Pendragon Rises Page 4

  It made him smarter than most men. Men usually tried to protest or bluster their way out of the lady’s request, fooled by her loveliness into thinking she was incapable of independent thought.

  Although, of course, Steffan could not see Igraine. He had only her voice to guide him and the dangerous tone had been warning enough.

  Igraine relaxed. “Then it is settled. Welcome to Tintagel, Steffan of Durnovaria. You are welcome here.”

  Not by all, Anwen breathed to herself, her resentment building.

  “Anwen?” Igraine called.

  Anwen sighed and stepped forward a little. “My lady?”

  “Come here,” Igraine told her.

  Reluctantly, Anwen moved through the phalanx of ladies to the clear space between the assembled ladies and the cluster of men in the middle of the room.

  “This is Anwen,” Igraine said. “She teaches my children to read and write, which will supplement your own lessons, Steffan. You will begin tomorrow.”

  Steffan turned to where Anwen was standing and his eyes settled on her unerringly, as if he really could see her.

  Anwen pressed her hands to her chest, panic building there. He sees me! The thought was colored with the fear which had been building all day, and also with an emotion she did not recognize. A fizzing of her blood, which made her shudder.

  As soon as Igraine rose to her feet, signaling the audience was at an end, Anwen escaped the chamber.

  The man could find his own way to the room where he was to disrupt her life.

  Chapter Four

  Ilsa heard the argument from all the way across the open square. Ambrosius and Uther’s raised voices were distinct, issuing through the tent opening and the walls themselves. She put down the sword she was polishing to listen.

  Maela lifted her chin, her pale eyes narrowing. “Again?” she murmured, with a sigh. She lowered the armored jerkin she was working upon.

  “It sounds as though it is about more than the lack of amenities, this time,” Nimue said in her clear voice. She was on the other side of the tent, reading letters from Brocéliande. “Perhaps you should slip inside and listen, Ilsa. No one but Arawn will notice you.”

  Ilsa did not bother being offended. Nimue, with her power and her youth and her white golden looks, drew the eye of everyone. Ilsa wore dull green and brown as usual, which she found useful for slipping unnoticed between trees and across valleys.

  She put the sword aside and moved out of the tent. It had rained this morning and now a fine mist was rising from the ground as the sun burned off the last of the puddles. Four rows of tents outlined an open square. The High King’s big pavilion made up one entire side. The ladies’ pavilion was on the other side, while the nobles and kings’ tents ranged on either side, making up the rest of the square.

  The ground squelched under her boots as Ilsa hurried across the square. There were few people outside, yet. The rain had driven everyone indoors.

  Surrounding the inner square of tents were more tents and shelters and camps, housing the senior officers. Beyond them were the shelters for the lesser ranks of soldiers. At the edge of the camp, the roughest lean-tos and makeshift shelters protected the lowliest foot soldiers.

  Just beyond the perimeter laid the town of Amesbury itself. It was too small to offer housing for anyone but the High King. Ambrosius wisely refused the hostel they put aside for him. “I will camp with everyone else,” he told them. “Mine is a court which travels, although we will remain until the work of building the monument is done—another reason not to turn someone from their home.”

  That had been eight months ago and tensions had risen over the summer as the limitations of the impermanent accommodations wore upon the men. Fighting broke out among the troops. Arguments were rife among the leaders.

  Ambrosius and Uther, who had seen eye-to-eye through years of fighting and campaigning against the Saxons, were just as quick to come to shouts.

  Ilsa turned sideways and moved through the gap between the nearly closed flaps of the High King’s tent. If she avoided touching the flaps, she would not change the light shining through them and signal her arrival.

  The carpets and furs spread upon the ground inside. Dozens of men stood upon them and Ilsa knew them all. These were Ambrosius’ leaders. Most were kings in their own right, who had faithfully supported Ambrosius for the last seven years, working together to oust the Saxons from Britain forever.

  Only in the last year had Ambrosius succeeded in driving the Saxons back to the original shoreline territory ceded to them by Vortigern. There, the Saxons remained…for now.

