“Do not come back, Prince,” Tegan said. She did not think she could live through another of these moments. Her knees were shaking. “If you do, I will take the knife I used upon your tent and use it upon your groin, instead.”
Gawain halted, his back to her. He did not look over his shoulder. His shoulders squared. “Aye, and now I’ve heard you,” he replied, and left.
Tegan sank upon the nearest log, her hands between her knees to hide their shaking.
How had she thought herself in love with the man? She had been a fool twice over and had sustained that idiocy for years.
Well, no more. She should thank the man. He had opened her eyes and now she was free to live life in any way she wanted. The war against the Saxons was ended, they were saying. She could give up her sword and wear pretty gowns and veils and jewelry. Paint kohl around her eyes the way the women of the court and the wives of lords and kings did.
Only, that change had not been as easy to execute as it had been to devise, Tegan had learned in the five years since Gawain had humiliated her.
As he stood beside her in the great hall, listening to Cai and Guenivere outline their plans for the day’s events, Tegan did not let her gaze shift toward him. There was no need to do so—she was as aware of his presence as she would be aware of the heat from a brazier at her side.
Not looking at Gawain had become a habit, one far easier to adopt than the airs and graces of a lady. Years of training as a warrior had left marks too deep to fully remove. Tegan had continued with the daily training in the arena, for it was a soldier’s duty to keep himself and his weapons battle ready…and the physical exertion each morning drained some of the tension that seemed to build in her every day she tried to change her nature.
There were many women in Camelot who provided perfect examples of the type of lady she sought to be. Elaine had been the closest and best example, yet Tegan had found that as she and Guenivere had become closer friends, Guenivere had provided the greatest inspiration.
Tegan glanced at the Queen, her friend, with a fond look as Guenivere gently and tactfully steered Cai toward the arrangements she wanted for the day, all without offending him. Tegan suspected no one in Camelot knew how hard Guenivere worked. She always appeared to be calm and warm and with time to speak with anyone who approached her, no matter who or how humble their question.
Why could Tegan not behave as Guenivere did? She tried. Every day, she tried. Yet she found more satisfaction in slashing at the wooden dummy in the training arena, each morning. If there was a conversation within hearing distance about war or battles or fighting strategies, Tegan’s attention would be pulled toward that conversation and away from whoever was before her.
Cara seemed more capable of giving up her warrior ways. She had given birth to two children, possibly three, by now. She was a natural mother, who could also speak with authority about war and weapons. Tegan could not fathom how she managed it, despite studying Cara’s ways and attitudes closely over the years.
No, it seemed that Tegan was doomed to be the hellcat Gawain despised.
And, even though he had said nothing to her directly, or even glanced at her, Tegan could not withstand lingering this close to the man for another moment. She whirled and strode away to find white ribbons, her heart aching.
Chapter Six
When she reached her father’s house, Tegan found it was no longer the silent, sad place it had been for the last few days.
Cadoc was back and moving around the big room, delving into trunks and chests and assembling a small mountain of items upon the table in the middle.
While Cadoc worked, her father stood at the end of the table, his hands held together. He looked up as Tegan arrived and relief painted itself on his face. “Talk to your brother,” he instructed her. “Explain that he cannot offend Elaine by not attending the feast tonight.”
“You will not attend?” Tegan asked Cadoc, surprised.
Cadoc rolled his eyes. “The feast is for Lancelot.” He added his old leather armor to the pile upon the table.
“Lancelot is Elaine’s son,” Tegan pointed out. “Our step-brother. He returned to honor his mother’s death. Her farewell ceremony is at sunset, before the feast.”
“The Christian one, yes,” Cadoc said. “I care nothing for that. I will be back for the real farewell, in three days.”
“Where are you going, then?” Tegan demanded, eyeing the items on the table and the large sack beside them.
“To find Dilwyn, he says.” Bricius sounded tired.
“Dilwyn?” Tegan repeated. She glanced at the equipment and weapons on the table.
