Born of the Sun (62 page)

“I see.” Gereint was very pale. He looked from Niniane to Ceawlin. “So, given a choice between your British and your Saxon subjects, you chose the Saxon.”

Niniane’s intervention had the desired effect. There was no sign of temper in Ceawlin’s face or voice as he replied, “I did not issue this challenge, Gereint. Coinmail did. I am perfectly willing to continue to live in peace with British Dumnonia. I am ready to swear to you that I will never use Dynas as an excuse to invade British-held territory. But if Coinmail raises an army and comes against me, I cannot say what will happen.”

The two men looked into each other’s eyes and Niniane held her breath. Then Gereint said, raw pain throbbing in his voice, “I have always loved you, Ceawlin. Do not make me choose between you and my people.”

Tears stung Niniane’s eyes and rose in her throat. “By the hammer of Thor,” Ceawlin said softly, “is it as bad as that?”

“Yes,” said Gereint. “It is.”

A muscle twitched in Ceawlin’s cheek. “Crida is half-British,” he said, “and Crida will be the next King of Wessex.”

“Crida may be half-British by blood,” Gereint replied, “but he is wholly Saxon by upbringing.”

Ceawlin said, “You underestimate Niniane.”

Niniane whisked the tears from beneath her eyes with her forefinger. “Gereint … have you heard from Coinmail?”

“Yes.” Gereint’s dark tan had taken on a sallow tinge. “It will come to a fight, Niniane. Coinmail has wanted this for a long time and now he has the Welsh princes with him.”

“Stay out of it.” Ceawlin’s voice was harsh with suppressed feeling. “If there is to be a fight, I will keep it away from Atrebates territory. Just stay home, Gereint. Will you do that for me?”

“I … will try,” came the Briton’s answer.

Ceawlin went out to the courtyard with Gereint to see him off home, and when he came back to the sitting room he found Niniane still sitting in the old wicker chair, with silent tears pouring down her face. “I tried to tell you,” she said when he had dropped into a chair himself.

“Why is there this feeling about Dumnonia?” His voice was hard, abrupt.

“Dumnonia is … oh, I suppose you could say it has always been the heartland of Celtic Britain. Arthur ruled from Dumnonia. And in all the years since the Saxons first invaded Britain, Ceawlin, there have never been Saxons in Dumnonia.”

“Until now.”

“Until now.” She sniffled and wiped her cheeks again.

He shrugged. “I am sorry for it, Nan, but once Bevan approached Bertred about that cursed marriage, there was nothing I could do. I could not forbid Bertred to marry his son into Dynas. I would not even if I could. I have been willing to leave Dumnonia in peace but I am not willing to allow Coinmail to dictate to me whom my subjects may or may not marry.”

“I see.”

“Gods, Nan,” he said, and now the feeling he had been suppressing in front of Gereint was evident. “Is Gereint going to be another Sigurd?”

Her heart ached for him, but she understood Gereint as well. “He doesn’t want to be, Ceawlin.” Then, “His heart is breaking over this, couldn’t you see that?”

He was staring fixedly at his feet, and all she could see was the top of his head. His voice was muffled as he answered, “So, I imagine, did Sigurd’s.”

There was nothing she could say in response to that.

Coinmail was delighted when he heard that the marriage between Cedric and Alys had been accomplished. As he said to his wife in a rare moment of confidence, “Ceawlin’s power has ever lain in the loyalty of his British subjects. I do not think he will be able to count upon that loyalty any longer.”

Coinmail’s wife was the Princess Eithne, a blue-eyed, blond-haired Celtic daughter of the Dobunni who had married the Atrebates prince when she was but fourteen. She had thought he was wonderful then, with his beautiful face and his fanatic devotion to the cause of Britain. She had dreamed he was another Arthur. Years of marriage to him had dampened her ardor. Men of Coinmail’s stamp might make strong leaders, but they were no joy to live with. She had long since realized that he had no personal feelings for her. He prized her as a soldier might prize a particularly good sword. She had given him power in the Dobunni tribe and she had given him a son to rule through. For Eithne, the woman, he had no thought at all.

“They might not be happy with this marriage,” she answered him now, “but that does not mean they will actively oppose Ceawlin.”

