Pendragon Rises Read online

  Gorlois considered Anwen, his eyes narrowed.

  Her middle shifting uneasily, Anwen went back to the place where she had been standing.

  The room emptied and echoed.

  Gorlois kissed Morgan’s cheek and put her on her feet. “I must speak to Steffan alone,” he told her. “You and your sister run along.”

  “I want to stay,” Morgan said. “Steffan is my tutor.”

  Gorlois blinked. “Very well,” he said. “You must remain silent, hmm?”

  She nodded and sat on the footstool in front of the chair, her chin on her fists.

  Gorlois lifted his hand and beckoned Steffan closer. Then he shook his head, as if he had only just remembered the man was blind. “Come closer, Steffan.”

  Steffan moved the staff out in front of him and cautiously stepped closer. Then Morgan jumped up and ran over to him. She gripped the bottom of the staff and drew him forward until he stood beside the stool. “There,” she said, and sat once more. She kept a grip on the staff, too.

  Gorlois tilted his head, studying his daughter. Then he raised his gaze to Steffan. “Do you still miss war, Steffan?”

  “Always, my lord,” Steffan said softly. “These times are grand beyond ken. The great deeds we hear about…” He shook his head. “Yes, I miss war,” he finished.

  “Your sight has not improved?”

  Improved? Startled, Anwen straightened, her attention pricked.

  Steffan did not seem to find the direct question offensive. “Sometimes, I glimpse things—I see them as you might, from the very corner of your eye. Distorted and hard to understand. Once, I saw snow falling…or perhaps it was merely light playing in my mind, making me think I saw what everyone else could. When I am relaxed, I sometimes see…” He swallowed. “The merest hint of vision,” he finished, his voice hoarse. “Then it is gone.”

  Gorlois tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “So there has been no change,” he concluded.

  “It is as the surgeons suggested,” Steffan said, his tone one of agreement. “I do not hope. They gave me none.”

  Gorlois nodded. “Igraine, please explain why you brought Steffan here.”

  Igraine touched her hair in a nervous flutter. With short sentences, her voice strained, she told the story of how Steffan had arrived at Tintagel and why. Wisely, she made it seem that Cador was as complicit in the decision as she. Gorlois had no patience for feminine sensibilities such as empathy and pity, while he could understand a strategic decision.

  Gorlois listened without interruption until she fell silent. He brooded, his gaze on Steffan. Then he swiveled on his chair and looked at Anwen. “You…what is your name?”

  Anwen jumped. “Anwen, my lord.”

  He pointed to the stone floor in front of his chair and she moved over to the spot and faced him, her heart thudding.

  “You were teaching my daughters before Steffan?”

  “I still do, my lord.”

  “How so?” he demanded.

  “Steffan provides the language, and I teach Morgan and Morguase how to write it down and read it back.”

  “Barba tenus sapientes,” Morgan intoned.

  Gorlois looked at his daughter with a startled expression. “That is Latin, isn’t it?”

  Morgan nodded. She bounced off the footstool and reached up on her toes to touched Gorlois’ chin. “It means you are a wise man because you let your beard grow back.”

  Gorlois gave a soft, short laugh, yet puzzlement lingered in his eyes.

  Morgan put her hands behind her back, her sweet face sunny. “Actually, it doesn’t mean exactly that, although it is ironic you came home with a beard, Father.”

  Anwen hid her smile. Steffan didn’t bother. He grinned.

  Gorlois tapped the arm of the chair, and it seemed to Anwen that his irritation was building. “You are a soldier, Steffan. You were born and raised a soldier, and have lived a soldier’s life, always. I cannot ignore the…roughness such a life imparts. While you taught my son, it was not an issue. Now, though…do you understand my concern?”

  Anwen did. Her heart sank. Gorlois would presume that Steffan shared the barbaric values of the soldiers in Dimilioc and his standing army. Why would he think otherwise? Even the story of how the men at Dimilioc had treated Steffan he considered to be proof all soldiers were beyond redemption.

  Morgan tugged on her father’s hand. “But Father, Anwen tells him what to do and he does it.”