“He’s been missing since Elaine died,” Cadoc told her. “No one can remember seeing him and the room he uses is empty. He ran away.” His mouth curled down.
“You believe Dilwyn killed her? Why would he do that?” Tegan demanded.
“He hovered near her that night.” Cadoc stuffed a loaf of bread and apples into the bottom of the sack.
“So did most of the hall. It was crowded,” Tegan pointed out. “Dilwyn isn’t…killing another in that way—it doesn’t seem like something he would do.”
“It isn’t honorable at all,” Cadoc said. “It is exactly the way someone like Dilwyn would kill another.”
“Killing in any way at all isn’t honorable,” Bricius said, showing a little animation, at last. “Which is why you should not do this, Cadoc.”
“You plan to find Dilwyn?” Tegan asked, her interest stirring.
“And kill him, yes,” Cadoc said. “Once I have the truth from him, of course.”
“You can’t just kill the man,” Bricius protested. “It isn’t the way it should be done. You’ve heard Merlin and Arthur speak of these things. Murder for the sake of it is wrong.”
“If he killed Elaine, Father, I will kill him,” Cadoc said evenly.
“At least take the food from the bottom of the sack and put it back in once you’ve put in all the heavy things,” Tegan added. “You’ll end up with flat bread and apple juice if you leave them like that.”
“You’re encouraging him!” Bricius said, his voice rising.
“If Dilwyn killed Elaine, Father, then yes, Cadoc should kill him.”
“It should be left to the court to decide Dilwyn’s fate,” Bricius replied. “At the very least, bring the man back to stand before Arthur and the lords and explain himself before you run him through.”
Cadoc shook his head. “If he shows a blade, then I will fight him.”
“He will not show a blade,” Tegan said. “He is a cowardly man who has never fought a battle in his life. You will have to bring him back to Camelot to face Arthur.”
Cadoc’s gaze met hers for the first time. He had blue eyes that reminded Tegan of their mother, but that was all she could remember of the Irish princess who had given both of them their gold hair. That, and Elaine’s reminders of their mother’s goodness.
Oh, how she missed Elaine and her caring ways and her gentleness!
“The gods be with you, brother,” Tegan told Cadoc, as he rearranged the sack.
Their father sighed and sat at the table, defeated.
“Thank you,” Cadoc replied. He picked up his sword and cloak and rested his spare hand on Bricius’ shoulder. “I will be back for the farewell, I promise. The man hasn’t the sense to run far. He’ll be hiding somewhere nearby. I will find him and I will bring him back, if he gives me that choice.”
Bricius nodded.
Cadoc picked up the sack and gave Tegan’s cheek a dry kiss as he passed. “Hold the fort, sister.”
“That, I can do,” Tegan assured him.
Cadoc left, and the house became silent once more.
Morgan had always found Dilwyn to be a tiresome man. His charms had diminished greatly since he crept into the valley late yesterday, which had been two days later than she had expected him to appear.
“I got lost,” he confessed.
The state of his clothes, rich with the odor of the bog
s and fens, confirmed it. She had sent him away to clean himself and remove the stench of Camelot from his hide.
Now he hovered near the cauldron, uneasily watching her as she prepared to part the veil once more.
“You can remain there,” she told him curtly, “so long as you do not speak a word. Those who speak during this spell die.”
It was a complete lie, but it would keep his mouth shut while she focused. It was growing ever more difficult to peer ahead into the future, even with these old ways.
“But I wanted to speak to you about…about Elaine,” Dilwyn protested. He shifted on his feet and moved around the cavern with little, nervous steps. He reminded her of a frightened sheep. Rolling eyes, prancing hooves.
Yet he still had his uses. He had returned to Avalon, at least, which showed a surprising amount of spine, under the circumstances. It would pay to keep him happy for a while longer. “What about Elaine?” she prompted him, as she carefully measured and poured the oil into the spring water at the bottom of the cauldron. The water was already steaming, ready to boil.
Dilwyn whirled on one heel, the words jettisoning from him. “You told me the…the potion would only make her sick! But she died!”
