The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Questions that he would soon hear the answers to, if he succeeded in his plan.

  He positioned men in a half-circle down the hill from the cave entrance, then took Brian and three more men with him. He motioned to them to unsheathe their weapons when they stood near the entrance. Pressing his shoulder against the rocky, brush-strewn wall just outside the cave entrance, he edged forward, putting up a hand to stay the others from following. His naked sword fit his right hand; with his left he explored the opening to find his way in the dark.

  The wooden barrier he’d ordered erected was gone, so nothing barred him from easing through the mouth to stand just inside. The cave stretched a half-mile under the castle. Passages spread out like a spiderweb in all directions. One had to know the route or risk a dark death.

  “Did you think I would go tamely?” he heard Gareth demand, and paused, listening. A bob of light flickered, banishing the gloom so that he saw figures silhouetted against it.

  Sasha’s voice: “I did not give you a thought, if you must know.”

  “Aye, but you will now. For when you have served your purpose, I will take pleasure in seeing you die,” Gareth promised.

  It took effort to remain calm, to keep his attention on the men gathered. Bowen, Sir Clyde, and Sayre—all men known to him—but it was Bowen who earned his surprise and regret. These men would all die before he let them go free. Another man hovered just behind Gareth, garbed in Glynllew colors as well. Routiers, all except Bowen. Paid to fight for an overlord, loyalty bought with a full purse. He had hired them, but he would make an example of them, so no other man in his employ would be deceived into thinking treachery would profit.

  “Do not touch her,” the Italian whelp snarled, “for if I do not kill you, Lord Rhys surely will.”

  He was right, for Rhys fully intended to kill Gareth before the night ended. There would be no quarter this time, no trial except by combat, his sword to be judge and executioner.

  Edging closer, he took care where to place his feet to make no sound. Not yet. Not until Sasha was safe and out of their reach.

  Sounding amused, Gareth said, “Your protector crows like a cockerel, Princess Elfreda. If I had time, I would gut him, but alas, we are sore pressed and must be away. Sir Clyde, kill the boy. Sayre, bind and gag her while Bowen and Alfred fetch the horses. She must be alive until we are fair away, then you may have your sport.”

  As Sir Clyde moved toward Biagio, Sasha flung herself from atop the rock where she sat to crash into him, knocking the knight off-balance. Sayre grabbed at her but missed as she rolled out of his reach, clawing at the swearing knight who been shoved to his knees. He felt around the floor for his sword, which had fallen from his hand. With his free hand, he slapped Sasha to one side. Biagio let out a howl of pure rage; Rhys recognized the sound and stifled the same impulse. It was time.

  When he stepped forward, beckoning to Sir Brian and the others, something brushed past him; a bolt of bristling white fur and teeth leaped from a flat rock and landed atop Sir Clyde. Screams filled the cave, echoing off walls, reverberating in a cascade of deafening sound. While Gareth and the others stood momentarily frozen, Bowen moved swiftly to snatch up Sasha, and Rhys started toward him.

  But Bowen shoved her toward the mouth of the cave, urging her to flee. “Lady, please, I will help the boy if you will but flee!”

  “Do not harm the dog, for it is his pet,” Sasha gasped out, and nodding understanding, he urged her toward freedom.

  There was no time to intervene when Sayre stepped up behind Bowen and cut him down with a stroke of his sword. Snarls from the dog, guttural cries from Sir Clyde, and curses from Gareth, who had broken free of his trance, roiled in the air, but Bowen made no sound as he fell. Sayre grabbed Sasha by her hair, the paint on her face blurring her features as he swung her about and toward Gareth. Then he moved toward the dog that straddled Sir Clyde, whose cries had faded to wet moans. Biagio met him, dagger a quick flash of steel in the weak light, the blade glancing off Sayre’s ribs as he moved swiftly to one side. He swung with his bloody sword and caught the boy broadside, laying him open.

