The Dragon Prince (17 page)

Rhun turned to look at her, his face harshly
illuminated in the firelight. “I don’t know. Do
you
have any
ideas?”

Surprised by the wary tone of his voice, she
said, “You made it clear Arthur has enemies in Londinium. I assumed
someone had recognized you as his man.”

“But I’m not really Arthur’s spy. Bridei is.
And
he
was not attacked.”

“What are you saying?”

It was Bridei who answered. “He’s saying you
were the reason for attack, that the men were trying to get to
you.”

“But why?” Eastra asked. “What use am I to
anyone?”

“You could be ransomed,” Rhun said. “I think
Cerdic would pay a great deal to have his niece returned to him
safely. Not to mention that for you to be abducted while you are
our hostage would make us look like utter fools.”

“But no one in Londinium knew I am Cerdic’s
niece,” Eastra said, baffled. “You told everyone, even your friend
Aurelius, that I was your concubine.”

“That’s true,” Bridei said matter-of-factly.
“She’s likely right, brother. It very well could have been one of
Arthur’s enemies. As for why they attacked you and left me alone—I
make an effort to cultivate the image of a man engaged in careless
debauchery. Few men take me seriously, as a spy or otherwise.”

Rhun gave a noncommittal grunt. Eastra
sensed he didn’t believe his brother’s explanation and still
thought she was the reason for the attack. She opened her mouth to
argue against this reasoning, but even as she did so, she suddenly
remembered Skena. She had told the slavegirl she was Cerdic’s
niece. It had been done in innocence, as a means of giving Skena
hope that her own circumstances might someday improve. But what if
Skena had shared the information with someone, someone who was an
enemy of Arthur’s?

Eastra’s body went rigid. It was possible
she had nearly cost Rhun his life. One slip of the tongue, and she
had set his enemies upon him like flies on a carcass. If he were
not such a superb warrior, if he had reacted an instant slower...
her blood went cold at the thought.

She looked at him, wanting to tell him what
she had done, but fearing that if she did so he would never trust
her again. And he
had
survived the attack unscathed. No real
harm had been done. She swallowed the incriminating words. No point
revealing her foolish mistake if she didn’t have to. He was already
wary of her because she was a Saxon. If she was to have any hope of
making him fall in love with her, she must win his trust, not make
him even more suspicious of her motives.

She smiled at Rhun. “No matter what the
reason for the attack, I’m just very glad it did not succeed. You
were magnificent, Rhun. You struck them down like Teutones himself,
my people’s god of thunder and lightning.”

Their gazes met and held. As always, she
could feel the magic move between them. That sense of closeness, of
two spirits seeking out each other as if they were halves of a
whole.

Beside her, Bridei cleared his throat. “I
think I will take the first watch, since I slept most of the day
anyway.” He rose and walked off.

Rhun stared into the darkness, trying to
forget the woman sitting nearby. She was so beautiful. And when she
looked at him like that, it made him weak with need. He wanted to
reach out for her and press her to his chest and hold her so close
they could not be any closer but to be joined.

He indulged the fantasy briefly, then thrust
it away. He was not a callow boy entranced by exquisitely lovely
face and an enticing female form. He was a warrior, hardened and
tempered by near fifteen years of fighting and hardship. No matter
her allure or the stunning, worshipful way she gazed at him, he
could not forget his duty. With effort, he forced himself to his
feet. “I need to speak to my brother,” he said. “The tent nearest
the fire is yours.”

He walked away quickly, a part of himself
resisting every step. It was as if there was another person inside
of him trying to force him to go back to her. But years of
discipline would not be denied, and he was able to make himself do
what duty and reason demanded.

Bridei turned to greet him as he reached the
edge of the patch of forest. “Still playing the saintly
martyr?”

“Not saintly, but sensible,” Rhun said.
“There can be nothing gained by further complicating things between
Eastra and myself. I do this as much for her benefit as for my
own.”

“Of course.” Bridei’s voice was sardonic.
“Always the noble one. And sensible, for certain. She might be a
Saxon spy, after all.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a clear look at
her face when we discussed the attack. But you, you were watching
her closely. Do you think she knows something she’s not
telling?”

