Born of the Sun (63 page)

Niniane’s pale mouth set in a stern line. “That is Coinmail talking,” she said. “And it is not true. Ceawlin told you true when he said that you underestimate me. My children are part British. They are British in the most important way of all, Gereint. They were baptized.”

“They are not Christians for all that, Niniane. I have been in Winchester often enough to see that. They worship with Ceawlin, not with you.”

“They follow the rites of the Saxon religion, and the form gives them a sense of comradeship with the rest of the men, but they do not worship Saxon gods, Gereint. Even Ceawlin does not really believe in those gods. He sees Woden as some kind of glorified ancestor, but he does not believe in him as God. If he believes in anything, he believes in Fate.”

Gereint was staring at her intently. She began to pleat the fold of her linen overgown with careful deliberation, looking at her fingers and not at Gereint. “Ceawlin would not tell you that, of course. And he is very wary of Christianity; he thinks it is the religion of the weak.” She smoothed out the pleats she had made and began to do them again. “But my sons are farther down the road than their father. I think Crida believes in God. Not Christ, maybe, but a God. One God. He is not quite sure, and because he is young, he has other things to think about.” Niniane looked at Gereint out of the corner of her eye. “I have to be careful, you see. I cannot talk about Christ. Ceawlin would not be able to accept that.”

“What are you telling me, Niniane?” Gereint asked quietly.

“I am telling you that even if the Saxons move into Dumnonia, and perhaps into Wales; even if the language eventually spoken in those lands is Saxon and not British, still we will have won in the most important way. It is we who have kept the spark of faith alive in Britain, Gereint, and someday, a day not too far in the future, the Saxons will convert. I know this will happen. If the pope sent an apostle to Crida, I think Crida would listen.” She smiled wryly. “Ceawlin, no. But Crida would. So would Ceowulf and Eirik and my little Fara. And it will happen because we will have prepared the ground for it.”

“Coinmail still wants to drive the Saxons out.”

“You cannot. Arthur could not do it a hundred years ago, Gereint. Coinmail cannot do it today. The Saxons will never leave Britain.”

Gereint’s long-fingered hands moved restlessly on the arms of his chair and then were still. “I think you are right,” he answered finally, his voice very low.

“But don’t you see what has happened?” She bent a little toward him in her eagerness to convince. “Arthur has proved victorious after all. He gave us almost a century of peace, Gereint, and during that century the Saxons became civilized. I remember that Ceawlin said that to you once. The sea wolves who first landed on Britain’s shores have turned into farmers and merchants. They are civilized people, Gereint.”

“Coinmail says—”

“I know what Coinmail says,” she put in impatiently. “He said it to me too, and he can be very persuasive. It was Coinmail’s words that made me think all this out. Coinmail says that we Britons are the repository of Roman civilization, that we must save it from the ravages of the pagans. But the bitter truth is that we have not been very good at saving Roman civilization, Gereint. The cities left by Rome are falling down. It is the Saxons who have rebuilt the cities. We just let them fall into decay. Why do you think Bevan turned to Wessex for a husband for his daughter? Because he loves Dynas and wants to see it survive. It has not survived very well under British custody. But do you know something? Under Cedric it will flourish.”

“You are not very flattering about your own people, Niniane,” Gereint said. His face was unreadable.

“There is much that is great in the Celtic people. I like Saxon poetry, but ours is finer. There is a fire in us, a quicksilver quality that no Saxon possesses. But we are not a city people. Think, Gereint. What city in Britain was built by the British?”

“Camelot,” came the instant reply.

“Ceawlin would tell you that Arthur was more Roman than Briton. Whatever he was, Arthur was unique. The rest of the cities on this island were built by the Romans. And a hundred years after the Romans had left, the cities were falling apart.”

“Well, what is so important about cities?”

Niniane laughed. “That is the Briton talking.”

There was a long silence. Then Gereint sighed. “You and Coinmail would make Roman orators.”

“I don’t know about that.” Niniane rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “I understand that you are torn by this, Gereint. I have been married to Ceawlin for some eighteen years, but I have always remembered that I am a Briton. I also know Ceawlin, and I will tell you this: he is as great a king as Arthur ever was, and Coinmail is not his equal. Not as a man, not as a king.” She opened her eyes and stared at Ceawlin’s only British eorl.

