The Dragon Prince (3 page)

Rhun gritted his teeth as he headed toward
his tent. Why had God seen fit to give him a brother like Bridei?
He was like a flea that burrowed beneath a soldier’s jerkin, biting
and irritating, but never causing any real harm a man could
complain of. Yet he loved his brother and was proud of his talent
for languages and his ability with words. Besides acting as
interpreter, Bridei served as Arthur’s bard on campaign. His
skilled fingers could make a harp sing, and his facile tongue
composed bawdy soldier ditties and heartbreaking tributes to fallen
warriors with equal grace.

Rhun sighed. Bridei’s sly, slippery nature
was the least of his worries today. He had to find a way to speak
to the Saxon. If he did not, he would never know peace.

* * *

He is here! I have found him! I stood so
close to him I might have touched his hand!
Eastra’s heart
pounded as she hurried through the encampment. It did not seem
possible, yet she knew there could not be two men in Britain with
such kind, beautiful eyes, eyes that had looked at her with such
tender pity, eyes that had stolen her heart all those years
ago.

His build and coloring were the same as she
remembered. His shoulders might be a touch broader, his long-limbed
body more heavily muscled, his burnished gold hair a bit darker,
but he was a man in his prime now, and such changes were only to be
expected.

A tremor rushed down her body. For so long,
she had dreamed of him. Now he was here, not an arrowshot from her
uncle’s longhouse. She could scarce breathe, she was so
excited.

Eastra cast a quick glance over her shoulder
and slowed her pace as she neared the back entrance of the
palisade. She must not be seen. If would be disastrous if Cerdic
discovered she went to meet a British warrior. He would probably
use the incident as an excuse to refuse the truce, and the vicious
fighting would continue indefinitely.

Eastra’s eyes filled with tears. How she
hated war. It had cost her everyone she loved and taken much of her
youth and all her innocence. Sometimes it seemed all she had left
was her memory of a young warrior who took pity on a terrified
child. As huge and fiercely clad as her rescuer had been, she had
never feared him, not from the moment she’d looked into his
blue-gray eyes and been certain this was a man incapable of
cruelty.

S
he could not forget the way he had
looked at her when they were in the forest. His expression had been
beyond tender, almost worshipful. Although many men had taken note
of her since then, none had ever made her feel the way the young
warrior had. He was special, wonderful. She had to speak to him.
She had to tell him what he meant to her. And she did not have the
patience to wait for him to return to her uncle’s encampment the
next day. She would go to him now.

But how to find him? She spoke the British
tongue fairly well, but it would be risky to approach the enemy
camp. Her uncle might have spies there. In fact, he undoubtedly
did. Cerdic was treacherous and unprincipled, at least in regards
to the Britons. He bore them a bitter grudge for killing his
family, and somehow, someday, he would get his revenge. Eastra
suspected the truce was only a temporary arrangement to give his
client thanes a chance to plant their crops and rebuild their
villages.

She spotted the British camp, situated among
a grove of trees. Arthur ap Uther had not brought many warriors
with him. It would be easy for Cerdic to encircle the camp with his
troops and kill them all. But that kind of treachery might be too
heinous for even Cerdic to contemplate. Eastra hoped so.

She slowed her pace, creeping through the
thick underbrush, which was greening rapidly in the warm spring
sunshine. Buttercups, violets, and wood anemone bloomed everywhere.
How would she find him, she wondered, one Briton among many? He
appeared to stand high in Arthur’s favor. He must be an important
man, one of the British leader’s most trusted warriors.

She took a deep breath as she neared the
camp. Many of the tents had colorful pennants planted in the ground
outside their doorways, the battle devices of the men within. In
the center of the camp, Eastra saw Arthur’s banner, rippling purple
silk, portraying a huge bear with an eagle flanking it. At one
time, Cerdic had mentioned, Arthur carried a dragon on his banner
and his shield, the symbol of his father’s lineage. But in recent
years he had changed to the bear, for Artoris, his birth name, and
the eagle, representing the might of Rome.

