“Xantian,” she said quickly then gasped. “I…I mean the Irials’ language.”
Rowan was smirking knowingly again but at least he wasn’t angry anymore.
They had not reached camp yet before Xante met them. He was six feet four inches tall, broad-shouldered, with a body as strong and lean as a rawhide whip. His black hair hung in heavy rivulets to his shoulders, framing a dark-skinned face with heavy black brows, deep-set black eyes, a thick black mustache, and a chin that was square and rigid. A deep scar on his forehead was emphasized by the scowl he now wore.
“We have visitors. We have been searching for you,” Xante said in his harsh voice. He wore a belted bearskin over a short-skirted tunic that left his muscular legs bare.
Lora started to reply to Xante’s insolence to his king but Rowan squeezed her fingers painfully.
Rowan did not explain his absence from camp even though Xante had told him he was not to leave the sight of the Lanconians who were to protect him. “Who has come?” Rowan asked. He was a couple of inches shorter than Xante but younger and thicker. Xante had had too many lean winters to have the thick muscle of Rowan.
“Thal has sent Cilean and Daire with another hundred men.”
“Cilean?” Lora asked. “Is this the woman Rowan is to marry?”
Xante gave her a sharp look, as if to tell her to mind her own business.
Lora glared at him in defiance.
“Shall we ride to meet them?” Rowan asked, a slight frown on his handsome face.
His horse was saddled and waiting for him and, as always, he was surrounded by fifty Lanconians, rather like a child who needs constant protection. They rode northwest, toward the mountains, where, in the setting sun, he could see the outline of many troops. As they drew closer together, he braced himself to meet this woman who had been given the equivalent of knighthood.
He saw her from a long way off. There was no mistaking her form for that of a man: tall, slim, erect, high firm breasts, a three-inch-wide belt around her narrow waist, curving hips below.
He kicked his horse forward, ignoring the protests of the men around him, and went forward to meet her. When he saw her face, he smiled. She was quite lovely with her dark eyes and deep red lips.
“My lady, I welcome you,” he said, and smiled at her. “I am Rowan, humble prince of your magnificent country.”
Around him the Lanconians were silent. This was no way for a man to act, especially not a man destined to be king. They looked at the setting sun glinting off his blond hair and they knew that everything they had feared about this man was true: he was a stupid English softling.
At the first guffaw behind Cilean, she urged her horse forward and held out her hand to touch Rowan’s in greeting. She, too, was disappointed. He was good-looking enough but the silly grin he wore made her agree with her men’s opinion of him.
Rowan held Cilean’s hand for a moment and saw her thoughts in her dark eyes. Around him he could feel the superior attitude of the Lanconians and his anger almost came to the surface. Whether it was anger at himself or the Lanconians he did not know. The scar on his leg twitched and his smile faded.
Rowan dropped Cilean’s hand with his smile. It was one thing to look the buffoon before men, but before this magnificent creature who was to be his wife…
Rowan reined his horse around. “We return to camp,” he ordered, not looking at anyone. He knew his own three English knights were the first to obey him.
Suddenly a shout went up and the Lanconians circled Rowan and his three men protectively.
“You are too close to Zernas,” Rowan heard a man say in the Irial language. He was a young serious-looking man, riding next to Cilean, and now he was berating Xante. This must be Daire, Rowan thought.
Even though the Lanconians tried to halt him, Rowan urged his horse to the front of the group to see what had caused the alarm.
On a hill, silhouetted by the dying sun, were three men.
“Zerna,” Xante said to Rowan as if that explained everything. “We will take you back to camp. Daire! Choose fifty men and prepare to fight.”
Rowan’s temper that he had suppressed for days could no longer be contained. “Like hell you will!” he said to Xante in perfect Irial Lanconian. “You will not harm my men and, make no mistake, the Zernas are mine as much as the Irials are. I will greet these men. Neile! Watelin! Belsur!” he called to his three knights.
Never had any men so readily obeyed an order, for they were sick of the Lanconians’ treatment of them. They arrogantly shoved their way through the Lanconians to stand behind Rowan.