“I would swear she is innocent. But there is
still the fact she might be a tool used by others.”

“Of course,” said Bridei. “You never know
who you can trust these days.”

Rhun nodded glumly. He was fortunate to be
alive, yet he could not feel triumphant or content. All he could
think of was what might have been.

Eastra rose restlessly and started toward
the tent. Halfway there, she paused, overcome with frustration.
Rhun was drawing away from her. They’d had this brief chance to be
alone—an opportunity to talk, if not to kiss or embrace. But
instead of seizing the moment as she’d longed to do, he had walked
off. The attack in Londinium had made him see her as his enemy.

She took a few steps in the direction he had
gone, then paused. The moon was high and bright, and if she
strained her eyes, she could make out Rhun’s tall silhouette in the
distance as he stood talking to Bridei. Somehow she would have to
change his mind and convince him to trust her. But how could she do
that if he would not even talk to her?

The next day dawned hot and bright. They
returned to the Roman road and followed it west. Rhun and Bridei
rode at the front of the troop, with Eastra behind them and the
rest of the escort to her rear. She’d had a chance to wash her face
and hands in a stream they passed early that morning, and she felt
somewhat refreshed, although she could see that this kind of
travel, camping out every night and riding for long stretches,
would soon grow tiresome.

They passed a few farmsteads, mostly
deserted. Observing the rich land around them, Eastra was puzzled.
She wanted to ask Rhun why this part of Britain seemed so sparsely
inhabited. But something about the set of his shoulders, the
careful distance he put between them, warned her he would not
welcome any questions from her.

A grim mood overtook her. For the first time
on the journey, she began to feel like a hostage. There were armed
men all around her, and although she knew they were there primarily
for her protection, given her changed circumstances with Rhun, it
gave her the sense of being a prisoner. Had she made a terrible
mistake in offering to serve as hostage? Would she end up alone and
miserable, locked away in a foreign king’s fortress in Gwynedd? She
had not been happy in Cerdic’s household, but at least there she
was treated with respect and deference. At least on some level she
belonged there, with her own people.

Now she was among strangers. The Britons
looked and dressed and behaved differently than Saxons. If Rhun was
at her side, it would not have mattered, but now he was not, she
was acutely aware of the imposing, silent warriors gathered around
her, of the vivid colors of their cloaks, the leather tunics and
trousers they wore, their dark or ruddy hair, even the different
way their eyes seemed to be set in their faces and the sharpness of
their features.

Although the day was as brilliant as ever,
she shivered. What had she done? Rhun, the light of her existence
for so many years—the very stuff of her dreams—had drawn away from
her, and she was alone... and afraid.

* * *

“You should go back and ride with her,”
Bridei spoke quietly, then glanced backwards. “Exchange a few
pleasantries with our guest.”

“She’s not our guest,” Rhun responded.
“She’s a hostage.” Even as he spoke the harsh words, something
inside him winced. In truth, he didn’t feel that way about her, but
it was dangerous to behave otherwise.

“All the same, she’s a young woman, far from
her home and family. In the interest of simple courtesy and
kindness, you should make some effort to put her at ease.”

Rhun gritted his teeth. “If it matters so
much to you, my gallant brother, then
you
go back and speak
to her.”

“All right, I will. But don’t ever say I
tried to steal your sweetheart away from you.”

Rhun stared grimly ahead. A few moments
later, he heard Eastra laugh. He cursed himself—for ever agreeing
to serve as Eastra’s escort, for stopping in Londinium on the way,
and for being such a fool as to rescue a beautiful Saxon child all
those years ago.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Bridei said.
“I’d feared your experience in Londinium might have frightened you
so much you would ride the rest of the way in silence, like a
terrified coney.”

“I don’t scare
that
easily,” Eastra
answered.

“Good.” Bridei smiled at her. “So tell me,
what do you think of this part of Britain?” He gestured expansively
to the landscape around them.

“It’s very green and pretty. Fertile, too, I
imagine. Which is why I have to ask—why do so many of the
farmsteads around here appear abandoned?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She nodded.

