The Dragon Prince
Authors: Mary Gillgannon
Tags: #family saga, #king arthur, #goddess, #historical romance, #dark age britain, #magic and fantasy, #celtic mysticism, #dragon of the island
by
To my children, Moira and Thomas, who represent a
modern blending of Celtic and Saxon.
Copyright 2002 and 2012 by Mary
Gillgannon
E-book Published by Mary Gillgannon at
Smashwords, 2012
Cover design by Rae Monet,
Inc. Designs
http:/www.raemonetinc.com
E-book format by A Thirsty
Mind
http://www.athirstymind.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
without permission in writing from the Author.
Table of Contents
Southeast Britain,
A.D.
527
He couldn’t breathe. The helmet he wore was
suffocating him.
“Rhun, this way!” someone called.
He forced himself to move forward into the
burning Saxon village. All around him, men were setting fire to the
timber dwellings. A woman with yellow braids darted out of one of
the huts. She saw him and screamed. Before Rhun could move, another
warrior pursued her into the haze of the smoke. There was another
terrified cry, then nothing.
Rhun took a deep breath. His first raid. He
hadn’t known it would be like this. When he joined Arthur’s army,
he’d imagined himself riding into battle on a sleek warhorse, the
red dragon of Gwynedd shining proudly on his shield.
The image faded as he straightened and
started toward the center of the village. There was a sound behind
him. He whirled and saw another woman. She held a gleaming Saxon
battle-ax, and her cobalt eyes shone with hatred. He stared at her,
wishing he knew her language, some words to reassure her he meant
her no harm.
She raised the axe, and Rhun’s muscles
responded instinctively, moving his heavy broadsword in an arc to
block the deadly blow. Iron grated against iron. The axe spun out
of her hands and landed behind her. Her expression turned to one of
dread.
“Go,” he said. He motioned with his sword.
She hesitated, then turned and ran.
Rhun relaxed his stance, breathing heavily.
After a moment, he started toward a large timber structure at the
center of the settlement. He approached the building and used his
sword to push aside the hide door. Tense with caution, he bent his
head and entered.
Light from slit windows and a smokehole in
the roof illuminated a living area furnished with stools and
benches around a main hearth. The furniture was well made, the
fabric hangings on the wall richly colored and luxurious. A sense
of relief washed over him. This must be the Saxon chieftain’s
dwelling. If he could find treasure here, he would have an excuse
to transport it back to camp and leave the killing behind.
There was a wooden chest in the corner of
the room, decorated with hammered bronze strips. Rhun shifted his
sword to his left hand to open the chest, which was filled with
straw. He reached in and felt around. His fingers closed over a
cold, hard object, and he lifted out a heavy gold drinking cup. Two
stags, their eyes of garnet, encircled the vessel. The beasts
looked so real he half expected them to come to life and spring
away.
A faint sound made him pause and listen. He
replaced the cup and started toward the back of the room. A low
doorway led to an adjoining chamber. He ducked down to enter. The
floor of the chamber was covered with woven mats; a large wooden
bed filled the rest of the room. Carved horse heads adorned the
corner posts of the bed. They were so beautifully crafted, Rhun
couldn’t resist tracing one of the polished shapes with his free
hand. If the Saxons were truly crude savages, how came they by
things like this?
Another muffled sound froze him in place.
His gaze swept the chamber and came to rest on the narrow space
between the wall and the bed. Sword at the ready, he edged around
the bed until he could see a bundle of crimson cloth wedged there.
He reached down to examine it. It appeared to be caught on
something heavy. He laid his sword on the bed and used both hands
to yank hard.
The cloth gave way, and a gray cat flew out
of the space, hissing its fury as it churned across the bed. He
watched it streak out the door, then looked down to see a mass of
pale hair. At first he thought it was another animal. Then he
realized a delicate hand was clutched protectively over the tangled
flaxen tresses.
He drew back. If he left now, no one would
ever know he had found anyone here. But eventually this building
would be put to the torch like the rest. The child or woman or
whoever was here would die a horrible death.
Bile rose in his throat. His orders were to
kill every Saxon he found. Godless savages, Cador called them. He
said they bred like hares and if they and their offspring weren’t
wiped out, in another generation they would control all of
Britain.
Rhun picked up his sword with trembling
hand. If he failed in his duty, Cador would never recommend him for
the Companions, Arthur’s elite warband. He took a deep breath and
prepared himself to make the killing thrust. His eyes watered. His
mouth worked. Blessed Jesu, he could not do it!
He flung his sword back on the bed and
clenched his hands into fists. If he failed as a warrior, so be it.
He had joined Arthur because his cause seemed a noble one. They
fought for freedom and safety for their own people and to preserve
the Christian faith against the marauding pagan hordes. But the
Blessed Savior would not want him to kill an innocent child. It
went against everything honorable, everything Rhun believed in.