“Stop the fool,” Daire said to Xante. “Thal will never forgive us if he’s killed.”
Rowan turned deadly eyes to Daire. “You follow my orders,” he said, and Daire stopped speaking.
Xante was looking at Rowan with some interest, but he was older than Daire and less easily intimidated. When he spoke, his voice held great patience. “They are Zerna and do not recognize an Irial king. They believe Brocain is their king and they would delight in killing you.”
“I do not please people so easily. We ride,” he said over his shoulder to his own men.
Behind him Xante stopped the Irials from following Rowan. “It is better that the fool is killed now before Thal makes him king,” he said. The Lanconians watched with impassive faces as the prince they disliked so much rode toward certain death.
The three Zernas on the hill stood still as Rowan and his knights approached. He could see, as he drew closer, that they were young men out hunting and no doubt startled at the sight of so many Irials where they shouldn’t be.
Rowan’s anger was still pounding in his ears. Always, he had been taught that he was to be king of all the Lanconians, and here the Irials were trying to kill the Zernas.
Rowan motioned for his knights to remain behind as he rode forward to greet the three young men alone. He halted about a hundred yards from the young hunters. “I am Prince Rowan, son of Thal,” he called in the Irial language that the Zernas spoke also, “and I offer you greetings and peace.”
The three young men still sat motionless on their horses, obviously fascinated by this lone blond man, such an oddity in this country, riding toward them on his tall, beautiful roan horse. The middle Zerna, little more than a boy, was the first to recover his senses. With a movement like lightning, he drew his bow and an arrow and shot at Rowan.
Rowan swerved to the right only just before the arrow reached him and he felt it graze his left arm. He cursed under his breath and spurred his horse to a swift gallop. He had had more than he could bear from these Lanconians. Contempt and laughter were one thing, but being shot at by a boy after he’d offered peace was the last insult he could tolerate. He reached the boy in seconds and, while still galloping, pulled him from his horse and flung him to the ground. Rowan was off his horse instantly, holding the fighting boy to the ground with the weight of his big body. Behind him he could hear the thunder of the hooves of two hundred approaching Lanconian horses.
“Get out of here!” he bellowed to the two boys still on their horses.
“We cannot,” one said, looking in horror at the boy Rowan was pinning to the ground, his voice little more than a whisper. “He is our king’s son.”
“I am your king,” Rowan bellowed, all of his anger behind his voice. He looked up to see his own knights approaching. “Get them out of here,” he ordered, motioning toward the two Zerna boys. “Xante will tear them apart.”
Rowan’s knights charged the two young men and sent them racing.
Rowan looked down at the boy he held. He was a handsome youth, about seventeen and as mad as a cat in water.
“You are not my king,” the boy screeched. “My father, the great Brocain, is king.” He spat a mouthful of saliva in Rowan’s face.
Rowan wiped his face then slapped the boy in an insulting way, like a man might slap a woman whose quick tongue was more than he could bear. He jerked him upright. “You’ll come with me.?
??
“I’ll die before—”
Rowan turned the boy to face the approaching Irial troops, who were now very close. They were a formidable sight of muscled men, muscled horses, and weapons gleaming in the sunlight. “They will kill you if you try to run.”
“No Zerna fears an Irial,” he said, but his face had lost all color.
“There are times when a man uses his brain instead of his right arm. Act like a man now. Make your father proud.” He released his hold on the boy, and after a moment’s hesitation, the boy stood where he was. Rowan could only hope the boy had sense enough not to do something stupid. No doubt the Irials would take great pleasure in killing this Zerna boy.
The Lanconians surrounded Rowan and the boy, their horses sweaty, nostrils open, the men with their black brows drawn together, weapons at the ready. They were enough to make Rowan want to turn tail and run.
“Good,” Xante said, “you have a captive. We will execute him now for trying to kill an Irial.”
