Born of the Sun by Joan Wolf Page B

Niniane had been waiting to find out what her future was to be. Cynric had postponed all talk of marriage and was taking a war band north in a few weeks’ time to meet Coinmail’s challenge. Niniane’s fate would depend upon the outcome of that encounter. And for the first time, Ceawlin, who had turned seventeen over the winter, was to join his father’s army.
    “I am looking forward to it,” he said now to the level blue eyes that were holding his so steadily.
    She did not answer, nor did her expression change. He thought, all of a sudden, that he had never seen her smile.
    “I see Alric finished your harp,” Fara said in a pleased voice, and for the first time Ceawlin noticed what Niniane was carrying in her hand.
    “Yes.” Her small hands stroked the wood lovingly. “It was so kind of him.”
    “Alric made you a harp?” he asked in amazement. The scop was not one to pay much attention to girls.
    “Niniane is a very fine harpist,” his mother said to him as she brushed the hair off his neck. “There. You’re all finished, Ceawlin.”
    He stood up and brushed at his tunic, which was dusted with silvery hairs as well. “You play?” His voice was frankly incredulous.
    “My father’s harper taught me when I was a little girl.”
    It was late in the day but not yet time to sup. He sat himself down in another chair and said, “Play something for me.”
    Niniane looked at Fara. “Would you mind, my dear? We should all enjoy it,” said the friedlehe in her lovely, kind voice.
    Niniane came forward with obvious reluctance and sat down on a stool at a little distance from Ceawlin. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and waited. He did not expect much. Everyone knew women had no talent for music.
    “The only songs I know are the songs of Arthur’s wars against the Saxons,” Niniane said. She gave him a sideways slanting look. “And you are not the heroes, my lord.”
    “That’s all right. My feelings won’t be hurt.” He rested his head against the carved back of his chair.
    Niniane looked at him measuringly. His evenly trimmed hair just cleared his shoulders and framed his head like a silver helmet. His half-open eyes were regarding her with lazy tolerance. Coinmail patronized her all the time; she did not know why the same treatment from this Saxon prince should annoy her so much. She decided she would give him “The Battle of Badon.”
    As always, all else fell away from her the moment she began to play. She woke the harp to life. “Arthur, the king …” she began to sing in her rich, husky voice, and the room fell very still.
    When, finally, the last note had died away, she raised her head. He was looking at her, a very different expression in those blue-green eyes. He said only, “Now I understand why Alric made you the harp,” but for some reason her very breathing altered and she looked in some confusion at her fingers, resting still on the strings of the instrument. She did not look back at him until he rose to leave a few minutes later.
    He was so tall, she thought as she watched him walking beside Fara to the door. He topped his mother by half a head, and Fara was a very tall woman. He was much taller than Cynric, and much leaner too. He was very much his mother’s son. Except for the eyes.
    He turned at the door and looked back at her. “Don’t expect another Badon this spring, Princess. The tides of war have changed in England and it is we who are on the rise.” He kindly allowed his mother to kiss his cheek, and then he was gone.

    Ceawlin came suddenly awake. His sleeping room was pitch dark, but that told him nothing about the time. The walls were so well built that there were no cracks for the light to creep between. Still, he knew it was early. He had always had a sixth sense about time.
    It was early, but he knew he would not go back to sleep. He was too keyed-up with anticipation. Tomorrow his father would be marching north to fight the