Page 2 of Warrior Queen
I hadn’t thought Cadwy’s expression could get any more malevolent. I’d been wrong.
Arthur got to his feet. As was his habit, his almost black tunic bore only minimal decoration around the neckline, cuffs and hem, and his dark braccae had been tucked into his everyday, mud-spattered riding boots. The simple gold circlet resting in his thick dark hair gave the only hint to his status as king of Dumnonia.
He turned on the spot allowing everyone in the hall a good look at him, his gaze pausing for a moment as his dark eyes met mine, the glint of triumph sparkling in them. Tall, with a horseman’s slim, athletic build, my husband was the handsomest man in the hall by far. Shoulder-length, dark hair framed a clean-shaven face that could hold the respect of any man he met, and charm any woman. The fact that he only had eyes for me sent a warm glow cascading through my body. He certainly possessed the famous Pendragon magnetism.
My lips curved into a return smile, and his gaze passed on.
“Show them the sword,” Caninus said.
Arthur put his hand to the sword hilt that protruded from the scabbard at his side, the only weapon allowed into the hall. For a moment he paused, as the thick air charged with tension. Then, in one swift movement, he drew the sword– the one we’d waited nearly three years to see. It slid from its scabbard as easily as it had from the stone. Raising his arm, he brandished it above his head. The light shafting in through the high windows glimmered on its blade.
It had never been a fancy sword. More the sword of a soldier– a warrior. The hilt was plain and unadorned, the grip bound with well-worn leather, the pommel burnished bronze. But every man and woman in the hall had seen this sword close up while it had been encased in the rock, and many had tried to pull it out, unsuccessfully. Now someone had succeeded, every eye fixed on the gleaming blade, and the man who’d drawn it, in open fascination.
As did the eyes of every king seated at the table.
King Caw of Alt Clut was first to speak.
Unsurprisingly. A little under a year ago Arthur had marched north to Caw’s hilltop stronghold on the banks of the River Clyde and breached its defenses. Caw had been causing more than just a bit of trouble north of the Wall, raiding lands belonging to his neighbors and bringing in reinforcements from even further north in the form of the wild Dogmen, a tribe of fearsome, blue-painted Pictish warriors. Arthur had put a stop to that and, to maintain the peace, had taken Gildas, Caw’s youngest and favorite son, south as hostage. No wonder Caw wanted to make known what he thought.
He rose to his feet, not a tall man but a wide and powerfully built one, aggression oozing from every pore. “How do we know he really did it?” he asked, his heavily accented voice reminiscent of a modern Glaswegian.
Arthur gazed at him implacably. This wasn’t a man, or an opinion, that bothered my husband. Not for the first time, I wished I could see more of Arthur’s face from where I stood.
“Aye.” Meirchion the Lean, King of Rheged, got to his feet as well, a few places down from Caw, his sworn enemy. The man he’d refused to fight against when Arthur had asked for his help because he thought himself safe within the stone walls of Caer Ligualid. “D’you expect us to believe this convenient story?”
Of course, he’d be one of the first to object– not a man who wanted to help anyone to something he fancied for himself. Two and a half years ago, there’d almost been an election for High King after Arthur’s father Uthyr died. Meirchion had been one of the candidates ignored when Arthur became Dux in place of having a new High King.
Impossible to see Caninus’s face, but his firm-set shoulders and upright stance told me a lot. “Not to believe,” he said, his voice carrying around the hall. “To witness for yourselves. We’ll go outside now, into the forum, and you may all see the truth in what I’ve told you.”
Arthur slid the sword back into the scabbard on his hip, his head turning as he surveyed his audience, his face betraying no sign of trepidation.
Caw leaned forward, his meaty hands resting on the silvered wood of the table. “That’s right. Put it back in that stone, and let’s all see if he can truly take it out.” His voice rolled out across the table, echoing around the hall. His angry gaze rested on Arthur.
A chorus of ayes came from the listening kings, and a mutter of agreement rustled through the audience.
Caninus, his face a mask of calm seriousness, nodded. “We’ll do just that.” He gestured to the surrounding supporters of each king. “If you’ll lead the way outside and leave a goodly space around the stone?”
Merlin caught my arm as I made to move. “Not us, Gwen. We’ll wait for Arthur to go out and follow him.”
The warriors and churchmen from each kingdom filed out of the hall, the sound of their voices rising in intensity as the prospect of what was to come occupied them. They were followed by the townspeople, shuffling down the stairs from the galleries above our heads, the hall emptying slowly around us.
At the round table, Arthur remained standing beside Caninus, but Caw and Meirchion resumed their seats. A few of the kings leaned toward one another in low conversation, their faces either alight with excitement or heavy with mistrust, or even anger. Arthur was one of the youngest kings here. Perhaps the thought of him ruling over them irked these older men.
At last, our turn to process out through the wide double doors of the hall arrived. The kings went first, in solemn single file, led by Arthur and Caninus. When the last one had departed, Merlin, Cei and I followed.
A wall of noise hit us. The forum thronged with people jammed in like the salted pilchards in a barrel we sometimes had brought up from the west country to Din Cadan. An endless blue sky burnt down on bare heads, helmets and hats, the sun already high and not a cloud to be seen.
Cadwy’s palace guards were in the process of forcing the crowds back far enough to leave a circle of space between the doors of the hall and the empty market stalls. In the center stood the large, flattish rock that had appeared there overnight nearly three years ago. Devoid of any sign that it had ever held the sword.
Merlin’s hand on my arm brought me to a halt just outside the hall doors, and Cei encircled my waist with a protective arm, drawing me closer, his nearness offering support. My heart thundered, clammy sweat prickled my skin, and by my sides my hands balled into fists. With careful precision, I straightened my fingers and drew a deep, steadying breath.
The kings formed a semi-circle around the stone in a long row of opulence– of brightly colored tunics, gold jewelry, crowned heads. Like birds of paradise, they’d come in all their finery.
Caninus stepped out of the row and up to the stone, gesturing Arthur to follow.
I chewed my lip.
Silence fell again, broken only by the loud cawing of a few rooks as they flew overhead. Despite the heat, a cold chill had settled in my stomach. Just because Arthur had taken it out once didn’t mean he’d be able to do it again, did it? Even though I knew the legend, doubt festered, in my heart and in my head, that reality did not echo legend every time. If at all.
