Page 8 of Warrior Queen
I swept him up and hugged him close, breathing in the warm smell of little boy. “My, how you’ve grown!” I kissed his chubby cheeks, then, settling him on my hip, carried him sedately back down the hill to where Arthur was now coping with two horses. As I approached, he shouted to a stable boy who came and took them from him.
“Papa,” Amhar exclaimed, holding out fat little arms, tanned golden from playing outside in the sun.
Arthur took him from me, swinging him up above his head, making him screech with excitement. “More, more, Papa.”
Arthur lowered him gently, then threw him back up into the air, and Amhar squealed with delight. Who’d have thought fathers played at airplanes hundreds of years before they were even invented?
“You’re heavy,” Arthur said, after a third lift, and lowered Amhar to sit astride his hip. “And I think you’re big enough to walk.”
I laughed. “Be happy that he’s pleased to see us. This is a better homecoming than the one we had a few short months ago.”
After a year in the north of Britain, fighting beyond and along the Wall, we’d ridden home this spring to find Morgawse and her little son Medraut ensconced here– along with that witch Morgana. They’d already been here a week, and in that time, Morgana had charmed my son so thoroughly he wanted nothing to do with us. I’d been happy to see Morgawse, less so to see Medraut with the terrifying future his existence foreshadowed. But Morgana– well, no words could express how I felt abouther.
She’d not only charmed my son, but she’d then done the same with Merlin, right under our noses. And while Arthur was away trying to help Natanleod defend Caer Guinntguic, a task that proved fruitless, I gave her the ultimatum of leaving or being thrown out. She went, but she took Merlin with her. The one consolation was that at least she hadn’t tried to snatch my son, as well.
Arthur set off up the slope toward the Great Hall, still carrying Amhar despite his declaration that he was big enough to walk, and I followed. Amhar seemed contented, his chubby fingers playing with the bead necklace around his father’s neck.
Maia bobbed a bow. “He do have another tooth, Milady,” she said, pride in her voice. Still young and unattached, she loved Amhar as though he were her own. “One of they pokey ones at the side that do cause trouble in arrivin’.”
“That’s called a canine.” I’d been educating her on the names of teeth, amongst other things. Being a girl, and lowly born, no one had ever thought to teach her much more than household skills, which she was far better at than I was. However, she’d also proved to possess a sharp mind that her manner of speaking had camouflaged well. She knew all her letters now, and could count to a hundred. The next thing we’d be starting was reading– when I’d sourced some paper I could write on.
It was times like that, when a search for paper had proved useless, that I most missed my old job as a librarian, constantly surrounded by beautiful books for every occasion…and lots of paper.
Running footsteps sounded. Llacheu, Arthur’s nine-year-old son by the woman who had been his mistress before he met me, came running up from the horse pens. His face was liberally smudged with dirt, and his long hair, in which someone had threaded tiny, rattly beads, flew out behind him. “Father!” He stopped short, as though perhaps suddenly aware of his dignity, and that of his father.
Arthur passed Amhar to me and held out his arms to Llacheu. The little boy beamed and ran into them. As he’d done with Amhar, Arthur swung the boy up into the air, grunting a little with the effort. Llacheu was tall for his age and already sturdily built. “You grow any more, and I won’t be able to do this.” He grinned at me as he set Llacheu down. “My oldest son’s nearly big enough to be a warrior.”
We’d only been away a few weeks. Llacheu couldn’t have grown that much, but Arthur’s words had the desired effect. He puffed out his narrow chest and poked his chin into the air in an effort to look taller.
I smiled. The same pride shone out of Arthur as he beamed down at the boy. But then my smile died, as the cold hand of fear closed around my heart. Llacheu was nearly ten, and Arthur had been a warrior at thirteen, and already a leader of men. Did this child, whom I loved like my own, have only three more years before he’d be plunged into the dangers of battle?
Theodoric the Goth hurried past on his way from the stables toward the house he shared with his wife, Morgawse, who’d chosen to remain here when I’d booted her sister out. Theodoric was here with Arthur as much as he was with his fleet of ships, so it must suit her well. The door banged open, and Theodoric disappeared inside.
I frowned. I didn’t much care for Theodoric, with his predilection for ladies of ill repute while away from his pretty little wife. Hopefully she’d never find out.
From one of the other houses in the courtyard that backed onto the Great Hall, my best friend Coventina emerged, her own baby on her hip. Reaghan, the miracle child. Our midwife had snatched her from Coventina’s womb in a makeshift Caesarean section that for some lucky reason hadn’t killed her mother. From that shaky start, Reaghan had blossomed into the chubbiest baby I’d ever seen. At more than a year old, she wasn’t even crawling, never mind walking, or she hadn’t been when we’d left.
As if in answer to my thoughts, Coventina beamed and set Rheaghan down on the dirt. On her feet. Our hall cat, a sleek tabby, trotted past the baby, who took three wobbly steps after her before dropping to the ground. Coventina swept her up and carried her over. “See, she can do it,” she crowed, holding out her free arm to enfold me in a hug.
I hugged her back. So much had happened in the short time we’d been away, it felt like a lifetime.
Cei came up from the stables in a shambling run, and Coventina released me and held her baby-free arm out to her big, red-headed husband instead.
Cei enfolded both her and Rheaghan in a bear hug. “He’s High King,” he said into her hair, voice high with excitement. “He drew the sword from the stone. Not once, but several times. First, just for all of us– and Cadwy. Then again, a good few times, for the Council of Kings.”
“High King?” Coventina, a tall, homely young woman, born a simple farmer’s daughter, turned to stare at Arthur. “Do we have to bow and call you sir?” She smiled. “Do you get to wear a bigger crown?”
Arthur grinned. He’d known Coventina since he was a child Llacheu’s age, and loved her as much as I did. “I’ll let you off this once. If we can go inside and get something to drink, that is. My mouth feels like I’ve been eating the sawdust from Devin’s wood-working shed.”
*
Being home atlast, after so many wanderings, gave me a deep sense of peace and belonging, and a wish never to have to leave the safety of Din Cadan’s high walls again. Seeing Amhar and being able to play with him without fear of Morgana’s malevolent influence gladdened my heart. And with Arthur having beaten his older brother and taken the sword in the stone for himself, and with it the title of High King, my world had turned full circle and was complete. The prophecy had come about– Arthur was where he was meant to be– High King of all Britain.
I refused to allow myself to think of what might lie ahead– of what Iknewlay ahead, if the stories from my time were correct. Instead, I concentrated on enjoying life.
The summer wore on. Harvest time came, and in the tawny fields below the fortress the farmers worked from dawn till dusk, their sickles rhythmically swinging as they cut through the tall stalks of wheat, oats and barley. Their women and children followed behind them binding the stalks with quick fingers into bundles to stand in stooks to dry in the late summer sun.
In our orchards, the fruit swelled until it was ready to pick, and I realized I was doing some swelling myself. I was with child again. Counting back, I realized it had been that wanton night of love we’d spent beside the river on the way back from Viroconium. A river child.
