyone…except perhaps Arthur. Although, the two of them shared a close and unfathomable friendship, so Lancelot would be spared of ever having to find out.

  Idris had given up trying to understand why the two were so close. Lancelot had arrived in Britain three years ago, shortly after Arthur had become War Duke. Nimue, Lady of the Lake, had presented Lancelot, Bors, Hector and Lionel to Arthur, commending them as strong warriors who would serve him well, which had been perfectly true. Hector, Lionel and Bors The Younger were stout fighters and reliable. Idris would stand beside them on any battlefield.

  Lancelot, though, was of a different mettle. Idris had seen the man’s power and skill in his very first battle. He had seemed to Idris’ war-weary eyes far too young to pick up a sword. When he gripped his hilt, though, and hoisted his shield, Lancelot was transformed into an undeniable force.

  Perhaps that was what made Arthur and Lancelot such unlikely friends. They shared that gift. Arthur was still young himself. There were only a few years difference in their ages. Although sometimes, Arthur seemed older than the earth. Especially when he faced dire opposition—which they seemed to do on a daily basis, now.

  Lancelot turned the goblet in his long fingers, displaying the flat sides of it, which were rich with images in relief. “Look, Arthur. See what Bedivere’s queen stands upon! See the legionnaires scattering beneath her wheels!”