The Magic

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The Magic Page 14

by Virginia Brown


  For a moment he thought she would yield, but then her eyes narrowed and lips thinned into a straight line. “Do your worst. Crushing? The rack?”

  “I do not need suggestions.” Curse her, she had called his bluff. He did not make war on women or children. He could bully her, of course, force her to speak, but those enduring torment rarely spoke truth, only what would make it stop.

  “I do not have a name,” she repeated.

  “Then a description of the man who hired you will suffice.”

  After muttering something he didn’t quite catch, she said flatly, “You all look alike to me. But he was dark. With a thin face like a weasel. And huge, dark eyes like black flames, all burning and hot and terrifying. He said if I didn’t keep you here, he’d kill me and Elspeth. And Biagio. Boil us in oil. Skin us first, and use our hides as shoes.” She drew in a deep breath. “And if I fail, he’ll hunt us down with dogs, find us wherever we go, then feed us to them in pieces. We’ll be hung from trees along the roads as a warning. Shot full of arrows as targets and—”

  “Did it never occur to you,” Rhys interrupted dryly, “that there is only one time you can die? Never mind, flower. Whatever he said, it was obviously enough to convince you. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  She shrugged, flashed him a sullen glance, her dark brows low over her eyes. “Oh aye, for he looks like the devil. I expect that if you took off his boots, he’d have cloven hooves and a tail beneath his cape and horns beneath his helmet.”

  “Cease. I take your meaning. Your imagination is vivid. Let us hope your memory is as excellent.”

  He stepped away from her and moved to the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Roads had turned to mud; a cart laden with wares had gotten stuck. Drenched men in hooded tunics pushed it from the rear, and more pulled on the cart poles to urge the horse forward. He watched until they freed it, then turned and looked at Sasha.

  “We leave in the morning for Wales, and you will be accompanying us.”

  EARLY MORNING mist surrounded them in eerie shreds, muffling forest noises, even the thud of hooves on soft, muddy ground. Sasha heard the sound of cart wheels as only a distant rattle somewhere far behind them. At least Elspeth and Biagio had not been left behind, although they traveled at the tail end of the caravan, trailing so far back they were out of sight on the muddy road. It had been a hard-won concession, purchased with tales of Elspeth dying in deprivation if abandoned, and Biagio reduced to beggary; she invented such dire scenes of destitution that he finally said he would take them if she would just fall silent. It had worked, so she had contented herself with lying on a hard pallet next to Rhys’s rope bed, despite being indignant he thought it necessary to tether her to him with a rope for the night. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t undo knots in a trice.

  Although at first she’d been angry, she’d realized that it may work to her advantage to go with him. There may come a moment when she could convince him of great reward should he keep his sworn vow to be her champion.

  The knight had been in no humor to tweak when he woke her before dawn, bidding her tend her needs swiftly. That she had done so under guard was galling. More galling, he had set her atop a baggage horse instead of allowing her to ride Beyosha; she rode between two well-armed soldiers. There had been only a brief glimpse of Biagio, and that from a distance, but it was enough to discern his thoughts and assurances they would not leave her. It was a great comfort. At first opportunity, she would inform them of her intentions. All was subject to change, as circumstances demanded. But that was always how it happened, as few plans went smoothly. She had learned to adapt a great deal in the past years.

  For to refute lies told by the tavern wench, it had been simple enough to find truth among the swirl of thoughts in her head, images of Biagio at the gate supplanting the glimpse of her at the wine casks; Hlynn’s impression of her was anything but flattering, picturing her as a dark, evil presence, but she supposed it was fair enough. To the girl, she must certainly seem evil. Yet Hlynn had not actually seen her put potion into the wine as she claimed. A lie refuted with truth had been the wench’s undoing.

  Lies could undo many a plan, so she kept to facts as much as possible, although with no compunction about disguising them in elaborate exaggerations. Such as her vivid description of an imaginary enemy; ridiculous, that the knight refused to believe truth but accepted such a wild invention as fact. She had half-expected him to laugh, or at least to see the foolishness, but he had not. Now she was expected to continue the fiction, and he would no doubt present possible villains to her in the near future.