He started to retrieve his sword, but even
as he did so, the Saxon leaped out of hiding and tried to scramble
over the bed. Reacting instinctively, he reached out and grabbed a
handful of hair. His breath caught as he jerked the girl around.
She was exquisite—her skin as pale as buttermilk, her eyes as pure
and blue as the summer sky. Against the tawny furs piled on the
bed, she appeared to glow. He stared at her, unable to move.
She was very young. He doubted she’d even
reached womanhood. He couldn’t kill her, and yet what could he do?
If he left her, she would perish in the flames. But if he allowed
her to flee, some other warrior might find her, someone who might
not consider her too young for rape and defilement. Killing her was
the most merciful thing he could do. And yet...
If only she would not look at him so. Her
eyes were desperate, pleading. They seemed to reach inside him and
twist something until his whole being ached.
He exhaled through his teeth. He had to save
her. Releasing her hair, he grabbed her by the garment she wore and
dragged her across the bed. She relaxed in his grasp, like a kitten
in its mother’s mouth.
He let go of her and bent to retrieve the
piece of fabric she had used to shield herself. It was a cloak,
fashioned of densely woven crimson wool. He tossed her the cloak
and tried to indicate she should wrap herself in the garment. She
watched him in puzzlement.
He motioned impatiently to the doorway. They
didn’t have much time. At any moment, some other soldier might come
searching for booty.
At last she seemed to understand and gather
the cloak around herself. He arranged the fabric so it hid her hair
completely, then retrieved his sword and sheathed it
She watched him with a look of trust that
unnerved him. At over four cubits in height, most men considered
him a giant, and with his helmet and full battle gear, he must
present a terrifying aspect. What did she see in his face that made
her acquiesce so easily? Was it his youth? He’d only be seventeen
years this spring. Or did she somehow guess his thoughts and know
he was incapable of hurting her?
A shout outside reminded him they should not
linger. He picked up the girl and wrapped the cloak more tightly
around her, concealing her face. Then, taking a deep breath, he
carried her out.
“Did you find the chieftain’s treasure?”
Cian, another young soldier, demanded as soon as Rhun stepped out
of the dwelling.
“Aye. I bundled up what I could, but there’s
plenty more.” Rhun jerked his head. “Go inside and see. There’s a
chest full of fine metalwork and plate in the main room. Perhaps
you can use one of the wall hangings to carry it.”
“What is that?” Cian motioned to Rhun’s
burden.
“A harp.” For the past few seconds, he had
tried frantically to come up with an explanation for the
strange-shaped bundle in his arms. “I mean to take it back to my
father’s bard. That is, if Cador allows it.”
“A harp?” Cian frowned. “I didn’t know the
Saxons cared for music or poetry. I thought they were—”
“Crude savages? Aye, I did also. But once
you see the things in there, you’ll know they have as much love of
beauty as our people.”
Cian started toward the door, then
hesitated. “You found no one inside? You’re certain I won’t be
ambushed?”
“Only a gray striped cat. I would look out
for that one.”
Cian’s face split into a grin beneath his
helmet. Then he disappeared into the doorway.
Rhun moved past the burning huts and storage
buildings toward the forest beyond the village. It was slow going.
The smoke was thick; he could hardly see. He struggled on, trying
not to breathe the noxious haze. His metal helmet grew hot, and
sparks stung his bare arms. At least his boiled leather jerkin
would not burn. Nor would the wool of his trews or the girl’s
mantle catch easily.
At last he reached the cool, shadowy stand
of oaks. He kept walking. If he remained close to the village, one
of the other soldiers might see him.
The forest closed around them. The air grew
fresher and was filled with the sweet perfume of growing things. He
finally paused in a little glen. In a gap between the trees, purple
loosestrife and golden broom grew in wild profusion on the forest
floor. In this tranquil place, it was easy to forget the
destruction and violence he had left behind.
He gently unwrapped the girl and set her on
her feet. Her head reached only to his chest, and he wondered how
tall she would be when she was a woman grown. Then he wondered if
she would live that long. How would she survive? It didn’t seem
likely any of her kin would be left to aid her.
For a moment, he considered taking her home
to his father’s fortress in Gwynedd. Then he realized if he did so,
she would end up a servant. Considering the fine timber dwelling
he’d found her in, she was likely the Saxon chieftain’s daughter or
granddaughter, a princess of sorts. She deserved to be free.
He sighed, staring down at her. In the
dimness of the forest, her silvery hair shone like sunlight on a
waterfall. Her delicate form and magical coloring made him think of
a wood sprite. Maybe the fairies of this wood would find her and
make her one of their own.
He half smiled at his own foolish thoughts.
He didn’t believe in fairies, no matter that his stepmother,
Rhiannon, teased him it was only because he had not yet met
one.
The girl smiled shyly at him, her expression
making her appear even lovelier. He thought he could stay there and
look at her forever.
But he could not. The longer he waited, the
more likely someone would find them. He knew many men in his troop
would not hesitate to rape or murder the girl, despite her youth.
She was a Saxon, the enemy.