The Hallowed Isle Book Four (6 page)

The storm had passed, but the high king of Britannia remained at Dun Breatann. The boy, Medraut, had broken his leg, and was not yet fit to ride. That Artor should stay for the sake of a nephew was a matter of wonder, but presently men began to speak of a greater wonder, that the nephew was also a son. Artor knew they said it, though he did not know from whom the rumor first had come. It was inevitable, he thought, that the truth would eventually be known. That did not disturb him so much as the whisper he had heard as he lifted his son in his arms.

“
Still living? A pity
—
if the bastard broke his neck it would be better for the king and for us all!
”

Artor had not recognized the voice, and the situation could only be made worse by questioning, but in the dark hours of the night he lay wakeful, remembering the moment of thought, instantly suppressed, in which he had hoped it might be true.

He was still there a week later, when horns proclaimed the arrival of another party and the Saxon lords rode in. When Artor had spoken with them he went to the terrace where Medraut, his leg splinted and bound, sat looking out at the sea.

“Who has come?” asked the boy, looking up at him.

Artor continued to gaze at the bright glitter of sun on water. “The brother of Cynric, who rules the south Saxons now,” he said without turning. “I had sent to them before we left Londinium, requesting his son as hostage, to guarantee the peace while I am in Gallia.”

“And he has refused?”

Artor shook his head, turning to face his son. “They have brought me the boy. Ceawlin is his name.”

“Then why are you troubled? And why are you telling this to me?” Medraut swung his splinted leg down from the bench and sat up, the sunlight sparking on his hair in glints of fire.

Artor stared at him, striving to see past the coloring and
the fine bones that reminded him so painfully of Morgause.
Who are you really, boy? What is going on behind those eyes?

“He desires me to send a man of my own kindreds in exchange—
‘to increase understanding between our peoples. . . .'”

“And Goriat doesn't want to go, so you are thinking of sending me?” Medraut asked mockingly, and Artor felt his face grow red.

“Were you pushed down those stairs?” He held the boy's gaze and saw a glimmer of some emotion, swiftly shut away.

Artor had been king since he was the same age as this boy and he thought he knew how to judge men, but Medraut's personality offered no point of attachment on which to build a relationship.

Is that really true?
he asked himself suddenly.
Or is it that you have been afraid to try?
He had kept the boy with him for almost a year, but how much time together had they really had?

After a moment, Medraut looked down.

“It was dark and raining . . . I thought there was someone, but I could not really see. I will tell you this, though. The arrow that wounded me in the south came from behind.”

“You did not tell me!” Artor took a step forward, frowning, but Medraut's eyes were limpid as the sea.

“I had no proof, my lord, nor do I now. . . .”

Artor stood over him, fists clenching.
What are you hiding?
he thought, and then,
What am I?
He felt a vast weariness as his anger drained away.

“I will send you to the Saxons. Here, I cannot guarantee your safety, but Cynric will guard you like a she-wolf her last cub.”
Against his own people, and mine
, his thought went on,
and perhaps against me. . . .

“If you wish it, I will obey,” answered Medraut, looking away.

Artor eyed at him narrowly, hearing in the boy's voice something almost like satisfaction, and wondered why.

A.D.
503

T
O TRAVEL ACROSS THE NECK OF
A
LBA IN HIGH SUMMER, NEITHER
pursued nor pursuing, was pure pleasure. The Roman forts that had once defended the Antonine Wall were now no more than dimpled mounds, but the road that connected them was still passable. To the north rose the outriders of the highlands, blue with distance, the nearer slopes cloaked like an emperor in heather. Alba was all purple and gold beneath a pale northern sky, and the air had the same sweet tang as the peat-brown waters that rippled down from the hills.

Artor breathed deeply and sat straighter, as cares he had not known he carried fell away. Even the weather held fair, as if to welcome him.

“It won't last,” said Goriat. “A week, or two, and we'll see fog and rain so thick you'd think it was winter in the southern lands.”

