Arnald Haroldsson

Prologue

* * *

Danish Coast, Village of Sjed, Summer, 550 A.D.

The man's easy movement across the village street caught the child's eye as he played beneath a gnarled tree. Instinctively, the boy pressed himself closer to the trunk. Given the strange name of Arthur, and not yet twelve, he watched the tall Dane with wary suspicion. Without realizing he was doing so, Arthur placed his back firmly against the tree's bark, standing taller as the adult unknowingly moved toward him.

He was not afraid of the man whose house he shared, because oddly enough, Arthur had never felt fear of anyone or anything. He became alert only because of the way the man stared at him. Nothing the man had ever said indicated a particular displeasure for the boy. It was something in the man's gaze which made Arthur feel like he didn’t belong in this village. Just something which made Arthur, for all his young years, feel that an unfair, unspoken accounting was owed the man. Some thing which somehow fostered a confusing sense of betrayal. It was an unspoken accusation which always angered young Arthur.

Gunnar Blue-Vein, the Jarl, or Lord of Sjed, hadn’t noticed the child until he'd come within a few feet of the tree. The emotions he kept bottled up unintentionally flashed across his face. Resentment. Accusation. Distrust. Anger. Sadness, and a terrible, palpable loneliness. All expressed within the span of a heartbeat.

Arthur's blistering temper flared. His fists balled as the color rose in his cheeks. His lips curled, exposing small white teeth. A low growl escaped the child's throat.

The other children around the tree stopped their playing, staring first at Arthur, then at their village leader. They had seen this happen before and quietly moved out of Gunnar's path. Danes though they all were, this conflict between man and child was not one they understood or were determined to resolve.

Beyond the man, at the entrance to his longhouse, a woman heavy with child stepped into the waning spring sunlight. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she gazed out upon the village. When she saw the man and the boy, she shook her head in frustration and waddled in their direction. She knew it was already too late to stop her husband from confronting the child with that cursed stare of his.

Gunnar Blue-Vein placed his hands on his hips as he studied the boy's livid face. It was always the same, ever since the three year old freeborn child had come into his house.

Gunnar knew he was responsible for this enmity, yet he made no effort to resolve the conflict. He could not bring himself to do so. His anguish, every time he gazed into Arthur’s grey-green eyes, was more than he could sometimes bear. Even now, after so many years had passed. So, Gunnar stared. He never spoke a word to Arthur for fear that he would accuse, driving the child further away.

Gasping for breath, the woman arrived, her own fierce temper aroused. She pushed past the man, positioning herself between him and the boy, glaring at her husband. She reached behind her back, pulling Arthur into her, holding tightly as he struggled against her bloated buttocks and aching legs.

Gunnar, she hissed, this has to stop! Will you have Arthur grow to manhood hating you? Hating all of us?

Gunnar Blue-Vein, Jarl of Sjed leveled his cold blue eyes on his lawful wife, yet said nothing.

"You promised," the woman scolded.

The man's face hardened at the reminder of his oath, then immediately softened. He averted his eyes from his wife's glare and turned his gaze to the late afternoon sun.

Well? the woman demanded. When the man failed to respond, she pressed on. I have heard it said, from Gunnar Blue-Vein's own mouth, that he never breaks a promise. Never! she shouted at him, twisting to glare into eyes that avoided hers. Behind her the boy's resistance ceased, his taut muscles relaxing as he listened to the woman's anger. "Do you know what day this is? It has been eight years today, Gunnar. Today!"

Her voice softened as she watched her husband shake his head, sighing deeply. My love, why are you still so angry? After so long a time. You must talk to Arthur. Tell him. He is Arnald's son!

A deep, ugly rage took hold of her husband. No! I can't. I won't! Gunnar leaned his face to hers. "What would you have me tell him? That his father broke his promise? That he lied to his friends? That he betrayed us? That—"

The giant man sobbed. He turned his back to the woman and walked away. She lost sight of him as he passed between a pair of small thatch covered wooden lodges surrounding the Jarl's older, timbered longhouse.

The woman watched, saddened. Arthur squirmed out of her grip as tears began to stream down her face. Gently, he took her hand into his own. She wiped away the tears and glanced down at the young, concerned face staring up at her. The grey-green eyes, the auburn hair so favored by her own people in the far away Isles of Briton. The small freckles stretching across the youthful face brought to mind an image of another young face. Equally fair and handsome. Equally troubled and serious. The memory tore at her heart.

She hugged the boy to her then walked away, leaving Arthur alone under the tree.

Arthur sadly watched her leave. He watched until she re-entered the longhouse and then he turned to see where the other boys had gone to. They were nowhere to be seen. He was alone. Again.