  It would be wise to learn all she could about the situation they would encounter once they reached Wales. The little she had skimmed from the minds of those surrounding her had more to do with their bellies and wenches than with the circumstances that lay ahead. There was a stone keep, fierce skirmishes, deep woods, high dangerous crags, steep ditches, all a jumbled tangle of impressions that gave her a vague image of Wales, but no details to lend clarity.

  What was quite clear, however, was that Rhys ap Griffyn anticipated betrayal and battle in the near future. Wales would be their reward or their death.

  Wales. Wasn’t that close to the edge of the earth? At the brink of an ocean that dropped off into the kingdom of dragons? Wales. Blinking blearily, Sasha thought longingly of a stuffed mattress in a dry chamber. Damp penetrated her cloak and cotte all the way to her skin, and even her shoes were sodden pieces of leather. England was dry as the bottom of the sea. Wales would be little better, she was certain. In moments like these, she missed the heat and sand and searing sun. How had her mother managed to adjust?

  Fading memories of Elfreda summoned visions of her mother urging them to flee, giving her child into Elspeth’s care despite Sasha’s efforts to cling to her. It was only when Elfreda said the words silently that she understood there was no hope; she must live to tell the tales of what had been done, must live so that her father’s legacy would not die.

  At times, the dreams still haunted her, their flight into the dark shadows, the sounds of battle behind her, the unknown more terrifying than death. But that had been then. Now she knew there was truth in the prophecy, for she had met her champion in the Wytham weald.

  She had only to induce him to keep his vow. That would be an enormous challenge.

  When her horse stumbled, she grabbed at the high pommel in front of her, bound hands tightly gripping slippery leather. A guard next to her laughed and said something in Welsh to his companion. She may not understand the language, but she fully understood the brief images that flitted through his mind. Leaning closer to him, she said softly, “Your pintel will turn black and drop off if you attempt such a foolish act.”

  He recoiled, and she smiled. Threatening his manhood should keep him at bay, since he regarded her as a sorceress. It may also make him an enemy. In her experience, some men were better dealt with as enemies than to risk uncertain amity. Rhys was not the only one subject to betrayal. It was safer to know the enemy than be caught unaware. He may not believe her, but she well understood the need for trust. Perhaps once they reached Wales, fate would be kind.

  SLANTING CLOUD-shadows crossed the deep green of fields on each side of the narrow road that led to Wales. Steep ridges grew thick with forest, giving way to flatter land only to rise again around the next bend. Peasants tilling a field looked up, some of them leaning on their hoe handles to watch the band of armed men pass by. Fragrant wood anemones had given way to pungent cow parsley among the hedgerows, mingling with the smell of freshly-turned soil.

  The hard-packed dirt road would turn to mud at the next rain, and Rhys urged a faster pace. Three days and nights had taken its toll on horses and men but now they had reached a crag overlooking the Wye Valley. The vantage point atop the wooded ridge gave Rhys an expansive view of the dale and rough hills beyond. A winding band of
water, sun chipped and glittering bright enough to sting his eyes, cut across the vale. He blinked against the midday glare and glanced up at the sky. It was a vibrant blue, a huge bowl tufted with scudding white clouds that drifted lazily, like windblown seeds of a thistle.

  “Afon Gwy,” Brian murmured as they looked down at the River Wye, and Rhys nodded.

  “Ie,” he said, the slip back into Welsh easier than he’d thought it would be. The closer they drew to Glynllew, the sharper the memories. Charlock mantled the dipping ground, catching sunlight in the tiny golden blooms. Butter-colored blossoms of bird’s-foot clover dotted tall grasses; cheerful day’s eyes mimicked the sun with big yellow centers ringed by white petals. With limestone banks of the Wye in sight, he began to remember: Twilight games played among willows crowding the green banks of the river, practicing with small blunt-tipped arrows and his bow, cracking a flimsy wooden sword against his eldest brother’s head and being soundly trounced for it—so long ago, as if it had been another life, another lad who had laughed and romped and lived among the beautiful Welsh valley and stony hills.

