The Dragon Prince (38 page)

Eastra thought of Rhun’s symbol, the red
dragon of Cymru. The dragon wasn’t a real animal, but a fantastic
creature out of legend. It seemed an appropriate symbol for him, a
man who believed in dreams and bright, shining ideals. A lump
formed in her throat. By now, Rhun would have rejoined Arthur’s
men. He would be preparing to march into battle. Would she ever see
him again—her great golden warrior, her champion and hero?

The pain inside her grew so intense she
could scarce walk. She reminded herself why she was here—to stop
the war, to save Rhun’s life and the lives of so many other men. If
only she could convince Cerdic to talk to Arthur before they
fought. Arthur could not win, not against this huge army. Perhaps
he would think twice about sacrificing the lives of his men if he
were given an opportunity.

She squared her shoulders, her resolve
deepening. The babe inside her made her feel powerful. When she met
with her uncle, she would pretend she was Morguese. She would call
up the magic, the Goddess’s energy. She would make him listen to
her.

At last they reached the edge of the
northern warriors’ camp. Along the way, Eastra had noticed the
Picts seemed poorly equipped. The weaponry she’d seen was mostly
old and made of bronze rather than iron. It wouldn’t fare well
against the superior weaponry of the Britons. But despite their
lack of resources, she sensed the Picts had their own kind of
strength. They were lean, hungry men, and they were fighting for
the survival of their race, their offspring, their future.

The Saxons were also fighting for their
future, but the mood in their camp was much different, Eastra
thought as she crossed the invisible barrier and entered the
territory of her people. Here there was a sense of expectancy and
eagerness in the air. These were the tall, strong warriors she
remembered from her childhood, with long golden hair and fierce
blue eyes. Their weapons were terrifying, she knew—the
seaxe,
which could cleave a man in two; spiked balls
attached to a club that was swung in a deadly arc, for the purpose
of crushing the opponent’s skull; maces and spears and huge
broadswords that rivaled those of the Britons.

Her heart pounded at the thought. She could
easily imagine one of her countrymen killing Rhun, see his blood
running on the ground, see his beautiful face smashed by a blow
from a Saxon warrior. Before he died, would he look into his
opponent’s pale blue eyes and remember her?

She shuddered, and some of her Pictish
escort turned to look at her. They were uneasy as well. They didn’t
like venturing into the realm of their so-called ally.

The Saxons they saw hardly took note of
them. Their attitude toward the Picts was clearly one of tolerance
edged with a kind of contempt. Eastra wondered how the Picts could
bear to fight beside men who had so little respect for them. But
then she remembered the northern men’s desperation. They felt they
had no choice. If they were going to keep their lands, they had to
ally themselves with the Saxons.

Perhaps their scheme would work, she
decided. From what she’d heard, no Saxon would covet the Picts’
homeland. It was too hilly and heavily forested to be farmed. It
was good only for grazing, and even then it took a large territory
to feed a herd.

Her people desired the rich southern lands.
That’s what they were fighting for. Her confidence in her purpose
wavered. How could she convince Cerdic to be content with the
coastal lands and the areas of the south their people had already
settled when there was so much rich, desirable land left to
conquer? She would have to think of a plan, and she would have to
do so quickly.

They entered the arched stone gateway of
Eburacum. On either side were watchtowers, abandoned now to the
swallows who built their nests in the crumbling stonework. There
was no need for sentries to watch for the enemy here. She followed
the Pictish leader down the half paved, weed-ridden street to a
large, square building in the center of the fortress. The roof was
half fallen in, but the walls looked solid. Above the doorway was
hung the embossed bronze ceremonial shield of her uncle, decorated
with two white horsetails that drooped limply in the heat. Two of
Cerdic’s house carls stepped forward.

The Pictish leader walked fearlessly to meet
them. “We bring you the Princess Eastra,” he said loudly in Saxon
touched by the burred, lilting accent of his people.

Eastra faced the sentries, recognizing them
as Beornwold and Aelfric. They stared at her. Then Aelfric, his
eyes cold as the western sea, stepped aside so she could enter the
ruined building.

