Even before the Romans had built their barracks and declared the place to be called Segontium, there had been Britons living here. The Segontiaci tribe had settled where they could see the straits and lived in peace for generations, until the Romans arrived.
Once he had subdued the tribe, the Roman emperor, Agricola, declared the vantage point a good one and ordered a fort be built. Segontium had been the major Roman military town in the north.
Once the Romans deserted the place, Segontium had returned to a small village, while the once magnificent legion barracks crumbled with neglect.
Nimue rode at a slow pace along the street which ran between old Roman villas and houses the locals had taken for their own. Smoke rose lazily from chimney holes, while chickens and ducks scratched between the stones of the street, looking for seeds and greens.
This corner of Britain had never seen a Saxon invasion and the domestic peace was soporific…and pleasant. Nimue kept her cloak pulled in around her, so her presence was not noticed and did not change the gentleness in the air.
The road climbed the mild slope to the top of the hill. Her horse, weary from the long travel, took the gradient a step at a time. It was a cold afternoon. The sky was cloudless and pale. Not a breath of a breeze disturbed the day. It was as if the very air itself waited.
The tension in Nimue’s chest and belly relayed that expectation. Her heart had strummed as soon as the first red-tiled roofs came into view. She had let the horse find its own way along the cleared and well-maintained road, while she sampled with her mind the way ahead.
Even before she reached the village, she knew her destination was beyond it. Higher.
The fort was the only location higher than the town. It overlooked the people it had protected for hundreds of years.
Nimue studied the walls of the fort as she crested the low hill and they came into view. The locals had carried away with them anything of use they could find in the empty buildings. Loose stones and those they could pry loose had been reused for newer buildings in the village and farther afield. It left the fort’s perimeter wall a gap-toothed relic.
In the gaps she could see the barracks beyond. Those walls still looked solid. The barracks rooms and offices would be empty of everything but ghosts of soldiers and officers. No Briton cared to use the rooms as living quarters, no matter how sound the roof.
Nimue returned once more to the troubling idea that a treasure as great as the sword of Macsen Wleddig would be here in this place. Yet the tugging at her heart and mind was coming from somewhere up here.
She stopped at the high walls and slipped wearily from the saddle. For a moment, she clung to the saddle to maintain her balance and waited for strength to return to her legs.
“Nimue.”
Nimue turned, knowing who she would see. “Merlin.”
Merlin stood at the higher corner of the wall, his staff before him. He wore a hooded cloak and dark clothes, as always. The hood shadowed his features. Mud caked his boots, speaking of hard travel. He came toward her with long strides.
“Did Vivian send you?” Nimue asked.
“I saw it, too,” Merlin said. He studied her, his eyes narrowed. Then he reached beneath his cloak and unclipped a flask from his belt. “Here. This will help.”
Nimue drank without concern. Nothing Merlin gave her could harm her. Not now. The wine and herbs were fresh and potent, although cooler than they would have been. Energy surged through her as the herbs did their work. She handed the wine back. “Thank you. Then, you are here to find it, too?”
Merlin shook his head. “I think I am here purely as a witness. For whatever reason, this work is for you to complete.”
They both turned toward the barracks. Silently, they passed through the gate. Long ago, it would have been barred by stout oak doors. The doors were long gone—the timbers and even the iron and hinges would now serve other purposes.
Nothing stirred.
They moved around the buildings to the alley which ran between them, then through to the wider exercise yard.
“There is nothing here,” Merlin said. “Not even the spirits.”
Nimue already knew that herself. “Still, we must search,” she said. “Perhaps this is to remind us.”
“Of life under a conqueror’s heel?” Merlin said. The corner of his mouth lifted. “We are really in need of such a reminder? Us?”
“The gods don’t explain themselves.”
“No,” he said with feeling. “Very well. Every building. Every room. Lead the way, my Lady.”
MORGAN GAVE THE BABE ONE more firm pat, as the child murmured. “Here. Take the boy, Rhiannon. He will settle now.” She shuffled on her knees over the rug which softened the floor of the jolting cart and placed the swaddled baby into Rhiannon’s arms.
Rhiannon stared down at the tiny pink features, a tight furrow between her brows. She looked exhausted, Mair thought.
“It is truly remarkable,” Rhiannon breathed, her voice just above a whisper. “I could not stop him crying at all.”
“Because you are tired and because the way you hold him tells him you are unsure of yourself.” Morgan settled on the cushion they had offered her. “Even babies can sense such things. If you are confident in your handling, he will sense it and trust you.”
Rhiannon blinked, as her eyes filled with tears. Mair watched them form with alarm. Rhiannon was not a woman who cried. Not even when she was in pain. Now her tears trickled weakly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “Anwen was such a peaceful child, in comparison.” Her gaze flickered toward the little girl sitting beside her with her thumb in her mouth, her big black eyes—so like her father’s—wide and curious. “I was at the end of my wits…” She wiped her cheeks again. “Thank you, Morgan. Your help has been welcome.”