“I think they will. I spoke to Gereint personally. Gereint, as you know, has ever been Ceawlin’s staunchest supporter. Ceawlin even named him eorl for the loyalty Gereint showed in his struggle with Cutha.” Coinmail’s beautifully cut mouth smiled. “When I asked Gereint to join with me in opposing Ceawlin’s invasion of Dumnonia, he did not refuse.”

“He did not accept, either,” said Eithne.

Coinmail frowned. “You don’t understand, Eithne, how great a thing it is for Gereint even to contemplate going against Ceawlin. If he has come this far, he will go the whole way. I know it. In the end, blood will tell. And Gereint, eorl or no, is a Briton.”

“Still,” said Eithne, “Ceawlin will have all his Saxon eorls and thanes.”

“If I can raise southern Wales, the Dobunni, and the Atrebates, I will have almost a thousand men,” said Coinmail. “No Saxon war band ever comes near that number.”

“Coinmail …” Eithne’s blue eyes searched her husband’s face. “What will you do should you win? Surely you don’t think you can annex Wessex?”

“No, I suppose not,” came the reluctant reply. “The Welsh will not go so far.”

“Then all you wish to accomplish is to keep Ceawlin out of Dumnonia?”

“I want Ceawlin dead,” came the immediate, implacable reply. “Ceawlin is the reason why Wessex has grown so strong, and under him it will continue to get stronger. I have known for years that I must get rid of Ceawlin.”

“But he is your sister’s husband.”

Coinmail’s expression did not change as he replied in level, carefully measured tones, “I have no sister.”

Four weeks after Ceawlin had returned to Winchester from Bryn Atha, his scouts rode in with the news that the Welsh were mustering in large numbers near Caer.

“How large?” Ceawlin asked.

“My lord, the princes are calling up all their clansmen who are of an age to fight.”

“How many?” Ceawlin repeated.

“My lord, when we left they had perhaps five hundred men. But they were still coming in.”

After Ceawlin had dismissed the scouts, he began to pace. He had met with the men in the king’s hall, dismissing the servants for the sake of privacy, and so he was alone and could think without having to guard his face.

If the Welsh could muster that many men … Hammer of Thor! Coinmail might collect a war band of nearly a thousand. A thousand men was not a war band; it was an army. Numbers like that had not been seen in Britain since the wars of Arthur.

He was still pacing like a caged tiger when Niniane came in ten minutes later. He looked up frowning when the door opened, saw who it was, and went back to prowling up and down the length of the hearthplace. Niniane came to take her usual seat in front of the small afternoon fire. She said nothing.

It was a full two minutes before he said to her over his shoulder, “The Welsh are mustering. In large numbers.”

“How large?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“Too large. It looks as if Coinmail might raise a thousand men.”

Niniane’s cheeks were thin with pregnancy, making her eyes look very large. Now they dilated almost to blackness. “A thousand men!”

“So it seems.”

“You will have to call up the ceorls again.”

“Yes. And the men of Wight.”

“What … what of the Atrebates?”

“I do not expect Gereint to join with me, but I will tell you this, Niniane: if he goes against me, I will be in trouble.”

“There … there are not so many fighters among the Atrebates, Ceawlin. Their numbers cannot make much of a difference.”

“Coinmail is not raising just the fighters. He is taking every man of an age to hold a bow or a sword. If Gereint declares for him, they will empty the farms. And those numbers
will
count.”

Their eyes met. “You predicted this, I know,” he said. “But if it were all to do again, I would do the same. If I am to be king, I could do no other.”

He meant it, she thought. Even now, facing what was probably the greatest challenge to his rule ever, he meant it. If he could, he would not undo the marriage. For Ceawlin, to have backed down would have been worse.

She did not agree with him. But she stood with him. She would always stand with him. It did not have to be said; he knew it. “Let me go by myself to talk to Gereint,” she said.

“No.” At last he stopped his pacing and came to drop down on his heels in front of her. “You are almost five months gone with child.”

“I will go by litter if you wish.” She smoothed the short hair on his brow into order. “If the Atrebates stay loyal, they will not only deprive Coinmail of a number of fighting men, they will keep him from entering Wessex by way of Silchester.”

“I know.” His eyes searched her face. “I still do not understand it, Nan. I have been as good a king to Gereint’s people as I have been to my own.”

