The Dragon Prince (43 page)

Rhun gritted his teeth. “My father
imprisoned me,” he said. “He would not let me leave his fortress
until he thought it was too late for me to reach the battle in
time. He was worried I would be killed.” It sounded like the lamest
of excuses. He wanted to hang his head and look away.

“Oh,” was all Tristan said. “Well, perhaps
it’s just as well. It’s good to see another Companion alive.” He
glanced back toward the cart. “And we could use your help in
getting the high king to safety.”

“Arthur?” Rhun’s gaze fixed on to the
contents of the cart. There would be those who would try to steal
Arthur’s corpse. He’d already heard tales of it. “Where do you plan
to take him?” Wincing, he glanced again at the blanket-covered lump
in the back of the wain. To think that this still, lifeless shape
was all that was left of the high king, a man he’d once very nearly
considered a god sprung to life.

“Our goal was Avalon, the Isle of Apples,
but that seems far-fetched now. He’s already feverish and weak.
More traveling might finish him off.”

“He’s alive!” Rhun almost fell out of the
saddle in amazement. He took a deep breath to recover himself. “By
all means, you must stop somewhere.” He looked around, scanning the
landscape in desperation. There must be some farmstead nearby. Some
kind of shelter, a place to build a fire, someone skilled in herbs
and medicine. His heart sank. This part of Britain had been the
site of too many battles in recent years, and most of the people
had moved to safer locales. Shelter and food they might be able to
find. But a wise woman or midwife, that was unlikely. And without
treatment, Arthur would surely die, especially if he were already
fevered.

Rhun dismounted. “Where is the wound? Show
me.”

Tristan also dismounted. They walked back to
the wain and Tristan lifted the blanket. Rhun gave a gasp. Arthur
looked pale as death already and his breathing was shallow and
uneven.

“His arm is mangled,” Tristan said. “But
that’s not what worries me. It’s the wound in his groin that’s like
to kill him.” He lifted the high king’s long mail shirt to reveal
leather trousers completely caked with dried blood.

“My God,” Rhun said. He wished fervently
he’d paid attention to Rhiannon when she’d brewed decoctions for
his brothers and sisters when they’d had fevers, or could remember
what she used to clean wounds with so they wouldn’t fill with
poison. But he knew nothing about healing. He’d always depended on
wise women like Rhiannon or the army surgeons, most of whom were
holy brothers who’d made healing their special calling. “Where’s
Geriant? Or Hywel?” he asked, thinking of the surgeons.

“Probably back there somewhere. We had to
get him away.” There was a note of hysteria in Tristan’s voice. “We
feared the Saxons would follow us and finish him off. While Arthur
lives, so does the dream. The Saxons know that as well as we
do.”

Rhun shook his head. “But he’s like to die
anyway. I don’t know how to aid him, what to do, except to somehow
get him to shelter and keep him warm.”

“I’ve thought that, too,” Tristan said. “But
I didn’t feel I could leave him to go and search for a place to bed
down for the night. Besides, he wasn’t this bad until the last
mile. He even spoke to me, encouraging me.” Tristan looked as if he
might weep. This was obviously too much for him. And what other
horrors had he seen during the previous day? Who could blame him if
he was so stunned he could not think clearly? Rhun had seen it
often in the aftermath of battles.

“Stay here,” he said firmly. “I’ll go look
for a place to spend the night.”

“But what if someone comes? We can’t leave
the road with the cart. Nor can we carry him to safety very
quickly.”

Rhun scanned the horizon, looking for anyone
on the road behind them. The hilly nature of the landscape made it
impossible to see very far. “I’ll be as fast as I can. If anyone
comes, draw your swords and prepare to fight.”

Tristan nodded.

Rhun took a deep breath. Surely this was why
God had not allowed him to take part in the battle of the crooked
glen—Camboglanna—as the previous day’s conflict was already being
called. He was meant to save Arthur’s life instead of fighting at
his side. But if that was God’s purpose, why had He not given Rhun
a better chance of succeeding?

It seemed hopeless, yet Rhun remembered
Rhiannon’s words: while there is life, there is hope. Once again he
must put aside his longing for Eastra. How could he not, when his
dying king had been practically thrown into his path?

