Queen of the Summer Stars (22 page)

“There’s a constant trickle of immigrants, M’lord.” The young Briton in charge of the garrison bore the Roman name of Tiberius and wore a swordbelt fastened by an ornate Saxon buckle. I marveled at the odd mixture of old and new, foreign and familiar, blended into an unconscious whole as he speared another piece of meat from the common pot. “Most all of them are little groups of people claiming to be relatives of people already here—every time I see Old Colgrin on market day he’s got another cousin with him. If they keep bringing ‘family’ over at this rate, there won’t be any Saxons left on the Continent!”

Arthur chewed thoughtfully, the firelight highlighting his frown. “But no word of war-bands? No specific leader who is calling men to him?”

Tiberius shook his head. “Not so far as we’ve heard, sir. Each group is ready to fight for its own survival, of course, but they all claim to be loyal to your Crown. If I catch wind of anything amiss, I will let you know immediately.”

“You do that, lad.” The High King relaxed. “It’s fellows like you I count on,” he added, giving the young man a clap on the back as they both stood up. Tiberius beamed under the approval.

“It wouldn’t hurt to put on an exhibition of horsemanship while we’re here,” Lance suggested and received an approving nod.

The cavalry display was attended by troops and townspeople alike, a mixture of ruddy Britons and clusters of big, blond Saxons. I watched them covertly, hoping they would return to their kindred with awesome tales of our mounted warriors.

When we left the city everyone turned out to bid us farewell, the troops drawn up smartly as though for inspection, the civilians shouting and waving cheerfully, seemingly glad to be under the Pendragon’s protection.

***

We took the ferry across the Humber to Brough and made camp on the far side of the ridge beyond the estuary. It seemed impossible to get Arthur’s attention while we were on the Road—even at night he was thinking and talking and planning for restoration of the land, and my dream of a romantic tryst threatened to be lost in the crush of practicalities. My women may have been left behind, but Arthur’s Cause was always with us.

So this night I suggested we have our tent set up in a secluded spot separate from the rest of the camp. He raised an eyebrow in surprise, then grinned in agreement. It might not be as private as the chambers Urien would give us in York, but the three Companions who came with us would provide a shield from the usual demands that are made on a popular king. At least we could have a little time alone.

The glade was screened by trees but open to the sky, with a giant oak looming to one side. We picketed the horses nearby and set our tent on the other edge of the greensward, where the full moon soon bathed it in pale light.

When we were lying in each other’s arms, spent from the first onrush of passion, I ran my fingers through the hair on Arthur’s chest. He was sleepy and content—eyes closed and jawline softened. For the first time in many months I could see the boyish, vulnerable side of him. A deep welling of tenderness and love crowded my heart.

“It’s been a long time,” I whispered.

“Hmmm—” His response was noncommittal, and I wondered what he thought I meant. “Seems as though everything’s been happening at once,” he mumbled. “I’m still sorting through the possibilities opened up by the London Round Table. Why, Gwen, do you realize we’ve established diplomatic contact with more different tribes than anyone before us, except perhaps the Romans?”

His jaw was getting firm again, the mind starting to reengage.

“And do you realize,” I countered, running my fingers along the bridge of his nose and smoothing out the creases between his brows, “how much I love you?”

It was the first time I had told him such a thing, and I waited hopefully for his reaction.

The silence that came between us grew longer and heavier with each breath.

“Mhhh,” he said finally, heaving a sleepy sigh and turning over on his side.

Drat! I thought, mentally kicking myself. Arthur always shied from emotional exchanges—even nice ones—and you would have thought that by now I would know better than to try and coax him into one. Instead of bringing us closer, my admission had only made him more guarded.

With a sigh of my own I turned on my side so that we touched at shoulder, rump, and feet, and silently vowed never to bring the subject up again. I had no doubt my husband held me in high regard and I told myself it was better to have caring actions in silence than pretty promises left unfulfilled by a more loquacious lover. So I put aside my dreams of romance and, yawning fully, went to sleep.

***

“Saxons!”

Cei’s warning wakened us just before dawn. “Five of them in the lead—riding up from the Humber, heading directly for us.”

Arthur leapt up from the blankets, taut as a bowstring as he reached for his mail shirt. There was a rustle of link on link when he slipped it over his head, and I knelt to secure his swordbelt in place. Light from the setting moon streamed through the open tent flap, glinting off the gold and jewels of Excalibur’s hilt, and I prayed the Sacred Sword would even the odds of our four against the five barbarians. Once the baldric was buckled Arthur put his hand on my head.

“Best you get away from here, lass. I’ll have Lance take you to the main camp.”

“Nonsense,” I retorted. “I’ve always wanted to be a warrior.”

I was rummaging among the bedding, pulling Arthur’s green cloak free. I’d made it as a wedding present, and though it hadn’t originally been intended as a war-cape, the necessary padding had been added when it became clear that Arthur would always be in danger.

“Besides,” I noted, holding up the cape, “I’d rather be with you so I can see what’s happening.”

“Then by the Gods, stay out of sight; you know how Saxons treat captured women.” Arthur’s voice was curt as he slung the cape over his shoulders. I thought of Ettard’s family and shivered.

He left without another word as a strange horse neighed nervously in the distance. I held my breath, praying none of our mounts would break the silence that had descended on the camp.

No doubt Cei was already with the animals, for even the untrained Shadow remained quiet. I climbed into my breeches and tunic and, piling my hair up under a knotted wool cap, crept out of the tent. With my lanky build and plain features I’d been mistaken for a squire more than once—if I didn’t call attention to myself, I could at least see how our fortunes were going.