“Yes. You have.” She leaned forward to touch his forehead with her lips. “Let me go and talk with him.”

He drew a long uneven breath. “All right,” he said. “Shall I send Crida with you?”

“No. It will be best for me to go alone. Gereint and I … we share the same loyalties. He will be better able to speak with me if no one else is there.”

“All right,” he said again. “I would not ask it, but you are right. I cannot afford to have the Atrebates go out against me. But take a litter. And an escort of twenty thanes.”

“Ten thanes. I do not want to look as if I am coming to threaten them. And I will take a litter.” She wrinkled her nose. “Much as I hate them.”

“It will be safer for you.”

“I know.” She laid her cheek against his. “Gereint does love you, Ceawlin. I do not think he will go against you, no matter what you have done.”

His arms came around her. “No one loves me like that,” he said, “except you.”

Fall was coming early this year, Niniane thought as she looked from the back windows of Bryn Atha toward the woods that separated the house from the pig pens and chicken coops. September had been chill and rainy; some of the leaves were already beginning to turn. She had the hypocaust lit as soon as she arrived.

She saw three of the thanes who had escorted her going toward the stable, leading their horses. They had just returned from carrying news to Gereint of her presence at Bryn Atha. Gereint had returned word that he would come to see her on the morrow. She had one more night to think about what she was going to say to him.

She was tired. The long trip by litter had been exhausting. She had not gone five miles before she knew she should have ridden; she had ridden the previous month when she came north with Ceawlin, and she had been fine. But Ceawlin had insisted on the litter. Nor could she deny that she was feeling this pregnancy more than she had her others. She supposed she should not be surprised; she was getting old. Thirty-five did not bear as easily as seventeen, she thought with a sigh.

She turned and walked toward one of the wicker chairs, stopped before it, but then did not sit down. No, she thought. She was so weary, she would go straight to bed. She would tell Budd to send some bread and cheese to her room; then she could just crawl in under her old blue blanket and go to sleep. She rubbed the back of her neck, turned, and walked with unusual heaviness down the hall toward the kitchen.

Gereint did not come until late in the afternoon the following day. Niniane had not slept as well as she had expected to. She missed Ceawlin’s big body next to her in the bed. She rose early, dragged around for half of the morning, then went back to bed and napped for half the afternoon. She was just waking up when Gereint rode in.

The day was damp and gray. Gereint looked as cheerless as the weather as he held Niniane’s hand in his for a minute before leading her to one of the old wicker chairs. “You are not looking well,” he said bluntly.

“I am with child again, that is all.” She smiled at him ruefully as she sat down and gestured for him to take the chair beside her. “I am not as young as I used to be, Gereint.”

“Nonsense. You still look like a girl.”

She watched as he lowered his slim, lithe frame into the sagging old chair. It was Gereint who had kept his youthfulness, she thought. “You are a very kind liar,” she said, and sighed. She looked slowly around the faded Roman room. “There are so many memories waiting for me here at Bryn Atha,” she said softly, her eyes on the peacock scroll. “Do you remember the night your father made you stay with me while Ceawlin was gone? You were fifteen and horrified that there was a Saxon at Bryn Atha. I can still remember how you challenged Ceawlin when he came home. He swore to you then that he would be a good king to the Atrebates, Gereint, and you ended the evening by going with him to help with the horses. Do you remember?”

“Niniane … this is not going to do any good.” Gereint’s voice was constricted.

“He said to me before I left, ‘I do not understand, Niniane. I have been as good a king to the Atrebates as I have been to the Saxons.’ And he has been, Gereint. You cannot deny that.”

“That is not the question.” His voice was even more constricted. “I do not question that Ceawlin is a good king. But it is more than that, Niniane. It is a matter of … of racial loyalty now.” His brown eyes were very somber. “It is a matter of racial survival.”

“Listen to what I am going to say, Gereint,” Niniane said. “It is something I have thought about for a long time and I am convinced it is the truth. The way to British survival is intermarriage with the Saxons.”

Gereint made a gesture of impatience. “That is what Ceawlin tried to say when he pointed out that Crida is half-British. But the truth is, Niniane, that Crida is Saxon. He speaks Saxon. He thinks like a Saxon. He will bring his children up to be Saxon. It is only an accident of birth that his mother is a Briton.”