Page 72 of The Dragon Ring
With a terrible crash, we came together. Horses shrieked, men screamed, swords clashed, the air stank of blood and sweat and shit. It was in my ears, up my nose, in my eyes. Confusion and noise and yet more noise.
Then silence. All around me lay the dead and dying. Low moaning ululated in the breeze that blew across the battlefield. I heard quiet sobbing and the harsh call of carrion crows that hung in the air like bundles of windblown black rags.
I was on my knees, my armor gone, and in its place a muddy, blood-stained gown. A man lay beside me, sprawled under a dead horse that had once been white but now was dark with blood. Its weight had trapped his left leg beneath it. His head lay in my lap. I looked down into his face. He’d lost his helmet, and dark hair flecked with grey spilled out. His eyes were closed, and blood veiled the left side of his face. But I’d have known him anywhere. It was Arthur.
“Arthur!” I found my voice, and with it, came starting awake. Someone had their arms around me, holding me. For a moment I struck out, but the arms held me tight.
“It’s all right,” a voice said soothingly. “It’s all right. You were just dreaming. You’re all right now. I’ve got you.”
Arthur.
In the dark bedchamber I couldn’t see him, but I recognized the scent of lavender and reassuring masculinity and sweat. I clung to him. With one hand he lifted my chin, and his mouth came down on mine, gentle and warm. I melted into his body, my arms going up around his neck and holding him close, driving away the image of him lying dead on a distant battlefield. He was here and Nathan wasn’t. And he was mine.
Chapter Twenty
The Council ofKings was held where the Roman forum used to stand. The stone foundations of the Roman buildings were visible here and there, but an enormous thatched wooden hall had transformed the whole center of the city. To the east lay the marble-faced remains of the public baths, towering in decaying splendor over the city’s houses. How odd to think I’d walked in those ruins fifteen hundred years in the future.
Arthur’s party consisted of his right-hand men– Cei, Theodoric, Merlin, plus Euddolen, and a number of heavily armed warriors from the band of fifty who’d accompanied him from Din Cadan. And me. To my surprise, I hadn’t had to ask to be taken with him, although he’d told me in no uncertain terms that being a woman, he wanted me to look and listen and not say a thing.
Not wanting to give him a reason to leave me behind, I had to bite back the stinging retort that leapt to my lips. Consumed with curiosity about the Council, I wanted to see the other kings, hear what they had to say, witness the process that would elect the next High King. That morning I was all historian again, and Arthur all king.
We rode in horseback procession to the Hall, with me perched up behind Merlin on a leather pad attached to the back of his saddle, sitting sideways, in a gown. I managed to achieve a rather elegant appearance with my skirts and cloak gracefully flowing down the sides of Merlin’s horse.
In the Domus Albus’s crowded courtyard, Arthur had lifted me up effortlessly into the saddle, and as we rode through the narrow streets, I could still feel the hot imprint of his hands on my waist. The feeling gave me a pleasant glow that was more than a little disturbing to my inner equilibrium.
The marketplace around the hall bustled with activity. Servants hung onto clusters of horses, men held forth with self-importance to those around them, and the townsfolk watched with interest. Barking dogs and shouting children ran everywhere. Market stalls thronged with customers drawn by the mouthwatering smells of freshly baked pastries. A babble of noise rose toward the wintry sky.
Arthur jumped down from his horse, and, coming back to Merlin, held out his arms for me. I slid down into them, and just for a moment he held me close, before turning and leading me toward the hall. Servants from the Domus Albus had taken our horses’ bridles, and now all of Arthur’s men followed him up to the hall’s open double doors. Two of our Dumnonian warriors took charge of collecting all our party’s swords and remained outside as we passed into the hall.
A horse could have been ridden round inside this hall. From an open-plan ground floor, stairs climbed to a galleried level already filling with people. However, it was the center that riveted my attention.
For standing in it was a round table.
A genuine round table. ProbablytheRound Table. It was very large and made of wide, knotted planks of silvered wood. Around it stood about two dozen high-backed seats, all the same, except for one, which was larger and more ornately carved than the rest– a throne more than a seat.
Already, some of the kings had taken their places, heads bent together in conversation, or simply sitting aloof. Cadwy sat in his seat on the opposite side to the throne, his glowering gaze fixed on us as we made our entry.
Arthur turned to me. “You’ll have to go with Merlin. I need to take my place at the table. He’ll look after you.” And he was gone, striding across the paved floor of the hall to take his seat, three down from Cadwy, ignoring his brother’s angry glare.
Cei and Theodoric were already pushing their way through the crowd to get positions behind Arthur’s seat, our warriors following them. I turned to Merlin.
“This way,” he said, pulling me after him.
It was standing room only. The only seats were for the kings themselves, who came in through the double doors to take their places whilst their retinues jostled for position behind their lords. Merlin elbowed his way to the front with me.
Once there, he bent his head to my ear, pointing a discreet finger. “That’s Euddolen’s old king– Meirchion the Lean.”
A gaunt middle-aged man, whose only hair was a sparse ring of iron grey, took his seat beside Cadwy. The skinny youth standing behind his seat must have been his son, by his appearance.
Merlin nodded toward the doors. “Natanleod, of Caer Gwinntguic on the River Itchen.”
Did Merlin mean Winchester? In my time that was the name of the town which stood on the River Itchen. A swarthy young man, built like an ox, with tattooed, bare arms bulging with muscles, swaggered into the hall.
Behind him came a group of noisy young men, one of whom wore a plain gold circlet on his head. “Cynfelin,” Merlin said, bending closer. “King of Cynwidion. He’s not long succeeded his father. He’s great-grandson to Coel the Old. He served his father at the last Council. Now he’s on it himself.” He might have been young, but he looked every inch a warrior, his dark auburn hair bound in a tail that reached his waist, and rings of heavy gold skulls dangling from his ears.
Another man followed close behind Cynfelin. “Masgwid the Lame and his son and heir, Prince Llaenog. Masgwid’s a nephew of Meirchion of Rheged, and king of Elmet in his own right.” This king walked with a stick, his left hip and leg twisted and stiff. Close behind followed four youths. “Those young men there are Llaenog’s four younger brothers.” Each one of them, even the youngest who was only a boy, had the same hungry look as Llaenog.
I thought perhaps that was all the kings, but then a tall man with very straight black hair lightly flecked with grey at the temples came striding in. He paused on the threshold, staring around the hall with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. A hooked nose in a long, narrow face and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth gave him the look of a ferocious bird of prey. Of all the kings I’d seen so far, his was the only face I took an instant dislike to.