  Steffan turned his head, his gaze settling on Anwen, as if he had known she was there all along.

  Gorlois looked from Steffan to Anwen and back. “Is this true?” he asked.

  Anwen dropped her gaze to the floor, confused. She did not think it was true that Steffan obeyed her. She had been charged with controlling him, although she knew in her heart that Steffan behaved civilly for reasons she did not understand. Only, if she said so aloud, she would reveal her own uselessness.

  “My lord,” Steffan said, his tone even. “I speak Breton, Latin, Greek, Saxon and a little of the dialects the hill people use. I do not know how to write any of it or read it back. Anwen does. She also knows and can play the most beautiful music a man can ever hear. Between us, we can ensure your daughters are accomplished and educated, a prize for any king.”

  The appeal to his political aspirations did not stir Gorlois. He frowned. “You would settle for such an ambition, Steffan? You rode and fought with Uther and drank with him. You were celebrated the length of Britain. Ambrosius praised you. All that, and you expect me to believe you would be happy teaching girls Latin conjugates?”

  Steffan gripped the staff until his fingers turned white. “Happy, my lord? No, I will not pretend it is an ambition to which I aspire. It is a worthy next task after preparing your son for the rigors of war.” He swallowed. “I would rather ride with you, my lord, but as I cannot, I am grateful to have the chance to serve you in this way.”

  Gorlois drummed the arm of the chair.

  “Father, Steffan says knowledge comes from more places than books,” Morgan said. “I like knowledge. I like understanding things. Let him stay. Please.”

  Gorlois sighed. His gaze shifted to Anwen. “I will allow this only as long as you are part of it. A soldier never stops being a soldier. You will offset his ways. You understand?”

  Anwen swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  Gorlois nodded. “It is settled, then. Have everyone return. I would hear what has happened since I left.”

  Anwen slipped around the influx of people as they returned to the antechamber, her heart thundering. She felt as though she had narrowly escaped dire consequences she hadn’t been aware she was at risk of suffering.

  Was a soldier always a soldier?

  She didn’t think it was true. Only who was she to dispute the Duke of Cornwall? She was nobody, a middle-aged spinster whose name everyone forgot. How could she possibly know more than he did?

  Only a few minutes after she reached the sanctuary of her room, Steffan arrived, too.

  Anwen wrung her hands together. “I do not think Gorlois fully understands you,” she said. “Those things he said about you being a soldier, his worry you might revert to barbarism and harm his daughters…it’s ridiculous!”

  Steffan did not sit, either. “Oh, he knows me well enough,” he said mildly.

  “I’ve heard the stories about what soldiers are like,” Anwen said. “The…the raping, the pilfering…the spoils of war. I have heard it all, many times. You are not like that.”

  “I was a good soldier,” Steffan said, his voice calm. “I was a leader of soldiers. Soldiers only obey men they trust, men like them.”

  “I do not believe it,” she said, her voice trembling. “Even if you once were like that, you are not, anymore.”

  Steffan grimaced. “Yet I would give up everything I have to get that life back.”

  Anwen stared at him. “No,” she whispered. “How could you?”

  He shook his head. “Not for the women and
the riches, although they were a nice reward. I mean, to serve, Anwen. To properly serve, to fully use every skill I have to help Cornwall and the High King find peace for Britain. To be a part of such great doings…” He paused. “That privilege has been taken from me forever.” His voice was bitter.

  Chapter Nine

  Arawn shook Ilsa awake. She blinked in the deep darkness of the tent. “What is it? What time is it?”

  “Very late. Very early,” he whispered. He tugged on her arm. “Nimue asked for you. She is in the High King’s tent.”

  Ilsa sat up and glanced at the silhouettes of her sleeping children on the other side of the tent. “Why? What has happened?” Someone stood outside the tent with a flaming torch, sending leaping shadows over the fabric.

  Arawn got her to her feet and dropped her gown over her chemise and tugged it into place, as she slid her arms into the sleeves. He handed her the warmer cloak and bent and pushed her shoes into place.

  Ilsa pulled the cloak around her shoulders and shivered. Arawn drew her from of the tent. He took the torch from the soldier standing just outside. “Stay here,” he told the man. “No one goes into the tent. Hear?”

