Page 38 of Warrior Queen
How quickly would the years fly by before Amhar, too, was riding to his first battle? However much I told myself I’d adapted to life here in the perilous Dark Ages, I could never truly leave behind my old life. Would I be able to accept my son riding off into battle with his father with as much equanimity as Coventina had?
I was going to have to. Unbidden, the image of the priest leapt into my head and my stomach rebelled. I bent over, retching as quietly as possible, bringing nothing up but bitter bile. I tried, with little success, to spit it away.
Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I turned back to the warm comfort of my horse, burying my face in her sweet-smelling mane.
Full darkness had fallen before I finally wandered back to where our campfires burned, their vibrant flames leaping up toward the almost full moon. The already unpleasant bodies of the dead had been loaded onto ox carts and taken outside the town to the meadow where they’d be burned in the morning. And, where they could, the townspeople had sorted out their homes. Those whose homes had burned were sleeping in the church for the night, the roof of which had only smoldered.
In the field beside the horse lines, our men were already cooking supper. The aroma of roasting mutton drifted through the air, making my belly rumble. I’d thrown up my mid-day meal, and breakfast seemed an age ago. But where was I supposed to find a spot to sit?
With a heavy heart, I trudged from fire to fire, searching the flickering circles of golden light for Merlin’s friendly face, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Nor Arthur. My anger had finally dissipated during the time I’d spent with Alezan, and I’d been hoping his had too.
“Gwen!” Cei’s voice sounded out of the dark. He and Rhiwallon were seated with a group of other men, a few of them just boys. “Come. Sit down here with us. With my brave warrior son.”
Rhiwallon bridled like an embarrassed girl. “Father!”
Unable to hold back my smile at his discomfort, I took a seat beside them, perching my bottom on a handy rock looted from the wall. The leaping flames darkened the surrounding night, and the warm glow of the other cookfires made comforting bright circles within the dense blackness. Firelight flickered over the faces of the seated warriors, casting them in planes of light and dark that bestowed on them a spooky, otherworldly appearance.
Cei, a skin of cider in his hands, grinned a welcome to me, eyes twinkling.
Rhiwallon, his face glowing pink with heat and the remnants of his embarrassment, turned to me. “Milady Guinevere, thank you for allowing me to be part of this,” he began, his voice now permanently deep, like his father’s. “My first battle. Everything I thought it would be.” The voice of innocence– happy, excited, proud.
Clearly not the same experience I’d had, then.
Cei clapped him on the back, his grin even broader. “My boy’s a man now.”
Rhiwallon flushed redder still, staring down at the earth between his booted feet. “Father, no,” he muttered.
One of the other boys, sitting across the fire from us, laughed, carefree as a bird. “Same for me. My father would’ve been proud of me today.”
“Would’ve been?” I glanced across at him. “Where is your father?”
The boy’s narrow chest expanded with pride. “He died. At the battle of Celydon Wood. He was a hero.”
One of the battles Arthur had fought north of the Wall a few years ago.
I frowned. How did dying when your son was just a child make you a hero? The bitterness returned. Would that happen to Cei, sitting so large and solid beside me? Or to Bedwyr, now downing a large mouthful of the cider? Or to Arthur? Would any of them see their sons grow to manhood?
That lump reformed in my throat, and the tears, that had been so near the surface since the Irish attack, threatened to return. Might I be suffering from shock? I swallowed down the lump and pressed my lips together in an effort to take back control. I had to stop being so emotional. I was a warrior queen now, and I needed to remember it.
Footsteps sounded, and a dark shape loomed out of the night. Arthur stepped into the firelight. He still wore his mail shirt but had discarded his helmet. The orange glow of the fire camouflaged the dirt on his face and hands well, but did nothing to disguise the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted.
He couldn’t have seen me at first, because he sat down heavily on one of the lumps of rock the men had dragged into a circle to make seats. As he did so, a deep sigh escaped his lips. Setting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands for a long minute. When he looked up, his tired eyes met mine, widening in surprise– and perhaps relief.
I held his gaze, keeping my face immobile, waiting. My anger and bitterness vanished in a puff of smoke, replaced instead by a deep longing for him to take me in his arms and tell me he’d forgiven me, as I’d forgiven him. And a wish to wipe away his tiredness and have him sleep in my embrace.
The reflection of the fire danced in his eyes like a burning heart. My heart. I drank him in. His dark hair, streaked golden by the fire’s glow, curled about his grubby forehead, loose strands hanging over his almost black brows. Blood had crusted on his right cheek, just beneath his eye, and on his bottom lip. Several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jawline.
God, how I loved him. And how I wanted him. What was it about him that set my pulse racing whenever I laid eyes on him? What made me physically ache for him when he was gone?
The corner of his mouth twitched. Could he read my mind? See the longing in my eyes?
My own mouth did the same.
Hands on his knees, and with a visible effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Two steps brought him to stand in front of me, eyes still fixed on mine.
I couldn’t have dragged my eyes away if I’d wanted to. Not that I did, of course. I could have melted into those dark peaty pools.
He held out his hands. Dirty, blood-stained hands. Hands that had killed today. Hands that I loved. Hands that I longed to have hold me, touch me, love me.