Then he saw the old man watching him. The boy didn't want the old warrior witnessing his shame. He tried to think of something nasty to say but his anger was gone, his mind empty of cruel thoughts. He was about to walk off when the old man called Lars raised a hand and motioned Arthur to join him. Arthur hesitated, and when the old man waved again, he shrugged and walked toward him.

The ancient warrior chuckled as the boy came close. You're a fighter, you are, he said. Just like your father.

Did you know my father?

Aye. Knew him well. Almost as well as our Jarl, Gunnar. Maybe I knew him better, though. Did you know you are named after a dead King? Not a Dane king, though. A King from the Briton islands.

Lars thought to himself for a moment, then muttered, "A proper bastard that King Arthur was, too. Don’t know why your father gave you that king’s name. It’s not lucky using the name of a great man so soon after his death. Then again, maybe your father gave you the name before King Arthur got himself killed. Lars scratched his mangled head. Maybe. Your father was a very lucky man, though. You know that?"

The boy examined the scarred, one-armed old man, unsure whether to believe him, yet desperately wanting to learn something of his father.

Why does Gunnar Blue-Vein hate my father?

The old man uttered a brittle laugh.

Hate him? Odin's blood! Who told you that?

He did. I see it every time he looks at me. He never speaks to me. He just stares at me. Gunnar Blue-Vein hated my father and he hates me!

He does not.

You lie, old man!

Tell me, boy, what do you know of your father?

Nothing, Arthur answered in misery. The Jarl has forbidden the village to speak of him. On pain of death. Even his woman obeys. If my mother were alive, she would tell me!

The old man grunted. Aye, she would, that one. Never could obey orders. Not her father's, not her brother's and not even her husband's. The old man grew quiet, frowning deeply. It's not right. By Odin's hairy balls, I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is not right! Piss on Gunnar Sjed. I, Lars Longarm, will tell you about your father, and curse Gunnar’s threats!

The boy's eyes widened, first in surprise, then fear for the old man. It was custom among the peoples of the North that crippled warriors were expected to end their own lives rather than place an unwanted burden upon their families. Old, crippled warriors were especially despised by the Norse. Why this useless old man had been tolerated for as long as he had was beyond Arthur's comprehension. Still, the boy had no desire to cause him harm.

Gunnar will kill you for breaking his law.

Lars spat into the dirt. Let him try! I may have just one arm left, but I was killing men with twice his skill before Gunnar Blue-Vein stopped pissing on his own feet. I was the Champion of Vinde—well, that was before your father came along, but I can still swing a sword as well as any man in this pathetic village! Let Gunnar try my blade!

Arthur stepped back from the man's anger, examining him critically. A sword cut at the left base of his neck had healed poorly, giving Lars a permanent twist to his head. The old man's leathery legs were misshapen, lumpy from age and poorly splinted breaks. His one arm was incredibly thin, his hand gnarled curly by arthritis. He was missing an ear and an eye, as well as half his nose.

Arthur shook his head sadly. Thank you, Lars Longarm, but I can't allow you to break his law. You will lose a fight with Gunnar.

"Eh? You're telling me I can't do something I want to do?"

He won't fight you, old man. He will have you strangled. I will not be responsible for your death.

"What? Not responsible? Bah! By Odin's pimply ass, I was your father's teacher! He would have died long before his time if not for me. Not responsible? Your father would turn in his grave if he heard such nonsense! Your father was Arnald Haroldsson!"

No, don't tell me! Really? Arnald Haroldsson?

Aye, and no one could stand in battle before him. No one! He was smart. He was cunning. He was the finest war chief in the world. No man was better than he. And, your father was a berserker! By Freya's freezing tits, Thor favored none more and never will again. Ask Sigune! Ask her what she saw! She will tell you what your mother would have, were she alive. What fifty other women will say if they're allowed!

Then, why does Gunnar hate him? Why does he hate me?

The old man laughed softly, stroking Arthur's hair with his twisted hand. Gunnar doesn't hate your father, boy. He loved that man, just as I loved him. As this whole village loved him. As the entire Danish countryside loved him!

Anger clouded the boy's eyes. You lie, old man!

His face turning crimson, Lars Longarm reached out with his remaining hand and swatted the boy, knocking him to the dirt. Arthur immediately leapt to his feet. Rubbing his sore ear, he hissed, You dare!

Lars fixed his pale eye on the boy and nodded. I dare. I dare as I please, he muttered angrily. You've your father's temper. Do you know that?

The boy turned to leave.

Wait! Lars shouted. Arthur stopped, seeing the old man's anger fade. Come back, Lars asked him. Come back and sit with me for a while.

Arthur remained where he was. I won't listen to you speak of my father, or Gunnar's affection for him. I won't see you killed for telling me forbidden things, Lars Longarm. I won't!

