Chapter 10
A full cycle of the moon passed amid the northmen, and Bedwyr fought restlessness.
It wasn’t a sensation he was accustomed to, but something about this low land, with its flattened perspective, and these northmen, with their mumble-grumble tongue, had him itching and irritable.
He missed the mountains, but there was nothing for it. He might have tried to learn the northerners’ tongue, but it seemed pointless; they had no more interest in him than he did in them. According to Arthur, Lot had sent Agravain to fulfill—belatedly—an agreement he’d made to help the Cymry with their Saxon problem. Bedwyr wondered if the summer campaigns were part of the agreement. He hoped not. His cousin had turned out to be an arrogant, belligerent arsehole.
Not that Bedwyr had been ruminating on the matter.
To give Arthur his due, the cub had made a better effort to meld with the group than Bedwyr had done. Arthur had learned a few of their words, mostly from Gwalchmai, when Agravain wasn’t ordering the lad about. He would share them at night while they stood watch, and Bedwyr humored him, repeating the words if not precisely storing them for future use.
He couldn’t have said which was more difficult, the drag-along days or the hours on watch. At least while the sun was up, he could soothe his twitchy muscles with a good sparring session. At night, while the others slept, he had to share the quiet darkness with the one man who made his blood run hot, and do nothing about it.
He was getting rather grumpy.
So when the odd things began to happen, just before midwinter, he was glad for the break in the monotony.
The first was an arrow, broken mid-shaft, its fletching greasy with age. When Bedwyr and Arthur joined the northmen at the morning fire, Agravain was turning it over in his hands.
“What is it?” Bedwyr asked.
Agravain held it up.
“So?”
“Not ours.” His cousin frowned in the general direction of the Saxon camp. “Came from them.”
Bedwyr scanned the tree line. “Want us to check it out?”
“I sent a scout.”
Bedwyr looked at Arthur, who shrugged.
The next item appeared two mornings later. A wooden spoon. Agravain scowled at it, his lip curled in disgust. “Soup eaters.” He tossed it into the fire.
Bedwyr didn’t happen to think spoons useless or soup all that bad, but he wasn’t about to retrieve it from the coals. “Where was it?”
Agravain waved a dismissive hand. “Near the refuse.”
“Someone’s having a laugh,” Arthur said.
And throwing out good spoons, Bedwyr thought as he watched the wood darken.
They passed another dull day of patrolling.
The next item caused more concern. The helmet was a crude thing fashioned of hardened leather. The men had woken to find it sitting on a stump, facing their fire pit.
Bedwyr lifted it, touching a fingertip to the figures incised into it. Symbols, though he didn’t know if they were meant to be words or pictures. One resembled a dog.
Agravain spit to the side. “We keep the fire high tonight. You two are on watch.”
The northmen moved restlessly that day, though without direction. No noise or movement came from the Saxon camp other than the usual thin columns of smoke from their fires.
That night he and Arthur walked beyond the blinding light of their own camp’s fire to the tree line.
“You should sleep.”
Arthur settled with a surprising acquiescence and soon was breathing the slow, steady breaths of peaceful slumber.
Bedwyr shook his head and paced the edge of the forest. How his cub could drop off so easily was beyond him, when some Saxon had made his way into their camp at least once. He let his gaze rove the length of their camp and beyond but spotted nothing. When the stars had wheeled a couple hours’ worth across the sky, he woke Arthur.
“Nothing so far. Your turn.”
He wasn’t as quick to fall asleep, but he must have done, for the next he woke, the world was in the deep dark silence that came a couple hours before dawn.
Well, silent but for Arthur’s hums, and Bedwyr’s grunts as the man wrapped his cock in the wet heat of his mouth. He grabbed Arthur’s hair, meaning to stop him, but the swipe of a strong tongue slurred his thoughts. He looked around, listened, and heard no one else stirring. It had been a long time, not since their trek to Rhys’s, and he needed this. They both did. If they could keep quiet, he supposed there was no harm in it.
No harm in it didn’t come close to describing the next few minutes of his night. Arthur drew the blood into his prick until it ached. Not content with his handiwork, he let go of Bedwyr’s cock and buried his face lower, sending deliciously warm breath against his stones. Bedwyr felt them draw up in response, and then all he could feel was more heat, more rough wet swipes as Arthur laved them thoroughly. Just before he thought he’d have to beg for it—silently somehow—Arthur took his prick down deep again, and with his fingers clutching the hard curve of the man’s skull, Bedwyr came.