And unexpected, Mair added to herself. She let her gaze drift over Morgan once more. The remarkable thing was that the Queen of Lothian sat in this poor, rattling cart, ministering to Rhiannon and actually helping.
They had been three days on the road and would be in Venta Belgarum by tomorrow night. They had been stressful days for Rhiannon. The babe was so new, she could not ride on horseback and was forced to travel in a cart which had been hastily cleared for her. Cloth was stretched over the top, to shield the sun and shed the rain. Otherwise, the cart was open at the sides and dusty.
Idris had arranged for cushions and a rug to hide the planks. Still, the jolting progress of the cart had unsettled the baby. His screams continued for more than a day. He had fussed and refused to feed, while everyone traveling around the cart rubbed at their temples as the cries went on and on.
Shortly after they had got underway this morning, Morgan gave a soft click of her tongue when the baby cried once more. She tossed her reins to the cart’s driver with a curt order to fasten them to the cart. Morgan hopped across to the moving cart from the back of her horse with an elegant motion.
Startled and somewhat alarmed, Mair gave her reins to Rawn and swung up into the cart herself. She didn’t trust Morgan an inch. No one in the camp did.
Only now, Mair studied the queen and tried to understand the fearsome rumors about her. The fact was, Morgan had been one of the most helpful and pleasant women Mair had ever traveled with. She seemed to appear at the exact moment someone needed…well, almost anything.
Morgan’s chest of unguents and medicines seemed bottomless. The medicines bought relief, for they worked. She would tilt her head to examine a scratch or a festering wound, or rest her hand against an aching head, then dip into the chest and withdraw a pot. With soft murmurs of sympathy, she would apply the ointment, or clean a wound and then leave with a soft smile and an assurance that soon, they would feel better.
If it was not the endless supply of medicines Morgan offered, it was wisdom and experience in an astonishing array of subjects, from mothering a child, as she was doing now, to the ailments which could inflict horses’ hooves, to the assessment of metals. Mair had seen her hold up a sword to the sun, then swing it through the air so it sang, then hand it back with a twist of her mouth. “‘tis good for naught but prodding, my lord,” she had regretfully informed Hector, who had claimed the sword on the battlefield. “If you were to use it as a cutting weapon, it would chip and shatter.”
Her assessment had been proved accurate that night. When they were camped, Hector had tested the handsome sword against a cabbage draped with plated leather armor. The blade had cracked, the end flipping up into the air with a sour note of stressed iron, while everyone fell back with hearty laughter.
And now Morgan dispensed advice to Rhiannon. Indeed, she had settled the baby within a few short minutes and now he was suckling steadily, while Morgan watched with a warm smile.
Where in this pleasant and helpful woman was the witch of the north Mair had heard so much about?
The little girl, Anwen, tugged on her mother’s sleeve. Rhiannon frowned. “I’m sorry, my darling one. You must wait a moment.”
Anwen tugged even harder.
“Mair, play with her,” Morgan said softly. “Distract her, so she does not think herself slighted by her mother’s focus on the boy.”
Mair’s eyes grew wider. She looked from Morgan to the little girl. Anwen’s dark brows were pulled together, just as Rhiannon’s did before her temper flared.
Mair hesitated. She knew nothing about mothering children. She had never held a baby. She had never picked up a small child. She had never even spoken to one. How was she supposed to distract a determined little girl? She was a fighter, not—
“Is that fear I see in your eyes, Mair?” Morgan laughed softly. She leaned forward and balanced herself on one hand. Then she plucked Anwen’s hand away from Rhiannon’s sleeve. “Come here, my sweet. Come and see what I have here.” She drew the girl toward her and settled on the pillows again. She plopped the girl on her lap. “See…what is this?” She opened her hand. A gold coin rested upon the palm.
Mair frowned. She had not seen Morgan pick up the coin. Where did she get it? Mair had seen few coins in her lifetime, and never a gold one.
Anwen stared at the shiny thing, then looked up at Morgan.
Morgan nodded. “Yes, you can pick it up.”
Anwen gripped the coin in her tiny fist and examined it.
Morgan smoothed her curls and looked over the top of her head at Mair. “You have your guard up against the wrong danger, Mair of Corneus.”
Mair’s heart slammed against her chest, stealing her breath. The odd note in Morgan’s voice reminded her strongly of Merlin. “Why do you say that?” she demanded.