Morgan lowered the vial of oil, considering him. “Oh, dear,” she said, forcing a thoughtful tone into her voice. “Perhaps I made it too strong.”
“Perhaps?” Dilwyn repeated, his eyes protruding with alarm. “You didn’t see what it did to her. She vomited up her insides!”
Morgan nodded. “If the fool of a druid had not made her reject the potion, she would merely be on death’s door, instead of on the other side of it. ‘tis of no matter—the result will be the same, either way.”
Dilwyn grew still. “You…are calling Merlin a fool?”
“I deal only in truth,” Morgan said shortly, as the cauldron begun to bubble. “Now, be quiet, little man. I must concentrate.”
Dilwyn’s hands twitched nervously, shifting from hip to throat to jaw, as he absorbed her words.
“I would take my fingers off that book, if I were you,” Morgan added, as he reached out to prop himself up against the high desk. “Touching it will kill you, and I would rather you not arrange that moment just yet.”
He snatched his hand back from the volume laying open upon the desk. The toxin she had soaked the rolls in would kill anyone who absorbed too much of it into their flesh, which was why she wore gauntlets when she recorded her thoughts, her plans and everything she had seen in the stars upon the sheets. Written there was the rise and fall of kings, the eclipsing of great powers, the wax and wane of the world itself.
Even a light touch of naked flesh upon the page would make a man sicken, for she could not risk anyone seeing what she wrote there.
“I don’t…I cannot read the words upon the page,” Dilwyn said, as he peered at the open page.
“That is because the script is one only women can read,” Morgan replied. “Now, hush.” She dropped the pinch of apple blossom onto the roiling water, as the oil spread rainbow colors across the surface.
The power rose quickly, for she was now practiced at this method and had learned how to direct the inner eye to see what she wished.
The revelations vexed her. Sometime later, she grew aware of the cavern around her once more. Dilwyn had not moved. He stood with his arms around him, as if he was cold, watching her the way a cornered rat watched a dog.
Morgan shook off the weakness that Seeing in this way always imparted and smiled at him. “Would you like to make Cadoc afraid, Dilwyn?”
“Cadoc?” Dilwyn’s arms dropped.
“I saw what he did to you, after Elaine died.”
Dilwyn brought his fingers to his throat, as he remembered.
“He is searching for you,” Morgan added.
Dilwyn swallowed, as his face paled. “He cannot find me here.” He tried to sound confident, but his gaze shifted warily around the bowl of the valley.
“I have no intention of letting him come near this place,” Morgan replied. “You can entice him far from here.”
“Me?”
“I will show you how to draw him out,” Morgan told the little man. “And how to deal with him when you do.”
“Deal with him to make him…fear me?” Pathetic hope threaded through his voice. “I should like that very much,” he added softly.
Morgan smiled at him. “Very good,” she said approvingly. She used a log to scatter the coals beneath the cauldron, to stop it boiling.
“Why are you doing all this?” Dilwyn asked, the question bursting from him as if he had been brooding upon it for days, which he likely had been. “Why make the lady sick? What did she ever do to you? I do not understand.”
Morgan scowled. “You have no need to understand.”
Dilwyn hugged himself again, shivering. “Perhaps you meant for her to die,” he said softly, his voice shaking. “Perhaps you lied to me. Perhaps you’re lying to me now, about Cadoc.”
The threat was there. Faint, but real. Dilwyn’s conscience, as weak as it was, had stirred.
She needed him cooperative and docile. Morgan gave him a small smile. “Why does anyone do anything?” she said. “For power, which provides comfort and ease.”
“You had that when you lived at Camelot,” Dilwyn pointed out.
“Camelot will fall,” Morgan said shortly. “My plans are greater than that little island of self-importance.”
Dilwyn’s mouth dropped open. His eyes widened. “You…you blaspheme!” he breathed, horror thickening his voice. “You cannot speak of the fall of the High King like that and not be…be struck down!”
