Silver Silence by Joy Nash Page B

past a table laden with bowls of thin stew, hunks of bread that were only slightly stale, and rinds of too-fragrant cheese. Rhys accepted his portion, along with a cup of ale, from a round-faced monk with a pleasant smile.
    “They’ve meat at the high table,” Floyd grumbled as the troupe elbowed their way to an empty bench. “And wine.”
    Rhys looked down at the gruel in his bowl and shrugged. “I’ve eaten far worse.”
    Floyd sighed. “So have I, more’s the pity.”
    “Chins up, men,” Trent said as he slid into his seat. “In less than a sennight’s time we’ll be rolling fat in Duke Gerlois’s bounty.”
    “Aye, and Dafyd’s sermon only confirms what many are whispering,” Howell said. “Duke Gerlois’s tournament is naught but a show of force designed to taunt King Uther.”
    “Gerlois has been taunting Uther all summer,” Trent remarked. “Despite all the fighting in the east, Gerlois has sent not a single knight to the high king’s aid.”
    “One can hardly blame the man,” Kane said. “The king insulted the duke quite blatantly last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. Uther made no secret of his lust for Lady Igraine.”
    “If a lustful eye cast toward the duchess enrages Gerlois,” Howell retorted, “the duke had best be ready to taunt every man in Britain! Lady Igraine is far too beautiful for any husband’s peace of mind.”
    Rhys followed this interchange with great interest.
    “ ‘Tis beyond foolish for men to fight over a woman,” Floyd commented, slurping his gruel. “Even one so lovely as Igraine.”
    “True,” Howell said. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “But I canna credit how close to outright treason Dafyd came tonight. He all but called for Gerlois to replace Uther on the high throne.”
    “The bishop grows bold, aye,” Trent said. “He is Gerlois’s younger brother, after all. He knows there are many in Britain who would pledge fealty to the duke rather than Uther. But I cannot like it. Gerlois holds Dumnonia and the west country well enough, but can he protect the east of Britain, which lies on the Saxons’ very doorstep? I think not.”
    “I agree,” Howell said. “Uther is Britain’s fiercest warrior. He may not be the most ardent follower of the Christos, but what of it? Prayers are no match for arrows and swords.”
    Kane’s cheeks reddened. “For shame, Howell! If all Britain’s faith proves as weak as yours, the Saxons will certainly be our masters.”
    “ ‘Tis only due to Uther we dinna all wear Saxon slave collars,” Howell retorted.
    “Some of Lord Vectus’s subjects already do,” Kane countered, “seized as they were after their master fell to Saxon raiders, not even a month past! ’Twas Gerlois’s warriors, not Uther’s, who answered the pleas of Vectus’s people. Else even more would have been taken.”
    “It was Gerlois’s duty to aid Lord Vectus,” Howell said. “Vectus was Lady Igraine’s kin. Must King Utherpersonally hold every mile of western coast for Gerlois, as well as the south, north, and east for the rest of Britain’s dukes and petty kings?”
    A sour silence descended, each man frowning into his cup.
    “Only the Christos can grant Britain victory against the Saxons,” Kane muttered eventually.
    The bottom of Howell’s mug hit the table with a thud. He looked right, then left, then leaned forward to hiss in Kane’s face. “If your Christos is so concerned with Britain’s defense, where was he fifty bloody years ago? He might have prevented the Roman army from abandoning Britain in the first place!”
    “What of the Druid the bishop mentioned?” Rhys asked Trent. “This Myrddin?”
    “Ah, Myrddin,” Trent replied. He took a long draught of bitter ale, frowned into his mug, then put it aside. “Uther’s old Druid is an enigma, to be sure. No one seems to know whence he came. Eire, perhaps. At least that is where he first became known as Uther’s advisor, during the campaign Uther waged as