Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (4 page)

"We will take the southern route to Dyn Tagell, far from where the northern pirates attacked."

He pressed his fingers into her shoulders through the material of her shawl and drew her close.

"Gawain, no —"

He kissed her.

Her body began to respond automatically, but this was not the right time or place. She yanked herself away. "Enough. Did you not hear me say 'no'?"

"I heard you. But I am leaving tomorrow, and who knows when we will see each other again?"

She took a deep breath. "I said never when Kustennin is about."

Gawain pulled his hair back from his face, shaking his head impatiently. "Why not? He is sixteen now, Yseult. Still beardless, yes, but almost a man. Believe me, a youth that age knows the way of the world."

"Perhaps, but that does not change the fact that I do not want our affair known."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "If you would agree to marry me, we would have nothing to hide."

"No, Gawain. I've told you, I don't intend to marry again."

"Fine. Perhaps I will see you in the morning before we leave." With that, he turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the dining hall.

Yseult leaned her hot forehead against one of the cool columns of the portico. When Gawain had made his first advances, he'd seemed such a safe choice, a man unattached and happy that way, a man with a reputation for never staying with a woman longer than a season, if that. It was said that his former lovers were scattered the length and breadth of Britain. Such a one wouldn't threaten her independence, wouldn't try to wrest power from her or take over her son's kingdom.

For two years, it had gone well. They had seen each other at the Whitsun games, or at the wedding celebration of one of Arthur's companions; he had stopped for a day in Dyn Tagell when on the way to Caer Leon or visited her in Isca when on business for Arthur. Then last year he had begun to grow impatient with her rules, the need to hide their relationship — and before she had left for Eriu in the fall he had asked her to marry him.

The mere idea of marriage made her throat close up and her palms sweat. She refused.

Life should have been so very different. Drystan should have stayed with her, should have been father to his son, not died at his own father's hand. Even now, over ten years since his death, Yseult could still feel him in her soul, could see him in her son's green eyes and hear him in Kustennin's laugh.

Drystan was part of her, and no man would ever take his place. Which was why she had chosen Gawain to fill the physical need that could not be denied, a man with a reputation for appreciating women —
many
women, and none too much.

How had she become the one woman he had problems leaving with no more than a smile and a kiss and a vague promise?

* * * *

Cador watched Gawain rise and leave shortly after Yseult. He sighed and motioned a servant to fetch another flask of wine. Wine could dull the senses, but could it also dull the imagination? He doubted it. If he was lucky, it might put him to sleep. But what was he doing staring after them anyway? He'd been so sure that his youthful infatuation was a thing of the past, subdued by the quiet, deep, mature love he had developed for Terrwyn in the years they'd been together. Now he knew he'd been deceiving himself. What he had once felt for Yseult had slipped beneath the surface, but that did not mean it was no longer there. Other loves and other concerns had pushed it to the side — including the deepening friendship he felt for her over the years, a brotherly affection he thought had replaced such impossible things as longing and desire.

But now, with Gawain gone from the dining hall in pursuit of Yseult, something long forgotten was twisting inside him, something poisonous and destructive. There was no avoiding it — Cador was jealous.

Just as he was pouring himself another glass of wine, Alun sat down beside him. "How do you mean to proceed?"

For a moment, Cador thought he meant regarding Yseult. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was the matter with him to be thinking of unreciprocated love when their whole way of life was threatened?

He clasped his hands around the glass, trying to banish foolish thoughts. "I'm not sure how many we will be able to send. We need men for the planting."

Alun clapped him on the back, laughing. "Of course we do, Cador! Those men would not be able to fight for Arthur anyway. Where are your brains, my friend?"

Cador grimaced. "I think they disappeared somewhere during all the news and arrivals today."
If only Yseult had arrived without the rest.
Not only would they be having a companionable glass of wine together tonight, he would still be unaware of war — or that his feelings for her were more intense than he cared to admit.

"Understandable." Alun took sip of wine. "I fear we have been living too well for too long."

Cador lifted his glass to his former fighting companion. "Not 'too long', unless the gods you swear by are envious of our peaceful villa life."

Their glasses met and Alun chuckled. "Good point. But wouldn't any sensible god be envious of this life?"

"Ha. True enough — depending on what you think of your gods." Some gods at least were supposed to be above envy. Cador wasn't sure what he believed much of the time. The Christian god of his mother loved peace as he did, but at the same time, he felt the presence of other gods and powers around him that the Christian religion denied. Yseult herself was living proof that the beliefs of his parents could not explain everything; there was no room for such strange powers in Enid's Roman-Christian ideology, so she simply pretended they weren't there.

There were not as many people with blood of the Old Race in Britain as in Eriu, Yseult's former home, and thus not as many who could manipulate the minds and perception of others. Those talents had not died out completely, however, as Arthur's advisor Myrddin proved.

"We also need to decide who will take over my duties when I go with you to Caer Leon," Alun said, interrupting his thoughts.

"You wish to accompany me?"

"Of course I do." Alun sounded offended at the question. "Who watched your arse during the Saxon campaign?"

"The little that I took part in," Cador murmured.

"The battle of Caer Baddon cannot be referred to as
little,
" Alun admonished.

"No, of course not." He still remembered the stench of rotting bodies in the unseasonable May heat.

"Cador, I cannot in good conscience just pick cherries while you fight back enemies who want to take away what we have built."

Cador laughed. "You would be doing much more than picking cherries. Will you not reconsider, Alun? You have been running this villa since we moved here from Dyn Draithou. You helped establish the Lindinis stables and you know the horses better than anyone."

