The Dragon Prince (39 page)

Morguese looked up and smiled. “Eastra! So
the Goddess has answered my prayers after all. I was hoping She
would send me another woman. Even a whore or the wife of one of the
Picts would have pleased me. But here you are, my lovely Eastra, a
Saxon princess carrying a British babe in her belly. How absolutely
perfect.”

“Hush!” Eastra exclaimed, moving nearer. She
gestured toward the doorway, where her Saxon escort had halted. “No
one must know about the babe! No one!” she implored in hushed
tones.

“Of course.” Morguese’s smug smile did not
falter. “I need you. I need to work a spell of protection for my
son. You carry the blood of his enemy. With your energy added to
mine, we will keep him safe.”

“I won’t do it!” Eastra cried. “Mordred is a
traitor to his own people and a cruel, self-serving monster. If
Arthur dies, it will be his fault. Patricide is considered a vile
thing among my people. I’ll have no part in this!”

Morguese raised an auburn brow. “Of course
Arthur will die. I have seen it in the scrying bowl and in the
flames. Mordred is going to kill him.”

Eastra took a step back, aghast. “How can
you even say such things? What sort of creature are you that you
would plot against the man who once was your lover and use the son
you bore him as the instrument of his death?”

Morguese’s smile vanished and she suddenly
looked bitter and angry. “It didn’t have to be like this. If only
Arthur had accepted Mordred, loved him as a father is supposed to
love his son.” She shook her head. “Arthur never understood. He
believed Mordred was conceived in sin. Because I used a spell to
bring him to my bed he thought the act was tainted by magic and
that the child would grow up to be some sort of monster. He told me
to go away and have the baby in secret, then leave it out for the
wolves.”

Her smile returned. “Of course, I did not.
And you’ve seen Mordred. Is he not handsome and well made? Arthur’s
fears have come to naught. Although I have since decided it was not
that Arthur feared Mordred would be deformed, but that he sensed
his son was going to usurp him someday, and proud arrogant Arthur
could not bear that.”

She does not understand the high
king,
Eastra thought. Having been in the man’s presence several
times and heard many accounts of him, Eastra could not believe
Arthur was obsessed with power. Obsessed with his vision for
Britain, aye, but not with personal glory. Still, that Arthur would
tell a woman to kill her child, his own son, that was disturbing.
It bespoke a kind of madness. Did Arthur despise Morguese that
much? Did he also despise the Goddess from which her powers
arose?

Eastra realized she had many new questions,
although some of her old ones had been answered. Knowing Mordred
was Morguese’s son, she could guess a little at their scheme. By
sending word that Mordred had been killed, they meant to force
Arthur into this battle. Mordred was obviously going to fight
against his father and try to kill him.

She shook her head. “If Arthur dies, what
purpose does it serve? Cerdic will never allow Mordred to be king.
What has he to gain by killing his father?”

“Certainly Mordred will be king!” Morguese
stood gracefully and smoothed her gown. “Cerdic has promised
it!”

Eastra knew her uncle well enough to know he
would never share his power with a man like Mordred. He would have
only contempt for a man who betrayed his own people for the sake of
his personal ambitions. Cerdic might be ruthless, but he was
utterly loyal to his kin and countrymen. He would expect the same
of his allies.

But Eastra did not say that. She knew
Morguese would not believe her anyway. Instead she took a deep
breath, feeling as if the ground beneath her feet had suddenly
shifted. She had more questions, many more. “And what is my part in
all this?” she asked. “Why did you detain me at Caer Louarn? Was
that part of your plan to break the truce? And why did you put a
spell on Rhun and me so we would make love and conceive this
child?”

“It was Urien’s idea to capture you, not
mine,” Morguese said nonchalantly. “He thought if you were killed,
Cerdic would fall upon Arthur and destroy him. He also wants to see
Arthur die, but not for the same reasons as I do. Urien thinks
Arthur has too much power. When Arthur claimed sovereignty over all
the kings of Britain, that was too much for him.”

Really how close she’d come to death, Eastra
experienced a tingle of dread. “But nothing happened to me while I
was at Caer Louarn,” she pointed out.