The thought of the dragon jogged Eastra’s
memory. Had not the young warrior who rescued her also carried a
dragon on his shield, red on white? A rush of excitement filled
her. If only he had not altered his symbol in the intervening
years. If she could spot his device, she might be able to sneak
into his tent without being seen.

She moved cautiously, slowly circling the
camp, straining her eyes for a glimpse of crimson and white. Bees
and mayflies buzzed around her, and her linen gunna clung to her
skin and snagged on brambles and bushes. She thought of returning
to Cerdic’s palisade and changing into old clothing. But she wanted
him to see her like this, looking like a princess, not a serving
girl.

On her second circuit of the camp, she
finally spied it. Not a large banner, and quite tattered and worn,
but mostly white and with a red dragon emblazoned upon it. Viewing
the rather bedraggled pennant, Eastra decided this was not a man
who cared much for the trappings of power. A practical man, a man
who relied on his formidable size and striking appearance to
intimidate his foes, rather than showy display.

She sighed heavily. Not a hundred paces
stood between her and the object of her quest. What if he didn’t
remember her? He might have rescued many other children in the
intervening years. But she didn’t think so. He could hardly stand
so high in Arthur’s favor if he spent his time
aiding
Saxons, rather than killing them.

Determination made her press forward. She
had to speak to him. If nothing else, to tell him how his act of
kindness had given her courage and hope, the will to go on when her
life seemed impossibly hopeless and bleak. All those years when she
was a slave girl, almost less than human.

Then, five years ago, Cerdic had found her
and rescued her. He offered her a life of luxury and comfort, but
she was no happier. There were many among Cerdic’s household who
looked upon her as hopelessly devalued by her years as a British
thrall. She might be a princess because Cerdic called her one, but
she would never be accepted by his subjects.

She took a cautious step toward the dragon
banner snapping in the breeze, then squared her shoulders. She
would hold her head high, and if anyone stopped her, she would say
she brought a message from Cerdic. If Cerdic had spies in the camp,
it would take them some time to discover her claim was only a
ruse.

She saw two soldiers on the way there. They
gave her startled glances then nodded politely.
I am a
princess,
she thought.
I have every right to walk freely on
Saxon lands.

Reaching the tent with the tattered white
banner, she took a deep breath and ducked inside.

The British warrior sat sprawled on a worn
cowhide, cleaning his armor. Her first thought was to wonder why he
did not have a body servant perform such tasks for him. Then her
eyes adjusted to the dim light and she simply drank in his
glory.

It was not only that he was handsome,
golden-skinned and fair like her countrymen, with well-made
features and a manly form. It was some other quality he had, a
gentleness about him even the fierce trappings of a warrior could
not obscure. Seeing him now, wearing only a tunic, he appeared so
magically beautiful, like a god. And so much like the youth who had
rescued her all those years ago.

Her heart melted. She wanted to reach out to
him, to have those strong arms close around her, making her feel
safe and protected, as she had not felt since.

But she didn’t approach him, was not quite
that brave. He watched her, stunned. Then, when his surprise faded,
he frowned. “You should not be here,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

She wanted to laugh. If she was not safe
with him, where was she safe? Had he never learned that security
was not a roof overhead nor a full belly? Even knowing her kinsman
and protector was likely the most powerful Saxon on this side of
the eastern sea did not make her feel safe. Only this man had done
that, nearly a decade before.

He rose as much as he could, given his size.
It would be impossible for him to stand upright inside the small
tent. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak much of your language.” He frowned
in thought, as if searching for words, then gave up and gestured to
the tent entrance.

“I’ll not go,” she said in his tongue. “I’ve
come to speak to you.”

“You speak Briton.” He looked amazed.

“Aye, although a different dialect than the
one you use. I was a slave on a villa in the south. They spoke a
mixture of Latin and Briton, and their speech had a different
cadence than the language you use.”

