Brocéliande, Lesser Britain (Brittany), 453 CE
If he was a less thoughtful man, Arawn might have assigned blame for the unwelcome outcome upon the day’s misadventures. Only, he did prefer to properly consider things. He could trace the makings of the disaster back more than twelve years. This day had been fated since he took his first wife—the gods bless Bethan’s resting soul.
He had married Bethan with good intentions and a pure heart. Everything he had done since then had been with the purpose of serving his people. Yet between intention and result, the gods had twisted things, over and over again. Perhaps his people were right. Perhaps he was, in truth, the cursed king they called him.
The day had started simply enough. Ambrosius had asked Arawn to take his younger brother, Uther, off his hands for a few days. Uther was a brilliant soldier although young and easily bored, especially with the life the poor kingdoms of Lesser Britain offered. Ambrosius and Uther lived within King Budic’s lands, which marched beside Arawn’s kingdom.
Arawn could offer no better quality distraction than Budic. All the kingdoms of Brittany were staggering through the third year of drought and facing the same deprivations. However, Brocéliande had the forest, which Budic’s coastal lands did not.
Ambrosius’ request coincided with Arawn’s expedition into the heart of the forest. As a favor to his closest friend, Arawn invited Uther to join him on his search for the mystical spring which might break the curse upon him.
Uther had laughed at the idea. “Magic and myth! Searching for a lake that has not dried out would be a more effective use of your time.”
“That is a search we make daily,” Arawn replied. “Just as Budic does and Guannes does. My people want to believe I am doing everything I can to help them. The spring might well be a myth, though I will not ignore the chance that splashing water from the spring upon the surrounding stones will bring rain. Come, or do not, Uther. Your company is welcome. I go in search of the spring, regardless.”
“Oh, I will come,” Uther said, his smile lingering. “I would see your enchanted forest for myself, at least.”
The party of twenty soldiers, officers, hunters and Arawn and Uther had set out shortly before dawn. Their breath blew foggy and the bits and harnesses of the horses jingling with crisp clinks in the still air. The horses pranced restlessly in the cold, for winter was on its way. Despite the departure of summer there had still been no rain and the ground beneath the horses’ hooves was a baked, hard clay that rang with each step. No weeds or sweet grasses muffled the horses’ steps. All verdure had dried and blown away, weeks ago.
At the same time the big group set out, other carts and mules began their daily expedition for water. Each cart carried empty barrels and flat, dry water skins, ever hopeful of returning with a full and heavy load.
The metal-banded oak town gates shut behind them with a decisive thud. Arawn refused to consider the heavy boom a portent.
By sunrise they were among the shadows of oaks and firs, beeches and willows, pushing along the worn and dusty road to Paimpont. The riders stayed muffled beneath their cloaks and hoods for the chill had not yet lifted.
The hunter, Winoc, who had come to Arawn with the scrap of rumor about the location of the spring, led them off the road and along a winding north-east wood cutters’ track. Heavy vines and undergrowth thrust up higher than the shoulders of the horses and leaned in upon the track.
Then even the track petered from view and they pushed through unmarked forest. Heavy tree trunks reached up to the sky, each wearing thick green coats of moss, which clung to life despite the lack of rain. The dense canopies of the trees tangled and hid the sun from the riders. Leaves had not yet fallen, although they were changing color. In a week, perhaps less, there would be little but bare branches.
For now, though, the riders moved through deep shade, their horses making little sound on the soft soil. Usually ferns and grasses were a blanket across the earth. Now only leaf litter and twigs showed between spare tufts of hardy heather.
The day grew warmer as the still-strong sun rose, unseen by anyone. Men emerged from their cloaks and traded quips and wine skins, the last of the summer fruit and butter biscuits. Overhead, thrushes marked their passing with warbles and the occasional woodpecker knocked acknowledgment.
Uther urged his horse up beside Arawn’s. He nodded at Winoc’s back, for the hunter was ten paces ahead, leading them. “He has been heading directly north-east without deviation. Any man who knows where he is going takes the easiest path, not the direct route, even if it winds around obstructions.” His handsome face was marred by a suspicious scowl.
