Two summers later.
Ilsa waved her hand to disperse the dust the riders kicked up, as the Lady’s white gelding settled beside Mercury. The gelding snorted in recognition which made Mercury’s eyes roll. Ilsa patted his neck to settle him, as the other riders in Nimue’s party fell in with the rest of the company.
Nimue was exactly as Ilsa remembered her—fair and glowing, dressed in white, slender and wise beyond her years, even though she was still young. She peered at the world with the eyes of a soul which had seen more than any human ought.
Yet the Lady’s smile was warm. “Queen Ilsa. It is two summers later. Has the time between flown as I thought it would?”
Rhodri gave a soft call. The horses moved forward again. They were a large company. Budic and Arawn had sent patrols up and down the Via Strata for years, to make the road safer for travel. The journey so far had been smooth and swift.
Ilsa considered Nimue, startled. She remembered the supper when Nimue had spoken of the next time they would meet. “I believed everything else you said that night,” Ilsa said now. “I just did not believe that.”
The time had streaked by like a falling star. Each day was filled with work and more work, as Arawn found fresh ways to help people collect water and thrive.
There had been rain both spring seasons, although not nearly enough to declare the drought broken. No rain had fallen at all last summer, which had been dry and hot and exhausting.
The water-making equipment Ilsa devised was now used across the kingdom to routinely create water for drinking. Even that water was rationed, for the source water used to make it was often stagnating river water, of which there was very little.
Carts filled with water barrels heading for the ocean to collect seawater for the stills had become common, passing along either side of the Blavet.
It took a full barrel of seawater to make just under half a barrel of potable water. Not enough water was made to irrigate the fields, which lay dusty and dry. Domestic animals were turned loose to fend for themselves. When Ilsa hunted to restock the household’s stores and help the people of Lorient, her prey was just as likely to be a village pig or a goat.
The stills and the hunting helped everyone. Ilsa used hunting as an excuse to escape Lorient and the king’s house, and the mutters and sidelong glances of the people in both.
It would be two years, this solstice, since she had fallen ill and lost the child. In all that time, she had not quickened again with child, although it was not for want of trying.
The first time anyone dared suggest to Arawn that he put Ilsa aside and find another wife, his fury had driven every man from the room but Stilicho, who silently picked up the books and slates and cups Arawn flung after them.
Ilsa had been in the bed chamber that day. His anger was so intense, she was afraid to move from the table where she was writing a letter to Evaine, not even to see if she could mitigate Arawn’s temper in some way.
Instead, Arawn came to her. He bent over the table, his hands upon it, his head hanging, as he breathed deeply. Then he blew out his breath in a gusty sigh and kissed her temple. “They are fools, all of them. I would be just as foolish to cast you aside. I have no intention of suffering through the loss of another first child.”
Ilsa let herself be reassured by him, although she was not blind to the murmurs and speculation and the sharp examinations of her waist wherever she went. Hunting took her away from all that. No one measured her girth when she delivered fresh meat to them.
Both she and Arawn clung to the sliver of hope Merlin’s muttered prophecy had given them. They had each lost a first child. Now, perhaps, if they could endure the tribulations of the land, they may yet make a second child. Perhaps that child would break the curse, for it would still be the first born child.
“It does, indeed, seem only a few days ago when we last met,” Ilsa told Nimue.
Nimue wore a small smile, as if she had followed the train of Ilsa thoughts back over the seasons. Then, the Lady bent forward to look past Ilsa to Elaine, who rode beside Ilsa.
“Princess, you look quite glorious,” Nimue observed.
Elaine, who rarely wore anything but a deeply happy smile these days, laughed freely. “You may blame Ilsa for that. The flax all died in the fields so Ilsa had us beat and spin sea grass, of which there is an abundance.” She tugged at the sleeve of her travel gown, which was a variegated blue, for sea grass did not take kindly to dyes. “I do believe it is tougher than wool. But for seagrass, I would be riding naked.”