  The man nodded.

  Arawn picked up Ilsa’s hand and pulled her across the dark, empty square. The stars overhead gave little light.

  There was more light in the King’s big pavilion. Ilsa could see men moving about inside, including in the inner room where Ambrosius slept.

  “Arawn…” She pulled on his hand, slowing her steps.

  Arawn turned back to her, the flames from the torch jumping and hissing at the abrupt change of direction. “The King is ill,” he said, his voice low.

  Ilsa pressed her hand to her heart as it creaked. She was too afraid to speak another word. Instead, she moved forward again, hurrying for the big tent.

  She ducked under the arm the guard thrust out to stop them and left Arawn to deal with him. There were too many men standing about the outer section with their hands on their swords, as if gripping them hard enough might change the news.

  Ilsa stepped around them and into the inner section of the tent. Ambrosius had a real bed, which the people of Amesbury had pressed upon him while he stayed outside their town, as thanks for the invaluable protection his army provided them. He was lying in that bed now and appeared to be unmoving. His face was pale and sweat dotted his temples and throat.

  Nimue was bent over him, her hand on his forehead.

  Uther paced the carpet between the bed and the canvas wall of the tent.

  Merlin stood in the darkest corner, farthest from the lamp, his black eyes glittering as he watched his father.

  Ilsa touched Nimue’s arm. “I am here. How can I help?”

  Nimue glanced at her. “The time you made your son ill, after he swallowed those berries…?”

  Ilsa glanced at Ambrosius. “He ate something noxious?”

  “He was poisoned!” Uther hissed, rounding on her.

  Nimue glanced at Uther. “We do not know that for certain. He says his stomach burns. We must remove what is there.”

  “He says…?” Ilsa asked delicately, for Ambrosius was clearly beyond the ability to speak.

  Nimue rolled her eyes. “I can hear him,” she said. “We have little time. Help me.”

  Ilsa pushed up her sleeves. “We need a bundle of the reeds growing by the pond. Enough to make the thickness of my thumb, tied together.”

  Nimue glanced at Uther.

  “I’ll arrange it,” he growled and strode to the opening into the other side of the tent.

  Ilsa listened to him give low, strident orders. Booted feet ran from the tent. Everyone moved swiftly but almost silently. No one would risk rousing the camp with such bad news. Not yet.

  The reeds were brought to them. Ilsa and Nimue sent everyone from the tent, even from the outer side. “There is no need for anyone to see what happens next,” Ilsa told Nimue, as they struggled to bring Ambrosius into a sitting position.

  Merlin, though, would not move. He didn’t speak. He remained a silent statue in the corner.

  The work of expelling the contents of the King’s stomach was messy and difficult. While Nimue held his jaw open, Ilsa inserted the reeds deeply enough to cause his gorge to rise and make him vomit.

  At least Ambrosius was aware of none of it, she thought, until Nimue sighed. “He says the burning is diminishing.”

  Ilsa had the bowl of offensive matter taken away. “Burn it and bury the remains,” she told the slave.

  They bathed Ambrosius’ flesh with cool water, and Nimue listened, a furrow on her pale brow. “We must wait and see.”

  A little while later, Uther returned, to resume his pacing.

  Ilsa sat on the corner of the thick rug which Uther paced upon, her back against the foot of the bed. She was tired beyond belief, yet sleep was far away. From the light falling against the sides of the pavilion, she judged that sunrise was not far away. As they waited, the light grew.

  Nimue stood by the side of the bed, staring down at Ambrosius, as unmoving as Merlin.

  The sounds of the camp stirring for the day rose about the tent. Fires were stirred and cooking pots settled onto coals. As the guards changed outside the tent, with a rattle of armor and exchange of words, Uther hissed and turned to Nimue. “Surely enough time has passed? Well?”

  Nimue didn’t move.

  Uther grabbed her arm and hauled her about to face him.

  Ilsa jumped to her feet. “Uther, no!”

  He gripped Nimue’s arms and shook her. “Look at me! Tell me!”