  It all happened so fast, Rhys unable to reach them in time, boots skidding on the slick cave floor, Brian and the others behind him, and as Sayre swung again to deliver the final blow, the dog leaped, bloody jaws wide as he unmanned the soldier. A sickening crunch of teeth on flesh and bone, gurgles of shock and pain, the sword flying free to clatter uselessly out of reach, and the soldier went down, fists flailing ineffectively against the snarling beast that shook its great head from side to side. There was no time to pause, for Gareth had Sasha and his remaining soldier in hand; he held a blade to her throat, while the guard waited with drawn sword and death in his eyes. He must know there was no chance, for Brian and three others faced him, but a quick death was preferable to what surely awaited should he survive.

  Only Gareth remained undaunted.

  “Cousin, I have your woman. You bar my progress. Call off your men, and I will set her free once I am across the Wye.”

  “There is no keep strong enough to hold you safely if you harm her.” While Rhys had no intention of negotiating, he hoped Sir Robert might have discovered Gareth’s escape and even now be coming through the cave passage. But it twisted and turned, and men had been lost in the dark depths and never been seen again, save for the bones. He could not depend on help from that quarter.

  “William de Braose may argue that point,” Gareth replied, and Rhys sucked in a sharp breath. It was known de Braose plotted with Prince John; this went much deeper than he had ever dreamed. A powerful English baron with Welsh lands, polishing both sides of his coin, wooing the king and the prince, the royal brothers at odds with each other in the eternal struggle for power. A hellish family, but one that fiercely guarded English coasts and borders.

  “He may,” Rhys agreed calmly, “but de Braose is not to be trusted. He is the scourge of Wales, the Ogre of Abergavenny, a man who hunts down and slays seven-year-old boys. Beware of putting your trust in a man of that ilk.”

  “All true, but I am not without allies. Sir Clyde brought men sympathetic to my cause with him when he joined your forces. They await only my word to rally.”

  “And you think they are enough? William Marshal abides above, as do knights come from Castell Arnallt near Abergavenny, Llanover, and other shires. While they may have come for the tourney, they will no doubt be pleased to do battle in earnest.”

  Gareth recoiled. “The Marshal is here?”

  “Aye, and as justiciar, ready to take you with him for trial.”

  Damp chill frosted his breath as Gareth spat an exclamation. “Pah! I am done.”

  While Rhys engaged him in conversation, Brian edged along the wall in the shadows, bent on counteracting him at first opportunity. Sasha hung still and quiet in Gareth’s grasp, her eyes reflecting lantern light. He wanted to comfort her, but that would come after freeing her. He kept his gaze on Gareth, trying to gauge his next move. The blade he held at her throat was lethal and sharp.

  “He sees you, Sir Brian,” Sasha suddenly said into the cool silence. “He awaits only your drawing close enough to send his man after you. He thinks to flee in the chaos.”

  It was startling, and Gareth jerked, his knife bringing a thin line of blood on her neck. “It is impossible . . . another word, and I shall fix it so you will never speak again.”

  On his left, the Alaunt had finished with Sayre and pawed at Biagio, trying to wake him. An unlikely event, Rhys thought, but the dog did not relent. On his right, Brian had halted, while behind him, three more men waited with drawn swords and inflexible intent. Gareth must know he would not prevail. His next action would be for vengeance.

  Muscles tightened as Rhys firmed his grip on his sword. Only a few yards, four long strides, and he could be on him. A blink of the eye, but plenty of time to cut her th
roat.

  Despite the cold, sweat dampened his armpits and bare hands; he had lost his gauntlets in the mad ride to the cave. His breath felt hot and labored as he waited for the moment, tension rising. Too soon, and she would be harmed; too late, and he would rescue a corpse.

  The moment came swiftly.

  Gareth moved forward, Sasha held as a shield, his soldier at his back, an attempt to break through the line of knights and soldiers desperate but futile. His soldier was cut down first, Sir Brian stepping behind to clash briefly, and Adam Lemaigne jabbing the point of his sword into the man’s chest.

  “Do not!” Rhys ordered when Lemaigne made a swing at Gareth. They were even now, Gareth close enough that he saw the hate and determination in his eyes, pale light washing over his sneering mouth, and trickles of blood seeping from the cut on Sasha’s throat. If he withdrew the knife to stab at Rhys, it would be over. “Release her, and you will go free,” he said softly, but Gareth knew better.