Morgan blinked. “Say…?” she breathed. She shook her head. “Goodness. Pay me no mind.” She lifted Anwen up. “Here, take her. Oh, she won’t damage you, Mair. Put her on your knee and let her sense your warmth. She will play with the coin until her mother can spare her a few moments.” Morgan smiled at Rhiannon, who smiled back. “Then you must get some sleep, yes? Perhaps Idris could take Anwen on his horse?”
Mair lifted Anwen and brought her over to where she sat, as Morgan had directed. She was surprised at both the small size and unexpected weight of the girl. Copying what Morgan had done, Mair settled Anwen on her knee.
“Are you leaving, Morgan?” Rhiannon asked, her voice rising.
Morgan lifted herself to her feet. “You do not need me anymore.” Her tone was confident. “By tonight, you will have nearly forgotten the last few days.” She cupped the baby’s downy head. “What is his name?”
“Emrys Myrddin,” Rhiannon said.
Morgan grimaced. Then she made herself smile. “A fine British name.”
“One you dislike, clearly,” Mair said.
Morgan glanced at her. “Myrddin Emrys and I have had our disagreements.” Her tone was frank. “Merlin has a cutting tongue. I recalled the last argument we had.” Her mouth turned down. “The baby’s name merely reminded me of that moment.” Her smile grew warmer as she looked at Rhiannon. “Perhaps that is why Merlin rode off on some mysterious errand. He knew I was coming.”
Mair watched Morgan work her way to the front of the cart, beside the driver, then straighten and hoisted herself onto her horse. Mair waited until Morgan had moved the horse ahead of the cart and was out of earshot, then said to Rhiannon, “I don’t think Merlin is avoiding Morgan. He is one of the most courageous men I know, even if he does not choose to fight. He would not be afraid to confront Morgan, if he had to.”
“High praise from you, about a non-fighter,” Rhiannon said, with a small smile. Already, the tension had eased between her brows and she looked happier, as Emrys fed steadily.
Mair glanced toward the front of the cart once more. “I cannot fathom how nice she is.”
“Morgan?” Rhiannon patted Emrys with a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she studied her child. “She is a strong woman. Men often resent women who are too strong. Maybe that is why they say what they do about her.”
“Maybe,” Mair said. “Or perhaps everyone is wrong about her.”
“Including you?” Rhiannon asked. She looked up. “Morgan is not a fighter. She concerns herself with politics. Both are unforgiveable sins in your estimation.”
Mair’s lips parted in surprise. “They still don’t know who killed Urien,” she pointed out stiffly.
Rhiannon laughed. “Morgan says Lot arranged it, that he wants Rheged for himself and is acting now, before Owain is old enough to lead Rheged.”
Mair scowled. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.
“Of course not. It’s politics, not war.”
Mair scowled again. “You make me sound completely inflexible.”
“You are you,” Rhiannon said gently. “A perfect warrior, from the house of perfect warriors. No one wants you to be anything else, Mair. If you showed any interest in politics, you would not be the fighter you are. Don’t change, dear.”
Mair shifted, discomfort making her squirm. Rhiannon was praising her, only it did not feel like a compliment. “Anyway, Morgan has taken Accolon of Gaul to her bed,” she said gruffly.
Rhiannon shook her head. “Gossip.”
“Fact. I saw him enter her tent…and why are you smiling like that?”
“I am watching you bounce Anwen on your knee. You don’t even know you are doing it, do you?”
Mair grew still and looked down at the little girl on her knee. Anwen was biting the edge of the coin. She tilted her head back to look up at Mair, smiling around the gold and showing small teeth.
Horror spilled through her. Mair put the girl on her bottom beside Rhiannon. “I need to…I must go.”
And she scrambled from the cart before Rhiannon could protest.
MAIR WAS RELIEVED WHEN BEDIVERE let his stallion fall back from the head of the column, until he was riding beside her. They were on an old British road, their horses clopping on the mighty hewn planks with a pleasant steady rhythm. Only this short stretch of road needed to be traversed, then they would turn onto Ermine Street to run almost all the way to Venta Belgarum, tomorrow.
Bedivere dropped the reins over the high front of his saddle and leaned on it to look at her.
“Brother,” Mair said, trying to school her face so nothing showed of her upset from the conversation with Rhiannon.
“As a leader of the Queens’ Cohort, there are things you should know,” Bedivere said.
“I’m not the leader,” Mair said quickly.
Bedivere raised a brow. “Lowri gave you command on the field of battle, did she not?”
“Well…yes,” Mair admitted. “That was in battle, though.”
“Which is where field promotions happen,” Bedivere said. “The wing is yours now, Mair. Lowri cannot ride again this year. Bevan will insist she not ride at all, after that.”
Mair saw the hidden pride in Bedivere’s eyes, which was the opposite of the sinking sensation in hers. “I’m not a leader,” she murmured. “I just want to fight.”