Rowan was proud that the boy did not waver or show any signs of cowardice at Xante’s autocratic words. Rowan’s anger, momentarily exorcised by his tussle with the boy, came to the surface again. Now was the time to establish his right to rule. He pushed his anger down and looked up at Xante. “I have a guest,” he said pointedly. “This is Brocain’s son and he has agreed to travel with us and to direct us through his father’s land.”
Xante snorted as loudly as his horse. “It was this guest who shot you?”
Rowan was aware of the blood streaming down his arm but he would not back down now. “I cut myself on a rock,” he said, his eyes challenging Xante’s.
Cilean urged her horse forward, placing herself between the two men. “We welcome a guest, even though he be Zerna,” she said as if she were welcoming a poisonous snake into her bed. Her eyes were on Rowan, watching him as he glared up at the formidable Xante. Not many men dared challenge Xante and she never would have believed this soft blond Englishman would do so. But she had watched him ride against the Zerna, rather amazingly dodge an arrow, leap from his horse onto the boy, and now the Zerna boy stood close to the Englishman as if this blond man could stay the hands of the Irials. And now this Rowan was daring Xante in a way she had never seen before. Perhaps this man was a fool but perhaps there was more to him than they thought.
Rowan’s knight Belsur held the reins to Rowan’s horse. Rowan mounted then offered his hand to the Zerna boy to mount behind him. As Rowan turned his horse to start back to the camp, he asked, “What is your name?”
“Keon,” the boy said proudly, but there was a catch in his throat, betraying his fear at his narrow brush with death. “Son of the Zerna king.”
“I think we’d better give your father another title. I am the only king of this country.”
The boy laughed in a derogatory way. “My father will destroy you. No Irial will ever rule a Zerna.”
“We shall see, but for tonight, maybe you’d better consider me Zerna and stay near me. I’m not sure my other Lanconians are as forgiving as I am.”
Behind them rode Rowan’s knights and then the cluster of Lanconians, Daire, Cilean, and Xante in front.
“Is he always such a fool?” Daire asked Xante, looking at the back of this man who was supposed to be an Irial but who treated the Zerna boy as a friend. “How have you kept him alive?” he asked in wonder.
Xante was looking at Rowan and the Zerna boy thoughtfully. “Until tonight he has been as tame as a pet dog. His sister has shown more fire than he has. And, until tonight, he has spoken only English.”
“If he continues riding alone against the Zernas, he will not live long,” Daire said. “We should not try to prevent him from whatever foolishness he wishes to try. Judging by what he did today, he will open the gates of Escalon to any invader. Lanconia could fall under a ruler as stupid as he is. No, we will not try to prevent his riding alone against the enemy. We will be well rid of him. Geralt will be our king.”
“Is he stupid?” Cilean asked. “If we had attacked those boys and killed Brocain’s son, we wouldn’t know peace until Brocain had killed hundreds of our people. And now we have an important hostage. Brocain cannot attack us for fear of killing his son. And you say this Rowan has not, in weeks of travel, let you know he speaks our language? Come, Xante, I am surprised at you. What else does the man know about us that you do not know about him?” She urged her horse forward to ride beside Rowan.
All evening Cilean watched Rowan and his sister and his nephew and his men, encircled by darkness around a fire in front of Rowan’s beautiful silk tent. The Zerna boy, Keon, sat near them, quiet, sullen, watchful. Cilean imagined that Rowan’s ways were as strange to him as they were to the Irials. Rowan held his young nephew on his lap and whispered things that made the boy laugh and squeal. No Lanconian child of that age would be held by his father. By four the boys were already being taught to use weapons and so were the girls who had been chosen for the Women’s Guard.
Cilean watched the way Rowan smiled at his sister, heard him ask after her comfort, and she began to wonder what it would be like to live with this man of contradictions, who rode alone against three Zernas and two hours later cuddled a child and teased a woman. How could such a man be a fighter? How could he be a king?
Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the alarm horns were blown by the guardsmen standing watch. Instantly, the Lanconians were out of their light sleeping blankets and on their feet.
Rowan came out of his tent wearing only his loincloth, giving the Lanconians their first sight of the body of the man they had thought soft. Muscle like Rowan’s had been created by hard, heavy work.