He lay staring into the darkness overhead, trying to keep his gasps from carrying into camp. After a few moments, he tugged on Arthur’s hair. Obediently, Arthur rose onto his knees and shuffled up Bedwyr’s body until he straddled his shoulders. With a few quick jerks of his laces, his trousers sagged just enough, and Bedwyr grabbed his cub’s arse and pulled him down. Arthur collapsed onto his hands. Bedwyr swallowed the long, hard heat of him, and with a tight grip on his hip—and a few slaps to quiet him—Bedwyr sucked his fill until Arthur’s body went as rigid as his cock and he made a soft choking sound.
When they’d caught their breath, Arthur eased down until they lay face to face. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Your turn,” he said.
Bedwyr grinned. “I like this taking of turns.”
He tucked himself away and rose, passing the time before the northmen woke with a woozy sense of peace. The Saxons cooperated fully and didn’t stir.
Just as he was appreciating the glowing disc of the morning sun as it crept over the horizon, a din rose in the camp behind him. Agravain’s voice carried to their watch post like the bark of a large hound.
He nudged Arthur with his boot. “Wake up, cub.”
Arthur shifted, stretched, then squinted up at him. “Morning.”
“Get up. Something’s happened.”
“What?” But Arthur rose, and with a glance toward the Saxon camp—no movement—they walked toward their own fire pit.
The northmen huddled there, gabbling in their strange tongue. Bedwyr pushed through them until he could see Agravain. “What is it?”
But it was as plain as the coming daylight: a seax, the weapon the invaders were named for.
“What were you doing all night?” Agravain growled.
“Keeping watch.”
“Fine work of it, cousin. Are you blind as well as lame?”
A year before, the pain of the jab would have been worse, much sharper. Now it only annoyed. “Where was it?”
“Buried halfway in the earth, next to my bedroll.”
Arthur made a noise behind him, and Bedwyr willed him not to laugh. He had to agree, though; he’d have given much to see Agravain wake to the sight of that.
Except it meant someone had gotten past them. They had allowed someone to get past them, and he had a good idea when the Saxon had managed it.
“They slipped past. We should extend the watch perimeter.”
“I know my business,” Agravain said. “You don’t. Maybe you need practice. Your watch just doubled.”
“What good will that do?”
“Keep you out of my fucking way, for a start.” Agravain stalked off, and the northmen dispersed.
It was idiocy. But when Bedwyr turned to Arthur for help, the cub didn’t seem as bothered. If anything…
Gods’ blood, his fucking eyes were twinkling.
Bedwyr grabbed his arm. “You didn’t.”
Arthur’s expression remained flat for a few seconds, and then he winked at Bedwyr.
He let go. “The standing stone, three streams to the south. You remember it?”
Arthur’s mouth quirked.
Bedwyr ground his teeth. He’d fix that quirk, and for good. “Be there in an hour.”
~ ~ ~
Arthur paced at the base of the standing stone, heat still coursing through his body.
Back when his grandfather had been alive and training the younger warriors, he had called it survivor’s lust because it came upon men who survived battle. It was one of the reasons, he said, that the Roman army had been followed by long trains of prostitutes—they knew the soldiers were an easy coin. He suspected Marcus had told the lads about it to keep them from raping captives. Arthur couldn’t imagine taking someone who didn’t want him.
Wouldn’t be a problem just now. The look Bedwyr had given him when he realized Arthur was behind the Saxon trickery… It had almost scorched his skin with promise. When he’d taken his sword from his grandfathers’ tomb and claimed it in Uthyr’s hall, Bedwyr had admitted later he’d wanted to fuck Arthur for his audacity. His raids on the Saxons seemed to have had the same effect. If Bed didn’t get here soon, though, he was going to wear a rut in the earth around this stone.
At the sound of boots other than his own, he halted. He knew those footfalls. So did his cock, which filled on a rush of blood. Stepping around the stone, he greeted Bed with a grin. “That was more than an hour—”
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Faltering at Bedwyr’s furious growl, he tried to realign a conversation that hadn’t begun as it should have. “Thinking?”
“Good point,” Bedwyr said. “You weren’t thinking, were you?”
“Bed—”
“Why, Arthur? Why would you go near the Saxons’ camp? Why would you go alone, and near enough to raid them? Why?”
How had he mistaken Bed’s expression for lust? This clearly wasn’t. “Because we’re just lying about, doing nothing.”
“It’s winter.”
“The perfect time.”
“What?”
“They’re not expecting it. Not only is it winter, Agravain has no plans to engage even if it weren’t. If he did, they’d have driven off the dogs already.”
“They’re not expecting it, eh?” Bed paced. “That would make sense if your objective was to take their weapons—all of them—or ruin their provisions—all of them. Instead, you’re only provoking them. Stealing this thing, then that thing. Needling them in the ribs. Buzzing in their ears. Sooner or later, they’re going to lash out.”