It didn’t surprise Arawn that Uther had been tracking their direction and was puzzled by it. Uther was only twenty-six, yet he already had the sizeable reputation that an older man accumulated over a lifetime. He was a brilliant soldier—one whom no one wanted to face on the battlefield. Warriors across Gaul traveled to Brittany to learn his ways with weapons. As a leader, Uther was surpassed only by his older brother Ambrosius in strategic thinking. Uther’s handling of men was deft. He could read a man’s weaknesses and strengths and judge within a hair’s breadth a man’s true nature, the instant he laid eyes upon him.
Arawn smiled at the man. “Not even Winoc knows where he is truly going. No one knows where the spring is. He heard a rumor, that is all.”
Uther’s blue eyes, so different from his brother’s Celtic black, narrowed. “Then we are upon a fool’s errand?” The blue of his eyes was pure summer sky, above high, hawk-like cheekbones and cheeks that often looked gaunt, or taut with anger. The jaw was made stronger by the outline of close-cropped red beard. He had a red-head’s temper, which fit with his general temperament. He was full of quicksilver energy and fiery passion—which rumors said he put to good use every night, no matter where he found himself.
His temper was stirring now. Arawn could appreciate why. He didn’t like having his time wasted, either. He lifted his spare hand. “Patience, Uther. We are still upon land I know. When we reach the parts of the forest no one will enter, our quest will begin.”
“The enchanted heart of Brocéliande I’ve heard so much about?” Uther did not quite roll his eyes, for he was smart enough to not disparage his host’s country.
“You are a follower of Mithras, yes?” Arawn dropped his voice, for gods and religion was a private matter.
“The soldier’s god is mine,” Uther replied. “Why?”
“Is there not magic about the story of Mithras and the Bull?”
Uther’s gaze slid toward him and away. “It is sacrilege to even speak of it.”
“Then do not speak of it. Instead, tell me you believe the story. They call it faith, do they not?”
Uther cleared his throat. “You believe the stories about the forest, then?”
“My people do. I cannot ignore their beliefs, or their trust in me will wither. It is already stretched taut.”
“They call you the cursed king,” Uther said and held out the wine flask he had been carrying in his left hand.
“Among other things.” Arawn took the flask and drank.
“Budic is not labeled such. Nor is Bors. Their kingdoms also struggle for lack of water. It has beset all of Lesser Britain. Why, then are you the cause of everyone’s misfortune?” Uther’s tone was merely curious.
It was the mildness of his enquiry that allowed Arawn to answer with uncharacteristic frankness. “The drought is just the last affliction of many, one which all neighboring kingdoms must share if mine is to properly suffer.” His mouth turned down. “I know you have heard the stories.”
“Frequently,” Uther replied. “More often of late, as wells dry and rivers thin.”
“Pestilence, plague and drought.” Tension squeezed Arawn’s chest and made his gut roil. “Two harvests mown to the ground by hoppers, then three years of plague which killed most of the people that empty bellies had not. Now this—a third year of inadequate rain. Budic and Bors have seen little of the tribulation I have and it all began the year I first married.”
Uther’s frown deepened. “Curses are always accompanied by prescribed cures.”
“The cure was prophesied by Rhonwen the Great, Lady of the Lake, before she passed. The mother of my first born child will save Brocéliande.”
“I have heard of this prophecy,” Uther admitted. “I did not know it was intended to break a curse.”
“Neither did I,” Arawn said. He took another deep swallow of the wine and handed the flask back. “When Rhonwen spoke the prophecy, I was not aware Brocéliande was in need of saving. As she gave it at my first wedding, I presumed it was a blessing upon my marriage.”
Uther’s eyes widened. “You have married twice since,” he pointed out.
“Three times,” Arawn admittedly heavily.
Uther sat back in his saddle, his eyes gleaming. “Then you must marry again, no?”
Arawn understood the glimmer of interest in Uther’s eyes. Women were a sport for him, one at which he excelled. His appetites were large enough that he would take any amenable companion to bed. Although, if there was a single camp follower or unattached woman, or even a married but willing woman, anywhere near the army, Uther would win her over for the night. It was a small wonder he had not left a trail of bastards across Brittany.
“You do not understand,” Arawn replied. “It is not simply a matter of getting an heir. Kings are reluctant to offer me their daughters, for all my wives have died while bearing their first child.”
Uther’s smile was knowing. “Then don’t marry a princess. The prophecy does not insist upon it.”
Arawn thought of Mair, the last of his wives. It had only been two years and already he had trouble recalling her young face. “I tried that, too,” he admitted.