  Nimue’s gaze shifted from the inner focus Ilsa recognized, to settle on Uther’s face. “There was too much of it. It has gone too far. We have only slowed the pace of it.”

  Uther grew still. “What are you saying?” His blue eyes blazed with emotion. He knew already.

  Ilsa put her hand on his arm. “Uther…”

  He shook Nimue again. “Tell me.” He ground the words out.

  A solitary tear rolled down Nimue’s cheek. “I cannot save him.”

  Uther roared, his arm lifting high, ready to strike her. Nimue did not move. She watched him calmly.

  Ilsa shoved him. He was so much larger than her that all she could do was disturb his balance. It was enough. Uther dropped his arm.

  “Get out,” he told Nimue. “Go far from here. I do not want to see your face again.”

  Nimue’s throat worked. “This is the last time you will see me, Uther Pendragon. I vouch for that.”

  She moved out of the tent. Even in the bright sunlight shining through the thin fabric walls, she gleamed and shimmered with power.

  Uther dropped to his knees beside the bed and gripped his brother’s hand. He bowed his head.

  MORGAN’S SCREAMING PULLED ANWEN FROM her bed before she was aware she was even awake. She threw her cloak around her chemise and ran barefoot through the cold stone corridors to the big chamber the two girls shared, brushing her hand along the wall so she did not cannon into it.

  People were stirring, coming sleepily to the doors of the dormitories and chambers, asking what was happening. No one had the sense or was awake enough to coordinate the movements needed to light a torch and the guards had extinguished those which lit the corridors.

  Anwen slipped past them all and pushed the heavy door open. It was dark in the chamber, too, but Morgan’s screaming told her exactly where the girl was. From the other side of the room came an echoing whimper.

  “It’s all right, Morguase,” she said. “Morgan is having a bad dream, that is all.”

  She groped for the bed and found the edge of it, then moved up to the head and felt for Morgan. The little girl thrashed and moaned. As Anwen laid her hands on her, Morgan screamed once more, making Anwen jump. It was a panic-filled sound.

  Anwen gathered her into her arms and rocked her. “Shh….shh, Morgan. It’s just a dream. Wake up, little one. Wake up!”

  As she rocked Morgan, Anwen heard people calling fo
r light and muttered conversations in the corridor outside. The orange glow of lamplight showed where the door was, then moved closer. Before the lamp could be brought into the room, though, a big silhouette filled the doorway.

  “Anwen?” Steffan asked.

  “I’m here,” Anwen confirmed. “Five paces, and you’ll find the bed.”

  He took the paces, and whoever held the lamp behind him also came into the room.

  Morgan shivered in Anwen’s arms, although she no longer moaned. Anwen kept up her rocking.

  Steffan crouched down by the side of the bed, his head tilted, listening.

  “You heard her screaming all the way from the stables?” Anwen breathed, keeping her voice down.

  Steffan let out a breath. “The horses, too,” he said in agreement. “They’d have bolted if not for the doors.”

  Anwen’s gaze dropped to his bare shoulders and chest. He wore only his trousers.

  Morgan gave another little shudder, pulling Anwen’s attention back to her. “Steffan, see that Morguase is comforted. Across the room, another five paces.”

  Steffan rose to his feet.

  More fuss sounded at the door and more light built. Gorlois moved into the room. He wore a belted robe and his hair stood at angles. Thrust into the belt was a long knife. “What happened?” he demanded.

  “A dream,” Anwen murmured.

  Morgan heard her father’s voice and stirred. She lifted her tear-stained face toward him. “The High King is dying!” she cried.

  Gorlois came to a halt, three paces from the bed. His eyes widened.

  The roused household standing in the corridor behind Gorlois muttered nervously, passing the news along.

  Gorlois looked from Anwen to Steffan, who sat on the other bed, soothing Morguase with soft pats. Then he seemed to shake himself. “A bad dream indeed,” he said gravely. “But only a dream.”

  Morgan wound her arms about Anwen’s neck. “He must go back,” she murmured to Anwen. “Before it is too late.” Her voice was still that of a six-year-old girl, yet the certainty in her tone belonged to a much older woman.