  But there were other memories as well, less peaceful and infinitely more grim. Armed warriors streaming over these same placid hills, brandishing swords and spears and screaming for blood as they stormed fortified walls. Welsh against Welsh, English against Welsh, there had always been enemies waiting like vultures to seize the rich lands of Wales. And it was no different now; only the names of the enemies had changed.

  It looked peaceful, but that could change in an instant, as he well knew. William Marshal had been recently granted Castle Striguil; it lay just out of sight, brooding over the estuary. The wood and stone bridge near Striguil was as rickety as he recalled, too, shuddering beneath the weight of horses and the cart that brought up the rear of their train. Horses snorted nervously. The Severn estuary was deep at high tide; a slip could be fatal. Once across, their pace quickened as he recalled more landmarks. Castle Striguil downriver, Tintern Abbey upriver, memories flooded back as he pushed inland on wooded tracks not much larger than a small cart.

  Halting only one league from Glynllew, Rhys signaled a halt. They would wait for the foreriders he’d sent ahead to return and report. He dismounted beneath the spreading shade of a beech tree. A sparrow perching in the branches above twittered and hopped, erratic and noisy.

  A glance down the line of horses and men revealed Sasha in her green cloak refusing the help of a soldier to dismount. Hands bound at the wrists gripped the pommel, and she slid from the baggage horse to land nimbly on the leaf-litter of the narrow path. The hood to her cape fell back, uncovering gleaming dark hair kept from her face by two braids. Despite sleeping on the ground rolled up in her cloak the past nights, she showed no sign of weariness. He felt every stone and branch on the ground even through the protection of his quilted gambeson and cloak. Yet she seemed unfazed by the grueling pace, while seasoned soldiers betrayed fatigue.

  A changeling, a fey creature of myth and magic one moment, a beguiling woman with sloe eyes and golden skin the next; he must be wary else he find himself caught in her allure. He deliberately kept a distance from his captive faerie, smiling a little at the metaphor. His men may believe it, but he knew her to be mortal, for no ethereal maid of illusion would feel so tangible.

  Familiar forest noises were muffled by the murmur of soldiers as they waited for news; a cuckoo called in the high branches of a tree, horses snorted and jangled bridle bits and chains, and some soldiers slept snoring with their backs against tree trunks.

  Late shadows began to creep into the wood, yet the foreriders did not return. Rhys fretted with the delay. He scaled a rocky crag to gaze toward the keep still hidden from sight. A thin curl of smoke rose above treetops toward the darkening sky, marking its location. To be so close and still so far . . . He summoned Sir Robert and Brian to him.

  “I ride for Glynllew,” he said, slapping his gauntlets across an open palm. “‘Tis safer if I go alone.”

  “My lord, should we not wait on the foreriders to return?” Sir Robert asked hesitantly, and Rhys paused, considering. The older man was experienced, but often too cautious. Yet there was a time for caution, and a time for action.

  “Perhaps, but our previous foreriders reported none of Raglan’s men in the area, nor other enemies. No troops sighted, nor siege engines hidden in the woods.”

  “I do not like it that the men we sent before dawn have not come back,” Brian muttered. “Nor have we seen the courier we sent ahead to Glynllew to tell Owain of your arrival. Your father’s steward should have sent Oliver with a reply. I don’t like this.”

  “Aye, but ‘tis not as if I intend an assault on the keep. It was in Owain’s hands ten days ago. I must learn if it still is. It is well past time for our riders to have returned. If we linger too long, we may invite attack from Raglan. We are too many not to go unnoticed.”

  “That is true,” Sir Robert said heavily. “We are enough men to resist any attack by a small band. If there is a large Raglan force, our foreriders will report it. It’s not easy to hide a vast body of troops for long.”

  “And therein lies the dilemma,” Rhys said wryly. “Our foreriders have not returned. They are either captured or dead. We have only two score of men with us, a number too small to storm the castle walls. Until the reinforcements arrive—which may not be in time—we must rely on our wits and not our arms.”

  “Let me go with you. I can ride back for the men if needed.”

