Page 81 of Warrior Queen
“A good horse is a man’s most valuable possession,” Merlin whispered to me. “A king prides himself on the standard of his war horses. They won’t want to give up even one, despite this being such a good cause and potentially so helpful for them all. Bloody minded, penny-pinching idiots.” He spat onto the flagstones at our feet.
“How can they be so stubborn?” I whispered, tired of standing for so long while no ground was gained, and fed up with the hot, stale air inside the Hall.
Merlin shrugged. “That’s people for you.”
He was right. People the world over and throughout time have only thought money worth spending when it could directly benefit them. Trying to get these kings to cough up help, even if it was in kind and not in money, was like getting blood out of the proverbial stone. Banging your head against the wall of the Hall might have been a better idea, for all the good it would have done.
I heaved a sigh. If they didn’t hurry up and decide on this soon, I might give up and edge my way to the back of the crowd to see if I could find somewhere to sit down.
Arthur held up his hand to stop the argument. The kings fell silent, and after a minute, so did the crowd. The standing kings sat down. Etiquette required them to give way to the High King when asked.
“I have horses,” Arthur said, his deep voice carrying around the Hall as well as any Shakespearian actor’s at Stratford-on-Avon. “I will begin this system by setting up a line down the center of Britain with horses stabled at intervals ready for messengers to use. And I will employ young riders– young because they are lighter than full grown men– to carry messages forus.” He paused, surveying the many hostile faces amongst the kings. “For us, I say. Not just for me– for all ofyouas well. Because if one of you falls, then so do the rest of us. Only if we work together can we defeat our enemies. Divided we will surely fall.”
He looked at Lot of Lleuddiniawn. “You, King Lot, should know at firsthand how much a system like this would have helped you.”
Lot nodded his grizzled head. A short man, like his son Gwalchmei, with the same nut-brown skin that suggested a hint of foreign blood flowed in his veins. The Romans had not all been from Rome– detachments had come to Britain from all over the Empire, and stayed when they retired. Who knew what blood any man here might have in their ancestry? “Aye, you’re right about that. But not all of us have the horses to spare.”
From across the table a low growl rumbled, emanating from Lot’s geographical neighbor and sworn enemy, sandy-haired Caw of Alt Clut. Both kingdoms were situated beyond the Wall, with a long and somewhat flexible border running between them.
Arthur turned to look at Caw. “And you, Caw of Alt Clut, are also a member of this Council. You will have the right, as will every king here, to send a rider to the line I intend to establish– with the support of this Council or without. That rider will find horses and messengers ready to take his message south, or into the next kingdom, at speed, to get help if you require it.” He swept his gaze over the other kings’ faces. “And help in our fight against those who wish to steal our lands will come to any who ask.”
Caw glowered at him from hostile eyes, his hands gripping the table as though it might have been the only thing stopping him from leaping up and attacking Arthur. Not a man to forget a grudge. Well, that had been part of the problem in the north– the feud between him and his neighbor, Lot. A feud going back generations and likely still simmering.
Arthur moved on to Cerdic of Caer Guinntguic. Their eyes met. “Help will come to even those with Saxon blood flowing in their veins. We are not just men of Dumnonia or men of Alt Clut or Caer Guinntguic. We are all British here, united as one kingdom in our fight to resist those who seek to invade our island. Be they Saxons, Angles, Jutes, the painted Dogmen from beyond the old earth wall, or the Irish of King Ilan from across the western sea. If we stand united then we will succeed, and drive the invaders back to where they came from.”
Cerdic got to his feet. Not unlike Arthur in appearance, he was tall and slim, his dark hair confined in a single braid, and his rather sallow skin offset by the intense blue of his eyes, perhaps a legacy from his Saxon mother. “I stand with the High King,” he said, his accent guttural, probably due to his upbringing with his mother’s people. “On the rich grasslands of the downs around Caer Guinntguic we breed good horses. I will supply horses, if need be, and boys to ride them.”
From where I stood, it was difficult to see all of Arthur’s face, but I could sense the rigidity in his stance. This was the man who’d killed Geraint before his eyes. The man to whom he’d been forced to cede the throne of Caer Guinntguic after the battle that had led to Natanleod’s death. As bad as Caw and Lot in his own way, Arthur was not a man to forget a past insult, grudge, or aggression.
Arthur’s shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. “I, too, have good horses I’m prepared to send. But I need my young men for my army.” He glanced toward where Garbaniawn of Ebrauc sat, his bulk filling his seat more effectively than the other kings. “I have lost many men in the last few years, and can’t afford to lose more and still be able to defend these shores.”
Cerdic fixed Arthur with an appraising glance. “I have young men for your army. It is a cause I wish to support.” A smile hovered on his lips. “As you say, I’m a British king now, as was my father, Elafius. My people are British, and my throne is British. On the south coast, I fear we’ll have great need of the High King’s help in times to come. I do not wish to share my lands with any invaders, not even my mother’s people.”
My eyes widened, the idea of sneaking off to sit down at the back forgotten. Was this the hand of friendship? Or at least an olive branch? Cerdic must know how Arthur felt about him– they’d been on opposing sides in battle more than once. Although perhaps he might not even remember the angry boy who’d watched him kill Geraint all those years ago. Perhaps for him that event was done with and forgotten. Unlike for Arthur.
A rumble of disapproval ran around the table. Cerdic was new to the Council, he had Saxon blood, and he’d caused the death of a fellow king. The watching townspeople leaned over the railings of the gallery, hanging on every word.
Cerdic ignored them. “I pledge a dozen men and horses to the High King’s army, and a dozen of my fleetest horses with boys to ride them to the message system.”
What would Arthur do? I held my breath.
Cerdic’s seat lay a third of the way around the table from Arthur’s throne, giving me a perfect view of him. For a long moment, Arthur did nothing. Then he pushed back his heavy seat, its feet scraping on the flagstone floor, and walked, on measured tread, around the table to where Cerdic stood.
I held my breath.
They were of a height. From four feet apart they stared into one another’s eyes. Enemies. Used to being on opposing sides. Prepared to fight to the death for what they wanted. But were they still? I thought of Arthur’s nightmares of the day he’d seen his cousin die, and swallowed. Was he wise enough to accept the hand of friendship, or was he still young enough, and hot-headed enough, to want to hold a grudge and build a feud? A feud that would do no good for the united Britain he wanted to forge.
Arthur looked Cerdic up and down. The king of Caer Guinntguic had dressed himself with care, in rich dark blue, his tunic heavily embroidered, and his wrists, neck and ears bedecked with solid gold jewelry.
Possibly everyone in the Hall was holding their breath just like me. The silence sizzled with electricity.
Arthur held out his hand to Cerdic.
Without hesitating, Cerdic took it, clasping Arthur’s forearm.
No longer enemies, but allies.
*