Gereint had slumped down in his chair and a shock of dark brown hair hung forward over his forehead and hid his eyes. When Niniane finished speaking he peered up at her, a look that recalled vividly the boy he had been. He said, “I agree.”

There was a long silence. Then Gereint pushed himself upright. “I do not think I can take up arms against Coinmail, Niniane, but I will promise not to fight for him either. Will that do?”

Niniane’s smile was tremulous. “It will have to,” she said. “Stay for dinner.”

It was during dinner that it happened. The sound of thundering hooves in the courtyard, the shouts of the thanes as they erupted out of the thanes’ quarters, the clashing sound of sword upon sword.

“Dear God in heaven, what is happening?” Niniane cried as she ran to a window with Gereint close behind her. It was growing dark but they could see that the courtyard was filled with horsemen. Ceawlin’s thanes had drawn up into a circle facing out, but they were outnumbered four to one. “Sigbert!” Niniane screamed as one of the thanes went down. She turned to run to the villa door.

Gereint caught her arm. “No! Stay here, Niniane. You can do nothing for the thanes now.”

“Let me go!” She pulled frantically at the hand that was holding her.

“No. Niniane, didn’t you see who it is?”

She stopped struggling and stared at him.“Who?”

“Coinmail.”

She went white to the lips. “Coinmail?”

“Yes.” Gereint looked around the room. “How did he know you were here? God, where can I hide you?”

“Hide me?” she repeated blankly.

From down the hall came the sound of the front door opening. “It’s too late,” Gereint said despairingly. “He will know you are still here because of the thanes.”

Niniane drew a deep shuddering breath. There came the sound of feet tramping down the hall. They had left the dining-room door open. “Greetings, Coinmail,” Niniane said to the man who entered first. “I am sorry I cannot say welcome.” Gereint gave her a startled look. She had collected herself with astonishing quickness.

Coinmail stopped two feet inside the door and looked from his sister to Gereint. A flicker of satisfaction showed on his austere features. “So,” he said. “I am in time.”

“How did you know Niniane was here?” Gereint demanded.

“I have friends in the neighborhood,” Coinmail replied. “Fortunately I was at Corinium and able to move quickly.”

“If you wished to speak to me so desperately, my brother, you had only to send word.” Niniane was still very pale but her small chin was high.

“I have nothing I want to say to you,” Coinmail replied. They were the first words he had spoken directly to her and his voice was cold. “But you will come with me, Niniane. You have polluted yourself in Ceawlin’s bed long enough.”

“My lord.” It was one of Coinmail’s men at the door. “We have taken four of the Saxons alive. What shall we do with them?”

“Kill them.”

The Briton’s “Yes, sir” clashed with Niniane’s anguished
“No!”

“The fewer West Saxons in the world, the fewer men for Ceawlin’s war band,” Coinmail said. He spoke to Gereint, who had also made a protest.

“You could hold them captive,” said Gereint. “It is not necessary to kill them.”

“They are pagans,” Coinmail said. Then, to Niniane, “Where is your horse?”

“I have no horse. I came by litter.”

“You will have to ride with one of my men, then.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Glevum.”

“Coinmail, you cannot take Niniane all that long way!” It was Gereint. “She is with child. That is why Ceawlin sent her in a litter.”

Coinmail’s gray eyes looked his sister up and down. Then, “It cannot be helped,” he said. “If she loses it, that will be one less son of Ceawlin’s for me to worry about.”

“She is your sister!”

“Coinmail cares nothing for that.” Niniane’s voice was as cold as her brother’s. Gereint had never heard her sound like that. “He is incapable of any of the human ties that most people feel, that bind together families and societies. He is a man with a Great Cause, and he will sacrifice everything that is real and decent in life in order to achieve it. It is really Coinmail and not Ceawlin who is uncivilized, Gereint. Isn’t that ironic?”

There was a spark of anger in Coinmail’s dark gray eyes. “You have been in bed with the Saxon for so long that now you think like him,” he said.

Niniane’s delicate brows rose. “Then send me back to him. I am of no use to you.”