He focused his thoughts and began to search
the area for shelter. No sign of farmstead or bothy or any sort of
habitation on this side of the road. He retraced his steps and
searched the other side. After he’d gone a short way, he halted.
Wasn’t there something odd about that pile of stones in the
distance?

He rushed to the place, pushing through the
underbrush nearly hiding it, then took a step back and stared. Of
all things, an ancient, square temple of worked stone. The faces of
the old Roman-style gods stared blindly from their niches in the
walls. He ducked his head to enter. The construction seemed solid,
although the place smelled sourly of the droppings of some animal
that had used it as a den. It would suffice for their purposes,
providing shelter and hiding them from the road.

He left the temple and retraced his steps.
As he approached the cart, he saw them in the distance. Riders.
Four of them. They were bearing down on the cart and the soldiers
guarding it. Rhun began to run.

He was about a hundred paces away. It looked
as if he would reach Arthur and the others at the same time as the
riders. His sword bounced against his side, and he wondered how
long he should wait before drawing it. His hand went to the
hilt.

Then he saw something that made his steps
slow to a dazed, stumbling rhythm. One of the riders had long pale
golden hair. It glinted in the sun like a helmet of light.
Could
it be...?

Rhun shut his eyes and opened them again,
wondering if he were trapped in some sort of dream. A dream that
had seemed like a nightmare, but now promised to turn as magical
and wonderful as any dream he’d ever had.

He started running again. As he neared the
cart, Tristan was shouting, but Rhun didn’t notice what he said.
Beside the wain, he halted. “Eastra,” he whispered.

Her eyes were fixed on him also, as they
drank in the sight of each other. She reined in her horse, and he
ran to her. He reached up and dragged her off her mount, then
twirled around with her in his arms. “Eastra, my darling, my
love!”

He heard her laugh, wild and exuberant,
sounding like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. Then he put
her down and glanced at her stomach, then back at her face. “Is it
true?” he asked. “Do you carry my babe?”

“It’s true,” she said, then laughed
again.

Rhun embraced her, then looked around. He
wanted to share their wonderful news with the whole world. Then he
saw Beli and Owain... and Morguese. The sight of her amazed him as
much as seeing Eastra, but in a different way. He started to open
his mouth to say something sarcastic about her gloating over
Arthur’s defeat. But then he saw how ravaged and pale she looked
and the words froze in his throat. She wasn’t gloating. Nay, she
looked as if she had been weeping for days.

Eastra touched his face. “Morguese’s going
to help us,” she said. “She’s going to heal Arthur.”

He shook his head, more puzzled than ever.
“But why? Has she changed her mind about wanting him dead? What’s
happened?”

“It’s a long tale. What matters now is that
she says she can keep Arthur from dying.” She looked around. “We
need some sort of shelter, a place for her to work her magic.”

“I’ve found it,” Rhun said. “And it’s more
perfect for our task than you could ever have imagined.”

The next few moments were busy ones. The
cart was hauled closer to the temple, then the six of them—Tristan,
the two footsoldiers, Beli, Owain, and Rhun—all carried Arthur down
the slope to the temple hidden in the trees. Eastra had already
swept it out with a branch and put down blankets on the cold stone
floor. There was no hearth, but Owain started a fire near the door
and lit a small oil lamp that he’d carried in his pack. Morguese,
moving at the slow, lethargic pace with which she’d done everything
since Mordred’s death, set out the bags of herbs, bottles of oils
and essences, bowls and utensils she used for her spells.

When she was finished with her preparations,
she waved them away. “Leave me,” she said.

Rhun hesitated, as did Tristan. With more
force, Morguese repeated, “Leave me!”

Eastra took Rhun’s hand. “Come,” she said.
“We can talk while she works her spells.”

“But what if... she does something to
him?”

Eastra looked at him quizzically. “If she
betrays our trust and kills him, then it’s no worse than the death
he would have suffered anyway. His wound is mortal. Nothing but
sorcery can save him.”

Rhun nodded. It was true. Still, it bothered
him to leave his king alone with Morguese, who’d openly plotted his
overthrow. It bothered him even more when Eastra told him about the
scene by the river. “By the saints! Mordred was her son! But Arthur
and her... why that’s... that’s incest!”

