The Dragon Prince (42 page)

“Perhaps Arthur can’t sound the retreat,”
Eastra said “Perhaps he’s already dead.”

Both men looked at her. “What makes you
think that?” Beli asked. His expression made her realize he thought
she had experienced some premonition of the outcome of the
battle.

“I know no more than you,” she assured him.
“But I heard Mordred vow to kill his father, and since Arthur’s
banner is no longer visible, I fear the worst.”

“Will you mourn him?” Beli asked. “He was
your uncle’s enemy, and I know his hold upon Rhun cost you
dear.”

Eastra nodded gravely. “I will mourn him.
I’ve never met another man like him.” Perhaps there were no others,
she thought to herself. A king who fought for a dream, rather than
his own power. A warrior who fought for peace.

Only her beloved Rhun was as noble as
Arthur, and she could not admire his urge to self-sacrifice the way
she could admire Arthur’s. His life belonged to
her
and to
their child, and in her mind he was not free to squander it for the
sake of a dream.

“Oh, Rhun,” she murmured. “Where are
you?”

It was almost nightfall before Owain thought
it safe to go down into the valley. Even then, the men rode on
either side of Eastra, swords drawn. The only light to see by came
from torches and the pale glow of a half moon rising over the
hills. The battlefield was dark, hiding the carnage Eastra knew
must be there. The moans and screams of the wounded and dying
echoed through the night, filling her with dread. Was Rhun among
those poor souls? How would she ever find him?

Owain had decided it would be wisest for
them to seek news of the battle from the Saxons, since they were
the victors. They left their horses in a thorn grove and walked
cautiously toward the fort. Before they’d gone far, Owain accosted
an exhausted-looking Saxon and dragged him over to Eastra. “Speak
to him in his own tongue,” he told her. “That way he will know we
are not the enemy.”

She told the man she was Cerdic’s niece and
she had come for news. Haltingly, he answered her questions. Aye,
the Britons had been totally routed. Arthur was believed to be dead
and, with him, all of the Companions. A few of the Britons had
escaped, but so few Cerdic decided it was not worth the trouble to
chase them down and kill them. The losses on the Saxon side had not
been grievous, but the Picts had suffered heavy casualties. It was
the way they fought, the warrior explained, throwing themselves
into the fray like madmen.

At some point, the man seemed to snap out of
his battle trance and question what she was doing there. He warned
her it wasn’t safe to remain so close to the battlefield. Looters
roamed the area, unscrupulous wretches who stole from the corpses
and finished off the wounded so they could steal from them as well.
He also told her Cerdic had returned to the fortress, but it might
be best if she waited until morning to seek him out.

Eastra agreed with this advice. She had no
desire to meet with her uncle this night. He was likely still angry
at her for speaking to him so boldly and then leaving his camp. The
man started to walk away, but then she called out as an
afterthought, “And Mordred Arthur’s son and Cerdic’s ally, where is
he?”

“Dead” the man answered. “They say Arthur
stabbed him in the throat even as his own life’s blood was draining
away. Cerdic ordered no burial or death ceremony for Mordred. His
words were, ‘That one can rot in the mud were he lays.’ “

“Where did Mordred die?” Eastra asked. “Do
you know the place?”

“Down by the river, near where it
curves.”

Eastra immediately began to contemplate
where she could get a torch.

“What did he say?” Beli asked.

“He said Arthur and all his companions are
dead. Mordred was also killed.”

Eastra glanced around. Seeing a man with a
torch, she approached him and smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m Cerdic’s
niece. I’ve come from the fortress where they are tending the
wounded. We need more torches there. Would you let me have that
one?”

The man gaped at her. “Cerdic’s niece? And
he has you tending the wounded?”

“I wanted to help.” She lowered her eyes
demurely.

“Here,” the man thrust the torch at her. “I
suppose the living have more urgent need of it than do the
dead.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Now what are you planning?” Owain asked,
coming up beside her.

“We’re going down to the river. We’re going
to look for Mordred.”