“You are of use to him,” came the uncompromising reply. “That is why you will go with me.”

Gereint protested again, but for naught. He was forced to stand by helplessly and watch Niniane being lifted to the saddle of one of her brother’s men. Her whole face had clenched when she saw the dead thanes lying in the courtyard.

“I will see them buried,” was all Gereint could think to say in comfort.

She nodded, clearly not trusting herself to speak. As Gereint watched the cadre of horsemen riding out of Bryn Atha, he was filled with despair. How in the name of God was he going to tell Ceawlin that Coinmail had taken Niniane?

Gereint sent for some men and together they dug graves for the thanes. All of the men he buried were known to him; they had been with the king for years. Several of them had wives, children. But Coinmail did not care for that. He saw only that they were the enemy.

Ceawlin would not have done this, Gereint found himself thinking as he shoveled dirt over the inert bodies. He would not have cold-bloodedly executed the men who survived the fight in the courtyard. Ceawlin could be ruthless, but he also knew how to show mercy.

When Gereint had sent for the burial party, he had also sent out a call for a tribal meeting the following morning. The first men began to ride into his farmyard shortly after dawn. By eight o’clock there were some fifty men and boys assembled to hear what Gereint had to say. The men of Gereint’s age and older made up the bulk of the group, but to the side was a collection of youngsters surrounding Naille, Gereint’s fourteen-year-old son. There was an air of determination about them that caught Gereint’s attention. Naille must have sent for the boys, Gereint thought. He certainly had not requested their presence.

“You are all aware of what has been happening between Wessex and the Dobunni and the Welsh over this matter of Wessex marrying into Dumnonia,” he began. The faces watching him were all sober. By now there was no one who had not learned of the kidnapping of the queen. “You know I represented our feelings to Ceawlin and that the marriage went forward anyway.” He paused, testing their attention. No one moved. “I told the queen yesterday, before Prince Coinmail’s arrival, that the Atrebates would not take up arms in this struggle; not for Ceawlin and not for Coinmail.”

A sigh seemed to go up from the assembled men. What that sigh portended, Gereint did not know, was never to know, because just then his son spoke out, clear and passionate in the morning air. “I cannot believe, Father, that you are not going to back the king!”

There was a movement as if everyone present had snapped to attention. All of the boys with Naille were signaling violent agreement.

“I explained to you, Naille,” Gereint said carefully, trying not to show his surprise. “Never before have we been faced with a choice between Ceawlin and our people.”

“What people?” It was Ferris’ son speaking now. “Our people are not in Wales. Or Dumnonia. Our people are here!” A gesture to encompass all the men standing together in the farmyard. “We are the Atrebates and Ceawlin is our king!” the ringing young voice cried. “He is the greatest king in all the world, and if he wants my sword, he shall have it!”

Gereint stared at the glowing young faces of his son and his son’s friend. These boys, he suddenly realized, had not been brought up on tales of Arthur and Arthur’s wars against the Saxons. They had been brought up on tales of Ceawlin. He had told them himself, night after night, the stories of how the Atrebates had helped Ceawlin win a kingdom. And he remembered also the time he too had defied his father to take up a sword for Ceawlin. It was a tale he had recounted often to his own children.

He looked at the boys and suddenly it was as if a great weight had lifted from his back. For the first time in months he felt young again. He grinned at his son and said, above the agitated rumble of male voices in the yard, “He can have my sword too.”

It proved surprisingly easy to convince the Atrebates to take up arms for Ceawlin. The young ones who had grown up thinking themselves part of Wessex, who had never known another king, were eager. But the resistance Gereint had expected from the older ones, the ones who remembered the days when the Saxon king was an object of fear and hatred, never materialized.

“He is a good king,” one of Gereint’s older cousins said as they met in council after the larger meeting. “Two years ago, when the crops were so bad, there would have been famine had Ceawlin not sent to Gaul for food and fodder. He paid for it himself, and we got an equal share with all the Saxon vils and manors. We could not ask for a better king than Ceawlin. I say he deserves our support.”

It gave Gereint a little comfort to know that he could go to Winchester with news of Atrebates support to soften the blow of Niniane’s kidnapping.