“Good!”
“Good?” Bedwyr stepped close, his brow heavy on a frown. “What if they had struck back this morning? Or when you stole the helmet? None of our men would have been ready. When you act alone, you still endanger everyone.”
“Then they should be ready!” He punched the air in frustration. “Invaders are on our doorstep, and Lot’s men are doing nothing. They don’t care because they aren’t from here. At least I care!”
“Acting alone isn’t the answer,” Bedwyr said through his teeth.
“You’re just angry because I didn’t tell you.”
“Fucking right I’m angry you didn’t tell me!” Bedwyr shouted. “How can I protect you if you don’t warn me?”
Arthur’s mouth clapped shut. His heaving breaths were making clouds between them. He swatted at them before turning away. “Is that what I am to you? Someone you have to protect?”
“Yes,” Bedwyr said, as if it had been a stupid question.
“Leave me be.”
“What?”
He turned on Bedwyr, scowling. “Let me be. Don’t worry, I don’t think this godstone has anything I can steal. Doesn’t look likely to strike back if I did.”
He sounded petulant, but he was past caring. He didn’t need a damned nursemaid. And why wouldn’t Bedwyr hear logic? They were a waste of manpower if they spent months doing nothing.
Bedwyr made a frustrated sound of his own. Arthur braced himself for further haranguing, but it didn’t come. Instead, Bedwyr turned for the camp, leaving Arthur be.
Just as he’d requested.
~ ~ ~
When she met Palahmed at the chapel, Elain thought she would begin work right away. Instead, she found herself saying, “I need to tell you something. Are you sober?”
“Depends. Is it horrible?”
She sighed. “Sort of.”
“What is it?”
She told him all of it: how her marriage to Bedwyr and Gwen’s to Arthur had come about, how they’d maneuvered to share a house, and how an unbolted door and an envious brother had brought it all down. How Bedwyr had made a stand but Arthur’d been banished anyway, and how she’d not known what to do except to direct them all to this place.
When she was finished, Palahmed gave her a nod of deepest respect. “You’ve been busy, and in the name of true love.” He winked at her. “You sentimental fiend, you.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Sorry, which was the horrible part?”
“All of it!”
He frowned. “The friendship? The clever conceit to share beds? Or no, was it the passion that made Bedwyr risk his station and you to risk, well, Uthyr’s great paws around your neck?”
“Amusing.” She rubbed her neck.
“I see no horror, Elain.”
“Rhys knows Arthur was banished.”
“And what did Rhys do?”
“Well, he sent them off to patrol—”
“Where nothing will happen to them because war waits until spring.”
“But he could hurt Gwen.”
“Why would Rhys harm your Gwen?”
“I don’t know, but she’s the one he cornered to reveal he knew about Arthur.”
“What came of that?”
“He made her write a letter to Uthyr, and she’s been cleaning in the brothel since.”
Palahmed gasped.
“Shut up.”
Palahmed laughed. “He reassured a worried father that his spirited daughter is alive and well, and then offered her safe employment for the quietest season of the year. Any father would want those assurances.”
Not every father. “I still think Rhys is up to something.”
“What? Squeezing Uthyr’s secrets from his daughter?”
“No. I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Enjoying a reliable worker, is what I suspect. And a pretty one.”
She couldn’t help but frown at that, and Palahmed made a pleased sound of the smug variety.
“There’s the rub! You’re worried someone will lure away your little dove.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not. Honestly. It’s only…”
For once, the man was silent, waiting for her to continue.
“I haven’t told her Rhys is my uncle, or Caron my aunt.”
“Why not?” he asked quietly.
“Because then she might work out who I was.”
“Ah. Because Caron was your mother’s sister.”
“Lord Uthyr is well-versed in the lineages of Cymru. Gwen would connect the stars.”
“Elain…”
“Let’s take a load of refuse to the heap.” Though she knew, if she looked around, she’d find no refuse. They’d long since cleaned the place, yet she’d dragged her feet on pushing Palahmed out of it.
“Why don’t you want Gwenhwyfar to know you were Ban’s heir?”
“Because duty is important to her.”
“She ran away from her father, her people, and all her responsibilities.”
“And yet she’s still serving here.” She looked at him squarely. “She would insist I visit him.”
He considered her, then wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “Come. Forget the refuse, forget these silly worries—”
“They’re not silly—”
“—I have just the solution.” Disappearing into the chapel, he reappeared a few moments later with his two swords. He handed one to her.
“You still haven’t told me how you have two of these.”
“That’s a long tale. Let’s spar.”