Page 80 of Warrior Queen
“They love him like their own,” I said into Merlin’s ear, as we approached the very British thatched Council Hall where it stood in the old forum amongst the remains of broken columns and ruined Roman porticos.
The market stalls surrounding the hall were already doing a roaring trade in takeaway food with all the crowds of people. The stone that had once held Arthur’s sword stood forgotten and played on by children. Such is the fate of legend. For a brief moment, it crossed my mind to wonder if in my old world that stone still lay beneath the fields at Viroconium, waiting for some archaeologist to discover it. And if they did, would they even recognize it for what it was?
One of our men was detailed to guard the horses we tethered to a rope picket line, another to take charge of all our weapons. Even Arthur had to relinquish his sword this time.
Arthur strode over to Merlin’s horse, and I slid down into his waiting arms. For a moment, he held me tight against his body, his face in my hair, before releasing me. Boyish excitement glinted in his dark eyes before he schooled his face to calm. Then, side-by-side, with Merlin and Cei just behind us, we walked into the hall at the head of our strongest warriors.
I knew the drill by now, this being the third Council I’d attended, and let Merlin guide me toward the section of the Hall where we were expected to stand in silence to watch the Council proceedings. Despite there being no hearth-fire, the heat was suffocating.
The hubbub in the Hall lessened as Arthur strode with purpose to the biggest seat at the huge round table, the High King’s throne, which up until now I’d never seen filled. For a long moment, he paused, looking down, perhaps considering the momentousness of the occasion. Perhaps the showman in him was waiting for all eyes to be on him. Last time he’d not even touched the throne. Everything important had taken place outside, in the forum.
Silence fell in the Hall, as though, without being told, every man and woman there had become suddenly aware of the occasion. No one needed to ask them to stop talking.
Arthur turned his head and met my eyes, mouth twitching in a smile. My heart swelled with pride as I returned that smile, pride for what he was about to do, but also an immense pride that he was my husband and I loved him, and he loved me back. The moment had come. Still with his eyes fixed on me, he took his place on the throne.
What would my father have said had he known his daughter would end up as queen to the man he’d dedicated his life to studying? I cherished the hope that, if there was a heaven, he could see me now and know.
A gasp hissed around the Hall. I had to bite my lip to stop the tears that were close to running down my cheeks. This was his destiny, and mine was to be his queen.
Oh Dad. Look at me now.
Arthur tore his eyes away from mine to gaze around the table at the other kings, who were now nearly all seated in their places. I did the same, at faces now familiar to me.
On the far side of the table the great bear shape of Cadwy sat hunched in his own seat, glaring at his younger brother. If looks could have killed, then Arthur would be lying dead right now, slumped forward over the table, a metaphorical dagger between his shoulder blades. How galling it must have been for Cadwy to see his hated brother rise to such heights when he’d been bypassed. Old, over the hill, and fatter, with more gray streaking his unruly dark hair and beard than two years ago.
People began to talk again, mainly the townspeople crammed into the viewing galleries above the main body of the Hall, the noise rising to a crescendo. Amongst them I recognized faces of warriors I knew, alert and watchful. The last of the kings came in– not Manogan this time, but Beli, his oldest son. Could the old king of Linnuis be dead?
Morgana stood behind Cadwy, at the forefront of his faction, beside her brother’s shadowy wife, Angharad. The five years since I first met Morgana had done little to age her flawless beauty, and her stomach was as flat as ever in her figure-hugging white gown, despite having borne a child. She must have felt my scrutiny, because her eyes flicked in my direction: cold, hard, calculating.
I stared back. If ever there was a woman to hate, it was her. The familiar longing to give her a bloody good slap rose in me, and I had to force my fists to unclench themselves. A punch on the nose would reduce her good looks a bit.
A smile hovered on her lips, as though she’d read my mind, before her eyes flicked sideways to rest on Merlin.
I glanced at him as well, but he had his attention fixed on the back of Arthur’s head. Perhaps deliberately. I allowed myself a tiny smug smile as I glanced back at Morgana.
A few seats down from the throne, Caninus of Gwent rose to his feet. Gradually the silence fell once again. When, finally, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, Caninus spoke.
“Let the Council begin.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“You want usto have our best horses available, left in wayside inns so riders from other kingdoms can justtakethem?” Meirchion of Rheged was standing, hands on the tabletop, bushy gray brows jutting ferociously as he glared around the table at the other kings, and principally at Arthur.
“Yes,” Arthur said, glaring back at him just as fiercely. One thing you could say about Arthur was that he could do as good or better a glare than he got.
“At whose expense?” thundered the deep voice of Lot of Lleuddiniawn. “This won’t be a cheap or easy undertaking, as I’ve already pointed out. More than once. Horses are an expensive asset.”
Young King Cynfelin of Cynwidion rose to his feet. “Surely this is of more benefit to the kingdoms in most danger?” He glanced at Lot. “Like yours.” Was that a hint of a sneer? The young often show lack of respect for their elders– unsurprising to find it the same here as in my old world.
White-haired March of Caer Dore, Drustans’ father, lumbered to his feet. “Aye, that’s true. The kingdoms of the east coast would be the winners here, sending their men through the territory of others to steal their horses. What good would it do such as me, off in the far west?”
What about the Irish?
He seemed to be conveniently forgetting about them– and it would be the west they struck, not the east. And you couldn’t get much further west than Cornubia.
A rumble of protest rose to the rafters, not just from the kings but also from their supporters, and from the watching crowd in the gallery. They must have been as fed up with all this as I was.
I met Merlin’s troubled eyes. The kings had been arguing about Arthur’s, or rather my, idea of a Dark Age Pony Express for some time now, getting nowhere and just going over and over the same arguments. Proof that governing by committee was not something guaranteed to result in a decision. All the kings thought it a good idea, in principle, so long as none of them were to be made out of pocket by it.
