The Hallowed Isle Book Four Read Free

purpose, to comfort her.
    She was trying to think of a polite rejoinder when there was a knock at the door. In the next moment it swung openand they saw Verica, one of the young priestesses who had been set to guard Medraut.
    â€œHe’s gone!”
    Morgause felt suddenly cold.
    â€œDid he harm Cunovinda?” asked Igierne.
    â€œOh Vinda is just fine—unless you call a broken heart a wound,” Verica said bitterly. “I left her guarding a locked door, and when I returned it was open and she was crying her eyes out because he had persuaded her to open it and then left her!”
    It could have been worse, thought Morgause numbly. He could have taken the girl with him, and then killed or abandoned her. Who knew what Medraut might do?
    â€œHe is beyond your reach, daughter,” Igierne said then, and Hæthwæge added, “He will make his own wyrd now. . . .”
    â€œThat is so, but this child’s wyrd could shake a kingdom,” said Igierne.
    Morgause nodded. What that fate might be she dared not imagine, but she knew where he was going, and for the first time in her life, felt pity for Artor.
    The high king of Britannia sat in his chair of state to receive the ambassadors. The basilica at Calleva would have been more impressive, or the one in Londinium, but the long chamber that had once been the pride of the commander of the fort at Isca had been restored when he rebuilt the town’s defenses. The walls bore no frescoes, but they had been newly whitewashed, with a bright band of geometric designs painted along the top and bottom, and there were touches of gilding on the columns that ran down the nave. The cloaks of the chieftains and princes who had crowded inside, chequered and banded or bright with embroidery, made a vivid spectacle. Artor had been in Castra Legionis for a little over a month, long enough for everyone in the area who had a petition or a grievance to travel here.
    But for this audience Artor had chosen to wear the full panoply of an emperor, and the length of time it had been since the previous occasion was marked by the difficulty theyhad in finding a jewel-sewn mantle in a shade that would match the deep green tunic, with its orphreys and apparels of gold woven brocade. That had been when they made peace with King Icel, said Betiver when Artor tried to remember. Then, thought the king as he tried to shift position without dislodging the stiff folds of the mantle, he had wanted to impress barbarians. Today his purpose was to appear as an heir of Rome’s imperium before other heirs of Rome.
    Artor felt Betiver stir nervously in his place behind the chair and turned his head to smile reassuringly.
    â€œI should have been the one to welcome him,” muttered the younger man. “But I didn’t know what to say. Christ! It’s been more than twenty years!”
    Twenty years ago, Betiver had been an awestruck boy and Artor himself just learning to wield the power of a king, and now the child who had been left with him to seal an alliance was one of the supports of his kingdom.
    â€œHe is your father,” Artor said aloud. “He will forgive. It is I who should earn his wrath for keeping you here—”
    Then the great double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and men moved aside to clear an aisle as the embassy from Gallia marched in.
    Johannes Rutilius seemed smaller than Artor remembered, worn by the years. For the men of Gallia, as for Britannia, those years had been filled by fighting. Rutilius walked with a limp now, and there was abundant silver in his hair. But he still stood erect, and the only change in his expression came when he realized who the warrior standing behind Artor must be.
    But the formal Latin greetings did not falter, nor did Artor’s welcome.
    â€œIs your lord in good health?” he asked. “He must be ripe in years.”
    Rutilius sighed as he sank into the chair they brought for him.