Ilsa smiled, as Nimue’s brow lifted.
“I do believe you have grown at least three hand spans taller, Elaine,” Nimue decided. “No wonder you are in need of new garments.”
“I’m far taller than Ilsa now,” Elaine said.
“Only when you do not slouch upon your horse,” Ilsa replied calmly.
Elaine straightened her back with a tiny scowl and Nimue laughed.
It was a pleasant journey to Vennes. As they had for Evaine’s wedding, Budic and his people waited to join the company there. Among them was Budic’s queen, Hefina, and their son, Hoel, who was still a child and sat in the wagon with other children.
This time, Ambrosius, Uther and Ambrosius’ senior officers and other staff were also waiting in Vennes. There were new faces among Ambrosius’ company, including women and children. An officer whom Ilsa did not remember from the last time she visited Carnac sat upon a great black horse on Ambrosius’ other side from Uther. The man was older than either of them, with a sharp, clear gaze and heavy shoulders which spoke of a lifetime spent fighting.
Ambrosius introduced him to Arawn as Cadfael, recently from the northern mountains of Britain, “and one of my most loyal men there.”
A woman sat on the new officer’s left whose beauty was as great as Elaine’s. While Elaine was raven dark and clear skinned, this woman was brown of hair and eyes, conveying warmth and gentleness. She wore Roman-styled garments, her cloak spread out upon the rear of her horse, her cream-colored veil fluttering down her back, calm and self-possessed.
It was not until they camped that night that Ilsa learned of her name. Lynette was Cadfael’s wife and the mother of their five children. Two of those children were traveling to the wedding with them. The tall boy of sixteen, Bricius, looked exactly like his father, down to the scowl he wore most often. Bricius wore a sword which looked too large for his young, lanky body. The other child was a daughter, Alis, who was on the verge of womanhood.
“I have three more at home in Carnac,” Lynette said, with a fond smile as she sent her two to collect their supper at the cooking pot. She turned to Nimue. “Lady, I have heard much about you since I arrived in Carnac. I believe you have the Sight, yes?”
“I am not the first lady you’ve met with that gift.” Nimue’s tone took the question out of her words.
Lynette’s smile was wise. “You know the answer.”
“The Princess Vivian,” Nimue said.
“Merlin’s mother,” Lynette replied. “When we were forced to abandon Britain, I did not suspect I would find Merlin here. His whereabouts has not traveled to Britain, while everyone knows Ambrosius is here.”
Queen Hefina, Budic’s wife, who stood in the circle of older women, frowned. “Vivian of Dyfed? Vivian is my cousin. We once wrote to each other all the time, until she cloistered herself in the nunnery.”
Lynette’s smile was warm. “I was Vivian’s companion. It was I who wrote her letters.”
Hefina’s shoulders relaxed. “How odd to meet you here, after all this time.”
“Not as odd as it seems,” Lynette replied. “From Nimue’s expression I can tell that our meeting was not a happy accident.” She raised her brow at Nimue.
For the first time since Ilsa had met Nimue, the Lady of the Lake looked surprised by something. “A good guess, Lady Lynette?” she asked.
Lynette’s smile grew. “I spent years with Vivian. I know the signs.”
Nimue put her hands together. “Then I have no need to remind you of the great circle which binds us and brings us together as needed.”
“And I thought it was my wedding doing that,” Elaine said lightly, making the women laugh.
They were on the road once more, heading for Guannes and Campbon, when Lynette told Ilsa the reasons why they had fled Britain. Nimue listened with sharp attention, while Elaine’s gaze grew unfocused. The shift of power among leaders was not yet one of Elaine’s interests.
Lynette’s gray rubbed shoulders with Ilsa’s Mercury, matching step for step, as Lynette spoke. “Cadfael wanted to stay there until Ambrosius came himself and continue to recruit men to Ambrosius’ banner, as he has for many years now. Only, Vortigern’s son, Catigern, split from his father nearly five years ago. Catigern has been stirring up the eastern kingdoms, pulling them to his banner because of his wild promises of a richer future. His talk is empty, only the eastern lands have borne the brunt of the Saxon incursions for generations and are easily swayed by his lure.”