They returned to their horses. Owain held
the torch and led the way, grumbling. Their course took them
through the woods where Arthur’s cavalry had waited. They
encountered few bodies. Those Britons left alive had made it their
mission to collect their fallen comrades. All the corpses that
remained, scattered among the trees, were Picts. Eastra felt a stab
of grief each time Owain shone the torchlight on another of the
small, fierce warriors.

Even to herself, she could not explain what
drove her to find Mordred. She knew even if Arthur had fallen
nearby, the high king’s body would have been borne off hours
ago.

But then there was a keening sound, a
bone-chilling cry of grief and pain, and Eastra knew why she had
come.

They hurried to the river. At the water’s
edge, the torchlight revealed the spectacle of a wailing woman
standing knee-deep in the shallow water, struggling to drag
something to shore. Her hair was unbound and wild, but Eastra
recognized Morguese. “Help her,” Eastra said to Beli and Owain, her
voice shaking. Even though she knew Morguese had brought this
tragedy on herself and her son, Eastra could not help pitying her.
She thought about how she would feel if it were her child lying
lifeless in the water, her own flesh and blood, cold and dead.

The two men dismounted and helped the
hysterical woman get Mordred onto the riverbank. Morguese
immediately threw herself upon his prone form, weeping. She seemed
oblivious to everyone and everything around her. They all stood
there, listening to her moan and cry until Eastra could endure it
no longer. She approached Morguese and touched her shoulder. “Come
with me and warm yourself,” she said. “You can do no more for
him.”

Morguese whimpered. She stroked her son’s
face tenderly. In death, Mordred looked very young, and much more
innocent than he’d been in life. The wound in his throat had bled
out, so there was no sign of his violent death. His face looked
peaceful and relaxed, as if he were sleeping.

“Come,” Eastra said again. Morguese allowed
herself to be helped up. She was haggard and wild-eyed, her hair
tangled around her body in limp strands, her gown torn and filthy.
Eastra could scarcely recognize this woman as the powerful
priestess she remembered dancing with supreme hypnotic confidence
in Urien’s hall.

She put her arms around Morguese. “Owain
will build a fire.” She nodded to him as she said this. “We’ll wrap
you up and get you warm.” Morguese clung to her hand as they waited
for the men to fetch the flintstone and other supplies from the
horses’ packs.

They camped there for the night, with
Mordred’s body lying a few feet away. Owain had covered it with his
cloak. Strangely, Morguese dropped off to sleep almost immediately.
It was Eastra who lay awake, staring up at the few stars visible
through the trees. She felt numb and empty. Too much had happened
this day. Death was all around her. Far in the distance, she could
still hear men screaming in pain. And not a dozen paces away,
Mordred dreamed the endless dream of the dead. She tried to imagine
it in her mind, Arthur wounded and bleeding, but still strong and
canny enough to manage a last swordthrust. With that one blow, he
had sent his son to the Otherworld to pay the debt he believed must
be paid.

She shivered at the thought, wondering at
the forces at work around her. Her faith in Morguese’s power had
been shattered. What did that mean for her and the babe growing in
her belly? She touched herself, wondering how many weeks it would
be before the babe quickened and she experienced the first real
stirrings of new life inside her.

Rhun’s child. It might be all she had left
of him. And yet she did not believe that. She did not think Rhun
had died in the battle. As the conflict raged, she’d become
convinced that for some reason Rhun hadn’t arrived in time to honor
his oath to Arthur. Had it been the Goddess who delayed him and
saved his life?

The thought gave Eastra hope. Although
Morguese was wrong about Mordred, that didn’t mean she was wrong
about everything. The Goddess might yet have a plan for
her,
and for her child.

In the morning, Eastra washed in the river
and redid her braids, then went off into the bushes to change her
clothing. Morguese did nothing, sitting on an old log and staring
into space.

After they ate more of the dried meat they
always carried and drank the last of their wine, Owain asked
Eastra, “Where to now, Princess?”

“I would like to find Arthur,” she said. “I
would like to pay my respects to the high king ere he is
buried.”

“Arthur’s not dead,” Morguese spoke softly,
her voice flat and bitter. “He should be, but he’s not.”

“What are you saying?” Beli asked. “We were
told he was mortally wounded when he... killed Mordred.”