  Ilsa moved around the backs of the men, passing Mabon and Ban, Gorlois and the thin, tall Pellinore and Ector, who always stood together. Those two were perhaps the youngest of the captains Ambrosius kept near to hand.

  Arawn saw her. He stepped back, which let Ilsa move to his side. His hand touched hers. He didn’t look at her. He was watching Ambrosius and Uther.

  Uther stood in the center of the circle of men. It never bothered him when forced to stand alone, which he often did—Uther’s opinions ran counter to everyone else’s. It didn’t help that he was usually right, especially in matters of battle and war.

  He was staring at his brother, his anger showing in his eyes and the way his jaw worked and the stiffness of his shoulders.

  “If we do not secure the north, it will be Vortigern’s flood years all over again,” Uther ground out.

  Ilsa looked at Arawn. He leaned toward her. “Word from the north,” he murmured. “Catigern is raiding again. Lot and Urien do nothing.”

  His quick explanation outlined the entire argument for Ilsa, for it was not the first time she had heard it. The north had always been and still was a wild land which resisted the control of the High King—any High King. Vortigern never tamed it despite a decade spent there, fighting for domination against the Picts, the Saxons who fled there, the hill tribes and the Celts who hated him.

  Ambrosius did not try to dominate. Instead, he met with the heads of the northern kingdoms, one by one, and forged alliances. He would let the kings fight for their own lands, which would act as a bulwark for the southern lands.

  Two of those petty leaders were Lot, king of the Orkney Islands and sprawling lands to the south, and his younger cousin Urien, Duke of Rheged, to the southwest of Lot’s borders. Between them, they covered most of the north, along with a handful of smaller kingdoms and duchies and tribal lands—all of which looked to those two for direction.

  Lot and Urien had sworn allegiance, yet they were as wild as their lands. Their idea of allegiance held only so long as personal gain could be made.

  Catigern, Vortigern’s rebel son, ran with the Saxons who remained in Britain. While Ambrosius pursued the Saxons, Catigern had been contained, too.

  Now peace was declared, Ambrosius turned to peace-time pursuits. That included the rebuilding of the standing stones. Ambrosius wanted the stone circle as a monument to the three hundred kings and leaders whom Vortigern and the Saxons had slaughtered in Aquae Sullis, the year Ambrosius returned to Britain.

  Catigern was testing Ambrosius’ tolerance. He and his Saxon cohorts had raided into the west three times in the last year. Uther had driven them north onto Lot’s lands, where the terms of the agreement insisted Uther break off and leave them to Lot and his men.

  Now, Lot and Urien were doing nothing to control the raiding parties.

  It did not sit well with Uther, who preferred direct action to solve a problem. From Uther’s expression, Ilsa judged Lot’s and Urien’s insolence had pushed Uther too far.

  “A large party. A show of force,” he told his brother. “A month or two and I could have the entire north cleared out.”

  Ambrosius shook his head. “No. It would violate our treaty with the northern kings.”

  “They have already violated the treaty!” Uther shouted back. “They do nothing! Let me demonstrate the effectiveness of our men! It will stiffen their loyalty.”

/>   “Until they have broken the agreement, we will do nothing, do you hear?” Ambrosius said. “Inaction is not enough to call them traitors.”

  Uther steamed, his jaw working.

  When Ilsa first met Uther, he had been a chaffing lieutenant under Ambrosius’ direction, longing for freedom to fight the war for which he had trained his entire life.

  The return to Britain gave him that freedom and he reveled in it. Uther and war were made for each other. He blazed as brightly as the star which gave his family the name of Pendragon.

  War seasoned him, Ilsa reflected. It seasoned them all. Every man standing in this tent had faced overwhelming odds and learned the extent of his courage and strength. They were all quiet men, assured and confident in their abilities to lead and fight. They did not boast or revel in their accomplishments. They grimly bent to the next task their High King demanded of them.

