Page 67 of Warrior Queen
He leaned in closer. “I know what I’d like to do with you tonight.”
I ran my tongue around my lips, intent on teasing him as much as possible. “Me too.”
Merlin tapped him on the shoulder. “No time for that. Horses before pleasure.”
We parted, me satisfied that I’d left him with an unfulfillable desire. Not that I didn’t feel a little like that myself, but he would find it harder to tolerate.
Evening was drawing in by the time the horses had been fed and watered. With no firewood to be found, the meal tonight would be a cold one– of dried meat, cheese, onions and skins of cider. But I was hungry, and plain dried bread would have tasted like a feast.
I sat between Arthur and Cei on a stone robbed from the tumbledown walls, with Merlin on the far side of my husband. Arthur had put a protective arm around my shoulders as soon as we sat down, and now, most of the food eaten, I leaned against him, my earlier annoyance at being called a camp follower gone, my eyelids drooping.
Gwalchmei fished his lyre out of his saddlebags and played a few rippling notes, his fingers dancing over the strings. It seemed the arm he’d been carrying in a sling since the battle had improved.
“Go on,” Bedwyr said. “Let’s have a song.”
Gwalchmei bowed his head over his instrument, silent for a moment as though thinking. Then he raised his head and stared across at Cei. “A song for dead heroes.” His fingers plucked the notes and the beautiful sound rose toward the darkening sky. Closing his eyes, he began to sing. He possessed a beautiful voice, higher than his speaking voice, clear and pure. All around, the men ceased whatever they were doing, moving closer to listen to the paean.
“Men in minds, youthful in years
Gallant in the din of war;
Fleet, long-maned chargers
Ridden by our brave heroes.
Bearing shields, light and broad,
On swift and slender steeds
Their swords blue and gleaming,
We celebrate your praise in song.
You who have gone to the bloody bier,
Sooner than to a marriage feast;
You who were food for ravens
And a swelling sorrow rises
Where fell in death the only son of Cei.”
In the dark of evening, I leaned against Arthur as the tears ran down my face, remembering how Llacheu had once told me he wanted men to sing tales of his exploits around their fires. Rhiwallon had that now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Just over aweek later we arrived back in Din Cadan, none the worse for our long journey. A hypocritical bright summer sun shone down on us, as though on a day like this we couldn’t be the bearers of bad news to so many women– to the wives, mothers and children of the warriors who’d died. It was with a heavy heart that I negotiated the curving road up to the gates.
The first day was the worst. Some of the young men who’d died had come to Arthur five years ago as volunteers from other kingdoms, and some were local; men from the scattered villages and farms of Dumnonia. But even those from other kingdoms had laid roots down either inside Din Cadan itself, or in the village at the foot of the hill and the farms closest to the fortress– with friends, wives, and babies.
They were all there, waiting when we returned, our army most likely having been spotted from a distance by the dust cloud we were kicking up. Fathers, mothers, wives, and children, their faces anxious, excited, expectant, lined the walls. Others clustered at the edges of the cobbled road where it climbed the slope from the gates toward the great hall, eager faces searching for their menfolk. Some whose fragile hopes would be shattered.
The lucky warriors who’d returned, spotted by their families and friends, dismounted to embrace them, and walked the rest of the way to the stables with their arms tight around their loved ones. Wives planted grateful kisses on bearded faces, touched forming scars, kissed the wooden crucifixes around their necks, as though believing God had brought their men back safely to them.
No, not God, and not Arthur, either. Luck. And not the luck they thought I brought.
Coventina and Morgawse stood waiting on the platform outside the Great Hall with Maia and Keelia, just as I’d done so many times. Maia balanced Archfedd on her hip, and hung onto an impatient Amhar’s hand. Keelia had charge of Reaghan, leaving Coventina empty handed, the fingers of her right hand clasped about the crucifix she, too, wore around her neck. Only hers was gold.
