Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (15 page)

She glanced at Ginevra, waiting for a sign. Ginevra continued to sob, but young Loholt locked gazes with her and nodded shortly.

Yseult sighed. "Seal the casket."

Her men Ricca and Valerius stepped forward to do her bidding. "He was a good king, a good neighbor," Ricca said when he joined her again.

"Yes."

She tried to remain brave, but she knew on a level she did not want to acknowledge, here, now, with one of the main kings of Dumnonia being locked away forever in front of her — no matter how the war was going to the north, the dying was only beginning.

* * * *

When the news of Gwythyr's death arrived in Abona, Medraut was attempting to compose a letter to Nimue — with little success. What could he say to her, after all? He could hardly ask her to forgo her training with Myrddin for a time and join him — it was he who suggested she try to draw the magician away from Arthur. Myrddin did not trust Medraut and never had. For some reason, ever since Medraut had come to Caer Leon, Myrddin had conspired against him. Medraut had never understood what he had done for the old man to hate him so.

Medraut had met Nimue on a trip to Armorica to assist his parents in a border dispute with tribes from the interior. After fighting back the strange barbarians, he'd found Nimue, injured on the shores of a misty lake.

Shortly thereafter, they'd become lovers, and he brought her with him to Britain. Although she was several years older than his young wife Cwylli, she was as slender and innocent-looking as a girl. And she had the powers of the Old Ones. Medraut had no such powers himself, but he had the sensitivity — and he was covetous of Nimue's magic, which fed into his attraction. Besides, Cwylli had long become a disappointment, and he needed the distraction. The inheritance he had married had been stolen.

Medraut had gone to Britain hoping to make his fortune in the service of his powerful uncle, only to discover that Arthur had plenty of talented warriors in his service already and no inclination to favor the only son of his only sister — nor any inclination to help him regain Cwylli's inheritance. Instead, Arthur gave preference to the nephews of his dead wife, Gawain and his brothers, who were not even blood relations as Medraut was.

Nimue was the first good thing that had happened to him in years. She could not teach him powers he didn't possess, but she did teach him how to shield his mind from those with such powers. Eventually, he realized how much
more
useful she might be and suggested she persuade Myrddin to take her on as an apprentice. Their plan had succeeded brilliantly — only he wasn't sure that Nimue becoming Myrddin's lover had been part of it. And he had not expected to miss her quite so much.

He laid down his stylus and held the tablet close to the candle to melt the wax again.

The noise in the tavern suddenly stilled, silence moving through the victorious British soldiers and their whores like a wave lapping the shore. Medraut looked up. Was it news of another attack? No, surely not this late in the day.

And then he heard it, the whisper spreading toward him in his isolated corner.

"The King of Cerniw is dead."

Medraut thought of Arthur's delicate, beautiful wife and felt sorry for her. Ginevra would be devastated. Her father had doted on her, sheltering her as much as possible from hardship when she was young.

He sighed, closed his writing tablet and rose, giving up the project of a letter to Nimue for tonight.

* * * *

Arthur called Medraut to him the next morning.

The temporary headquarters of the Dux Bellorum were in a building of wood and stone near the center of town. Over a dozen years before, Abona had been taken by the Saxons and much of it destroyed. While many a ruined town had become a quarry for new settlements, Abona's convenient port location — offering the shortest ferry route across the Sabrina Estuary to Caer Leon — guaranteed that the city was rebuilt rather than abandoned or scavenged. Now that the Picts, too, had been driven out, Abona had resumed its identity as a bustling harbor town, its buildings not as impressive as before the burning and looting, but its streets full of people and horses and carts and goods, its wharves full of ships.

Arthur rose as Medraut entered and motioned him to take a seat. "Medraut, thank you for coming."

"Of course, Uncle."

Did Arthur wince? Not having the powers of Nimue or Myrddin, Medraut couldn't be sure, and that made him angry.

Arthur sat down on the other side of a table that held rolls of maps. "I have a request to make, and I hope you will understand," he said, folding his hands. "You have heard of Gwythyr's death?"

Medraut nodded.

"Normally I would not interrupt a campaign for a funeral. While we have retaken Dyn Tagell and Abona, the Mount of Frogs is still in the hands of the enemy. But Gwythyr was my father-in-law."

"The Mount of Frogs is under siege. It is not as if the troops there are in any great danger."

"True enough." Arthur tapped the table in front of him. "Medraut, I would like you to take whatever men we can spare and lead the reinforcements to the Mount of Frogs. I must go to Celliwig for the funeral, but I will join you with the rest of our men as soon as possible."

For a moment, Medraut reacted to the honor just as Arthur had intended — until he remembered the wince. Why should Arthur chose Medraut to lead such a mission? Bedwyr, Cai, Gawain, Gaheris — any number of others had more experience and more seniority — but they too would be at Gwythyr's funeral.

Where Medraut was unwanted.

He did his best not to let the flow of his thoughts find expression in his face. He gazed at his uncle with what he hoped was a look of wonder. "That is a great responsibility. Surely there are others more suited to the task?"

Arthur smiled. "Perhaps. But you saved my life last week."

That he had — and now he was being kept from Celliwig because he was married to the daughter of Caw. It was logical, given that the sons of Caw had started this particular war.

He was being put off with an honor that was no such thing.

Medraut played out all the possibilities in his mind, doing his best to keep an appropriate smile of gratitude on his face. He wished he could ask Arthur if Ginevra had requested he not attend, but that would reveal too much of what he suspected. If the plan of keeping Medraut away were Arthur's alone, Ginevra might be another inroad to power. Not only was she frustrated in her marriage, she was no more than a handful of years older than Medraut — and still stunningly beautiful.