“Urien is not as ruthless as I am. Once he
saw you, he was loathe to order your death. He thought you were too
lovely and sweet to kill. And then I told him the Goddess would not
be pleased if you died. I explained that She had plans for
you.”

“What plans?”

Morguese shrugged. “I don’t know, but I have
seen you in my visions, dressed like a queen. And the babe you
carry”—she gestured to Eastra’s midsection. “The Goddess made it
very clear that you and Rhun must couple and conceive a child, and
that it must be done on a specific night. There’s something special
about this babe, although I don’t know what. I have my own plans
and ambitions, but if the Goddess asks for something, I don’t
question her. I obey.”

It was all such a tangled web of deceit and
treachery, Eastra thought, and she was at the very center of
it.

“Come, my dear,” Morguese held out her hand.
“You must sit down. A woman in your condition must be careful to
conserve her strength.”

Eastra allowed herself to be led over to the
bearskin spread on the floor. She sank down and Morguese propped
several cushions behind her. “How are you feeling?” Morguese asked.
“Has the child quickened yet?”

Eastra shook her head, feeling dazed and
almost lightheaded. There were still so many questions left
unanswered. “Did Urien plot my murder in Londinium?” She looked up
at Morguese. “We were attacked outside the market by a half dozen
warriors, but Rhun fought them off.” She remembered how magnificent
he’d been, how awe inspiring. The familiar pain pierced her.

“Nay, Urien’s power doesn’t reach so far.
But there are many other men in Britain who might have planned such
a thing as a way to break the truce.” Morguese moved to the other
side of the chamber and began to fuss among the clutter there. “And
it was not Rhun who protected you that day, but the Goddess.”

Was this true? If a dozen chieftains wanted
her dead but she remained alive, was that not a miracle? Had the
hand of the Goddess truly shielded her all this while? Yet it had
been Rhun’s strong sword arm that struck down her enemies. Poor
Rhun. He hadn’t known what an enormous task he’d taken on when they
set out on their journey. Nor had he known about the cunning,
twisted plot against Arthur.

Eastra sat up straight. What if Rhun knew
this battle was not a final, glorious stand for his dream, but a
deadly trap? For that matter, what if
Arthur
knew Mordred
was alive and plotting his death? She mentally shook herself,
trying to get rid of the sense of helpless lethargy creeping over
her. She had to leave this place, find her escort, and intercept
Rhun and Arthur before they marched into battle. If she could speak
to Arthur himself, tell him what Morguese and Mordred planned, she
might be able to change the high king’s fatal course.

Morguese approached her, smiling. In her
hands was a jeweled cup. “Drink this,” she purred. “It will ease
your distress and help you sleep.”

Eastra took the cup and pretended to take a
sip. She searched her mind frantically for some means of
distracting Morguese. Finally, she said, “I’m very hungry. Would it
be possible for me to have something to eat?”

“Of course you’re hungry. Shame upon me for
not thinking of that. I know I was famished all the while I carried
my own children. Wait here a moment and I will fetch someone to
bring you food. What would you like?”

Eastra pretended to ponder the question.
“Perhaps some fruit—an apple or some apricots. And some milk.” She
knew these things would be difficult to procure in an army camp
where the men mostly ate dried meat and rough bread, perhaps
supplemented by raisins or figs. Fresh food was a luxury and not
readily available outside established settlements and towns.

“Hmmm,” Morguese said. “That may be
difficult, but I will see what can be found.”

As soon as Morguese had left the tent,
Eastra poured the contents of the cup underneath the bearskin. Then
she got up and hurried toward the door. She peeked out and saw
Morguese talking to a young slave boy—Irish from the looks of him.
His expression was one of dismay, and Eastra could tell Morguese
was speaking to him harshly, perhaps threatening him if he did not
obtain what she wished.

Eastra glanced around, wondering if she
could escape while Morguese was talking to the slave boy. It didn’t
seem likely. In only a moment or two, Morguese would return, and,
finding Eastra gone, send men after her. In broad daylight, it
would be impossible to make her way through the huge army camp and
not be seen and intercepted.

She returned to her place on the bearskin
and pretended to be sipping from the cup when Morguese entered. “It
may take a while,” Morguese said. “Perhaps you should sleep for a
time, until the food arrives.”

Eastra nodded agreeably. “I do feel sleepy,”
she said, guessing the drink was meant to have that effect.