Morguese laughed, a harsh mirthless sound.
“He will never be high king again, but he is not dead.”

“How do you know?” Eastra asked.

Morguese shrugged. “I
know.
He is my
half brother, and the tie between us is close.” She glanced at the
cloak-wrapped body. “That’s why Mordred was so special. He had the
power from both of us.” She gave a pathetic sniff.

Eastra, Beli and Owain all looked at each
other. Morguese would never understand how flawed her son was.

“Where is he, then?” Eastra asked. “Where is
Arthur?”

“They plan to take him back to the priory at
Avalon, in the hope the monks there can heal him,” Morguese
answered. “But there is naught they can do. They haven’t the skill
to save him.”

Eastra gazed at Morguese thoughtfully. “Who
could save him? Could you do it?”

“Of course.” Morguese sniffed again. “If I
wanted to.”

“He’s your brother,” Eastra coaxed. “Your
kin. Now that Mordred’s dead, he’s all you have left.”

“Oh, I have other children, but none of them
have the power. They’re all slow and cow-brained like Urien.”

This almost made Eastra laugh. She felt
giddy. Arthur was alive. And so was Rhun, she was sure of it. As
certain as Morguese was that Arthur lived, she felt the same way
about Rhun.

She looked at Owain. “I’ve never heard of
Avalon. Is it far?”

Owain shook his head “Clear on the other
side of Britain. But if we start out now, we will easily find them
before they reach the place. They must be carrying him in a litter
or a cart and can’t travel very fast.”

* * *

He was too late, Rhun thought bitterly. He’d
feared it was true the entire journey, but as they began to meet
the few stragglers traveling south, his fears became real. The
survivors told of the victory of the Saxons, the terrible losses
the Britons had suffered, of Arthur wounded and dying. But that was
the part where their stories grew vague. Some said Arthur was dead
already, but no one had seen his corpse. There was talk the Saxons
had carried it away, or the Picts. But there were also tales he
wasn’t dead after all. One man, limping and his right eye a crusty,
ruined mess, said Arthur had been taken to a house of holy men and
they were going to heal him.

Rhun didn’t know what to believe. Whatever
happened to Arthur, it was surely out of his hands. His purpose,
his goal, was to find Eastra. He assumed she would be in Cerdic’s
camp. He had to find her and tell her he loved her and wanted her
to be his wife, if she would have him. But would Cerdic allow such
a thing?

Mentally, he flogged himself for all the
chances he’d had and wasted. If only he’d wed her while they were
in Gwynedd, she would never have left. She would be safe now at his
father’s fortress, their babe growing in her belly. A wave of
longing went through him at the thought. What if he never had a
chance to see his child? Cerdic might decide to marry her off to
one of his thanes. And all of this because he’d been such a stupid,
selfish fool!

He rode along the old Roman road thinking
these grim thoughts. It could not be that much farther to Eburacum;
the trickle of weary soldiers had increased to a steady stream. At
least the Saxons had shown mercy by allowing the British survivors
to return to their homes. They clearly thought they had broken
their enemies’ will to fight and that the Britons would not dare
make war against them for a long while.

Rhun recognized a few of the men, but he
could hardly bear to face them. He felt like a traitor, and he
experienced their puzzled, sometimes accusing, looks like physical
blows. At least he hadn’t met any of the Companions. Of course not.
They were dead, every one of them. Except him.

He grimaced at the thought, and when the
next group of travelers approached, he hunched over and looked away
as the cart and handful of riders passed by.

Then someone called his name and he looked
up despite himself. He found himself staring into the stunned face
of Tristan. He’d been one of the youngest of the Companions, and
always in awe of Rhun. He appeared to have aged years. His dark
eyes were smudged with shadows of weariness, his dust-smeared face
gaunt and grim. The two soldiers with him were not much better off.
They looked barely past boyhood and were obviously dazed by what
they’d been through.

Tristan motioned for the others to halt,
then said “Jesu, I can’t believe it’s you. Where were you? Arthur
held out hope until the very end that you would come with some of
Cynglass’s warriors. Or a troop of Cymru archers, at least.”