Tegan turned her head away. It was easier to speak if she was not looking at him. “I became a fighter because I thought that was the type of woman you liked, that you loved—like Rhiannon. You stood on the track that morning, watching her and said you wanted her. Then, the morning after…after Coria, after you took me back to your tent, you told your brothers you can’t stand women fighters. You like your women soft and gentle and charming. I heard you.”
When Gawain didn’t speak, she turned away completely and covered her face. Her shame was too great to reveal it.
Gawain made a soft sound, one she could not interpret. It might have been the venting of anger, or smothered laughter. She would not look at him to ascertain which.
“You became a fighter, you trained and joined the Cohort, for me?”
She closed her eyes, her humiliation absolute and braced herself, half-expecting Gawain would again turn her and make her look at him.
Instead, she heard the quiet snick of the door shutting and spun, her heart fluttering weakly.
She was alone.
Gawain could feel bad temper pulling at him, wanting to break free and smash things, as he stalked back to the great hall.
The woman dared speak of years of lies, when everything he knew about her was an endless lie of its own. She had let him think she despised him, when the truth was far, far different.
And why did he care that she had lied to him? He’d married her with the full knowledge that they were unsuitable and mismatched and would likely have to tolerate each other with their jaws clenched to make any success of the marriage at all.
But this…
He stalked back to the Lothian table and snatched up the cup he had been using, boiling with the need to hit out. His glance fell upon Rhiannon, at Arthur’s table. Yes, he had admired the woman. He had been eighteen, for the love of the gods. She had weakened his knees and his overly impressionable heart with her smile and her warmth and her feminine attributes. He had barely noticed that she was a fighter, too—not until days later when he watched her decapitate a Saxon in one blow from the back of her horse, and ride on to shield another of Uther’s men with the flank of her horse and her blade.
Why did Tegan’s confession irritate him so?
“Lord Gawain,” came the soft murmur to his right.
He turned, gripping the cup.
Branwen smiled at him. “You look as though you are in need of company…or a sympathetic ear at the very least.” Her smile was lovely and warm and welcoming. Possibly even promising.
Branwen, of the long, flowing hair and winsome ways. There had been an understanding between them, a potential to be explored when the time was right. The pit of Gawain’s belly coiled and tightened.
He forced a smile at Branwen and waved toward the chair that Tegan usually used. “Sit, then. Share a cup with me.”
Branwen smiled prettily and sank into the chair, the rich fabric of her gown pooling around her toes.
Gawain waved to the pot boy for a fresh pitcher of wine.
Chapter Fifteen
Gawain waited until very late in the morning to return to his room. It was late enough that Tegan would surely have left to tend the Queen and he would safely avoid meeting her and having to look her in the eye.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, then flinched as the water flask hit the back of the door and smashed, sending wet pottery shards in all directions. He threw up his arm as movement from the corner of his eye warned him.
The bowl bounced off his forearm, making him wince, for the damn thing was surprisingly heavy. It fell to the floor and smashed, too.
Gawain pushed the door shut and strode over to the cabinet from which Tegan was plucking her armament and caught her wrist before she could let the book she was holding fly at him. “No, you don’t.”
“You spent the night with another woman! With Branwen! How dare you!” Tegan spat. Fury writhed in her face.
“Who told you that?” Gawain demanded, cold ice slithering into his middle, dispersing the anger was trying to form.
“No one had to tell me,” Tegan cried. Her jerk at his grip on her wrist tossed the rippling golden locks of hair, sending them over his arm, stroking it with a soft touch. “I saw you with her. Last night.”
“You could only have seen us speaking together in the great hall,” he said through his teeth. Then the implication behind her words made itself known to him. “Wait…you came to the great hall? Afterwards?”
Tegan stopped struggling. Her fine, pale skin flushed a deep red and she turned away, hiding her reaction.
Gawain had no idea why that should please him—either the flush or the fact that she had come to the great hall…to find him? He would have to think about it later. “If I let you go, will you stop throwing things?”
She nodded.
He released her wrist and took a step back, considering her. Time was a pressure clouding his thinking, but he knew that something had changed, and not just her confession that had mortified her so. Whatever the change was, it would let him speak the truth now.
He had drunk wine with the pale haired Branwen last night and at the time had every intention of taking the evening to its natural conclusion. Only, when Branwen had stroked his arm and suggested she had drunk too much wine and needed to find a bed, even a pile of hay out of the way of her family’s keen-eyed gaze, Gawain had prevaricated.
In the end, Branwen left the hall without him, with a sharp angle to her head that told Gawain she would not ever renew the offer.
Oddly, he had only felt relief. That was another fact to consider later.
He would tell Tegan the truth now. It was surely what a thoughtful husband would do?
As he opened his mouth to speak, though, Tegan said; “I will go back to live with my father.”
Gawain exhaled all the words he was about to say, all the gentle reassurances. “Because I bedded a woman?” Hot indignation flared.
