Page 74 of Warrior Queen
“He does?”
“Yes. Real men do cry when they have to. It’s knowing when it’s all right to do it that’s hard. And this was an all-right time. You’re with me. No one else is around. You can be yourself and grieve. Holding it all in is really bad for you.” I let my hands drop.
And you’re too young to get drunk and try to forget your sorrows that way.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve this time. “He was my best friend.”
“I know.”
“Even though he got to be a warrior and train with the other older boys, he was still my best friend.” He paused, fingers knotting themselves together. “I didn’t see him so much once he’d done that, but soon, I’d’ve been there with him.”
“You would.”
He rubbed his eyes with the backs of both hands. “How– how did he die? Do you know?”
Be honest or lie? Which to do? This was a case, if ever there was one, where a lie was needed. I didn’t hesitate. “Like a hero. It was quick, and he didn’t suffer.”
A watery smile appeared. “Th-thank you.”
I slid down, leaning my back against the haystack, my bottom nicely cushioned on all the hay he’d managed to kick out. I patted the ground beside me.
He sat down, the sun warm on our faces, the ponies grazing peacefully close by their gate. I leaned my head back against the sweet-smelling stack and closed my eyes, glad of the peace after the kerfuffle the children had kicked up. Beside me, Llacheu did the same.
After a bit, I broke the silence. “It’s hard for me, too, you know. This whole life here is so different from where I come from. At fourteen, Rhiwallon would still have been in school. But here, life’s nothing like where I was born.”
I put an arm around his narrow shoulders. “I know you want to be a warrior like him, but if you wanted, you could go to the Abbey like Gildas, and learn to be a monk. Then you’d never have to fight in battle like Rhiwallon did. Never risk dying. You could do what Gildas intends to do– write down the stories of the battles. The history.” It was worth a try.
He gave a snort of contempt, pulling away. “That’s not what I want to do, though. Just because my friend died doesn’t make me afraid to fight. I still want to be a warrior like my father.”
I tried again. “But you don’t have to. No one, no matter who their father is, should let someone else decide their future. You can choose, you know, between being a warrior and being a scholar. I know you can read and write, which is a great skill. It wouldn’t be hard for you to learn the things Gildas learns. It’s quiet and peaceful there.” I wanted to say “safe,” but held my tongue.
He shook his head, defiant, determined. “No. I want to fight. I always have, and now I want to even more.” He set his jaw and looked me in the eye. “I have Rhiwallon to avenge.”
I sighed. It had been a faint hope. He was Arthur’s son in more ways than one. I pulled him toward me. “Come here for another hug, then, before we go back to the Hall and find you some food. You must be starving.”
He moved in to snuggle up against me, a little boy once more. When we stood up, he would be a fledgling warrior with a score to settle. The little boy would be gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nothing disturbed theprogress of our harvest. The corn stood in stooks while the seed heads dried out further, and then was stacked, heads innermost, on wagons that brought it back to make stacks by the winnowing barns. A good proportion of the wagons wound up the hill to the fortress’s western entrance, others unloaded on the farms.
Blackberries ripened in the hedgerows and apples in the orchards, onions were pulled up, dried, and strung in long plaits to hang from rafters. Pigs were slaughtered, cured, and smoked, ready for the coming winter.
Every day Arthur brought his men down to help with gathering in the bounty the season offered, and unwittingly, by doing so, the men repaired their war damaged souls with the balm of nature. Morgawse, Maia, and after a while Coventina, came with me and the children to pick basketfuls of fat blue-black berries to eat fresh, turn into wine, or cover in honey to preserve for the winter.
Over on Ynys Witrin the monks must have been busying themselves with their cider, as before long, wagonloads of barrels arrived from the lake village to be stored in the fortress. The forest lost its rich dark hues as gilding tipped the leaves, and before we knew it, the view from the fortress walls was one full of the golden tints of autumn, painted by nature’s hand in all her many colors.
No time to dwell on those lost this year.
But with autumn came a messenger from Caninus, in his capacity as seneschal to the Council of Kings, akin perhaps to a company secretary, calling Arthur to a meeting. It had been more than two years since the last one, when the Council members had ratified Arthur in his position as High King. Maybe Caninus had been waiting for every kingdom to have brought in their harvest, an even more important part of Dark Age life than battles.
“You can’t come,” Arthur said, forestalling my question that night in bed, on the day the messenger had been received in the Hall. I’d waited until we were alone to pose it, as I didn’t intend to lose. But he knew me too well and no doubt had been expecting my request.
I bristled. “Why not?”
“Because of how dangerous it is in Viroconium.”
I pursed my lips, prepared for this. “You let me come with you when you sneaked in there with Merlin to see his child.” I prodded his naked chest. We were in bed and had just made love, always a good time to get my own way. “That was far more dangerous than this will be.”