The old man studied the boy for a moment, then nodded. All right. All right, you win. Come on, sit down. When Arthur slowly obeyed, the old man chuckled. By Odin's rancid breath!

Have you ever smelled Odin's breath? the boy asked.

Eh? What? Smelled his breath? Of course not!

Then how do you know it's smelly?

The same way I know he's got hair on his balls and pimples on his ass! I'm a warrior. Warriors know such things!

I see.

No, you don't. You're a child, not so soon to be a young man, and you don't want to hear tell of your father—

No, the boy lied emphatically.

All right, all right. Then let me tell you about another Arnald. Arthur eyed Lars suspiciously, and the old man hurried. "A foreigner! This one wasn't a Dane at all. He was a Celt. From the island of Briton, far across the sea. A Prince of the Celts, accused of a terrible crime by his dung sniffing brother—as miserable a bastard as ever lived. This Arnald fled for his life from a Caer, a huge fortress, called Warewic, and there were assassins on his heels. Assassins greedy for Arnald’s weight in gold! What if I tell you of him?"

Arthur studied the man's face for what seemed an eternity, searching for any sign of deception. Lars projected his finest imitation of innocence and Arthur nearly laughed.

No longer feeling distrust, but pretending to, Arthur narrowed his eyes and asked, Will this take long?

The old warrior put his thin arm across the boy's shoulders and shook his head. No, I don't believe so. Lars looked up at the setting afternoon sun. You should be home for supper. Maybe home for supper. It’s a good story I’ll tell.

Arthur smiled. His first smile in many days. All right, Lars Longarm. Tell me about this Celt Prince.

Good! Ah, let's see now, it was what? Must've been sixteen summers ago, though maybe a bit more. Could have been less, too. In the village of Vinde, just across the hills, maybe two leagues from here. Not far at all. I was a younger man then. Champion of Vinde, I was, and the Jarl of Vinde was a man called Ragnar. Ragnar was a big man, strong as an ox—always drinking and plowing the women. He wouldn’t marry one, but he loved to plow his women! His neighbor was Gidnar, Jarl of Sjed. Yes! Gunnar's father. Ragnar and Gidnar were rivals. Some called them enemies, but they weren't, really. Not really, but close. Know what I mean?

No.

"Well, you will shortly. Anyway, Ragnar held a feast to celebrate the autumn harvest and invited everyone from the neighboring villages to attend. But, Ragnar had one rule. There was to be no fighting. On pain of death, NO FIGHTING IN VINDE. It was during this feast that Arnald, Prince of the Celts, arrived uninvited, and promptly broke Ragnar's law."

Chapter One

* * *

Northern Briton, 35 Miles Southeast of Carlisle, 534 A.D.

Wispy tendrils of smoke spiraled into the calm spring air from within the walls of Caer Warewic. Their plaid clothing bright in the mid-morning sunshine, men and women moved easily in and around the huge wooden fortress. Not far off, well within sight of the fort, smaller groups of men and women stood their watch. Their clothing was masked by the leather and iron armor of the Celts, leaving only their helmets and the tips of their spears to reflect the sunshine.

Chief heterix and Queen of the Warewic Celts, Elaine stood on the parapet of her fortress surveying the fields her people worked in her behalf.

Stern and cold-hearted, the woman's lips compressed as she struggled to control her anger. She turned away from the fields and leveled her hard, flat gaze on the Danish foreigner who stood chest and head above her own pudgy height. The man's hateful expression, ever jovial, always insolent, made the queen want to draw the knife tucked inside her belt.

There were many things in life the aging war leader had come to despise. This foreigner’s mocking blue eyes were chief among them.

With great difficulty she suppressed the aching desire to gouge them from his head. Instead she barked, Where is he? Have you let him slip away from you again?

Harold Strongarm scratched his thigh as he examined the interior of the Warewic fortress.

Built in a time when the gravest threat to the Celts came from the tattooed Pict in the north, the oblong fortress stood on a stone foundation three meters tall, boasting oak walls nearly six meters in height. With the sea and safe harbor nearby, Caer Warewic now served as the only protection from seaborne Saxon invasion along the southwestern approach to Carlisle, present seat of the Celt High King. Harold Strongarm admired this fortress as much as he detested its ruler.

The Danish sword master wondered how far he should push the queen on this fine morning. He gauged he'd gone as far as he could as her wrinkled face began to change from its normal pasty white to a mottled, dark red. Harold nearly laughed at her expression. He could not be more pleased than he was, knowing that on the next morning’s sun he would be traveling to a new Caer to live in the presence of a much different ruler.

No, Queen, I have not lost your son, Harold finally answered in his guttural accent. He's in his quarters, I think, packing for his journey, he lied.