To the east the sky was barely lightening while the last of the moonlight struck the clearing slantwise, making dark shadows of our men as they prepared for battle. Each moved with a lean, measured grace, making neither sound nor unnecessary motion. Arthur mounted first, followed by Gawain and Lance—Cei was already astride his warhorse.

My stomach tightened as hoofbeats marked the approach of the Saxons. They were letting their animals pick out the path, totally unaware of our presence—with any luck they would ride right into camp, and we could capture them without bloodshed.

Suddenly Shadow let out a ringing whinny, and a string of oaths exploded in the darkness on both sides. The Saxons were just breaking through the screen of trees between us and the path as Cei sent his horse rocketing toward them with savage, silent intent.

Something hard met something soft, followed by an awful, gurgling sound, and sweat broke out all over my skin.

In the melee that followed there was no way to tell one man from another. Wrenching moans and the gut-piercing ring of blade on blade echoed through the trees while the smell of blood splattered the air. The horses milled amid screams and curses; a large, unfamiliar animal loomed in front of me, and with sudden terror I realized the circular white shape that floated in the gloom above it was the shield of a barbarian.

The man yanked his steed aside to avoid getting tangled in the tent ropes just as I broke from them and I heard his oath of surprise as he saw me. I ran headlong for the dark shadow of the giant oak, intending to climb into the safety of its branches—anything to get away from the carnage that now flowed everywhere.

The invader’s horse came pounding after me, shaking the ground with his hooves as I raced for my life into a soft, dreamy world where everything moved with great deliberation and a hundred thoughts registered with each stride. I wondered why I’d never asked Arthur how he’d gotten that scar on his shoulder, and if Taliesin was progressing well with his music, and what barbarian would get Igraine’s golden torque if I didn’t survive this attack.

The tree rose before me, but to my horror the lowest branch was well above my reach, and though I jumped for it, I missed and fell, panting, to the ground.

Cei was howling imprecations and the horse behind me snorted violently, rearing suddenly as I tried to roll out of the way. The rider let out one last, rattling scream and fell from its back. Terrified, the warhorse wheeled away as Cei planted a spear upright through the invader’s chest. The ash pole glimmered palely in the early light.

Thankfully the fellow was silent, though there were others moaning and writhing in the bloody dawn.

Then all at once it became very quiet. Cleansing as clear water, an absolute stillness bathed the world while the sun rose on the blood-soaked turf of our camp.

No one moved for the longest time, though someone was sobbing with a great racking sorrow. Through blinding tears I gazed around the clearing, searching out one after another of our men. Cei was cleaning his spear with long handfuls of grass, his mouth set in grim silence. Gawain hacked viciously at something in the grass and began to caper in a wild, drunken dance of glee and terror, singing and crying as he brandished the head of his enemy by the hair. Lance knelt beside a fallen foe, his hands moving gently over the man’s face, slowly closing the eyelids. It might have been the tender caress of a lover, and I wondered what the Breton felt in such moments of awful triumph.

Only Arthur was not in sight, and I bolted from my hiding spot, driven by the fear that he’d been killed.

“Gwen!” His voice came sharply through my panic, and as I turned toward the sound he reached my side, gathering me up in his arms. The momentum of his rush carried us both forward into the center of the clearing.

“Thank heavens!” he rasped. “I couldn’t find you…I thought…”

I flung my arms around him and buried my head in his shoulder, hearing the sobs muffle against his cape. The shining exaltation of life triumphant in the face of so much death coursed through us as he carried me into our tent and dropped the flap closed.

It was then, in the wild, fierce mating that followed, that Arthur spoke his love of me for the first, and almost only, time.

***

“These were guides, sent to meet a small landing party.” Cei gestured wearily toward the five corpses. “The rest surrendered without a fuss. Gawain has them under guard in the main camp.” Arthur’s foster-brother looked drawn and pale in the early light, and he favored one arm.

“Are you wounded?” I asked, remembering that he had dealt with two of the enemy single-handed.

“Wrenched, not slashed,” he answered curtly.

“You’re much to be commended.” I looked directly into Cei’s cold, guarded eyes. “I would not have seen this day’s sun but for your bravery, and I want you to know I appreciate it. Any woman you claim as mate can be proud of your courage.”

He stared at me without responding, then turned his face away. Evidently it was not a compliment that pleased him, though I had meant only the best by it.

Arthur was packing up and the Seneschal hastened off to the main camp without even glancing in my direction again.

***

As we neared York the Road filled up with people bringing the mid-summer harvest to a fair. We marched among them, keeping the Saxons prisoners under guard. That motley group included more women and children than men, and most of them were grieving silently for their dead. I suspected we had encountered a clan of immigrants rather than a fierce war party and hoped they wouldn’t all be treated as marauders.

“Don’t let their appearance fool you,” Urien warned over dinner that night. Since there had been Federates living in or near York for many years, Urien knew their ways well. “The barbarians don’t need special warriors. Oh, they have a few Champions—men called berserkers who make a ritual of warfare and work themselves into a frenzy of bloodlust before battle—but most of their troops come from the land. Every freeman farmer is a trained fighter; at any moment he can put down his plow and take up his weapon. Not a bad system. Each supports himself and his family,
and
defends his lands and lord if they are threatened. Much more efficient than this,” he added, gesturing to the British warriors who lounged at the tables of his Hall with nothing else to do.

“I’ll give your captives a patch of land, and let them shelter with the other Federates if they’ll swear fealty,” the older man suggested as he upended his cup. “They rarely give me any trouble, except for that batch up on the coast causing mischief around Yeaverling—settlements so spread out in that area, one can’t protect them all. But my local Saxons are hardworking and cooperative, and pay their taxes in mead and bread. Here,” he added, pulling off a portion of the loaf in front of him and depositing it on my plate. “Made of a grain they brought with them—grows on the poorest soil—they call it rye.”