  “Nay, cousin, for I see the death in your eyes. You will free me from this life if I relent.”

  It was true. Rhys smiled. “Aye, so I will.”

  Before Gareth could respond or guess his intent, Rhys brought up his sword in a swift arc that cleaved the top of Gareth’s head. Surprise flashed briefly in his eyes, fingers convulsively tightened on the knife at Sasha’s throat, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Rhys caught Sasha in his arms as she lurched forward. The strong scent of charred hair and wool stung his nose as he dropped his sword to hold her. Then he dropped to his knees, still holding her against him, his hand in her ruined hair, his mouth pressed against her forehead, relief swamping him.

  She was safe.

  Beyond, he heard Sir Robert arrive, boots clattering over rocks from the passage, men-at-arms ranging across the cave floor, exclaiming at the scene. He knew how it looked, dead men leaking blood, throats torn out, familiar men unmanned, a huge Alaunt howling over the prone figure of a boy, and their lord kneeling on rocks holding a woman with a painted face in his arms. Yet he could not move for the moment, could only hold Sasha close, grateful he had found her alive, even knowing that she did not want to stay with him. It didn’t matter. If he had to free her to make her happy, he would. But that would come later. Now, he just wanted to hold her.

  “I must see to him,” Sasha said, pulling away, her gaze on Biagio. “He is wounded.”

  “Ah. My love.” How did he tell her it was too late? She looked up at him, searching his face with her huge eyes.

  “He calls to me, my lord. He is sore wounded, but he lives.”

  “I hear nothing,” he began to say, but she stopped him with a finger on his lips.

  “I hear him. The dog hears him. Release me so I may tend him, I beg of you.”

  He released her, unconvinced. He wanted to spare her the sight but lifted her up and rose with her, stepping toward the boy sprawled on rocks. The Alaunt straddled him protectively, legs on each side, white fur flecked with blood, its muzzle red from it. A vicious beast, yet it whined and nudged the boy gently and looked toward Sasha as if pleading for help.

  Shushing the dog, she slipped a hand beneath the cloak tangled over his body, laying it upon his chest. “He lives,” she said, urgency in her tone. “I must get my herbs. He must be tended.”

  In moments Sir Robert knelt by Biagio, keeping a wary eye on the dog. After a moment he looked up. “Aye, my lord. See him carried up to the barber. I will bring my herbs.”

  “I will go with him,” Sasha said, and reluctantly, Rhys let her go.

  Chapter Twenty

  SASHA GRIMACED as Catrin cleaned the cut on her neck. Rhys hovered just beyond, the solar heated with a fire, water and herbs from her casket mixed and ready. She missed Elspeth. In her expert hands, this would soon be tended, but the girl fussed about so it seemed an eternity since she had begun.

  “A mirror, and I will assist,” Sasha said finally, and Catrin blew out a heavy breath.

  “Do not be impatient. If not for the paint smeared everywhere, I could better see to work. Why do you wear it? It clings to your skin.”

  “That is why. It is protection from fire.” Rhys turned at that, watching her, and she knew he wondered. “A foolish plan, but I did take precautions. If not for the Greek fire—but that is done. I will not belabor it, even when Biagio has recovered.”

  “He will live?” Catrin murmured, eyes narrowing as she dabbed potion from a bottle on the cut. It stung and Sasha drew in a hiss of breath.

  “Aye,” she said when she could speak. “His cloak blunted the force. If not for that, it may well have done him in. It will still take him time to recover, but no vitals were breached.”

  “The dog frightens me,” Catrin said as she leaned back, surveying her work critically. “It is very savage.”

  “And a good thing, or we may well have been lost. An interesting trick he has learned, the art of going for a man’s crutch.”

  “Gareth taught him that,” Catrin said placidly. “He thought to use him in war. Or for his entertainment.”

  Changing the topic, Sasha said, “So you are a widow now. That is much quicker than an annulment, but more drastic. Does it distress you?”