Elaine's face twisted with disgust. "His journey! He is my eldest son, but better, I think, his journey were to a priest's retreat rather than my cousin's court! It's Gwynd who should be leaving tomorrow. Gwynd is the one who will bring glory to the Warewic clan. Not Arnald. Never Arnald!"

Harold ignored the woman's venomous outburst. Her feelings were not fresh, her comments nothing Harold hadn't heard before. Except to the son, it was no secret she held small love for Arnald. At times of late, when she'd had more drink than food, her caustic evil suggested the boy might not even be legitimate. Might not be the son of Amlawd, her husband who died at Badon Hill.

The truth of the boy’s birth made little difference to Harold Strongarm. It was Arnald he'd come to love as his own and nothing the queen suggested would change his feelings for the boy. Besides, Arnald had been summoned, not Gwynd, and the old bitch had nothing to say about it.

Gwynd is too young to go to Arthur’s Caer Melet. The child is not ready. Next year, perhaps, but not now, the Dane offered, knowing his comments would further infuriate Elaine.

Her dark eyes flashed as she spat at Harold's feet.

Good, he thought, at least now there is life in those fish eyes of hers!

Do you swear Arnald is ready to serve his cousin with honor?

Aye, Harold answered levelly.

Elaine's eyes glowed with hatred. He had better be, Jute, she hissed, "because if he isn't it will be your head hanging from my gate!"

Harold shrugged his large shoulders. The Dane considered the Celt custom of hanging an enemy's head from the main entry to a fort or village barbaric. As any good Norseman would tell you, an enemy's head was best left on the battlefield to feed the ravens. That was Odin's way.

He didn't doubt the possibility that his head might someday dangle from Elaine’s gate. But, not today...or tomorrow. Come the next morning sun his loyalty became the exclusive due of Arnald of Warewic. Harold silently swore to Odin that if he ever saw the queen after this day, he would turn his sword on the miserable bitch and leave her carcass behind to feed Odin’s ravens.

Harold chuckled at the image of her leathery, wrinkled flesh rotting in the grass.

Elaine mistook the laugh for bravado as the Dane growled, After today, Queen Elaine, every warrior in this land will know the name of your eldest son! I swear it!

Elaine spat again and stormed away from the grinning giant.

Harold snorted at her departing figure. Turning back to gaze at the fields outside the fort, he considered the man he would finally meet in the coming days.

It was said of Elaine of Warewic that few matched her skill with the spear, and just one Celt warrior surpassed her cruel thirst for Saxon blood. That other warrior was a man, her cousin, the High King of the Celts. A man who, from his fifteenth year of life, the year he was elected High King, never tolerated a Saxon footfall upon Celt soil. No other tribe occupying land on the Briton Isles suffered Arthur's fury like the Saxon.

If Arthur offered even a pretense of tolerating a tribe other than Celt, it might be that he favored the Picts to the north. But that was not to say he respected the Pict or was kind in his dealings with their tribes. Arthur respected only those very few he considered his equal and that high standard excluded the Pict, Saxon, Angle, Dane, Roman, Gual, Mercian, Scot or any other tribe the xenophobic Arthur encountered. In truth, there was only one person the mighty Arthur offered grudging respect. That person was the mysterious man called Merlin. Merlin, who traveled the countryside in disguise because of the many rewards offered for his head by the other Celt rulers in this harsh country.

Arthur barely maintained a peaceful co-existence with his northern neighbors simply because his immensely wealthy queen was a Pict.

Guinevere owned a significant portion of the lands between the Forth of Firth and Solway Firth, as well as the abundantly rich land near Sterling known as The Round Table. Without that land Arthur could never have hoped to defend his kingdom from invasion, and ironically, it was from that very Round Table area that Arthur recruited his most ardent and loyal warriors. Picts, every one of them.

Had Guinevere instead come from a branch of a Celt family the Picts would also have felt the cold-blooded hatred Arthur reserved for the invading Saxons.

Arthur, after all, earned his reputation on the battlefield.

Twelve times the High King led his outnumbered forces against the encroaching Saxon hordes and not once had the invaders survived the confrontation. Three generations of Saxon warriors bled their lives into the fields and oceans of Celt Briton. So many were killed by King Arthur that not since the last battle, not since Badon Hill eleven years earlier, had the Saxon or his allies been able to threaten Arthur's small domain.

Harold grudgingly admired this Celt High King. It had been slow to blossom, but eventually the admiration grew. Year after year the shipwrecked Dane absorbed the evening meal-tales of Arthur, intrigued, as Celt veterans sang their songs of battles fought against the many forces threatening to overrun King Arthur’s tiny domain.

