Page 83 of Warrior Queen
“How can I not? But it’s not because I’m worrying thathe’llhurtyou. I’m frightened you might hurt him and ruin your new alliance. His support could be valuable to you. Very.”
He cocked his head to one side as he buckled his belt. “You know something about him, don’t you?”
I compressed my lips. “Nothing much. He’s as much a legend in my old world as you are. Nothing I can be sure of. I’m quite surprised he turned out to be a real person, to be honest.”
He wrinkled his brow. “But you think this alliance is a good one?”
I nodded. “Yes. I do. I think he’ll be a strong king, and good to have on your side. You don’t want him as an enemy.”
For a moment, he stood deep in thought, as though pondering my words and the decision he was going to have to make here. I watched him in silence.
Finally, he gave a shake of his head as though to clear it, and stepped up to me. A smile strayed across his face, as he gathered me into his arms. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I cherish my time with you and resent every interruption we get. Can you hold this moment? I’ll come back and we can continue where we left off– if you’d like that?”
I smiled up at him. “Yes, I would like that.”
He kissed me hard on the lips, released me, and was gone.
I stood for a long moment staring at the closed door.
Cerdic. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told him how surprised I’d been that Cerdic existed. Back in my old world most of those who now peopled my life were known only in legend or from documents written much later than this, and of very uncertain provenance.
Cerdic. Founder of Wessex, putative ancestor of the British royal family. Probably of most of the population of the U.K. If you went back far enough there weren’t enough people for everyone to have their own set of ancestors. Hadn’t I read somewhere that most Western Europeans were descended from Charlemagne? So quite possibly Cerdic might be one of my own ancestors, if I thought about it.
Cerdic. Offering the hand of friendship to Arthur. Good or bad? I’d told my husband good, but could I be sure? Could Arthur really form a lasting alliance with the man he’d hated nearly as much as Cadwy for most of his life? I hoped so, because instinct told me this was something that needed to be done. That perhaps King Arthur’s golden kingdom might be able to morph into Cerdic’s Wessex one day, and from that into the Britain I’d grown up in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ahand camedown over my mouth, hot and suffocating. Terror surged through me, and my eyes flew open to find only darkness. A rigid band seemed to be holding me down as I fought to free myself, bucking on the mattress and kicking the tangling bedclothes away.
“Hush,” a voice whispered in my ear, so low I almost couldn’t hear it. “It’s me.”
Arthur. I stopped fighting him and lay still, heart pounding, breath coming hard through my nose. The arm he had pinned across my body relaxed. The chill of a November night settled over my body.
“Don’t make a sound.” His voice was barely above a breath.
I nodded, and he removed his hand.
My breath came heaving in, panic making me gasp for it. I pushed myself upright, staying silent, my eyes straining in the darkness. What was this? Why had he woken me in this frightening way?
The bed creaked as he moved. I reached out my hand, my fingers finding empty air. He wasn’t there. I sat still, ears straining more than my eyes, trying to work out where he was from the sounds of movement. There were none.
A swish. Was that him drawing his sword? My eyes gaped as wide as I could get them, but still the darkness remained impenetrable. I wanted to call out, ask him where he was and what was happening, but common sense kept me quiet. If he needed his sword, then danger threatened, and he also needed stealth.
A faint click sounded, as a catch lifted oh so quietly. A rectangle of lighter darkness outlined the door as it opened a few inches onto the courtyard, then stopped. Cold air rushed in, and silence fell again. How had he even realized something was going on when he’d been lying here beside me, asleep in bed?
The answer came the moment I’d framed the question. Footsteps– not outside in the courtyard, but on our roof. Too heavy for birds or even a cat. Human feet, trying to be silent, making the roof beams creak and the tiles clunk.
The door slid open wider. Arthur’s silhouette momentarily blocked it, then he was gone.
Whatever nefarious reason our intruders had to be creeping about on our rooftops at night, it wouldn’t be good. And they’d most likely be searching all the sleeping chambers on this courtyard. If they found me alone in the dark, they were likely to strike first and ask questions later.
I scrambled out of bed and pulled my undershirt on over my nakedness as fast as possible, then groped for my saddlebags. Finding them, I pulled out a pair of braccae and yanked them on, then rummaged for my dagger. My sword should be on the table where I’d left it.
Clutching my dagger, I felt my way, barefoot and arms outstretched, toward where I thought the table must be. Feeling like Clarice Starling inSilence of the Lambs, I missed it in the dark and my fingertips found the far wall instead. I stood still, leaning my weight on it for a heart-thudding moment. Then, gathering my courage, I peered back toward the pale oblong of the doorway to find my bearings. I was about to head back in the direction of the table, when a black shape obscured that sliver of lighter darkness.
I froze, instinct telling me it was not Arthur. The door swung wide to reveal the silhouette of a man, hooded and cloaked against the cold and facing into the room. Outside, the moonless sky sparkled with a million wintry stars, their feeble light just enough to show me the vague outline of the furniture. I flattened myself against the wall, my breath catching in my throat, heart pounding so fast a heart attack could well have been imminent.
On silent feet he stepped into our room, heading for the bed as though he knew where to find it.
