Page 41 of The Dragon Ring
“Have you thought about being High King yourself?”
There was a silence. Even the flute player had stopped. Everyone was listening.
Arthur laughed. “I’m not a king.” He sounded bitter. “The Council of Kings elects someone from amongst their ranks. I’d prefer to be Dux Britanniarum. The old Roman office. No one’s held that position in years. Not since the time of the Usurper Guorthegirn. But I’d like that. Better than being High King.”
Theodoric, who was holding the wineskin, spoke up. “Things change. If…when your father dies, the Council of Kings will be called. A High King will have to be elected. Or a Dux. Better a good Dux than a bad High King.”
Cei took the wineskin out of his hands. “And we have the Lady of the Ring. Look at her. The prophecy’s coming true. We can show her to the Council. With her by your side, you’ll be the greatest warrior the kingdoms of Britain have ever seen.” He took a gulp of wine.
Don’t ask the Lady of the Ring herself what she wants to do.
“We need to take this one step at a time.” Merlin’s voice rose over the buzz of agreement from the men. “First, we must get to Viroconium and see for ourselves how near to death King Uthyr is. And when we’re there, we must assess what Cadwy intends.”
Theodoric kicked some dirt into the fire. “He intends no good at all.”
The fire died down and we turned in for the night. The man on first watch climbed to the highest point of the ruined way station and wrapped himself against the cold in his cloak. Merlin had made me a tent out of a woolen blanket and spread a bedroll beneath it. I couldn’t fault him. He was living up to his assignment of looking after me. But the ground felt hard and cold, and I couldn’t get comfortable. I tossed and turned on what felt like a bed of sharp stones for a long time. That everyone else seemed to have no trouble sleeping, if their snores were anything to go by, did nothing to improve my mood.
After what felt like hours, I got up and moved the bedroll and tried to find the lumpy things that had been sticking into me. It was pretty dark now because the fire had died down to just glowing embers, and I had to search by feel. Fed up, I rearranged the bedroll and was just about to lie down again when I heard a low whistle above the gentle snoring.
I sat bolt upright and cocked my head, every sense in my body on the alert. The sound came again, long and low, like a signal. Was it the lookout on top of the old inn’s rickety wall? I couldn’t make out his shape against the dark sky. Over in the tumble-down stables the horses moved restlessly.
I could have just ignored it and lain down and tried to get back to sleep. But I didn’t. I crawled the couple of feet to where Merlin had erected his own shelter, and reached out for him in the darkness. My hand touched his back and he moved. I gave him a poke. He came wide awake in an instant. By the dim glow of the fire I saw his eyes.
“It’s me, Gwen,” I whispered. “I just heard a funny noise.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows. “What did you hear?”
“A whistle.”
“Stay right here.” And he was gone. I sat on his bed. Did it feel less lumpy than mine?
He moved almost silently. Then I heard more whispers. The snoring stopped. He was waking the others. I leaned back against the crumbling wall of the inn and pulled Merlin’s blanket round myself. The faint swish of swords being drawn came to me. I made myself as small as I could, feeling very vulnerable indeed. Then I remembered the dagger Merlin had given me. But it was in my saddlebag, which I’d been using as a pillow. I didn’t dare go and get it.
Silence fell. My heart, which had been beating fast and hard, began to steady. Perhaps it had been my imagination, after all. I thought again about going back to my own bed.
Then the world exploded around me. Dark shapes came pouring over the low walls of the way station, and the space that had been so empty and silent was filled with the sounds of fighting, and men silhouetted against the night sky. Swords clashed, men shouted, shields thudded with muffled blows, and feet scuffled in the dirt. The horses squealed and whinnied in alarm.
From my position on the ground up against one of the walls I couldn’t see much. Booted feet scuffed past me, grunts filled the air, swearing, cries of pain. More metal on metal. Someone fell like a tree, and by the dim glow of the fire I saw his face dark with blood, spread blond hair and wide-open eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. Then the melee of fighters was between me and the fire again, and in it, kicking up glowing embers.
I shrank back against the wall, remembering that Merlin had told me to run away if we were attacked, but too frightened to move. At least down here, crouched almost out of sight, I might go unnoticed, but if I got up to run away someone would see me for sure.
My heart pounded. Who were these men? Saxons? The yellow hair of the dead warrior still lying only a foot away from me suggested that. What if they killed all of Arthur’s warriors? What would they do to me? Kill me if they thought I was a boy, but if they discovered I was a woman I dreaded to think what would happen.
I thought of the dagger again. I needed it. My bed was close by. I got up onto my hands and knees and began to crawl toward it.
Someone grabbed me by the back of my tunic. My fingers scrabbled in the dirt, shoulder blades shrinking from the touch of cold steel I thought was only milliseconds away. I screamed. My stretching fingers found the saddle bags I’d been using as a pillow and pulled them toward me. The dagger was tucked inside one of them. My feet kicked wildly and connected with something. I heard a grunt of pain. The grip on my tunic shifted. Someone had hold of my long plait, wrenching my head backwards.
My fingers found the hilt of the dagger. I couldn’t breathe. My head was going to be pulled off backwards. My assailant dragged me to my feet as I choked for breath. I dropped the saddlebags, my fingers tight around the dagger’s hilt. He had me now, my back pressed hard against his body, the side of my face up against his, but I could breathe again at last. He was wearing chain mail. The smell of his rank sweat and oniony breath was strong. His stubble rasped against my skin. One vicelike arm snaked around my waist, holding me firm, pinning my left arm to my side. But my right hand, the one holding the dagger, was free.
Instinct kicked in. I sagged against my captor, letting all my weight fall on him, and stepped back hard onto his instep. At the same time, I drove the dagger into his thigh. I couldn’t see what I was doing, but my aim was good. The dagger sank in up to the hilt, grating as it struck bone. It was surprisingly easy. The blade was sharp, and I was desperate.
He gave a roar of pain. I had a moment when my hand felt hot and wet as the blood poured out over it. Then my captor released me, and the knife slipped out of my fingers. I fell to the ground in a heap, my head banging hard against the inn wall.
A dark shape loomed over me, and instinctively I screwed myself up into a fetal ball and closed my eyes tight. He was going to cut off my head, run me through, kill me.
Thud. Something hit the ground beside me and lay still. I didn’t open my eyes. Anything might happen. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see anything at all.
I don’t know how long I lay like that. It could have been hours, or it could have been seconds.