Harold Strongarm came to realize that Arthur was a master of strategic improvisation, designing his battle plan to suit a poor and mountainous countryside, taking full advantage of the few volunteer warriors made available by his loyal sub-kings. Arthur had always met his enemy in an initial combat, withdrawing to regroup and wage war by attrition. He fought delaying actions, fought with skilled ambushes. And whenever the opportunity presented itself Arthur attacked at night—a tactic which offended Harold Strongarm’s sense of honor.

Arthur would also lay waste to the land in his enemy's hands, starving both Saxon and Celt alike. He often penned his foes like livestock within their fortresses, burning the Caers down around them. Then, when the High King felt it appropriate to end his enemy’s challenge, he met them in fixed battle. Such an occasion occurred at the River Bassas, the old Roman fort once referred to as the City of the Legions, and now called Carlisle. Thousands of Saxons were butchered to a man.

Taking foreign prisoners was not a policy Arthur encouraged among his warriors.

Arthur’s banner was that of a red Dragon. Were Harold allowed to he would swear allegiance to that cloth, gladly spending the rest of his life fighting for the mighty Arthur. But Harold was not a Celt, or a Pict, or any other form of Briton native. He was a shipwrecked pagan foreigner held by Arthur in the same regard as the Saxon. As such, he was forbidden to serve the High King’s court.

Instead of serving a great warrior, Harold Strongarm had been suffering employment to the paranoid Queen Elaine who maintained her realm as if it were in a state of siege. Without a husband, whom she'd lost at Badon Hill and steadfastly refused to replace, the aging Elaine governed her holdings with an iron fist. Her warriors were well equipped and well trained, their mounted patrols along the shores and through the countryside ever vigilant for another Saxon presence.

For Queen Elaine knew, having seen so in a dream revisited night after night, that when the pagan Saxon came anew, they would destroy the remaining Celt tribes.

* * *

Having woken late, Elaine's eldest son straightened his pillow-mussed auburn hair. Scratching his sparsely-haired chest, he surveyed the articles of clothing strewn about his small room, then decided to wear the hunting clothes he'd worn to the woods the night before. Collecting them from the floor, he sniffed at the shirt, made a face, and exchanged it for another. Its odor less offensive, he wrestled the shirt over his head, pulled on his pants and shoes, then belted his sword.

As he had the evening before, he searched the room for his silver hilted dagger. Perplexed, he sighed at its loss.

The morning was well past. Arnald knew his mother would be furious with him for sleeping so late, even angrier when she discovered why, so he took great pains to avoid contact with the household as he made his way to the kitchen.

The daily appointments his mother required of him flashed through his mind as he moved quietly through the deserted halls. First, he would have met the priest for lessons in Latin and Greek. He was already too late for those, so Arnald dismissed them from his mind. After a cold lunch, he would again spend the majority of the day with the queen's priest, studying history and the ever increasing requirements of their Christian faith.

Christianity had arrived in Briton over a hundred years earlier, but it hadn't yet taken firm hold on the entire populace of the High King's domain. At times Arnald thought his mother had a greater desire to train him for the Priesthood rather than the battlefield, but perhaps she stressed the religious studies so heavily because of her own unyielding belief in God.

Elaine despised pagans and was fanatically determined to rid her lands of their beliefs.

After his time with the priest, late in the afternoon, Arnald was obliged to spend the remainder of the day with the shipwrecked Danish warrior.

Because she often executed druids or other non-believers, it puzzled Arnald that she had allowed a pagan Dane to live in her Caer, instructing her children in the martial skills. The one time he'd questioned her choice of a pagan sword master she'd exploded into a rage, throwing a heavy cup at him. Arnald never again questioned her choice. Afterward, perhaps contrite at her abuse, she explained the need to understand foreign ways and languages. Her answer didn’t completely make sense to Arnald, but he was happy she had taken the time to offer an explanation. Such occurrences were not often the case with the queen.

Though he thoroughly enjoyed every moment spent with the large, burly man from the north, Arnald had other plans for this afternoon. He felt confident Harold would understand. If not, then Arnald had several days to assuage the Norseman as they traveled to Caer Melet together.

Arnald ducked into an alcove until the kitchen was clear, then took a loaf of bread and a lump of cold venison before stealing into the sunshine. He shivered slightly in the still cool air, shook it off, and made his way to the stable. Once there he saddled his favorite pony. Just before pulling the animal free of its stall he took up a cloak someone had left behind.

The eldest Prince of Warewic examined the old, musty cloak and smiled. It was perfect. Long enough to conceal his clothing, it was also hooded, which served to cover the heavy gold torque worn around his still thin neck. It didn't occur to Arnald that the guards would recognize his pony. Yet even if it had, he wouldn't have cared. This was the morning of his sixteenth birthday. At the onset of tomorrow's sunrise he would begin his journey to Carlisle, to the current Caer Melet, the Fortress of the Hammer, where he would be presented to the High King.