Tegan flinched, yet spoke calmly. “You and I are simply not suited to each other. We thought we could compromise and reach an understanding, but I know now that we cannot. And my father is alone.”
“You’d leave your husband to live alone, instead?”
“You do not need me, Gawain,” Tegan said softly. He thought he could hear sadness in her voice—or perhaps he just wished it was there. “You have married me and served your family’s concerns. Your honor is intact. If I remove myself from your life, very little will change for you. I doubt you’ll even notice the difference.”
Gawain did not know what to say. Conflicting thoughts careened in his mind. Anger. Indignation. A strange need to explain himself.
Tell her about last night, the strongest voice murmured. That will keep her here.
He had no chance to say anything, for someone pounded upon the door of the room, making the hinges rattle and the latch, too.
“Tegan! Tegan! Come quickly! It’s Guenivere!”
“That’s Cara,” Tegan murmured. She skirted Gawain in a wide arc and opened the door.
Cara almost fell into the room. She was breathing hard and her eyes were wild and wide. “Guenivere’s horse came back without her.” She spoke quickly. “The guards tracked it back and found her escort dead.”
“All six of them?” Gawain asked sharply, his heart thudding.
Cara didn’t look at him. “They’re saying she was taken, Tegan.”
Tegan pressed her lips together, her gaze locking with Cara’s. It was as if Gawain was not there at all. He remembered, then, that both of them had ridden together in the Queen’s Cohort and had fought at Badon.
They were working together now.
“I’ll change. We can go out at once.” Tegan moved over to the chest which stored her clothes, already taking off her soft court shoes and reaching to loosen the cords of her gown.
Neither woman glanced at him.
Gawain moved out of the room and shut the door.
The family hall was usually quiet and
still. Arthur was not there. Neither was Merlin. Cai sat at the table with a sick, worried look on his face, his hands working against themselves.
Gawain patted his shoulder. “Where’s the wine pitchers?” He badly needed to moisten his mouth and throat. The thought of watered wine made his throat close over with longing.
“hmm…what?” Cai said distantly.
“Wine,” Gawain said. “Midday food, too.” There was no sound from the kitchens announcing the looming meal, but there was an acrid stench of burnt food.
Lancelot hurried into the room. Lancelot in a hurry was a man moving very fast indeed. He shoved long fingers through his curly hair. “Where is Arthur?” he demanded.
“Out,” Cai said. “Looking for Guenivere.” His face worked.
“You didn’t go with him?” Gawain asked, keeping his tone kind.
Cai drew in a breath. “Arthur said to watch after Camelot.”
Lancelot dropped his hand. “I’m going after them.”
“Do you even know what direction they went in?” Gawain asked reasonably.
“Half the palace is out there,” Lancelot said. “I think I can follow a trail that wide.” His tone was not quite withering.
“Isn’t the delegation from Rome arriving any day now?” Gawain asked.
“I care not for a pack of silly politicians and diplomats,” Lancelot snapped and strode away.
Gawain turned to Cai, who stared down at his twining hands. “They should have made landfall yesterday,” Cai said, his tone still distant. He sounded lost.
So Gawain went back to the kitchens to stir the cooks into putting together bread and cheese and meat for himself, before heading out in search of the Queen, too.
On the second day of the search, Tegan knew that even though no one spoke the thought, everyone was thinking that Guenivere couldn’t be found because she didn’t want to be found.
“Everyone knows Arthur was unhappy with her,” Tegan caught a tightly knit group of servants whispering to each other when she returned to the palace late on the second day to see if there was news from anyone else. “Guenivere knew it too. That’s why she was ill. The weight of disapproval. She had to know it was only a matter of days before…well, obliging women who can bear children are everywhere.”
Tegan snapped at them, scattering them, then went to the family hall, where she learned there was still no news.
Gawain sat at the table beside Cai. Tegan looked away from him and turned to Cai, who looked like he had lost half his weight in just the last two days. Had he eaten anything?
She asked Cai for news. Cai reported in a hoarse voice that there was none.
A horn sounded, hard and harsh, and from outside the palace walls.
Gawain got to his feet. “The Rome delegation are here.”
Cai put his face in his hands.
Gawain turned to Tegan. “Rouse Arthur. Merlin, too. They must be here when the ambassador arrives. Go.” He gave her a little push toward the door into the private wing.
Tegan didn’t argue. She hurried down the wide corridor to the king’s big bedchamber. The chamberlain, outside the door, nodded when she told him the news and knocked on the door immediately. “I’ll tell him,” he assured her. “Go and rouse Merlin. He sleeps through thunder, so he won’t have heard the horn.”
Tegan nodded and whirled away as the chamberlain knocked again then stepped into Arthur’s chamber.
Merlin’s rooms were at the other end of the corridor, with a much smaller door and no guard. Some said he had no need of one.
Tegan knocked.
“Come!”
She pushed open the door and stepped in hesitantly, not sure what she would find in the private compartment of a powerful druid and, some said, by birthright the man who should be High King of Britain.
