Born of the Sun Read Free

distinguish the word “Cynric.” They were sending for their king.
    It was the longest five minutes of Niniane’s life as she stood there, under the speculative eyes of the big Saxon, waiting to learn her fate. She took some cold courage from the dagger she held hidden in the folds of her gown. The Saxon appeared to be staring at the brooches on her shoulders.
    After what seemed to her an eternity, her captor, who had been leaning his shoulders against the wall, suddenly came to attention. Two men walked into the room, and she recognized them as the ones who had been on horseback in the courtyard. One of them was old, with thick shaggy gray hair and a heavy, still-powerful-looking body. He dismissed her captor with a word.
    This must be Cynric, Niniane thought. Cynric, son of Cerdic, King of the West Saxons. The king turned to look at her, and for the first time she saw his eyes. They were neither blue nor green, but an extraordinary mixture of both. She had never seen eyes that color before. He was looking her up and down and her hand tightened on her dagger. Cynric turned to the man beside him and said something.
    “Who are you?” the other man asked her in accented but perfectly understandable British.
    She tried not to show them how frightened she was. “I am Niniane,” she answered, almost haughtily. “This is my house.”
    The British-speaking Saxon raised his eyebrows. He was younger than Cynric, dark-skinned and narrow of face. His clear blue eyes were set under extraordinary high-arched brows. “Your house? Who is your father?”
    She wondered, belatedly, if it had been wise to tell the truth. She tried to swallow but her mouth was perfectly dry. “Ahern, Prince of the Atrebates,” she replied.
    The brown-haired man turned to the other and began to speak in Saxon. Cynric answered and then the other man looked at her and asked, “Who is that?” He was referring to Kerwyn.
    “My father’s harper,” she answered steadily. “He became ill and I could not move him. So I stayed …”
    The brown-haired one walked to the bed and put his hand on the harper’s chest. He looked up at her. “He is dead.”
    She had backed away when he approached the bed. “Yes. I know. He … he died just a few minutes ago.”
    “Poor timing for you, Princess of the Atrebates,” the man remarked ironically.
    Her hand on the dagger tightened. Her palm was sweating so, she was afraid it was going to slip out of her grasp.
    Cynric spoke impatiently and the other answered him. The king’s blue-green eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he listened. Cynric spoke again and the British-speaker turned to Niniane, “This is Cynric, King of the West Saxons. I am Cutha, his kinsman. The king tells you not to fear. You can put down your knife. We will not harm you.”
    Niniane bit her trembling lip. How had he known about the knife? The Saxon king came over to the bed and looked down at Kerwyn’s body. Then he looked at Niniane and spoke. Cutha translated: “I too have a reverence for harpers.”

    Niniane had buried most of the valuable jewelry they still had at Bryn Atha, so there was little in the villa for the Saxons to loot. She was afraid that perhaps they would take their disappointment out on the villa—or on her. But they seemed to accept their slim booty philosophically. The Saxons, it seemed, had given up expecting much in the way of gold from the Britons.
    They stayed at the villa for two days only, and during that time Niniane was allowed to keep to her room. They brought her food and otherwise left her alone. No one made the slightest move toward raping her. Cutha had even been kind enough to inform her that her father and her brother had escaped from Sarc Water alive.
    It could have been much worse, she thought as she stood at her window and watched the Saxon thanes busy in the courtyard. They had taken a number of household items that apparently struck their fancy: the Samianware pottery, the oil lamps, some of the