“Vortigern has been counting his allies, then,” Nimue murmured.
“Exactly,” Lynette replied. “There has been talk for the last few years that the Saxons are massing for a great invasion—a push to take all of Britain. Hundreds of ships, which will find an easy beach head along the Saxon Shore, thanks to Vortigern’s treaties with them. With that fear hanging over him, Vortigern wants to know who he can count on when the time comes. For years, Vortigern left us alone, for Cadfael was careful not to let word of his true alliance reach back to Vortigern. Rather, he let Vortigern think he was still loyal to him, but unable to fight for him because of troubles in the mountains he must see to first.”
“Catigern’s recruiting changed that, then,” Ilsa guessed.
“Vortigern sent one of his most senior officers, Pascient, who knew Cadfael from his days serving Vortigern directly. As soon as Pascient arrived, we knew why he was there. There was no need for him to ask the question and for a day he did not—he measured us instead. Cadfael invited him to go hunting in the mountain and stranded him upon Yr Wyddfa—oh, not for long, for Pascient is smart enough to follow the sun to the shore. It gave us time, though. We left Tomen y Mur the moment Cadfael returned and rode for Segontium and the harbor, where we could find a ship to bring us here.”
Nimue considered the news with a grave expression. “There have been more people arriving in Brittany this summer than ever before.”
“Although not enough to relieve the pressure,” said Merlin, who had dropped back from the head of the file to where the women on horseback congregated. “Have you ever seen a pot with a lid sitting on the cooking fire explode when it gets too hot?”
Ilsa shook her head. “I have seen the mess it leaves behind but not the explosion itself.”
Merlin was a young man, now, not the tall, wild-eyed boy she had first met. As a fully grown man, he was an astonishing replica of his father, from the black hair, black eyes and direct stare, to the high cheek bones and sharp square jawline. The only difference, apart from their age, was that Merlin carried no fighting muscles. Nor did he wear a sword, just a simple eating knife. His cloak was pinned with the same red dragon brooch which all Ambrosius’ family members, including Uther, now wore.
Merlin had a contained air he had not possessed, three years ago. Then, he had been searching for meaning, for a way to serve the man who had taken him in. Since then, Merlin had clearly found his purpose. As he wore the pin openly, he knew Ambrosius was his father.
“Cooks learned long ago to lift the lid of a boiling pot to relieve pressure,” Merlin said. “Pressure, though, helps cook food faster. Good cooks learn to lift the lid to let just enough pressure vent so the pot does not explode, yet still benefit from the faster cooking.”
“I thought it was heat which cooked food,” Elaine muttered, sounding bored and confused.
Merlin’s smile was indulgent. “Heat, yes. Also, pressure.”
“Is that what people like me and my family are doing, Merlin? Venting just enough pressure, but not all of it?” Lynette asked.
“Far more Saxons pour into Britain than Britons leave,” Merlin said.
His voice took on the distant, authoritative ring which made Ilsa’s back ripple uneasily. She had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to come too close to true power.
“Many more Saxons,” Merlin added, “yet even they are not the full force of the flood yet to come.”
“How much pressure can Britain bear?” Ilsa asked. “It cannot continue forever.”
“It has for forty years,” Lynette said softly.
“Time is not the only way to make a pot explode,” Merlin said.
Everyone looked at him expectantly, even Elaine.
“One can add more fuel to the fire, to make it burn hotter,” Merlin said.
Ilsa shivered again.
He nodded at them and clicked at his horse, nudging it forward to bring him level with the head of the file and beside his father.
“What can possibly make Britain burn any hotter than it already is?” Lynette whispered, her voice strained.
Ilsa would remember her hoarse question, later.