"Except for you."

"Except for me," Cador acknowledged. "But that is all the more reason we need you here. Besides, as you point out, you are an experienced soldier. You can see to the defense of Lindinis while most of our men are fighting the sons of Caw."

Too late, Cador noticed that Gildas had been listening to their conversation. At his words, Gildas bolted from the table and ran out of the dining hall. The boy was a son of Caw too, after all.

"What is the matter with him?" Kustennin asked, ambling over.

"I think you can guess," Cador murmured.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. "What can he guess?" came Gawain's deep voice behind him.

Relief flooded him, and he barely heard Kustennin's reply. Gawain was back,
and not with Yseult
.

Gawain leaned over and spoke in his ear. "I still need to speak with you alone, my friend."

"I think that can be arranged." He hoped that Gawain did not want to speak with him of Yseult. "We can continue our discussion of arrangements later," he said to Alun, rising.

Alun nodded. "I will consult with the head of the stables."

"Thank you."

Cador filled two glasses of wine and handed one to Gawain, then led the way out of the dining hall to a curtained alcove. "What is it you need to discuss privately?"

Gawain sat down on a couch and leaned back against the stucco wall. "I have a message for you from Arthur."

"A private message from Arthur?" What could Arthur want to communicate with him that no one else should hear?

Gawain took a sip of his wine. "Not private, simply ... sensitive. Arthur wants you to bring Gildas along when you take your men to Caer Leon."

"Ah." Now he understood — Gildas was to go with them as hostage. The system of fosterage had long been used to keep difficult allies in line as well as to tighten bonds between families; despite the tenuous familial connection, Gildas belonged to the first category. The loyalty of Caw and his sons had always been unreliable. With Caw dead, Cador doubted if Gildas's half-brothers would put the boy's welfare over their own ambitions.

"You see, don't you?" Gawain asked.

Cador nodded. He did see, just not what Arthur intended. But it might not be wise to reveal his conclusions — such as what Gildas's fate would be in Caer Leon. "Of course," he said instead. "Having the boy in our power was not enough to ensure the good behavior of his relatives."

Gawain leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his wine glass in both hands. "But if the threat to their brother is more immediate, perhaps they will see reason."

See reason? Leaders of small northern kingdoms on the Pictish border who had never once visited Gildas while he was in fosterage with Cador — and many of whom were even older than Gawain? The only real sibling Gildas had was his sister Cwylli, and Cwylli needed no more heartache. But would Arthur really murder Gildas if his half-brothers ignored the threat, as Cador suspected?

"Let us hope so," Cador said instead of voicing his worries; he had no hope in that respect. What Cador knew and Arthur and Gawain apparently did not — the boy who had grown up in Armorica was not a "son of Caw" in any way that mattered. He might share the same father, but he did not share the same mother, the same home, the same generation; he had never even seen the northern lands his half-brothers called home, and which they only left now because of the series of harsh winters which brought more famine and starvation in their wake the farther north one traveled.

Gildas was not one of those men. That was why these northern pirates had dared to break the treaty of Din Eidyn and were attacking the coast near Arthur's stronghold in the first place.

Which meant if Cador took Gildas to Caer Leon, it would probably be the boy's death sentence. If Arthur were to use Gildas to threaten the sons of Caw, there was little else he could do than kill his hostage when his demands were not met. Otherwise his threats would be no threats at all.

But it wouldn't do for Cador to show any sign of misgiving. "I will arrange for Gildas to accompany us. I'm sure he'll be happy to visit his sister."

"Good."

Only what would he arrange? Gildas might be resentful and mean-spirited, but Arthur's demands proved how much right he had to be. Not only was he a hostage in Lindinis, he had been passed over by his own kinship group for king of Bro Leon in Armorica. As long as Caw was alive and could act as war leader, Gildas's mother Labiane had ruled, but after his death, her cousin had been chosen as king. Citing the danger from the Frankish king Chlodovech, who was trying to conquer all of what was once Gaul, the clan leaders of Bro Leon had refused to name Labiane regent for Gildas, saying they could not wait for him to grow to manhood.

And now, simply because he was unfortunate in his half-brothers, Gildas was to be taken to his death.

Cador forced a smile to his lips, raising his glass to Gawain. "Here's to Arthur's companions reuniting in Caer Leon."

Gawain saluted him in return, and the fine imported glass tinkled pleasantly as the rims touched. "To reuniting. It will be good to ride with you again, Cador, even if you have gone soft and boring."

"Yes, I realize administration and land management are not quite the same thing as riding against a common enemy."

Less daring, less dirty, less dangerous
.

There was something to be said for soft and boring.

Chapter 3

To-morrow's sun on high Tintagel's towers

Will show the ancient ruins — nothing more;

And they in time will join the pageant pale

Of figures that fare ghostly through the fog.

Walter S. Hinchman, "Tintagel"

Gawain arose before dawn the next morning, tired and out-of-sorts despite the excellent bed. He should not have yielded to temptation and stayed here in Lindinis. His brief interview with Yseult had not gone well, and now he would carry it with him on the road.

When he met his men in the yard, the horizon to the east was barely beginning to lighten, and there was no sign of Yseult. He didn't need the added humiliation of going in search for her — not to mention that he couldn't spare the time.

It was over eighty miles to Natanleod's seat in Calleva, and much of the way was a track rather than a paved Roman road. But rested as they were, and with fresh horses from Cador's stables, the warband Gawain led should make it easily in two days if the weather didn't change.