The Hallowed Isle Book Three Read Online Free PDF

the court of Artor, but just at this moment she did not care whether he went to Castra Legionis or the Devil, if she could have peace in her house once more.
    â€œLet him have it, Gwyhir,” she snapped, thrusting aside the curtain between her closet-bed and the central common area around the fire. “You were telling me only yesterday that the belt is too small.”
    â€œBut he should ask , mother,” said Gwyhir, straightening to his full height. He had got man-high in the past moons, but was still growing into his bones. His hair, lighter than Gualchmai’s, stuck out at odd angles, giving him the look of a young bird.
    Aggarban still wore the belt, though he was flushed and rumpled where his brother had grabbed him. He was dark and stocky, not much taller than the fourth brother, Goriat, even though he was almost four years older. Morgause looked at them and shook her head. She was too young to be the mother of such a brood of big, boisterous boys. At the moment, she wanted to send them all to Artor; all, that is, except for her sweet Medraut.
    Her youngest son was turned two this spring. She had danced at the Beltain fires this year and gone into the woods afterwards with one of Leudonus’ warriors. But she had not kindled. She told herself it meant nothing—there were three years between Gwyhir and Aggarban, after all, and four between Goriat and Medraut—but in her heart the fear was growing that Medraut would be her last child. Was he her punishment, or her key to greatness? She still did not know.
    â€œWill you write and tell us all about Artor’s fortress?” asked Goriat.
    â€œI will be far too busy to write letters,” answered his brother loftily, “riding, and training with the sword and spear. When I win my first fight I will let you know.”
    â€œAnd what if you lose?” Aggarban stuck out his tongue and darted out of the way of his brother’s blow.
    â€œOur brother Gualchmai is the greatest warrior the High King has,” said Gwyhir. “He may beat me, but by the gods, nobody else will, once my training is done.”
    At least, thought his mother, he recognized that he still had a few things to learn. But in the long run, she shared his confidence. No son of hers could be anything but a champion.
    â€œA fine lad,” said Bliesbituth as they watched Gwyhir ride out with Leudonus and his men. He was a chieftain who often served as a courier between Fodreu and Dun Eidyn. “But why do you send him to the Romans? If you let him come to Pictland, we would marry him to one of our princesses and he might father kings.” He smiled at his wife, a plump, pretty woman called Tulach, who was herself of the royal lineage.
    â€œI have several sons,” Morgause said diplomatically. “Perhaps one of the others—”
    â€œYou think I am flattering,” said Bliesbituth, “but it is not so. Britannia was strong in the time of the emperors, but their time is ended. The Votadini should look northward. We were never conquered; our warriors never gave up their swords. If all the peoples who live north of the Wall were to unite, we would be a power to reckon with. The Romans call us the Picts, the painted people, but we are the Pretani, the true Britons of this isle. The south is exhausted—our time is coming now.”
    Morgause felt the blood of generations who had fought to defend that Wall burning in her cheeks, but she held her tongue. From all accounts, Artor was keeping the Saxons and the men of Eriu in check; she was too tactful to remind Bliesbituth how her brother had dealt with the Picts three years before. The Romans, even at the height of their power, had been able to do little more.
    Another thought chilled her suddenly. If all the might of Rome had been able to do no better, what did that say about the power of Alba? While Artor was young and strong, perhaps he could hold the north in check, but what about his