The Hallowed Isle Book Three Read Online Free

She felt the warm seep of blood from her womb sinking into the thirsty soil and found it hard to care. Anxious voices twittered around her, but she ignored them. Only when hard fingers began to knead her belly did she open her eyes with a weak cry.
    â€œMy lady, the afterbirth must be driven forth—” said Leuku as the queen protested. The baby was still squalling.
    â€œSet the child to the teat,” someone said then.
    There were a few moments of confusion as they undid her gown. Morgause felt the babe rootling at her breast, and then a sudden sharp pang that shocked through her entire body as he fastened onto the nipple and her milk let down. Through the convulsions that followed as she was delivered of the placenta he hung on. It was only when he let go at last that she saw blood flowing from her nipple along with the milk and realized that her son had been born toothed and ready to take on the world.
    From nearby came the deep rumble of male voices. Morgause looked up and saw Leudonus’ grizzled head above the others.
    â€œYou have a fine son, my lord, for all that he came early into the world—” said Dugech, leading the king into the circle of women. Morgause’s lips twitched as the other woman bent to take the swaddled child from her arms.
    Dugech knew perfectly well that this boy, like the others, was full-term. Even Leudonus, who had sired his share of bastards, must know the difference by now, but if so, he had his own reasons to uphold the fiction. He frowned down at the squirming bundle Dugech had handed him, and silence fell while men waited for him to acknowledge paternity.
    â€œA fine boy indeed. He has your hair,” he said finally. And then, holding him up, “Let him be called Medraut, of the royal kindred. Let the Votadini welcome a future warrior!”
    This, if not explicit, was close enough to an avowal. The walls of the cleft echoed to their shout of welcome. Morgause smiled. A warrior , she thought, and more than a warrior. I welcome a king! She could sleep now, knowing others would guard her child. The moon had finally disappeared, but through her closing eyelids, she still saw the red glow of the Beltain Sun.
    If she slitted her eyes just so, thought Guendivar, the reflections from the warriors’ spearpoints merged into a single dazzle of light. That was almost more fun than watching them throw the spears, and certainly better than listening to them argue about the casts. She had promised Telent that she would watch him compete today. He was in Prince Leodagranus’ guard, and carried her around on his shoulders, though the last time she asked he had said that at almost seven, she was too old.
    Guendivar chewed on her lower lip, watching as he prepared to cast anew. She knew that she was growing, but he was very tall. Perhaps she would go away now, to punish him.
    At the thought, she was already in motion, flitting past the line of men like a white blossom before the wind. Her mother, who had been dozing in the shade of the figured cloth, sat up suddenly, calling, but by then Guendivar was halfway down the field and could pretend she had not heard. Petronilla was always trying to make her be polite and tidy; Guendivar had learned the advantages of evasion early on.
    She wanted to see the rest of the festival. At the edge of the field, peddlers had set up their wares in bothies made of woven branches and strips of striped cloth. There were only a few, and their goods would have been considered paltry stuff when the Romans ruled, but only the older people remembered those days. In the old days they would probably have celebrated the festival in Lindinis, her father’s town, instead of spending most of their time at the old villa in the hills. To the folk of the countryside, the red pottery oil lamps and the beads of Roman glass seemed very fine. Guendivar wandered among them, admiring, and one of the traders gave her a green ribbon to tie back her