  She already knew the answer. Catrin was relieved, for she had been greatly abused by Gareth and feared him. Her immediate thought upon hearing the news was, My prayers have been answered.

  “Did the dog kill him?” Catrin asked and seemed disappointed when told it had been a sword that took his life. “Ah, well, ‘twas bound to happen. He plotted war. I think my next husband will be a troubadour. They are very gentle.”

  Rhys made a snorting sound but did not interrupt.

  “It is finished?” Sasha asked, pointing to her neck, and Catrin nodded. “Then I will seek a tub and hot water to wash away the blood and soot.”

  She rose from the stool by the hearth and looked at Rhys at last. She had not wanted to see censure in his eyes, or disappointment, and avoided it until now. But it was time. She must tell him all, so he would be safe. Prince John would not stop until he once more had the letter, no matter how many he must slay.

  “My lord,” she said, “may I speak with you before the maid brings up my bath?”

  He nodded, and Catrin tactfully left, closing the solar door behind her. Unfamiliar peace descended, welcome and yet dreaded. Rhys would now learn of her foolishness and the disaster she brought to his gates.

  Yet in the silence, she found it difficult to know where to start. She clasped and unclasped her hands, knelt by the fire and tended it, then stood and took in a deep breath.

  “I made a grievous error that will bring ruin upon you,” she said, then halted. He merely looked at her with lifted brows, his mouth tucked into a faint smile, and she forged ahead. “It was unintended, of course, yet it—what I mean to say, my lord—I have earned the enmity of Prince John, and he has sent men to find me. I thought to protect you from any suspicion but could not think how to do it. Then I thought if I were known to be dead, he would stop searching for me and not think you involved.”

  After a moment Rhys said, “I am more intrigued than you can imagine. Pray, continue.”

  Encouraged, she drew in another breath. “It had to be public, so it would be reported to all, and there could be no doubt of my death. At first, I thought perhaps I could drown. But since I don’t know how to swim, that seemed fraught with peril. Biagio and I discussed a few methods, for I could have taken a potion where I would be thought dead, and he could come and release me from my grave, but what if I was buried in unconsecrated ground instead of a marble tomb? And then there was the fact that he was also involved, so we would have to both die.”

  “Reasonable concerns,” he said when she paused again.

  “Aye, so we thought. But then Elspeth was telling me tales of my mother when she w
as young, and it reminded me of a trick we learned in Byzantium. There are men there who swallow fire, yet it does not burn them.”

  “Your mother swallowed fire?” he interrupted, and she shook her head.

  “Nay, my lord, nothing like that. But she was fascinated with the trick and endeavored to learn it. There is fire, and there is fire. One burns and consumes; another appears to burn and yet does not consume. Mirrors are involved, as well as a special substance. To be safe, one must coat their face with oil that resists fire. But I had ground up incense and had a candle, and it is simple to create the illusion of burning. And while I know I said I will not belabor the point, I told Biagio we must not use the Greek fire as it is dangerous. But he was fascinated with it and had procured some he kept in a copper box—it does not matter now. We were supposed to burn and be thought dead. Then Prince John would feel safe and stop sending men to kill us.”

  That seemed to concern Rhys. His gaze sharpened. “He sent men to kill you?”

  “I am certain of it. I overheard Sir Clyde speaking to someone about watching me, and though I did not know then it was him, I recognized the voice of the man called Sayre. He was a guard in the hall, and it seemed he watched me far too often.” She paused, then added, “Of course, I think the prince would prefer to have the letter, but then he would kill us once it was safe in his possession again.”

  “What letter—chérie, you are maddening.”

  “Through a dreadful accident, Biagio came into possession of a pouch that contained a letter from Prince John to William de Braose.” Her courage faltered as Rhys scowled, but he gave a brief nod of his head. “The prince saw us with the courier he sent to deliver it and would know we must have it. If it was unimportant, we could just discard it. It was a simple thing to open it without breaking the seal—a candle and patience works wonders—and I knew at once that it was our death warrant.”