“Saxons.” He nodded. “I’m afraid it’s true.
These farms were burned out and ravaged years ago, back when your
people came to destroy and plunder rather than to settle. They took
what they could carry and moved on—to the next farmstead or the
next holy house or whatever else they could find to ravage.”

“Didn’t the people fight back?” Eastra
asked. “Didn’t they try to defend themselves?”

“I’m certain they did. But you have to
understand, there was no organized army back then. The legions had
left a generation before, and the farmers and merchants who were
left behind had never learned how to fight. Now, those of us who
lived on the western coasts, we have been fighting and waging war
the whole time. But the eastern and southern Britons had grown
complacent under the eagle standard of Rome. They never realized
they were going to have to face such a terrifying threat from the
sea.

“And so the Saxons came and burned and
murdered and stole whatever wealth they could find in their
pathway. They penetrated deep into Britain, until they perhaps
realized that they were too far from their boats and their bases on
the coast. Then they left, carrying their booty. But by the time
they came back, the pickings weren’t so easy. They had Ambrosius to
face.”

“Who is he?” Eastra was intrigued by his
tale. She’d never heard any of these things from her own
people.

“Arthur’s grandsire.”

Eastra stared and Bridei nodded. “Aye, his
father, Uther, was also Roman, or mostly Roman. His mother was a
Briton, though. Through her he’s related to my tribe, the
Cymry.”

“Arthur is your kinsman?”

Bridei nodded. “But that’s not why Rhun and
I joined his army. Among my people, blood ties don
’t
always
make for strong alliances. In fact, interestingly enough, although
I have Irish blood in me, I still consider them my deadly enemies.”
Eastra gaped at him, and he nodded once more. “It’s little talked
about, but when I was in the north visiting my mother’s people, I
discovered that my great-great grandsire, Cunedag, was Irish. In
fact, the Romans brought him in Gwynedd to subdue the Decanglia and
the Silurians, the two tribes that once controlled the area.”

“How strange to be related to your
enemies.”

“Not so strange for us Britons,” Bridei
said, grinning. “I think sometimes we fight more bitterly among
ourselves than we ever do against our enemies from the
outside.”

“Rhun said something like that.” Eastra
glanced to the front of the troop, wondering what he was thinking.
“He said part of the reason he fought for Arthur’s cause was
because he admired Arthur’s goal of uniting all of Britain.”

Bridei shook his head. “A worthy goal, but
it will never happen. It’s the curse of my race to squabble and
fight each other endlessly. It’s the reason we will never be
successful at ruling Britain the way the Romans were. I’m a bard,”
Bridei added. “And most of the songs and stories that are passed
down from generation to generation tell of kings fighting kings and
never is there peace. If it has always been that way, why should
Arthur be able to change it?”

“But his grandsire Ambrosius apparently
succeeded in gathering together the people to fight the Saxons. So
why don’t you think Arthur will succeed now?”

“Because already the Saxon threat has
changed and become less frightening and potent. Men like your uncle
are willing to negotiate and make treaties. They seek farmland and
security and peace for their families. They are no longer
terrifying marauders who destroy everything in their path. And
because the danger is no longer so obvious, men begin to whisper
among themselves, wondering at Arthur’s right to lead them,
wondering if they would not have more to gain from staying home and
guarding their own territory against their neighbors.”

“The thought that Arthur will fail doesn’t
seem to distress you very much,” Eastra pointed out.

Bridei smiled. “I’m not like Rhun. He
believes in dreams and quests, and in fighting for something
because it ‘should’ be. I’m a practical man. I can see the world
has been this way for a long time, and no man, no matter how
dedicated and noble he is, is going to change it.”

A pang went through Eastra. Although
Bridei’s words made sense, she did not want to believe them. She
preferred to hope, as Rhun did, that things
could
change for
the better. Was that not what this journey was all about? She had
offered to be a hostage not only because she wanted to be with
Rhun, but because she believed that by forming a bond with one of
the enemy, she might be able to help bring peace between Saxon and
Briton.