Page 58 of Warrior Queen
Rhiwallon.
I jumped off the bed and pulled my boots on, leaving my tunic lying on the floor where I’d discarded it this morning. As I reached the door, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and my stomach growled its protest at thirty-six hours without food. A mouth as dry as sandpaper told me I needed something to drink. Now.
Out in the warm courtyard the shadows of evening had already lengthened, and the sun had dropped below the palace walls. The oppressive quiet unsettled me. The kitchens. Drink, and then food, were what I needed in order to function properly. Only then could I deal with the fallout of what had happened yesterday.
I found the kitchens at last, and barged in without ceremony. The half-dozen servants froze, arrested in their work at the sight of me.
“I need something to eat and drink,” I said. “Quickly, please.”
They scurried to do my bidding. Being a queen had its benefits. Within minutes they’d provided me with a large beaker of weak cider and a hunk of bread and cheese. I devoured them ravenously, and held out the beaker for a refill. Then, having thanked them, I took more bread with me and hurried back out into the corridor.
By the time I reached the stables the extra bread had followed the first lot, and my head had stopped spinning, although the two beakers of cider had made me light-headed in a totally different way. A way I liked. I needed some kind of prop this evening.
Already, a few torches had been lit in the iron wall brackets, chasing the last of the daylight away. In the long, thatched stable building, the rear ends of many horses showed, where they’d been tied in their stalls with their rations of oats and armfuls of hay. Good reward for their service in battle. Amongst them must be Alezan, who’d stood idle while her fellows had ridden out.
All the horses looked clean, the mud of yesterday groomed out of their coats, their tails untangled. Warriors know their horses are more than just a means of riding into battle, the equivalent of young men in my old world with their fancy souped-up cars. Each warrior would put his horse before everything but a fellow warrior.
Their horses cared for, the men sat around, cleaning their harness, polishing the brass, rubbing oil into the treasured leather of bridles and saddles. Without that, the leather would soon crack and harden, with danger of it breaking in battle. These were men in synchronization with their whole way of life, to whom war and fighting came as naturally as breathing. They, too, were cleaner, although not quite as clean as their beloved horses and tack. Faces, that only this morning had seemed alien and wild, had returned to staid normality.
I hesitated on the threshold. A few of our men seemed to be here, but mainly the stables held the remains of Coel’s cavalry. No sign of Arthur. Our main force would be out somewhere in the city, camped in the intramural fields.
By the trough in the center of the stable courtyard, Merlin sat on an upturned bucket, head down, working at his reins with an oily rag.
With hesitant steps, I approached. Clad only his undershirt and braccae, he’d confined his long hair in an untidy braid.
He must have seen my shadow, or heard my footsteps over the subdued conversation in the stable yard. For a moment or two he kept on rubbing at the reins. Then he raised his head and met my gaze. “Gwen.”
I sucked in my lips for a moment, squeezing them between my teeth. “Merlin.”
He looked undamaged. Clean… ish. No visible wounds. But then, Arthur’s wounds weren’t visible, either.
He picked up the rest of his bridle and buckled the reins to the bit. “Done,” he said, as though nothing mattered more than having clean tack. “Finished.” He got to his feet. He stood taller than me by a good four inches and I had to look up.
“Do you know where Arthur is?” I asked.
He walked over to the stables and hooked his bridle onto the horn of his saddle, where it sat on the wooden wall between his horse and the next.
I trailed after him.
“With Cei.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but the bitterness in his voice told me he knew what had happened. The sound of many horses masticating their hay seemed loud in the musty warmth of the stables. A few flies buzzed. Up the line, a horse staled with a hiss and froth of urine on cobbles. The conversation from outside muted.
I stood with one hand on the low wooden wall, running a fingernail along the grain of the wood. “He told me what happened.”
Merlin turned around, his eyes every bit as anguished as Arthur’s had been. “Should I have seen this coming?” His words spilled out. “Should I have foreseen Rhiwallon’s death? Could I have saved him, like I did Arthur when I snatched him from Cerdic’s blow at Llongborth?”
I stared at him. How could I answer this? He had the Sight. Perhaps he should indeed have known Rhiwallon was riding to his death. Who was I to say?
His eyes narrowed. “Didyouknow?”
My mouth fell open. For a moment I floundered, searching for words, drowning in the sensation that perhaps Ishouldhave known. Wondering why I hadn’t paid more attention to my father’s research. Was there somewhere a mention of a boy called Rhiwallon? A boy who died at the Battle of the City of the Legion? Should I have known this, and if I had, couldIhave saved him?
I shut my mouth and shook my head. “No. I didn’t know. If I had, I’d never have let him ride north with us. Never.” Merlin’s horse stamped its feet. From further down the line came a few snorts.
Llacheu. Did he have a death like this waiting for him? Somewhere in the none-too-distant future? And Amhar, following on so close behind. Just a little boy now, but in no time, he’d be a warrior like Rhiwallon.
I swallowed. “How… how did Cei take it?”
Merlin shrugged. “How do you think? Rhiwallon was his only son.”