Morguese made her a sort of bed on a pile of
cushions and covered her with a brightly woven blanket. Then, while
Eastra pretended to doze, Morguese went back to her place by the
bowl of glistening oil. She chanted some words and began to burn
some of the pungent herb in a copper bowl. Eastra realized Morguese
was trying to see visions in the surface of the oil. She wondered
if Morguese would see enough to know she planned to escape.

Time passed. Morguese began to sway and talk
to herself. She seemed to be in a trance. Eastra sat up. When
Morguese didn’t turn around or give any sign she was aware of her,
she got to her feet. Morguese still did not move. Eastra picked up
her pack of supplies from where Beornwold had put it on the floor
and started slowly toward the door. Her body was tense and rigid,
her underarms clammy with sweat. It did not seem possible she would
be able to walk right past Morguese. But nothing happened as Eastra
reached the door and hurried out. It was as if she were
invisible.

Outside, the sky was deep twilight blue.
There was still enough light to see by, but not enough that she
could be easily observed. She took her mantle from her pack and put
it on, covering her hair with the hood. Then she began to walk
cautiously along the deserted, ruined streets of the fort. Here and
there, groups of men were gathered around cookfires. No one seemed
aware of her as she passed by. Eastra wondered if it were her
cloak—woven in a soft pattern of blue and green—that blended into
the shadows. Or if it were magic. Did the Goddess shield her from
her enemies this night?

She made her way out the gate of the fort
and looked around for the Picts who had escorted her there. Not
seeing them, she decided she would have to try to find her way by
herself.

She had walked some distance when she
suddenly became aware of shadows to her right and left. Taking a
deep breath, she threw back her hood so her light hair was visible,
and said in a chilly voice, “I am Princess Eastra, Cerdic
Hengistson’s niece. If you are wise, you will let me pass
safely.”

“We know who you are, Princess,” someone
answered. One of the shadows took the form of a man. She could not
really see him in the darkness, only catch the gleam of his eyes in
the fading light. But she recognized his voice as the Pict who had
taken her to Cerdic.

“I seek the Cymru men who brought me here,”
she said.

“We will take you to them,” the man
answered.

Once again, she had an escort of
small-statured warriors, bristling with weapons and adorned with
the beautiful symbols of the wild beasts they honored. It was eerie
to walk among these fierce, untamed men who struggled to survive in
the harsh lands of the north. They lived close to the Mother’s
heart, she thought, and surely She would not let them perish. But
then she remembered the coming battle. One of these warriors might
be the one to kill Rhun, her beloved. Nay, she would not let that
happen. If the Goddess were with her, she would use Her power to
stop this abominable war!

When they reached the edge of the Picts’
camp, she saw Beli. The moon had risen and by its light she could
make out the expression on his face, see the questioning look in
his eyes. She shook her head. “Cerdic would not listen to me. But I
won’t give up. Now I must go to Arthur. I have learned many things,
things that may well alter the course of this war after all.”

Beli tried to persuade Eastra to rest before
setting out to find Arthur. While she agreed to eat—she was
terribly hungry—she refused to wait until morning to begin their
journey. “By then, Morguese will be searching for me,” she told
him. “She might alert Cerdic, and although I doubt he cares what I
do or who I talk to, I’d rather not depend on his
indifference.”

After Eastra had a quick meal of the usual
dried meat and bread, washed down with a little wine, they left.
Beli insisted she ride with him. Resting against his narrow but
solid chest, she was able to doze fitfully. She woke several times,
jerked awake by the memory of her urgent mission. But after several
stretches of uneasy rest, she opened her eyes to discover it was
growing light in the east. They’d traveled all night and made good
progress, following the old Roman road south.

As the sun rose, suffusing the sky with
milky shades of rose and gold, they saw the British camp in the
distance. It appeared to be a much smaller force than the combined
warhost of Saxons and Picts. But the Britons had horses, Eastra
reminded herself. And Rhun had told her many times that a
cavalryman was worth ten warriors fighting on foot. Even now, they
could see the warhorses being brought in from the picket lines.
They were magnificent beasts, bred from Arabian stock brought from
Narbonne across the eastern sea and the descendants of horses left
behind by the Romans.