  Uther, too. He was close to forty years of age, now. He wore a full beard the same deep russet as his hair. The beard and the high forehead made his blue eyes blaze and glitter. So did his will. He grew more powerful with each passing year, with more than just physical strength.

  It was little wonder he found peace a burden.

  Mabon cleared his throat. “The men are bored, my lord,” he told Ambrosius, his tone apologetic. “Infractions and punishments are increasing daily.”

  Ambrosius, who could blaze as brightly as his brother when his passion was roused, blew out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. “Yes,” he said heavily. “They are.”

  “Do not send me on another courier errand, brother,” Uther warned. “I have fetched my last stone for you.”

  Ilsa glimpsed Arawn’s smile as he lifted a hand to cover it.

  The errand Uther referred to had been one of Uther’s most successful campaigns. Ambrosius directed him to deal with the Irish tribes, who threatened Britain’s western lands with their ferocious raids and weakened Ambrosius’ ability to attack the east and the north, for he must constantly guard his back.

  Ambrosius told Uther to “take the heart out of Ireland.” Uther did exactly that.

  Merlin unexpectedly attached himself to Uther’s expedition. Uther had no time for Merlin’s ways and no respect for a man who refused to pick up a sword. In the matter of Ambrosius’ plans for Britain, though, they were in full accord. Uther grudgingly took Merlin with him.

  After battling the tribes to a standstill with his small force, Uther captured their leader. The Irish considered a hill in the center of the island to be sacred. It was crowned by a ring of giant stones they called Chora Gigantum. It was within the ring where Uther beheaded their leader.

  Then Merlin directed Uther’s men to tear down the ring and bring the key stones back to Britain, including the black altar stone. The five giant stones and the altar stone were rolled and floated back to Britain. Using waterways and rivers, they were brought within five miles of the stone dance on the plains.

  Then, inch by inch, the stones were transported to the old ring, which Merlin planned to raise once more.

  The engineering and calculations needed to transport the stones and raise the ring taxed the brightest minds of the land. The project also strained Uther’s leadership skills, for the work was physically demanding. Every man who looked to Uther was conscripted—and Uther was not spared, either.

  Yet the stones were delivered and even now Merlin was working to finish the project.

  Uther called the mission an errand, yet it had routed the Irish, who had not stepped foot in Britain since.

  Ambrosius considered Uther for a long moment. He had let go of his own anger, although Uther still fumed.

  “It is not yet time to loose you upon the north,” Ambrosius said at last. “We must give Lot and Urien time to prove their fealty, or the work I have done to build the northern ramparts will be for naught.”

  Uther opened his mouth.

  “No, Uther,” Ambrosius said. “Ector…?”

  Ector was a short young man with sandy hair and a round face. He was the new Count of Galleva, whose lands were to the south of Rheged. Ector drew himself up straighter. “My lord?”

  “I think it is time you went home to see your new wife,” Ambrosius said. “Hunt boar in that Perilous Forest of yours.” As he spoke, he kept his gaze upon Uther.

  Uther’s anger checked. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Ector to Ambrosius.

  Ector bent his head. “I can do that, my lord. Should I take my men with me?”

  “That would be appropriate,” Ambrosius said in agreement. “Take your time, Ector. Visit your neighbors. Share wine and gossip.”

  Ector smiled. “Perhaps boast about how Ambrosius sees and hears everything which happens—or doesn’t happen—in Britain?”

  Uther scowled. “Talk does not move men of action.”

  “The power of stories would surprise you,” Nimue said from the tent opening, making everyone turn to look at her. She smiled. “There are so many fine stories. Consider the story of how Uther defeated Claudas and turned his lands to waste. Uther’s success in Ireland, when he plucked the heart of that land and brought it back to Britain. Ambrosius’ victory over Vortigern at Doward, where he did not lift a single weapon.”

  Uther’s smile was small. His eyes danced.

  “Fear, brother,” Ambrosius said. “Fear can bring a man to his knees well before a sword need be raised.”