The excitement of finally being permitted to offer service to his cousin Arthur was too difficult for him to suppress and far too heady to spend the day in dark little rooms listening to boring lectures on foreign languages, or dry recitations of the holy word.

Arnald tossed the cloak over his shoulders, careful to conceal the torque, and hopped upon his pony. Shouting gleefully, he slapped the animal's rump and galloped out the main gate, scattering the guards from his path. Arnald laughed merrily and waved back at the cursing soldiers, some of whom had fallen into the ditch surrounding Caer Warewic. Behind him he heard his mother screech his name in fury followed by another, deeper bellow from the Dane Harold. Arnald laughed and spurred his pony to greater speed.

A mile or more from Caer Warewic he pulled at the reins and left the road for the deep wood. No longer did many of Warewic venture into the forest, believing it haunted by demons, fairies and goblins. Celts were a superstitious people, their fears now fueled by Elaine’s priest, who associated the woods with the shriven, pagan druids.

Arnald loved the forest. He relished the muted light, the smell of fresh and decaying vegetation, the silences, the sudden eruption of bird song, and the chirp of the squirrel. These all filled him with an inner peace.

And Arnald wasn't the only one to love the forest. The fair and beautiful Cundrie, named for the High King's cousin, shared his feelings. Having lain with him for the first time the night before, she'd professed her love for more than just the trees. Arnald's heartbeat increased at each passing thought of Cundrie.

Said by many to be the unacknowledged daughter of King Angus, the High King's strongest warrior, Cundrie was nonetheless the woman Arnald wanted as his wife. It didn't matter to him that she claimed no birthright, nor commanded scores of warriors, nor held ownership of vast tracts of land. She was the woman he wanted and it was just the past night, here among these very trees that she said as much to him.

Of course, Elaine would not easily accept a daughter-in-law without a dowry, but Arnald did not care. Wealth would come to him later, as he grew older. Deep inside, Arnald knew this to be true. Someday he would be the wealthiest man in the country. Someday he would have more riches, men-at-arms, and power than anyone could possibly imagine.

And he would use all of it to fight his enemies. Elaine’s complaint be damned. Arnald would have all of it before the Saxons returned. For the moment, though, he preferred to think only of Cundrie’s soft kisses and warm embrace.

Arnald stopped his pony and hopped off. Stretching, he shook off the last dregs of sleep and ate lightly of bread and venison.

Leaning against a tree, he frowned as Cundrie’s image floated free of his mind. Her smiling eyes were replaced with his options for gaining personal prominence in Arthur’s kingdom. It was a tiring exercise he presented himself because he knew with certainty that there was but one way to satisfy his ambitions. He would have to command his own army.

Some men, he knew, were born warriors and they excelled at the martial skills. Cundrie’s father was such a man. As Guinevere’s Champion, he was the second most famous warrior in Briton. His skill with a sword was unrivaled. No Celt, Pict, Scot Irish, Welsh, Angle, or Saxon dared to face Angus in mortal combat.

Other noble born, such as Gawain, Kay, and Bedevere, Queen Guinevere's brother, also served the High King as individual warriors. With the exception of Kay, all were Picts. Kay, Arthur's brother, served as Arthur's standard-bearer. By all accounts it was a responsibility which suited Kay, who was said to be a poor swordsman.

Arnald cared little for Picts, though their battle prowess was considerable.

There was, he supposed, honor enough in faithfully serving the High King as a brave warrior, but deep in his heart Arnald knew he needed more than touching just his own knee to the cold floor. The eldest son of Warewic felt a compulsion to command. He also wanted to possess his own lands. For himself and his sons.

The merest suggestion of his ambition drove Queen Elaine into fits of uncontrollable rage. It was an anger Arnald failed to understand, though. Most Celt families passed their inheritance onto the elder son, though sometimes the inheritance would split evenly if there was more than one son. It was only the Pict, or Celts such as Arthur who was firmly married into the Picts, who followed a matriarchal succession. Arnald thought it odd that his mother, a Celt with no Pict ties, insisted that Warewic pass to his older sister.

It wasn’t that Arnald objected to Ygerne inheriting Warewic. It was just that, with two sons available to her, Elaine’s will was contrary to Celt custom. It baffled Arnald that Elaine had decided her will the way she had, and he just wanted to understand. All his attempts to comprehend his mother’s thinking had been scornfully rebuffed. Not even the great Arthur, she argued, or his virgin queen, questioned her decisions.

