He didn’t look back to check if Art had heard him: no headstrong knight on the scent of his prey would have done so. Pelting into the fire of the dying sun, he almost convinced himself. And, just on the edge of a wild stretch of moorland, he heard behind him the rhythm of following hooves.
They rode on a little way, their pace slackening as the pretence dissolved. Lance kept his gaze fixed on some point between Balana’s ears. Neither he nor Arthur spoke, and only the hiss of a night-wind off the sea, and the snorts of their winded horses, broke the silence.
“That was good, Lance,” Art said at length. He was out of breath too, and he sounded more amused than otherwise. “You did it well. Have I made so very great a fool of myself?”
“No. But you’re tired. We all are. Guy’s gone to take the men home.”
“Rather than let them see their king in a wild-eyed fury.”
“Rather than let you run them and yourself into the ground.”
“Lance, I know my brother. You needn’t defend him. I love him, just as I did his father.” Art reined up, and turned to Lance, smiling. “I am tired. I can hear a stream over there. Let’s rest these poor horses before we go home.”
The stream ran down past the ruins of a decaying Roman camp. Even half buried in turf, its lines were recognisable to Lance, who had grown up among just such order, such concise locking of wall to wall. He approved its position, too, on a small rise of land, commanding wide views over the moor. Defensible. Deciding it was safe to relax, he sat down at the foot of a wall and opened up his saddlebag.
Art returned from the stream, leading the two horses. “What is that? Not the food we packed up at the castle this morning?”
“You didn’t give anyone time to eat it. Including yourself.”
“Oh.” Frowning, Art unfastened his own pack. “Of course. God, Lance—I really have been outside of myself.”
“Well, get back in and eat.”
They sat together in a silence that became easier as it extended, passing back and forth between them the flagons of wine and water, listening to the wind. The food seemed to restore Art to his mortal, loving self, and he suddenly let his weight rest against Lance’s shoulder. “Do you think they’ll forgive me for today?” he asked roughly. “The soldiers? My own knights?”
Lance shrugged. “From what I could see, they were impressed. Decisive action in enemy territory. Ruthless pursuit of your prey.” He paused. “The only thing they wouldn’t forgive is your premature death, Art. We have to keep you alive, you know—for your future wife and the kingdom.”
The words were serious, but he’d let a faint gleam of laughter rise to touch his voice. Art shook his head. “My future wife, who’s supposed to rise up out of the very earth to greet me? I’m starting to think that must be bollocks, Lance, Merlin or no Merlin.”
“Do you ever hear from Ireland—from Modron, I mean, about your son?”
“Not a word. But I didn’t expect to. I can’t acknowledge him, not the way things are now, and Modron—my half-sister, after all—will have no small ideas about her own royal blood, and his. It’s a mess.”
It sounded very much as if it was going to be. “You said the boy was healthy, for all your blood and Modron’s is close. Why shouldn’t you bring him forward?”
“Most of my so-called kingdom is Christian now.” He lifted a hand to his breastbone, as if seeking something there. “They’d never accept a bastard, especially not a halfling got at a Beltane fire.”
“Then a lawful heir it must be.”
“It must. And thanks to you, I stand a chance of begetting one.”
The gleam of laughter became definite. “Not on your own.”
“No. I swear to God, though, Lance, if I could lay you down here and do it with you, I would.”
Tears stung Lance’s eyes. He laid a hand on top of Art’s. “Where is the sign you used to wear—the solar disk, with the moon on the reverse?”
“Torn off me in battle. The priest gave me a cross to wear in its stead, but there must have been an impurity in the gold. Brought me out in a rash.”
“Impurity, my arse,” Lance rasped. He set his flagon down and moved lithely to straddle Arthur’s lap. The countryside was hushed around them, their refuge safe enough for now. “You’re my pagan-hearted king. That’s why a cross won’t stay on your beautiful bloody hide.”
“Oh, God. How can we do this?”
“Quickly, I’d suggest. It’s getting dark.”
“No, you dolt. How can I have nights with you—the kind of night we just passed—and be your king and your master by day?”
Once, long ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. Art could have ridden out in front of his whole army with his warrior-lover, unhidden and respected, at his side. Lance didn’t understand the differences now, except that they were connected to Medraut, the offspring of the starry May-tide, now a sin to be hidden away. “Listen,” he said, kissing Art’s brow. “I’m not another Modron, not a thing for you to worry about and fear. You can have your nights—and me—whenever you want. And by day I’ll be your faithful friend. Whose business is it, after all?”
“No-one’s. Just…”
“Just yours and mine.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as ironic—that you healed me last night, with your magic and your love, only for me to ride out today in search of blood?”
“Well, you didn’t get any on your sword.” Lance ran the heel of his hand down Art’s chest and stomach, feeling the scratch of his chainmail, the tough leather cuirass he wore underneath. After that there was still the tunic to be negotiated, the crotch-string of his deerskin britches. It would be difficult, loving a soldier on the field. Lance felt joyously prepared to meet the challenge. “The goddess of healing and of warriors is one and the same. It’s your work now, as king of this land, to bring this truth to your people.”
“How can I? I don’t understand it myself.”
“It’s not a thing to understand. It’s a thing to be. Like this, my dear master. Like this.” Lance got the string undone. This time he found a rich and ready cock-stand awaiting his touch, and Art arched up with a groan, pressing into his hand. Lance kissed the warm mouth seeking his. “There you are. There.”
“I won’t last long. Sorry.”
“Didn’t I say we’d have to work fast?”
“But what about you?”
“Just take hold of me over my clothes. Ah, yes—let me ride your strong hand.”
“Ah, Lance, will you always do this—break my bloody ice, bring me back to life?”
“As long as there’s life in me.” Lance leaned down, kissed and gently bit the side of Art’s neck. The hot shaft leapt in his hand, and he heard with the deepest delight of flesh and spirit the grinding moan of his lover’s release. Enough for him—too much, and he thrust into Art’s hard grasp, pleasure thudding into him like arrows. “Art! Ah, holy goddess, yes!”
Chapter Twelve
“We should start home. I don’t fancy meeting your sheep-eating raiders in the dark.”