  Sensing his anxiety, Rhys relented. “Aye, but ready the others and leave sentries posted while we are gone. Night falls swiftly.” He descended the crag to find his mount and stepped up into the saddle and pulled on his gauntlets. “We ride,” he said when Brian joined him.

  Glynllew itself he remembered as a rough motte-and-bailey structure mostly of wood and half-hidden by surrounding forest. Time had changed it. For leagues around, trees had been felled to provide timber for construction, leaving the hills strewn with stumps and new saplings. When they rode around a sharp bend in the road, high stone towers soared upward like dragon’s teeth, seeming to graze the clouds. A banner fluttered from atop a tower, waving scarlet and gold against the rose and purple sky. A familiar standard. The gryffin still flew. Owain must hold it, for Raglan or Gavin would have flown his own standard.

  Glynllew.

  It was different, yet somehow unchanged, much grander than childhood memories, but unmistakable: The glitter of the River Wye, the green hills, and impressive high spur on the riverbanks still commanded an ancient crossing over the river. It was the keep that had changed most; the steep stone walls and towers that overlooked the hamlet had been built since last he played here as a child. But it was still home.

  The village of Cymllew huddled not far from the foot of the high spur on the banks of the Wye. The streets were empty save for an occasional dog or chicken, doors and shutters shut tight. Half-timbered mud and wattle huts squatted along the bend of water, but no kine or sheep could be seen in the fields or behind fences. A warning of imminent invasion must have been sounded, sending the people running to hide themselves and their goods. Cymllew was deserted. Their presence had been duly noted. No peasant wished to be caught between feuding barons.

  It was quiet as they drew nearer the keep, the only sign of struggle or siege a damaged wall to indicate what they would find inside the stones looming high against the Welsh sky. “I cannot like this, milord,” Brian muttered uneasily. “‘Tis too calm. No one is about.”

  “It’s obvious our message has been delivered,” Rhys said wryly, “for the peasants have fled. You know the saying—when two noblemen quarrel, ‘tis the peasant’s roof that burns.”

  Echoes of hoofbeats on empty streets were strangely loud. Brian gripped his sword hilt tightly. “Do you think the castle has been taken?”

  Rhys frowned. “The gryffin flies, not Raglan’s banner. Owai
n might just be cautious, as Sir Nicolas already attempted an assault. And Owain must know by now of Gareth’s petition to take Glynllew by legal means. With all that, he may not trust my banner until he sees proof. I’ll have an answer before long.”

  The winding street led up from the village, skirting a deep ditch that curved around the base of the keep, ending at a raised drawbridge and the tower gates. Rhys rode to the moat’s edge and demanded entry.

  “Pwy dod?” came the sentry’s challenge in thick English-accented Welsh.

  Even unaccustomed as he was to the Welsh tongue, Rhys detected the English accent. He exchanged a wary glance with Brian.

  “Fy enw i yw Rhys ap Griffyn,” he shouted up, “I am Lord of Glynllew. Grant entry.”

  “Griffyn of Glynllew?” A broad, flat-featured face appeared in the lancet window, then withdrew. After a time, the sentry reappeared to announce, “The old lord of Glynllew is dead.”

  Rhys swept his helmet off so that the fading sunlight would light his face and hair, and dragged his standard from a pouch on his saddle. As the pennon shook free, the gold gryffin on scarlet unfurled, glittering in the afternoon sun. Rhys looked up at the sentry. “As you can see, I am the rightful lord of Glynllew. Call Owain to open the gates.”

  “I know no Owain, and I’ve had no orders to open for a new lord. Now go, before I summon archers to drive you away.”

  So that was the way it was to be. Rhys curbed his anger with an effort and demanded an audience with the constable. There was another brief discussion before the sentry returned to the slotted window to say that the constable would speak with him if he entered the bailey alone.

  “Nay. Send out the constable.” Rhys waited, his shield reflecting dying sunlight, his patience waning; the constable appeared and finally agreed to meet in the middle of the drawbridge.

  Brian’s protest was alarmed. “My lord, do not go in—”

 

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