“The goddess Bride?” He said it in the old way, the rough growl of the R and the long E—Breed—sending a thrill down Lance’s spine. His hair had come out of its braid and was coiling over his shoulders like copper snakes. The lantern light had turned the grey of his eyes to amber. He said, barely audible, “Do you understand now?”
I thought the power was in the sword. And she does bring it, but after that… after that it’s down to me. Lance kept silent on the thought. He stretched over Art and reverently laid the weapon down on the floor by the bed. Heat was coursing through him, pulsing up his spine like the rise of sap in springtime. At the level of his heart it broke in two, a river dividing, blazed down his arms and into the palms of his hands. Art shuddered and cried out as Lance reached beneath him: closed a warm grip around his balls, then flexed down smiling and took his cock into his mouth.
Chapter Ten
Urgent shouting woke him just after dawn. He sat up, blanket in a tangle around him. He’d slept deeply: bright winter sunlight was painting his room’s western wall, and he was alone. He got up and opened the window. Down in the courtyard below him, a group of villagers was clustering as close to King Coel as his burly guardsmen would allow. Art was there, too, hands on his hips while he listened, formidable despite his untucked shirt and sleep-tangled hair. The old king was fully dressed and businesslike once more, although whatever the crowd was telling him hadn’t served to make his expression any less grim. The men looked like farmers: when Lance shaded his eyes from the sun, he saw that a few were brandishing pitchforks and scythes.
There was colour in Art’s face. His spine was straight, and shadows of pain had vanished from his brow. Smiling, Lance went to pull on his britches, shirt and boots. Then he ran for the door.
He met Art stalking back through the gateway of the keep. Coel was behind him, almost running to keep up. Of the two of them, Lance thought Arthur’s gaze was more bleak. He answered it in silence when it sought his, falling into step at his side. “I want them, Lance,” Arthur said flatly. “I want them now.”
“Saxons? Anglians?”
“Both. Either. What’s the difference? I’m weary to death of diplomacy, of cold campaigning. I’m taking a party out now.”
“Was there a raid?”
“Half a dozen. Those farmers lost cattle, sheep—even a couple of children. Their whole livelihood. The grooms are readying our horses. Go fetch your weapons and meet me outside.” He paused, and Lance, who hadn’t even thought of arguing, started back as he jerked to a halt and fiercely rounded on him. “Unless you want to go and drill with my bloody soldiers?!”
Lance folded his arms and looked at him calmly. It only took a few seconds. The night they’d spent reasserted itself, and a flush stole over Art’s haughty cheekbones. “Sorry,” he said. “God, sorry, Lance. How is it that I’m able to run around this morning without pain? That was your doing, wasn’t it?”
“Your flesh was ready to heal, that’s all.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have the truth out of you when we’re alone. And now you think me a bloodthirsty savage.”
“No. And if you are… I don’t have any better ideas, not today. You’re hardly going to talk these raiders into submission.”
Art nodded gratefully. Lance was halfway up the stairs when he called him back. “Wait. Do you have armour?”
“I have Ban’s chainmail shirt.”
“That must have seen some action. Well, it’ll have to do for now—the armoury can kit you up when we get home. Coel!” he barked, making the old man jump. “Choose your best men. I’ll take them with me. And, you, boy, hanging about over there…” A stable lad, leaning idly on the wall nearby, scrambled to attention. “Send to the kitchens for bread and cheese, enough for twenty saddlebags. Now!” The master of the castle and its lowliest servant having run off in opposite directions at his bidding, Arthur flashed Lance a great smile. “Well, no reason we should miss breakfast, is there? Be ready to ride in ten minutes.”
***
They pounded out into the bright morning, their horses’ hooves ringing like bells on the earth. Lance let go his unease, lifted his face to the wind and enjoyed it. Bors, Guy and Drustan rode with them, as well as fourteen of King Coel’s men, and, to Lance’s surprise, Garbonian, too, looking every inch the soldier. All of them had stared in wonder as Art, who yesterday had barely been able to walk, had leapt unaided into the saddle and led them off at a gallop from the fort.
It was just as Lance had imagined, sitting alone and bored in the house at Vindolanda, or listening to Tomas’s increasingly senile drone in church, a practice he’d faithfully followed right to the old man’s very last sermon. That sad old duty was fulfilled. Now he was riding out at the side of his king, in the cause of justice and retribution. In search of a fight, he wryly admitted, confessing too, in the blood-beating silence of his mind, that he would enjoy it if they found one. He had been calm and good for far too long.
Art, flying along as fast as his fine Hispanic-bred stallion would carry him, shot him a sidelong glance as if sharing the thought, and smiled broadly. Then he looked again, and said, “Lance, is that still old Balana?”
“Of course. Going strong.” Lance had made a vow to him, and so bit back Ector’s name. I never did thank him properly for leaving her. I know she was his favourite mount for ten years before you set out on your first journey north. He saw the memories rushing like storm clouds over Art anyway, and put out a hand to give his wrist a swift squeeze. “I couldn’t have had a finer horse. What happened to Hengroen?”
“Cut out from under me in Vortigern’s accursed fight.”
“Poor beast! I’m sorry, Art.”
“I have my pick of horses now. There’s no point in looking back.”
“What’s this one called?”
“Nothing. It’s easier that way.” Art rode on, concentrating rather fiercely on the dunes ahead. “Balana’s a beauty, all right, but we’ll have to get you better mounted. See my cavalry commander, after…”
“After I’ve seen your armourer, yes,” Lance finished, grinning. Art didn’t seem to have noticed that, other than a horseblanket and sheepskin, he rode bareback, preferring the deep-seated comfort of that to Ector’s four-horned saddle for a ride like this. He didn’t want to be told to see Arthur’s saddler after his chief of horse and the armourer.
The morning was his. No matter what the future held, he’d spent the night in the arms of his king. He urged Balana to a flat-out gallop that soon began to challenge Art’s stallion to keep up.
***