Morgan laughed loudly, genuine amusement pulling at her. “Dear me, Dilwyn,” she said with a heavy exhale, as she wiped her eyes. “Camelot will fall, sooner or later. All kings fall. Yes, even my brother. Arthur is just a man and has all of a man’s weaknesses, which he and that druid have failed to take into account. Only, I have noticed, Dilwyn. That is why, when Camelot is but a memory in the minds of men, I will live on. I have no intention of making the mistakes Arthur will make.”
Dilwyn stared at her, the horror in his eyes building. “You will arrange his downfall…” he breathed.
“I have no need to do that,” Morgan said crisply. “Arthur will see to the matter all by himself. Now, you must hurry, Dilwyn. You have much to do.”
Chapter Seven
A pot boy paused his scurrying long enough to direct Lancelot to a set of stairs on the east side of the palace. The stairs climbed up to the roof level.
Lancelot emerged onto the flat walkway at the very top of the palace as the sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky with orange and red. The walkway had high wooden railings around it, which Arthur leaned against as he gazed out upon the fortified city spread before him.
“It is so quiet up here!” Lancelot said, absorbing the silence and stillness.
“That is why I am here.” Arthur straightened from his lean. “The fuss and panic drove me up here. Come and look.” He waved a hand over the city.
Lancelot moved over to Arthur’s side and looked out.
“This is the highest point anywhere in the city,” Arthur said. “You can see everything in Camelot from here.”
“Except for what is below your feet,” Lancelot pointed out.
Arthur looked at him, startled. Then he laughed. “It is good to have you back, Lancelot. You are never afraid to speak a flat truth.”
“You were surrounded by such men, when I left,” Lancelot pointed out. “Have they all turned to courtly evasions and telling you only what you want to hear?”
Arthur turned to study the view once more. “I would like to think not,” he said softly. “The old guard, those who fought next to me…I would like to think I can still trust them.”
“Of course you can,” Lancelot said. “They fought with you. They remember the difficult days. The younger ones who know nothing of war are the politicians you distrust.”
“
Merlin says much the same thing. But he likes ferreting out the truth from such people.”
Lancelot turned to study the view himself, troubled by Arthur’s melancholy. This was an aspect of the man he had never seen before.
The view was distracting. Since his return to Camelot he had not had a chance to fully absorb what had changed while he was away. It was only now he could encompass all the massive differences.
The walls of Camelot had been palisades when he left. Those palisades had been rotting, with whole sections missing. Since then, they been replaced by whole, good palisades standing three times the height of men. And now those palisades were being replaced by stone walls.
The stonework reached more than halfway around the city. It stood at an even greater height than the palisades it replaced and was the thickness of two men through the core. Stonemasons chipped and fitted the stones into place, then lowered them with cradles and winches, for the stones were too massive to move any other way.
Lancelot had seen the miracle that Merlin had built at Amesbury with the dancing stones and recognized the same techniques being used here on a smaller scale.
Inside the walls lay the greatest differences, though. When Lancelot had first walked through the skeleton of the old gates onto the summit of Camelot, after Badon, there had been nothing but a bare hill covered in weeds, an old spring, and the ruins of a small Roman house at the south end.
Where that old house had stood, this palace had sprung up in its place. It had been built with good Roman engineering principals and straight lines, but adapted to British sensibilities, especially on the insides. It was a grand amalgamation that provided an elegance which Lancelot appreciated.
The rest of the city had followed suit. There were stone buildings all over the hill, with well-paved streets between them, for stone was easier to find in this country than the trees Britons had used for generations to build their houses.
On the streets, the people of Camelot moved about their business, while shutters were pushed wide to let sunshine inside houses. Shops did a brisk business along the sides of the streets, selling wares and produce which had travelled the length of Britain to arrive here to tempt the court and the city. Just this morning, Lancelot had spotted figs for sale which had travelled from Rome itself…or so the merchant had claimed. Lancelot knew of no place in Greater or Lesser Britain where fig trees thrived, so perhaps the man had not been lying after all.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 8