“All the more reason to enjoy it now!” Artor grinned back at him, and Raven, sensing his rider's mood, pranced and pulled at the rein. “By the time the weather changes, we'll be safe at Fodreu.”

Cai, who was riding on his other side, made a sound halfway
between a grunt and a growl. “If we can trust them—I still say you're a fool to put yourself in their power!”

Goriat opened his eyes at the language, but Artor only smiled. There were times when Cai forgot the king was not still the little foster-brother who had followed him about when they were young. But the blood Cai had shed in his service since then, thought Artor, entitled him to a few blunt words. He was only four years older than the king, but he looked ten, the dark hair grizzled, and his face weathered and lined.

“Maybe so,” Artor answered mildly, “but if they can't be trusted, better to find out now than have them break the border while I'm in Gallia!”

“Hmph!” Cai replied. “Or else you just enjoy the risk. I remember how it was when we were boys . . .”

Goriat kicked his horse in the ribs and drew level, brows quirked enquiringly.

“Whenever things got too quiet, Artor would find some fool thing to do. . . .” Cai exchanged rueful smiles with the king.

“Was I that bad?” asked Artor.

“Remember the miller's donkey?”

Artor's grin grew broader.

“What did he do?” asked Goriat in an awed voice.

“Tied the donkey to a threshing flail—”

“It could have worked,” protested the king. “We use oxen to grind the corn, after all.”

“What happened?” Goriat persisted, obviously delighted to be let in on this secret history.

“The donkey ate the grain and both Artor and I got a beating. They said I should have stopped him, but I knew even then the futility of trying to change Artor's mind when he gets that look in his eye,” Cai answered resignedly.

“I learned something, though . . .” Artor continued after a moment had passed. “Beasts, or men, must be led in the direction their nature compels them. It is my judgment that the Picts are ready for peace. I would hate to think that I have grown so accustomed to fighting that I crave it as a drunkard his wine! Still, just in case, Cai has the right of it: there is one
whom I have no right to lead into danger—” He glanced back down the line, seeking the gleam of Ceawlin's ruddy hair.

“Goriat, go back down the line and bring Cynric's cub up here to ride with me.”

“And that's another risk . . .” mumured Cai as the younger man rode off.

“The child is nine years old! Do you fear he will attack me?” exclaimed Artor.

“He is a fox kit. I am afraid you will love him, and be hurt when he goes back to his wild kin. . . .”

Artor shut his lips, remembering the incident Cai referred to. He was grateful that his foster-brother had not mentioned Oesc, whom he had also made his hostage, and loved, and at Mons Badonicus been forced to kill.
His
little son must be almost eight by now.

He shook off the memory as Goriat returned, the frowning child kicking his pony to keep up with him. Despite his Saxon name, Ceawlin had the look of the Belgic royal house from whom his grandfather Ceretic had come.

Our blood is already mingling
, thought Artor.
How long before we will be one in spirit?
He thought once more of the other little boy, Oesc's son, whose mother was Britannic and royal as well.

“Are you enjoying the journey?”

The grey glance flickered swiftly upward, then Ceawlin fixed his gaze on the road once more.

“You will have seen more of Britannia by now than any of the boys at home.” Artor saw the frown began to ease and hid a smile. “But perhaps you miss the southern lands. It is in my mind to send you to stay at Camalot, under the care of my queen.”

“Does she have a little boy?”

Artor twitched, momentarily astonished that the question should bring such pain. But Ceawlin could have no idea he had even struck a blow, much less how near to the bone. Would Guendivar learn to love this fox kit he was sending her? Or would she weep in secret because her husband had not been able to give her a child?

Goriat was telling the boy about Camalot, where the children
of the folk who cooked and kept the livestock and stood guard ran laughing along the walls. The princes and chieftains brought their sons when they came visiting, but they were all British. At least Oesc had had Cunorix and Betiver as companions.

“Perhaps we will send for Eormenric of Cantuware to keep you company—” he said then. “Would you like that?”

Ceawlin nodded. “His father was my grandfather's ally.”