She walked down a corridor lit with oil
lamps and decorated with the badly scarred mosaic of a beast she
knew was called a panther. At the end of the corridor was a large
room, and there sat Cerdic at a table, eating his midday meal. Two
other men were with him. Eastra recognized the large, fair-haired
man as Ossa, the leader of the Jutes. The other man she didn’t
know, although she sensed she’d seen him before. He was young and
foreign-looking, with brown hair and a slender build. The three men
looked at her in surprise, then Cerdic spoke. “Eastra,” he said.
“How...” he cleared his throat so he could speak in normal tones.
“How do you come to be here?”

“Did you think I was dead? That Arthur had
me killed?” She spoke coldly, seizing her advantage. He had
willingly sacrificed her life when he murdered Mordred.

Something shifted in Cerdic’s gaze, and his
voice when he spoke was slow and careful. “Why should Arthur have
you killed?”

The question surprised Eastra, but she tried
not to show it, to maintain a hold on her anger. “Because I’m the
hostage you gave in exchange for Arthur’s son, Mordred. Since
you’ve killed Mordred, it seems reasonable Arthur would have me put
to death. As I understand it, that is the purpose of hostages. Each
side holds something of value of the other’s, and that’s the
deterrent that keeps the peace. But obviously”—she faced her uncle
challengingly—“I was not of much value to you.”

Cerdic didn’t speak, but wiped his mouth and
pushed the platter in front of him to the other side of the table.
Then he gestured to the young, dark-haired man beside him. “This is
Mordred. He looks very alive to me.”

Eastra stared at the youth, and he stared
back with green eyes like a cat. An eerie sense of recognition sent
a chill down Eastra’s spine. Mordred did look familiar, although
the day of the hostage exchange she’d scarcely paid any attention
to him. She wondered why his appearance unsettled her.

“But...” It was her turn to hesitate. “A man
came from Arthur’s camp and said Mordred was dead.”

Cerdic shrugged. “Obviously, he was
misinformed.”

Either that, Eastra thought, or he was
trying to incite Arthur to make war. The implications of Bedwyr’s
message struck her. Had Bedwyr been lying? Or was he simply
carrying on the message Arthur had received? Then the sudden
thought came to her that if Mordred was alive, the truce might yet
hold. There was no reason for Arthur to march against them.

“Uncle, you must send a message to Arthur
with some proof his son is alive. He’s planning to go to war
against you. His troops are marching here even now. If he knows
Mordred is alive, he will retreat and this battle can be
avoided.”

Cerdic gazed at her. “I’m pleased you are
alive and well, niece. You must believe me when I say I didn’t
think Arthur would harm you, hostage or not. I’ve been told he is a
man who honors women, a man whose conscience would not allow him to
order the death of an innocent girl.”

Eastra bristled at the term “girl.” She was
hardly a child. Indeed, she carried a babe in her belly, the
ultimate proof of her womanhood.

“But as for making peace with Arthur,”
Cerdic continued. “I can’t do that. War will come. It
must
come.” He glanced at Ossa with an expression of satisfaction, then
back at Eastra. “And knowing we will soon do battle, we must get
you to safety.” He motioned. “I’ll have Beornwold escort you out of
the camp.”

She was being sent away! Dismissed!
A
kind of fury rose inside her. “Nay,” she said. “I will not go. I
will stay here and speak and you will listen to me!”

Cerdic was clearly startled by her words.
Then he grew angry. A hot flush spread up his face and his eyes
glowed like blue flames. “While you were a hostage, you apparently
learned the bad manners and shameless boldness of a British woman.
But now you are among your own kind, and such behavior will not be
tolerated. What you have to say is of no consequence!”

“You must listen!” Eastra exclaimed. “As
hostage, I risked my life for you. I might well have died at the
hands of Arthur’s men. For that sacrifice, I think I deserve to be
heard!”

“Let her speak. It might be amusing.”
Mordred interjected, his expression coy and condescending. All at
once, Eastra realized he was not acting like a hostage. His posture
and tone of voice implied he was Cerdic’s equal. What did that
mean? Had Mordred betrayed his father? Did he conspire with his
father’s enemies to bring down the high king?

