Page 88 of The Road to Avalon
I nodded. She might be relieved, but I doubted very much she could be as relieved as I was to be back safely.
Time to eat that stew.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The waiting andnot knowing felt interminable. And on top of that Coventina and I had to pretend we’d believed Medraut and were mourning our husbands. Not that it was difficult to look strained and sad– I’d have had a much harder job mustering up a smile than I did a scowl.
Every night when we went to bed, both of us hoped that by the morning Arthur would have arrived to defeat Medraut, and all this would be over. But every morning we awoke to no change in our circumstances. For ten long days.
On the morning of the eleventh day, after yet another broken night’s sleep, sounds of chaos disturbed me. I sat up, shivering in the early morning chill. A moment later, Coventina opened bleary eyes and peered up at me. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” I pushed the covers back and scrambled out of bed. “But I’m going to find out.” I pulled on my long tunic over my undershirt, slipped my feet into my fur-lined boots and snatched up my cloak.
Coventina struggled out of the other side of the bed, wincing as her damaged nerve endings kicked in with their malicious contribution. “I’m coming with you.”
I pursed my lips, itching to find out what was happening but constrained to wait for my friend. “Can you manage?”
For answer, she pulled her own tunic over her head and grabbed her boots. “If you can, I can. It’s both our husbands in danger.”
I waited, fidgeting with impatience.
She struggled into her boots and stood up, swaying slightly, one hand on the wall for support. “I’m all right.” She gritted her teeth as she gathered up her cloak. “Come on.”
I pushed open the door into the living quarters of her house. No sign of Keelia, which was odd as she was usually here before we got up, laying the fire and getting the porridge cooking. But the fire lay cold and lifeless, and a smell of stale, damp soot hung in the cold air.
Drawing my cloak tight about me, I pushed the door open a crack, and we peered warily out. The side of the Hall, with its low-hanging thatch, took up one side of the courtyard, with houses and barns crammed cheek-by-jowl around most of the rest to make a rough square. Some of the other women who lived here were peeking out of their homes with equal wariness, as puzzled and curious as we were.
The next door along swung open, and old Cottia emerged, leaning heavily on a stick. She’d been Arthur’s nurse when he was a small child. I’d met her on the day I arrived here, when I’d been a confused girl convinced I’d found myself in some weird re-enactment. Lately, she’d shrunk in on herself with old age, like a wilted flower, just the bent and twisted husk of the old Cottia remaining. Thin as a rake, her pouchy skin hung off her bones. But she still possessed all her faculties.
She tottered over to me, a look of smug satisfaction plastered onto a face so wrinkled she’d have made a Shar Pei dog jealous. “My boy be here. I knowed he weren’t dead.”
“Arthur! And Cei!” Coventina gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth as though she feared someone would hear.
“Are you sure?” I asked Cottia. “How do you know?”
She peered at me out of her milky eyes. “Milady Gwen, ’tis you. I might be old, but I’se not stupid.” She put a gnarled claw on my sleeve. “My granddaughter’s husband did come by ten minutes ago to tell me the news. Had a grin across his face a mile wide. He don’t hold with nousurpers.” She shook her wispy white head. “An’ I don’t, neither.”
An impulse to hug her swept over me, but I restrained myself. How many of the warriors still here felt the way her granddaughter’s husband did? And how many would stay loyal to Medraut?
“I’m going to look at the Hall and stables,” I said to Coventina. “You stay here with Cottia. Two of us will be more noticeable than one. I won’t be long.”
Before she could protest, I hurried across the cobbles to the entrance. Keeping well out of sight, with my back pressed up against the Hall’s side wall, I craned my neck around the corner and peered out.
Down by the stables, men were rushing back and forth in a frenzy of activity carrying armor, weapons and saddlery. No sign of Medraut. Would they stay loyal to him with their true lord back? They weren’t the men who’d grown up with Arthur and fought by his side in the battles leading up to Badon. They were young, and they wanted the same booty and plunder and glory their elders had been given. I cherished no illusions. If they thought Medraut likely to provide that, they’d support him. But as so far all he’d given them were promises, maybe their ties of loyalty to him wouldn’t be that strong.
Added to this was the fact that young men tend to flock to the banners of other young men and shun those they perceive as their elders. And Medraut was young, whereas Arthur, although only in his early forties, was old in comparison.
Speak of the devil. Medraut stepped through the open Hall doors, fully decked out in his shining, well-oiled chainmail, a fancy plumed helmet on his head with the straps left dangling loose in cocksure confidence. A splendid sight indeed. He halted, hands on hips, and surveyed the chaos of preparation before him. A grim smile curled his fleshy lips.
I pressed myself further back, keeping in the shelter of the Hall’s heavy overhang of thatch, lest anyone should turn my way, but determined to keep watching.
Cinbelin swaggered out to stand beside his friend, his helmet swinging by its straps from one hand, and a moment later Bran of Ebrauc joined them. They stood there like three young lions, basking in their youth and strength as they soaked up the pale morning sunlight. But where was Bran’s younger brother, Cyngal?
It seemed Medraut had noticed his absence as well. “Where’s your brother?” he barked, frowning at his follower. “He should be here with us, preparing for our victory.”
Bran scowled, and I strained to hear his muttered words. “He’s angry because you told us the King was dead, when he’s not. He refuses to take up arms against him. Says he’s not fighting the king who saved our city from the Yellow Hairs when he came to the aid of our great-grandfather.” The sneer in his voice sounded forced, and he kept his gaze on his booted feet. Embarrassed, maybe? About his brother’s refusal to fight, or about his own decision to do so?
Medraut snorted his disgust. “I’ll deal withhimon our return when we’ve beaten that old has-been. I’ll put my uncle’s head on a spike by the gates. Your brother’ll regret not backing the winning side– maybe I’ll puthishead there as well. Anddon’tcall my uncle king. He’s not any longer.Iam.” He patted the hilt of the sword in his scabbard. “Don’t forget. It’s me who has the Sword of Destiny on my hip, not him.”