Cai raised an eyebrow. This kit was not going to be easy to tame.

Eormenric had been raised by his mother to be Artor's friend. Still, he would need friends among the Saxons as well, and perhaps Ceawlin would be more willing to listen to another boy. They could guard each other's backs against the British child-pack, and Guendivar would win them over as she did everyone.

Artor closed his eyes for a moment, seeing against his eyelids the gleam of her amber hair. When he was at home, the knowledge of how he had failed her was sometimes so painful he longed to be away. But when he was far from her, Guendivar haunted his dreams.

“That is settled, then,” he said briskly. “Goriat, I will give you an escort to take the boy south, and letters to the queen.” Then, as the young man looked mutinous, “Do not fear for my safety—Cai here will be suspicious enough for two. Besides, was there not some story that the Picts wanted you to husband one of their princesses? I fear to let them set eyes on you!”

At the blush that suffused Goriat's cheeks everyone began to laugh, and Artor knew that his nephew would not dare to protest again.

Two more days of travel brought them a glimpse of bright water to the east, where the estuary of the Bodotria cut deeply into the land. Here their ways parted, Goriat and his men to continue on to Dun Eidyn and then south with the boy, and Artor and his party north to seek the headwaters of the Tava and the Pictish clanholds of Fodreu.

* * *

“Goriat was right! The fair weather didn't last,” grumbled Cai. “Damn this Devil's murk—how are we to see our road?”

Artor wiped rain from his eyes and peered ahead. The weather had closed in as predicted, and all day they had travelled through a drizzling rain. If they had not come so far already, he might have been tempted to turn around, but at this point he judged them close to Fodreu. If they could find it, he thought gloomily. But they were as likely to get lost going back as keeping on. He could only hope that the Picts kept a good watch on their hunting runs, and would guide them in.

The track they followed wound between rolling hills. From time to time he glimpsed above them the shadows of higher mountains, as if they had been conjured from the mists for a moment, only to vanish away.
Merlin could conjure them back again
, he thought wistfully.
I wish Merlin were here.

The black horse stumbled on the rocky path and instinctively he tightened the rein, sending reassurance with knees and hands. Raven collected himself and began, more carefully, to move once more. Artor shifted position on the saddle, whose hard frame was beginning to chafe through the damp leather breeches. The superb steel of his sword, kept oiled and clean, would be all right, but it seemed to him that the lesser metal of his mail shirt, inherited from some barbarian auxiliary, was beginning to rust already.

Another few steps and the black horse checked again, head up and nostrils flaring.

“It's all right, old boy—” The king leaned forward to pat the damp neck, and stilled as the humped shapes of shrub and boulder on the hillside ahead of them began to move. Dim figures of men on shaggy ponies seemed to emerge from the hill.

Someone shouted a warning, and Cai kicked his mount forward to cover the king, sword hissing from its sheath. He was swearing softly. Artor himself straightened, reaching for the hilt of his own blade. Then he paused. Why weren't they yelling? And why had there been no preliminary flight of arrows to cut the Britons down?

Behind him his own men were frantically struggling to string their bows. Artor lifted one hand. “Wait!”

Quivering with tension, the Britons stared as the Pictish riders emerged from the mist. They rode swathed in lengths of heavy cloth striped and chequered in the natural colors of the wool, to which the moisture beaded and clung. As they came closer, Artor noted that they smelled like sheep too.

The first riders were small men, wild haired and heavily bearded, but they drew aside for another, tall as a Briton, with the gold torque of a chieftain glinting from beneath his plaid. He halted his pony without appearing to signal and surveyed the strangers from beneath bent brows.

“Who is leader of the southern men?” His accent was odd, but his speech clear enough.

The king moved out from behind Cai, hand still lifted in the sign of peace. “It is I, Artor of Britannia. We seek the dun of Drest Gurthinmoch, King of all the Picts. Can you take us there?”

The Pictish chieftain nodded. “He sent us to find you. Fire and food are waiting, and”—his lips twitched beneath the russet mustache—“dry clothes.”