“What is it?” he yelled in Lanconian at Xante.
“Zerna,” was Xante’s terse answer. “Brocain comes to fight for his son. We will meet him.” He was already mounting his horse.
Rowan grabbed Xante’s shoulder and pulled him about. “We do not attack because of what you believe to be true. Keon!” he yelled past Xante. “Prepare to ride to meet your father.”
Xante gave Rowan a cold look. “It is your life you lose.”
Rowan choked back words of anger and gave a look of warning to Neile, who took a step toward Xante. He had expected them to doubt him, but they did not merely doubt, they were sure he was useless.
Within minutes he was dressed. He did not dress in chain mail as for battle but in embroidered velvet as if for a social event. Rowan grimaced when the Lanconians smiled at the stupidity of this foreigner and Keon shook his head in wonder. At the moment Keon wished he had been killed yesterday, as death was preferable to facing his father.
Cilean, watching from a distance, saw the anger quickly cross Rowan’s face then disappear. If she were to marry this man, it might be good to ally herself with him now. And, besides, she was very interested in how he planned to deal with an old, treacherous man like Brocain.
“May I ride with you?” Cilean asked Rowan.
“No!” Daire and Xante yelled in unison.
Rowan looked at them, his eyes as cold as steel. “They can spare the life of an English prince but not one of their own,” he said, the bitterness he felt showing in his voice.
Cilean held a tall spear, a bow, and a quiver of arrows flung to her back. “I am a guard; I make my own decisions.”
Rowan grinned at her and Cilean found herself blinking as if against too bright a sun. By the gods above, the man was handsome! “Get your horse then,” he said, and Cilean hurried to her horse like a novice anxious to please her teachers.
Rowan looked after her. Feilan had not told him of the intelligence and generosity of the Lanconian women.
The other Lanconians were not affected by Rowan’s personal appearance and sat on their horses in a long line, watching silently as Rowan, Cilean, the three English knights, and Keon rode to meet two hundred Zerna warriors and certain death.
“Straighten your spine, boy,” Rowan said to Keon. “It is not as if you were facing the wrath o
f your king.”
“My father is king,” Keon shot back, his dark face almost as pale as Rowan’s.
A hundred yards from the Zernas, who sat still and waited for the approach of the small band, Rowan rode forth alone. Sun hit the gold embroidery of his tunic, flashed off his golden hair, winked in the diamond in his sword hilt, played along the trappings of his horse. The Lanconians, neither Irial nor Zerna, had never seen anything like this richly dressed man. He was as different looking from them as possible, a rose amid a field of sand burrs. They gaped at him in wonder.
After a moment’s hesitation, a big man rode toward Rowan. His face was scarred, one deep gouge running from his left eye down to his neck, and half of one ear was gone. There were more scars on his legs and arms. He looked as if he had never smiled in his life.
“Are you the Englishman who took my son?” he asked in a voice that made Rowan’s horse dance about. The animal recognized danger.
Rowan smiled at the man, successfully covering the fact that his heart was pounding in his ears. He doubted if any amount of combat training could prepare one to fight with such a man as this. “I am Lanconian, King Thal’s successor. I am to be king of all the Lanconians,” he said with an amazing amount of firmness in his voice.
For a moment, the older man’s mouth dropped open, then he closed it again. “I will kill a hundred men for each hair that is harmed on my son’s head.”
Rowan yelled over his shoulder. “Keon! Come forward.”
Brocain looked his son up and down, grunted satisfaction that he was unharmed, then told him to join the Zernas on the hill.
“No!” Rowan said sharply. His hand dropped to his knee, so that it was inches from his sword hilt. Whatever fear he felt, he could not let it show and he could not let this man have Keon. Fate had delivered the boy into his hands and Rowan meant to keep him. He was not going to let this small chance at peace escape him. “I’m afraid I cannot allow that. Keon stays with me.”
Once again, Brocain’s mouth dropped open but he recovered himself quickly. This man’s words and attitude did not match his handsome, unscarred, pale-skinned face. “We will fight for him,” he said, reaching for his sword.