“Which is all you did on the field,” Bedivere said. “I did notice, little sister,” he added, when she lifted her brow. “Whether or not you want it, the command is yours. Or is there a more capable fighter among your wing who you deem should take your place?”
Mair didn’t have to think about the answer. There was no one.
Bedivere read the truth in her face. He nodded. “Therefore, it is you I must speak to.”
Mair looked around. “Here?” There were soldiers marching on foot to either side, and carts in front and behind them. Cavalry followed on either side of the footmen, protecting their flanks.
“Here is the best place to speak. While on the road, no one can sneak up on us and eavesdrop.” Bedivere laughed. “What is it you think we do, riding beneath the Pendragon banner? We do not spend all day in the saddle speaking of naught but wine and women.”
Mair looked toward the thick congestion of riders who surrounded Arthur. “I do not think I have ever wondered about the conversations of officers,” she admitted. “Is that…you really discuss business while you ride?”
“As easily as we do when we are halted for the day. It would be an extreme waste of time if we did not. And that is why I am here. See, I am not the only one falling back.”
As he spoke, they passed King Leodegrance, who waited at the side of the road for his men to draw level with him. Leodegrance nodded at Bedivere, his thick gray hair shining in the afternoon sun. His helmet was tucked into his saddle bags. It was too nice a day.
Mair turned to Bedivere. “What is it you must tell me?”
“About the organization of Arthur’s army, going forward. There are changes to be made, Mair. Interesting ones.”
“He still wants the Queen’s Cohort, doesn’t he?”
“He does. Only, the swift departure of Brocéliande and the Lesser Britain clans has brought to our attention the changes needed—”
“Do I have to know all the reasoning behind the changes?” Mair asked.
Bedivere considered her. “You don’t want it to make sense, to understand why?
Mair hooked her leg around the front of her saddle, to shift her weight and take the pressure off her rear on that side. She had learned to shift and change the way she was sitting throughout the day, or else arrive at the end of it unable to walk. “I can already guess,” she told Bedivere. “There are clans and tribes who only fight when the general call goes out. There are others, like Leodegrance, who have no intention of running home as soon as the year’s campaigning is done—”
“Ouch,” Bedivere murmured. “They return home for good reason, Mair.”
“Arthur has had a permanent standing army since the beginning. Soldiers who go with him everywhere. Now he wants officers who will stay permanently, too, so he can rely on them and build cohesion and trust.”
Bedivere stared at her. “That is exactly what Lancelot said,” he murmured. “Mair, did you hear that somewhere?”
“I guessed,” she admitted. “Dindrane, before she returned to Listenoise, said Percival and Aglovale and Lamorak refused to return. King Pellinore will not. How could they know there would be a place for them here, that Arthur will shelter them and feed them, if Arthur had not said something already?”
Bedivere looked relieved.
“No one is speaking out of turn, brother,” she told him.
“Thank the stars,” he said softly.
“You, of course, will be staying,” Mair added. “And Lucan, too.”
“Yes,” he said heavily.
A fizz of excitement touched her. “Does your speaking to me mean I am to stay, too?”
Bedivere shook his head.
Her pleasure faded. “I must!”
Bedivere studied the whorls between his stallion’s ears. “Arthur’s officers, those of us who stay, have their own houses which answer to them. They cannot lead those houses if they are part of the permanent army.”
Mair shook her head, as horror spilled through her. “No, Bedivere!”
“We must train our seconds to be leaders in their own right,” Bedivere continued, as if she had not spoken at all. “It is an honorable charge, Mair. You would defend Corneus itself, which is close enough to the Saxon Shore you may well face battle on your own. This is no sinecure, sister.”
“I won’t be here,” Mair breathed. “I won’t be fighting with Arthur.”
“You will be supporting him. You will allow him—and me—to focus upon smashing the Saxons, upon finding peace.”
She shook her head, her eyes aching. “Don’t send me away, Bedivere. Please. I…I beg you.”
Bedivere shifted uneasily. A furrow ran between his brows. “Someone must do this,” he said gently.
Mair’s eyes filled with hot, painful tears. She blinked, which only made them spill. Her humiliation was complete.
Bedivere made a soft sound at the back of his throat. “For the sake of the gods, Mair…crying is unfair. What am I to do with you, when you do that? Any man would be proud to serve this way.”
Mair used the corner of her cloak to scrub at her face, which also hid it from the foot soldiers peering up at her curiously. She pulled her hood over her head and bowed her shoulders.
Bedivere rested his hand on her shoulder. A gentle touch. “There is time yet for you to grow accustomed to the idea,” he told her. “Arthur does not plan to dismiss the clans until after the solstice, when he is sure the Saxons have been subdued for the year.”
Only until mid-summer!
Mair didn’t notice Bedivere leave. She noticed nothing at all, until they stopped for the night.