Eastra experienced a wave of dismay. If
Cerdic and Mordred had planned this, deliberately spread the false
report that Mordred was dead in order to incite Arthur to act...
She felt sick. To have come so far and confront failure...complete
failure. She searched her mind, struggling to find some line of
reasoning that might sway Cerdic. “Arthur’s army is huge,” she
lied. “And they are well-equipped, experienced soldiers.” She
glanced in the direction of the Pictish camp, her voice thick with
scorn. “Not undersized savages with ancient daggers for
weapons.”

There was a flicker of interest in Cerdic’s
eyes. “Did Maelgwn the Great decide to join Arthur?”

Eastra hesitated. She wanted to answer that
the king of Gwynedd meant to bring his full army north and that she
had never seen such stalwart, fearless warriors as the Cymry. But
something told her the lie would serve no purpose. Cerdic had
scouts. He would find out soon enough that Maelgwn had chosen to
remain out of the fray.

“Nay, but there are others.”

“Name them,” was Cerdic’s response.

Miserably, Eastra shook her head. “I don’t
know their names. Only that their army is huge and, as I said, much
better equipped and trained than
your
allies.”

“The northern men may be small, but they are
fierce,” Cerdic said. “And they are the best archers I’ve ever
seen. They will cut Arthur’s front line to pieces before they even
reach us.”

She remembered many Picts had carried
quivers of arrows on their backs. She also remembered Rhun
discussing what fine archers the Cymry were, and how if he had them
in his army, Arthur would finally have the advantage he needed to
defeat the Saxons once and for all. The queasy feeling in her
stomach intensified. She had lost this war of words. And because of
her failure, Rhun might well die. She had a sudden, horrifying
vision of him with a goose-fletched arrow in his throat.

“The lady doesn’t look well,” Mordred said.
“Perhaps you should have someone take her to my mother’s dwelling.
I’m certain she’d be happy to make a tonic for the princess.”

Eastra decided she did not like this young
man. There was something sneaky and sinister about him, and the
lustful way he looked at her aroused her disgust. He reminded her
of Bridei—charming and handsome and flirtatious. But he lacked
something, some innate quality that made Bridei’s glib, cynical
manner more amusing than repelling.

She considered that Mordred had not only
betrayed his father, but that his betrayal might well bring about
Arthur’s death. A shudder of loathing went through her. Mordred was
corrupt. There was no other word for it.

She was led to another building with a
colonnade in front and a small, dirt-filled fountain near the
doorway. Despite her inner turmoil, Eastra could hardly wait to
meet Mordred’s mother. She could not help being curious about the
woman who had given life to this cruel, monstrous youth, the woman
who had enticed Arthur, the high king of Britain. It must have
taken place twenty-some years ago, judging by Mordred’s age. Arthur
had not been high king then, but he must still have been a powerful
and important man, one whom Eastra would have thought too serious
and high-minded for casual love affairs.

As she stepped into the entryway, she
smelled something sweet, a heady mixture of herbs and flowers. Her
first thought was that it must be from some wild blossoms in the
tangled overgrowth outside the building, some remnant of the garden
that a fine Roman dwelling such as this would certainly have had.
But then she considered that the fortress had been abandoned nearly
a hundred years before. It seemed unlikely any cultivated blooms
would survive that long.

The scent grew more familiar, tickling a
memory in her mind. She froze in place.
Nay, it could not be
true!

“Don’t be afraid,” the warrior escorting her
soothed. “She’s a witch, aye, but she won’t hurt you. Indeed,
she’ll be pleased to have another woman in camp. She’s been
grumbling for days about the fact we Saxons don’t allow wenches
into our war camps. What utter foolishness.” Beornwold shook his
shaggy, golden head at the thought.

Eastra’s throat was so dry she could not
answer him.

She remembered the first time she’d met
Morguese and observed her brilliant green eyes and catlike
demeanor, the first time Urien’s queen had spoken of her contempt
for Arthur and her hints of a plan to ruin him. A shudder went
through Eastra.

Leaving behind her escort, Eastra entered
the main room of the dwelling. It was dim compared to the daylight
outside and it took a moment for Eastra to be certain it really was
Morguese. The northern queen was seated cross-legged on a fur rug
on the stone floor, surrounded by jars and baskets, cushions and
chests. In front of Morguese was a bowl of oil, glimmering faintly
in the lamplight.