On the other hand, any fool could see that Ginevra imagined herself in love with Cai. As long as she suffered from that silly infatuation, trying to seduce his uncle's wife had little chance of success.

Medraut stared at the trappings of leadership behind Arthur's head — a sadly battered Pendragon banner — feeling his grasp on the power it represented slipping away. Life wasn't fair. Medraut had made an advantageous marriage with a beautiful young woman, but it had turned out to be a trap. Once Caw died, Cwylli's mother Labiane was unable to hold onto the seat of Bro Leon, and his wife was now virtually landless. As if that weren't enough, her half-brothers had gone and started a rebellion, which was reflecting back on him. He had come to Britain hoping that his powerful uncle could help him gain back the lands he'd lost, but Arthur had no interest in moving against Labiane's cousin, claiming he could not contest the decision of the kinship group of Bro Leon. Arthur would lose all support in Armorica, he said, if he tried to depose a rightfully chosen king.

Power was everything to Arthur, it seemed, and family nothing. Look at the way he treated his own wife, for God's sake!

"I thank you for the honor, Uncle," Medraut said, inclining his head. "I will be happy to lead whatever troops you will entrust me with to the Mount of Frogs."

Arthur exhaled, almost like an aborted sigh of relief. "Then it is decided." He rose and came around the table to clap Medraut on the back. "Thank you, nephew."

Medraut was glad he had not revealed what he suspected of Arthur's motives; this way, his uncle's gratitude could still be played to his advantage. His time would come, it had to. Things should have been so different when he joined Arthur in Caer Leon. He was Arthur's nephew by blood. Gawain and his brothers were only kin to Arthur through a princess of Rheged who'd died twenty years ago. They, too, had traitors in their family, their father Lot and their brother Agravaine, yet they belonged to the circle of Arthur's most trusted companions.

It was not Medraut's fault that he he'd been too young to fight at Baddon and make a name for himself, not his fault that his mother had kept him by her side in Armorica rather than sending him into fosterage in Britain, where he could have made important contacts, could have joined the ranks of Gawain, Gaheris, and Gareth as one of Arthur's favorite nephews.

He rose and shook hands with his uncle. "My pleasure, Arthur. I will live up to this honor, I promise."

"I'm sure you will," Arthur said as he accompanied him out. "Your actions will not go unrewarded."

Often Medraut wished things would fall into his lap like they did for other people, but then he reminded himself that he had the advantage of learning through adversity. Eventually he would triumph, he knew it.

"Thank you," he said, even though he knew the only person he could rely on was himself. Medraut would see to it that his actions
were
rewarded, Arthur could be assured of that.

Chapter 9

You will betray me — oh, deny it not!

What right have I, alas, to say you nay?

I, traitor of ten loves, what shall I say

To plead with you that I be not forgot?

My love has not been squandered jot by jot

In little loves that perish with the day.

My treason has been ever to the sway

Of queens; my faith has known no petty blot.

You will betray me, as I have betrayed,

And I shall kiss the hand that does me wrong.

And oh, not pardon — I need pardon more —

But in proud torment, grim and unafraid,

Burn in my hell nor cease the bitter song

Your beauty triumphs in forevermore.

Richard Hovey, "The Last Love of Gawaine"

Sometimes it seemed as if the dying never ended.

Yes, they had won a battle — one more battle — but to Cador it felt as if the last few weeks had consisted of little more than burials. This time the grave was on a rise outside of the hill-fort of Celliwig. Gwythyr had wanted to be buried upright in the earthwork ramparts like the kings of old, but that had been too pagan for Ginevra, and so it was a hill and a standing stone. At least she had not insisted on a Christian graveyard.

The evening air was cool, a hint of autumn in the breeze that touched his cheeks. Even though the Pictish pirates still had not been sent north where they belonged, Gwythyr was being given a royal burial, and Celliwig seemed barely large enough to hold the mourners. Gwythyr had been the father-in-law of Arthur after all, Dux Bellorum of all Britain.

Such as Britain was in these chaotic days.

Although the king of Cerniw was to be laid to rest on the crest of a hill, his grave was oriented east to west in the Christian manner, and a Christian priest spoke the required words in Latin. Apparently it was best to appease as many gods as possible in death in order to have the best chances in the afterlife. Cador couldn't help wondering if it might not be better to just throw himself off the face of a cliff when he knew his time had come — assuming he would have that luxury. Any god Cador cared to believe in would judge a man by what he had achieved in his life, not by the rituals observed at his funeral.

Of course, Ginevra was responsible for the hodge-podge. She had spent her younger years in fosterage in Durnovaria, a Roman town in which Christianity was the rule. Cador glanced at Ginevra, now the sole heir of the sub-kingdom of Cerniw, a place the modern world seemed to have forgotten. Although it had been a month since her father's death, she stood between Arthur and Loholt weeping as profusely as if she'd received the news the day before. Tears became her, adding to her pale beauty by making her eyes more luminous and her delicate charm more obvious.

Yseult stood not far away, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed respectfully. Cador allowed his gaze to linger on her for a moment while all eyes were on the priest. Her scars from the battle of Dyn Tagell were healing well, but it was still a shock to see the puckered skin on her formerly flawless cheek.

The Christian priest concluded the Latin service and made the sign of the cross. The service over, they filed past the open grave to take leave of the King of Cerniw, throwing in trinkets and handfuls of dirt. Once all the guests had made their contribution to the old king's final resting place, they headed for the great hall within the ramparts of the hill-fort. Ginevra's seat now — which finally made Arthur a king, or at least the husband of a queen. Not that Arthur would care. "Dux Bellorum" had always been enough of a title for him.

But it might make a difference to others.

With Britain under attack again after a dozen years of peace, Cador could only pray to whichever gods might listen that Arthur's new status
would
make a difference.