“You were a slave?” His expression altered
to one of horror.

“Aye.” The bitterness rose up inside her.
Would he also shun her? “Five years past, Cerdic found me and took
me into his household.”

He closed his eyes, and she could not guess
what he was thinking or feeling.

When he opened them again, he appeared
calmer. But there was a distance between them now. Eastra
suppressed a sigh. She should have known he would not be any
different than the others. How many men had expressed an interest
in her, only to change their minds when they learned of her past?
Never before had she cared. In fact, it was a relief. She did not
want to be any man’s wife, his chattel. She valued her freedom too
greatly.

But this man, she could not deny she sought
his regard. It was like a dagger in her gut to see the distress in
his eyes when she told him she had been a thrall.

She almost left then. But despite her pain
and disappointment, she could not bear to give up.

He spoke again. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped you
would be rescued by your people, that they would keep you safe.
But... at least you are alive. And still beautiful.” He smiled at
her, although it seemed forced. “When I saw you in the longhouse
today I thought that only once before had I ever seen a creature so
radiant and fair. I have never forgotten you.”

But you want to now,
she thought,
I can see it in your eyes.
The anger rose up inside her. She
bit her lips to keep from weeping.

“I would like to speak with you, but...” he
glanced again toward the tent opening. “I think it would be wisest
if we went elsewhere to do so.”

She nodded, still paralyzed by
heartache.

He donned a leather jerkin and his
swordbelt, then escorted her out of the tent. She followed him as
he walked rapidly through the camp. The few soldiers they saw
stared, then looked quickly away. She decided it must be courtesy
and respect for this warrior that made them behave so
discreetly.

As they approached the forest, her mind was
filled with the memory of him carrying her through the burning
settlement to the sanctuary of the woods. But this time he did not
carry her. Indeed, he took care not to touch her.

When they had gone a short distance into the
tangle of foliage, he stopped and turned to face her. “Do Cerdic’s
men patrol this area?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “He feels
secure behind the walls of his palisade. Besides, he trusts
Arthur’s honor. He has no concern that the British will
attack.”

The warrior nodded. “Then we should be safe
here. For a time.”

She took a deep breath, thinking about what
she wanted to say. She started to speak just as he did. They both
stopped, then laughed.

He gestured graciously. “You first. You are
the one who sought me out, although I must say I had made up my
mind to have speech with you before this peace council was
over.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I
have thought about this day for so many years, and now... now it is
here and I can’t seem to find the right words.” She gazed up at
him. “My name is Eastra. What is yours? What have you been doing
these past years?”

“I am called Rhun ap Maelgwn. I’ve served in
Arthur’s army since I last saw you.”

“It seems you have risen high in Arthur’s
favor if he seats you at his right hand in meetings.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Not so high.
Arthur has other captains. But of all of them, I’m the one he
wishes to have at his side when the talk is of peace rather than
war.”

“That’s because you are an honorable man,
and he knows you will advise him to be fair and generous in his
dealings with his enemies.”

“Maybe. Or it could be he knows I won’t lose
my temper, no matter how Cerdic might provoke me. I am generally
slow to anger and quick to forgive.” He smiled. “Many men count my
good nature a flaw and advise me I will never be a strong leader
because of it.”

Eastra could not help sighing. “Deliver me
from hot-tempered men. My Uncle Cerdic is often rash and
unreasonable.”

A strange look came over Rhun’s face.
“Cerdic is your uncle?”

“Aye.”

Rhun gave a hearty laugh.

“What amuses you?” she asked.

He shook his head, beaming. “I can’t tell
you how relieved I am. I thought Cerdic was your husband. I was in
dread we would be found together and he would not only abandon all
thought of a truce, but geld me as well.” He laughed again.
“Although I doubt Cerdic would be pleased to learn we had this
conversation, at least the transgression is not quite so
outrageous.”