Eastra nodded. “So Arthur said. But it’s
over now. Mordred’s dead. Arthur’s debt is paid. And Morguese...”
She sighed. “Morguese has no one left to love. That’s why she’s
doing this. I think she once loved Arthur and that’s why she
tricked him into bedding her. And then when he rejected her and
rejected the child they’d conceived, all that love turned to
hatred. She’s spent the last twenty years of her life plotting his
defeat. But when Mordred died, it changed something in her. She
remembered her love for Arthur. She doesn’t want to lose him as she
has her son. I believe she will do her best to heal him.”

“Well,” Rhun said. “You’re a woman, so
perhaps that makes sense to you, but it makes none to me.”

“But you will trust my judgment?”

“Of course.” He leaned near and kissed her.
It began as a light, gentle kiss, then quickly turned to something
more. The very feel of her body in his arms turned him to fire.
Soon they were one writhing, panting beast, pressed against the
back side of the temple.

He finally broke away. “This is madness,” he
murmured.

“Why?” Her voice was teasing.

“Because Arthur may be dying and here we
are, like a pair of animals in heat!”

“There’s nothing wrong with passion. Indeed,
our lust may well add some power to Morguese’s spell. Although I do
agree we should find some secluded spot so we can continue in
privacy.”

That their lovemaking could give life to a
dying man—it certainly was a strange notion. But it sounded
plausible when Eastra said it. And Rhun didn’t think he could keep
his hands off of her anyway.

He retrieved a blanket from his saddle pack.
As he passed by the other men on the way to the temple, he said
sheepishly, “I thought Arthur might need it.” No one commented and
he wondered if they believed him. Or maybe they were too caught up
in their worries for Arthur to care what he did.

He should be praying himself, he thought as
he approached the thicket Eastra had selected. With every breath he
took, he should be beseeching the Almighty to let Arthur live. But
then would that not be hypocritical—to petition his God for aid
when in fact he was putting his trust in a devotee of the
Goddess?

He had to confront the fact that as deep as
his faith was in some ways, it had its limitations. Some things
remained the realm of the old gods. As high king, Arthur belonged
to the land, the Great Mother herself, and only She could heal
him.

This thought contented him, but perhaps it
didn’t matter anyway, he thought as he pushed aside the concealing
branches and beheld Eastra in all her naked glory. For a time, he
simply stared at her, memorizing each lovely plane and curve, every
facet of her beauty. His gaze lingered on her slightly rounded
belly, the lavish abundance of her breasts, the deep rose of her
nipples. She no longer looked like a maid, but an incarnation of
the Goddess herself, ripe and lush and glowing with the splendor of
the new life inside her.

He spread the blanket on the ground, then
caught her up in his arms and pulled her down so they lay side by
side. “What happened to you?” he asked between kisses. “I remember
you as a shy maiden, not this bold, free-spirited, lustful
woman.”

“After months of being treated like a
princess, I finally realized I was one. I had value and power, and
I could change things instead of letting life pull me along like a
leaf carried away on the current.” She nuzzled his ear. “Do you
like
your Saxon princess?”

“Mmmm, it’s what I’ve always wanted... I
think.”

“You
think?”
She slapped him in mock
anger.

Then he rolled over on top of her and the
playful mood vanished. Pushing down his trousers, he was soon deep
inside her. His rhythm was urgent, rough. Eastra clutched his
shoulders and gave in to the fierce, primal sensations. He was like
a proud stag mounting a doe. She trembled and moaned, hungry and
yearning for every thrust inside her. Her womb, already ripe with
life, contracted and pulsed.

Her mind was filled with visions. She saw
the great horned god of the hunt silhouetted in the light of the
full moon. And in the moon was a woman’s face, the Lady. As she
floated down upon the silvery light the stag god’s shadow moved to
meet the light and became a man. They were joined, their bodies
merging, becoming one. Male and female, unique and wonderful. And
in their joining, the power was unleashed. Eastra felt it inside
her own flesh. She was the Goddess, the giver of life, and Rhun
worshiped her as only a man could, offering her his strength, his
dark, wild essence, his seed.