Arthur couldn’t, Arnald argued back. He was elected to his kingship. He could not voice an opinion one way or another, and if he did, his opinion wouldn’t matter. Arthur could not own land or command an army of his own. That was Celt law, invoked to protect the Clans from an over-ambitious tyrant.

In the High King's case, the lands and men-at-arms were in the hands of his Pict Guinevere. It was the only reason he chose the Pict as a wife, as opposed to a Celt or Welsh noblewoman. SHE had what Arthur needed. That the High King never consummated the marriage with Guinevere, though, provided a serious bone of contention among the Celts.

Arnald thought Elaine’s mention of Arthur’s marriage a ridiculous comment. What did it have to do with Arnald receiving an inheritance?

Guinevere was the High Priestess of the Picts. Twisted as the Pict version of Christianity was, her virginity was essential to her continuance as High Priestess. Arthur had known of her peculiarity before he married the woman. As far as Arnald was concerned, no Celt had cause for complaint if Arthur himself accepted a cold marriage bed. He wasn’t obliged to provide an heir. Nor was Arthur obliged to accept Guinevere's unyielding corruption of Roman Christian doctrine.

In truth, however, Guinevere troubled Arnald. As High Priestess Guinevere practiced her own version of Christianity, blending Roman beliefs and Pict paganism into a form of worship that defied order. That she consistently refused to worship at Arthur's church needlessly earned her the enmity of a multitude of Celts. What right had she to stick her nose up at the Celts who comprised the majority of Arthur’s citizens?

Arnald had never met Guinevere. She was, he heard, the most beautiful and mysterious woman in Celt Briton. Small boned, very thin, possessing lustrous golden hair, pale blue eyes and very white skin. A woman, regardless of beauty or piety, whose chief hobby consisted of collecting the heads of her enemies so that she could view them at her leisure.

It was another reason the virgin Guinevere held little favor among the Celts. Far too many of the heads she treasured were of Celts who had opposed her marriage to Arthur, or men who openly criticized her stubborn independence of Arthur. Arnald was certain his opinion of the haughty Guinevere would not change once he met her.

Scorning Arnald’s ambition by using Arthur as an example wasn't fair, Arnald argued to Elaine. It was only Arthur's custom as a Celt which mattered in regard to inheritance, not the restrictions of his kingship or his association with a Pict woman.

Thanks to Elaine’s own priest, Arnald knew the history of their Celt custom of inheritance. He knew the Celts had adopted many Roman beliefs and traditions during the five hundred years of their British occupation. Chief among them, besides Christianity, was the Roman view of a woman’s role in society. A Roman wife or daughter had no legal position in the household. The husband or father ruled supreme, deciding a female’s role in his life. Though it rarely happened a Roman male could, without fear of repercussion, kill his wife or daughter at any time, for any reason. The Roman husband could also prostitute the women of his house if he needed money or shave their heads and sell them into slavery. A Roman woman was required to worship the ancestors of her husband or father’s line as he demanded, for he was the priest of the household. Briton Celts were prohibited from selling the women of their house into slavery, but all other Roman standards passed on to them.

Following the path set by the Romans, a Celt woman who married another Celt, by choice or rape, forfeited her personal wealth, lands and warriors to the husband. Once a male child was born of the marriage, the new master of the house could then do with his wife as he pleased. Again it was very rare, but not unheard of, for a Celt male to kill his rich wife on a whim, for with a son on hand he had no fear of reprisal from her family.

As it happened, though, many Celt women were as adept with a sword or spear as the man, and it also happened on occasion that it was the husband who was banished to the grave.

Such was life among the Celts.

Not so with the Picts, however. Women ruled supreme among those people. A mother decided her child’s tribal membership and right of inheritance. No man’s son, under any circumstance, could inherit his father’s position in the Clan. Only a sister’s son could claim his rank. The daughter of a Pict house took her mother’s name, never the husband’s. Most distressing of all, religious canons were established by the female head of the household. This was all possible because a Pict male had no wife. Pict males, royal or otherwise, were borrowed as the women of the tribe saw fit, for as long as they chose to keep them.

Roman legions coming into contact with the Picts had been appalled by what they saw. Those feelings of disgust and disdain transcended the centuries of Roman occupation to the patriarchal Celts, who shared their borders with the Picts.

Arthur, popular as a wise and caring ruler by most Celt tribes bordering his domain, recently began drawing criticism from his countrymen for allowing Guinevere unrestricted freedom during these past few years of peace. Many Celt sub-kings felt it was past time to bring Guinevere to heel or be rid of her entirely now that the Saxon threat had been eradicated, never fully grasping that the lands and warriors she brought the marriage were hers.

Arnald knew Arthur wore an empty crown without Guinevere’s land and warriors. Patriarchal versus Matriarchal custom was a controversy which could not be fully appreciated or peacefully resolved between the two peoples, as year after year they came into closer and closer contact through Arthur's court.