  Chapter Five

  She constantly checked the closed door, as if staring at it might tell her when the odious man was to arrive.

  Her skittishness communicated itself to the girls. Morguase could barely focus upon her slate, while Morgan frowned as she wrote, marring her smooth little brow.

  Morgan, unlike her older sister, did not need a reason to learn. She absorbed her lessons with ease, her genuine curiosity leading her.

  Anwen slid onto the bench beside Morguase and coaxed her to read back her letters and words, correcting the formation of the letters with forced patience. Morguase was a less than ideal scholar. She saw no use in learning how to read. Her future as the daughter of the Duke of Cornwall was predetermined. She would be married to a leader, perhaps even a king, to cement an alliance. Then she would bear children and run his household. Morguase, like most people, did not understand how reading would enhance such a future, despite Anwen’s assurances that being able to read provided unexpected benefits.

  The lift of the latch on the door alerted them.

  “In here,” came a gruff voice, as the door swung wide.

  “Thank you,” came another, deeper one.

  Anwen swung her legs over the bench and got to her feet, her heart thudding hard. “If you’re coming in, come in,” she snapped. “All the warm air escapes while the door is held so.”

  He stepped into the room, moving as a sighted person would, except that the tip of the staff swung out in front of him, sweeping from side to side. He halted two paces inside the door, which put him in the middle of the room. He turned his head, as if he examined it.

  “You are Steffan, then,” Anwen said. She closed the door behind him, which just missed his back. He was taller than she had guessed from watching him among the other men. She was tall for a woman—an unladylike feature, she had been assured more than once—yet her head only just passed his shoulder.

  He seemed to glance over his shoulder as she latched the door. “You are Anwen.”

  Morgan giggled and slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Steffan looked at the girls. At least, he seemed to. He turned in their direction. “And you would be Morgan and Morguase,” he added.

  Morguase pushed her slate to one side. “Why do you swing your staff about like that?” she demanded.

  “Because I don’t know the room yet.” The foot of the staff knocked up against the foot of the stool and he scraped it over the legs of the stool.

  Morgan, disturbed by his unusual actions and gruff speech, slithered off her bench. She skirted him with a tiny gasp and gripped Anwen
’s hand, her shoulder against Anwen’s hip.

  “This is a bench?” Steffan said.

  Morguase, who sat upon the bench, narrowed her eyes. “You can’t see!”

  “Clearly,” he replied, reaching past her with his other hand and laying it against the table. “Table. There is a bench behind it, against the wall?”

  “Yes,” Anwen said. This is what he meant by knowing the room. “A higher table is against the connecting wall and—”

  He held up his hand. “I will find them,” he said shortly.

  Morguase looked at Anwen, offended by his peremptory tone. Anwen shook her head and put her finger to her lips.

  Morguase instead watched the man skirt around her, stepping to the corner of the table. He ran the side of the staff along the edge of the table, then tapped it against Morgan’s bench. He touched the wall behind it, then ran the tip of the staff along it until he reached the corner.

  He found the high table where Anwen’s few books were stacked, and her meager collection of garments, folded neatly. His staff slid along the front of the table, while his hand ran lightly over the objects on top of it.

  When he touched the harp, he paused. His fingers brushed the strings softly, and they sighed.

  Morgan gave a gasp. Her grip on Anwen’s gown tightened.

  Anwen bent to murmur in Morgan’s ear, so the man would not hear her. “He won’t hurt it.”

  “I would be a fool if I did damage an instrument which makes such sweet sounds,” Steffan said, making Morgan gasp once more.

  Steffan had already moved on. He reached the end of the table. His staff found the wall between the table and the bed. He lifted his chin, as if he was peering through the high window above. “This is the eastern wall. I can detect wet straw in the stables. Brine, too.”

  “One can smell brine anywhere one stands in Tintagel,” Anwen observed, her tone dry. “We are perched upon a cliff which drops directly into the sea.”

  “The straw scent is stronger and fresher. This window faces the courtyard.”