“Yet here we are looking for a magic spring to break the curse, instead,” Uther said. “You would risk bringing the power of Brocéliande down upon you, yet you will not take a fifth wife, when one of the greatest Ladies of all history has told you that is what you must do to save your kingdom.”
Arawn shifted in his saddle, his chest clamping even harder. “You are young, Uther. You do not understand the challenges of a ruler.” His tone was sharper than he intended. Uther was brazen and his questions impertinent. Ambrosius had thrust Uther at Arawn, to smooth out his brother’s rougher edges. The man would not learn subtlety living in the middle of an army camp as he did in Carnac.
Uther stared at his horse’s ears and said nothing. He was sensitive enough to know he had overstepped his bounds.
Arawn relented. “Hunting for a spring does not bring death upon an innocent woman.”
“Perhaps the next wife you take will be the one to break the curse,” Uther said. “You cannot know until you marry her.”
“Therein lies my quandary,” Arawn said, with a gusty sigh. “If she is not the one…”
Uther grinned, showing white, even teeth. “We are hunting the wrong prey today.”
“I assure you, where we are going there are no suitable wives.”
“Suitable?” Uther repeated. “A cursed king cannot demand his next wife meet any standards.” His smile made his eyes dance.
Arawn laughed, drawn into Uther’s mischievous mood. “Very well, then. Any woman at all…only, she must be healthy and young enough to bear children.”
“And unmarried,” Uther said gravely. “As you are a king, you must wed the girl to bed her. I, of course, do not have that limitation.”
“I will not be inviting you to the wedding, then,” Arawn replied.
Uther’s laughter sent a raven flapping into the air, cawing his objection. The other men were far behind them, now, busy with their own conversations. Winoc was far ahead. It was just the two of them, which let Arawn relax a little more.
“It would be nice if she was of passing prettiness,” Arawn added, warming to the subject.
“And with all her teeth, too,” Uther said.
“I’m surprised you are so choosy, Uther.”
“It is your bed we are planning to fill, not mine,” Uther replied, his tone urbane.
“Of course, she must be a maiden,” Arawn said.
“Now you are objecting purely to narrow the field to nothing,” Uther said. “The more conditions you add, the less chance we have of finding her.”
“As I have no idea how many suitable women there are in the first place, I’m unlikely to know that adding conditions would make it an impossible task. You, of course, know every beddable woman in all three kingdoms.”
Uther smiled. “Perhaps I prefer to wonder, like you.”
Arawn laughed at the notion.
Uther patted the neck of his war horse. “Then we are agreed. The first woman we come across who matches the criteria, you will wed.”
Arawn drew in a sharp breath. “I was jesting, Uther. One does not enter a marriage with the casual approach you are suggesting.”
“Why not? The proper approach to marriage has not served you.”
“You have not been wed—”
“And have no intention of being so bound,” Uther shot back. “I am not a king and have no heir to get. You have a kingdom to save, or so I understood from your lecturing a while ago. Do you want to save your people, or not?”
Arawn swallowed. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I would do anything to save them. Look at where we are and what we do today. I am to sprinkle spring water upon stones and hope that a miracle will occur.”
“Then why not add a wedding to your list?” Uther asked with a reasonable tone.
Arawn tried to consider the matter in the straightforward way Uther was. Stripped of the burden of emotions, the concept of marriage to any woman was reduced to nothing more than a step on the path to breaking the curse. Following forms and protocol had not served him. He had not lied—he would do anything to see his people suffer no more. Anything.
Including this.
“Done,” Arawn said.
Uther sat up. “The first woman we find, you will wed?”
“The first young, healthy, marriageable woman,” Arawn amended.
“With all her teeth, yes,” Uther finished. He looked up at the blue sky peeping between the trees. “Now the day is interesting.”
Arawn let Uther enjoy the moment, instead of spoiling it with simple facts. As they wound deeper into the heart of Brocéliande, the chances of coming across a woman who met the few criteria they had agreed upon would grow smaller. After today, Uther would return to Carnac and the business of war and forget this inane agreement.
Arawn would not be breaking his word, either, for they had agreed upon him marrying the first woman they came across. Once Uther left Brocéliande, Arawn could go back to ruling his kingdom, instead of entertaining the brother of the true High King of Britain.