Yet now it came to be that the firmly patriarchal Arnald of Warewic faced the certain knowledge that the men and lands in the hands of his aging queen mother, who openly despised the Picts, were inexplicably passing to his older sister, Ygerne. For no reason he could fathom, neither Arnald nor his younger brother would receive so much as a copper Roman penny as an inheritance.

So when Ygerne took a husband, by choice or not, the land and men of Warewic would, by Celt custom, pass into the hands of a man from another family.

Arnald scowled at the thought of Warewic becoming the possession of another tribe, then laughed at himself as he imagined Cundrie's voice chiding him.

Too serious. Too serious by far, my handsome Prince.

The thought of Cundrie cheered him immediately, and he was suddenly very eager to be on his way.

Warewic wasn't going to be his inheritance because his mother ordered it so. Everything which comprised the inheritance was to be his sister's. It was as simple as that.

Arnald wasn't miserable at his loss, however, for two very good reasons.

First, Ygerne was as strong and intelligent as Elaine. She was more than a match for any man drawing breath. It was woe to any Celt imagining he could pry Warewic from her firm grip. Arnald honestly believed Warewic would thrive under Ygerne's rule. In paradox, though believing that only a man’s rule offered stability, he was happy his sister, whom he loved dearly, was prospering by his mother’s decision.

His second reason was the better of the two.

Being penniless himself, it would make it all the easier to rebel against Elaine’s objection to Cundrie. What could Elaine threaten to withhold from him if he married Cundrie? Arnald would have the wife he wanted, and together, Arnald and Cundrie could, and would, create their own kingdom. For their sons.

He beamed at the prospect of someday ruling an empire. He might be given the land for exemplary service by some appreciative patron, or he might have to take it from some family somewhere, but Arnald knew deep in his heart that his imaginary kingdom existed somewhere for him to win and command, just as he knew his kingdom would be the most powerful force known to man.

Arnald wiped his hands on the tattered cloak and leapt onto his pony, eager to complete his ride to Caer Aeth.

A breeze rustled the trees as he settled onto the animal's back, spooking the pony. Wide-eyed, ears raised, the animal danced several steps to the side before Arnald could pull on the reins.

Arnald was wondering what had frightened the pony when he heard a faint scream piercing the dense forest.

Turning full circle, he tried to pinpoint the scream's source, certain it was the voice of a woman in terrible pain.

The breeze dissipated and the forest fell into silence.

Puzzled, Arnald guided the pony to his right and slowly made his way through the dense woods. After half an hour of circling he climbed a short ridge which opened to a small clearing.

Arnald pulled the pony up short at the sight of a nude woman almost directly beneath him. The remnants of her torn clothing and broken weapons were scattered about the clearing. She lay on her back, her legs spread, the blood from her brutal rape still wet upon her thighs. A dagger protruded from between her breasts, driven into her chest with such force that only part of the grip was visible. Leaves, twigs and mud from the slowly melting snow concealed a face partly obscured by her auburn hair. Hair the same color as Arnald's.

The scent of her blood hung heavy in the air, making Arnald sick to his stomach. He slowly dismounted, swallowing the bile threatening to scale his throat.

Arnald couldn't take his eyes off the woman’s hair.

His hands shaking, he tied the pony's reins to a branch and stumbled his way to the body. He knew. He needn’t see the face. He knew. Still, he knelt and wiped away the mud, removed the leaves and twigs. With tears welling, he pushed the matted hair aside, revealing Ygerne's face.

In the years ahead, Arnald would not remember standing, nor remember the howl of anguish, THE RAGE erupting from his very soul. Never would he recall drawing his sword and slashing at the trees, the ground, his pony. He wouldn't remember his arms tiring of hacking at nothing, at everything. He wouldn't remember throwing aside his sword.

Arnald would only remember the terrible anguish he felt as he collapsed across his dead sister. He would not later recall raising himself and staring at the dagger, nor seizing it in his hand and prying it free of her chest.

He would not remember the blow to his back that sprawled him across the corpse, nor the hands that seized him, but he would always remember the sound of his brother's voice.

Murderer!

Arnald's shock at his sister's murder was no less than his brother's sudden appearance and accusation. No less than the accusing faces of the men holding him. Men of Warewic, and others, dressed for hunting.

Gwynd! Arnald cried.

One of the men struck Arnald in the face. Arnald reeled, then lunged forward, pain and anger overcoming shock. The men holding his arms tightened their grip, immobilizing him. Arnald glared at his attacker. Brun, nephew of Urien, Arthur’s lifelong enemy.

Brun bore a smile on his face.

Gwynd moved his pony