Merlin stood at the open window, peering out into the night. “You came in late, lady Tegan.”
“I went a long way, today,” Tegan admitted. “Merlin, the Rome delegation—”
“Have arrived. I know. I heard the horn.”
“They couldn’t have arrived at a worse time,” Tegan said. “Cai is falling in on himself and the servants—I caught them…” She bit her lip.
“Ask your question, Tegan,” Merlin said, without turning to look at her.
“Did Guenivere run away, Merlin? You have the Sight. Tell me.”
Merlin finally turned to face her. “You are Guenivere’s friend. In your heart, what do you believe?”
Tegan swallowed. “I know she was taken against her will. But everyone else…”
Merlin sighed. “Yes, I know that, too. We cannot stop men from thinking what they will. We can only fight with our own bedeviled natures. Maintain your faith in the Queen, Tegan. She will have need of it.”
Tegan drew in a breath and let it out, feeling some of the dread leave her. “The delegation from New Rome will have a poor reception, Merlin. I do not believe even the torches have been lit in the great hall.”
“It is what it is,” Merlin said gently. “Do what you can in the Queen’s stead, hmmm? You know her mind. You know what she planned.”
“I have been out hunting for two days,” Tegan pointed out, plucking at her trews and short tunic. “I smell of woodsmoke and bogs. I should bathe…”
“I guarantee you are not the only hunter with the scent of the wilds upon him this night. Throw herbs on the fire. That will offset the aroma.”
Tegan nodded, spun and hurried back out to the big hall once more. It was the start of a very long night indeed.
Tegan gripped the arm of the first servant she found and asked him what he was doing. His answer was vague, so Tegan gave him a little shake. “Find as many as it takes to help you. All of you must light the lamps in the great hall at once. The ambassador’s party will be here in minutes. Hurry!”
She caught the attention of the next servant and ordered him find as much wine and as many cups as possible and lay them out upon the king’s table in the hall.
Tegan had watched Guenivere arrange such matters in the past, many times. She dredged her memory now, to recall all that must be dealt with in the very few minutes left.
As she moved around the hall, giving directions—most of which needed to be repeated, further delaying her—she heard the postern door at the back of the hall open and close. Either Arthur or Merlin or both had arrived.
The hall began to fill with people hastily combing at their hair with their fingers, tugging cloaks into place and pinning them. She saw one man dip his hand into the watered wine jug and use the liquid to scrub at his face, and a corner of his cloak to wipe the excess away. It left his face smear-free, which would have to do.
Tegan let out her hair and scrubbed at it with her fingers and unfurled her cloak so it covered the fact that she wore grubby trews and a tunic with a rent in the side where a sharp branch had snagged it, or that she wore a sword on her hip and a long hunting knife on her belt.
She wore no jewelry, no kohl around her eyes, no ochre on her lips.
As the doors of the great hall were thrown open in welcome to the ambassador to the Emperor of Rome and his travelling party, Tegan drew in a deep breath that shook, taking in the occupants of the hall.
They were making such a poor showing! She had seen seventh day feasts grander than this and seventh day feasts were the very least of the feast days in the year.
Gawain seemed to stand out among the officers clustering to Arthur’s left. He was not taller than any of the others. Cai easily outstripped every other man’s height, just to begin. Yet somehow, Tegan’s gaze was snagged by his figure and his features.
He was studying her, she realized. His expression was…indecipherable.
As the new arrivals tramped through the hall doors, Tegan tore her gaze away from the man, her heart adding heavy beats to the already rapid pounding. She turned her head, feeling as though the bones in her neck creaked with the effort.
Her first impression was a shocked one. Juli
us Flavinius Metella was a short man. She could hold her arm out to the side and the man could pass beneath it without touching her arm.
He was a swarthy man, with a deep olive complexion and a thatch of thick black hair shorn short. The hair had sprinkles of grey in it. He was clean shaven, Roman fashion, and his black eyes remained fixed upon Arthur as he strode up the aisle the court had formed. He did not smile or give any indication of his mood or feelings.
Metella wore an outfit that at first puzzled Tegan, for she had seen nothing of its like before. There was an excess of cloth wound around his shoulders and chest, all the layers pinned to his shoulder with a great golden fibula that gleamed in the hastily lit lamplight. The cloth held by the pin was of a color that Tegan had also never seen before. She could not name the rich shade, except to say it was not dark blue, but close to it…yet different. It was a very interesting color.
Every garment the man wore was embroidered with gold threads on the edges. He wore rings on almost every finger, all gold. Even stranger was the wreath he wore around his head. It was gold, too, but shaped to look like vines and leaves.
As a child, Tegan had been taught by a scholar of the classics whom her mother had brought across from Ireland. The man’s lessons, long forgotten, came back to her now. She realized that Metella wore a full, formal toga and the wreath of office and diplomacy about his head. The mantle pinned to his shoulder was the color called royal purple, that only high-ranking members of Roman society would wear.
Metella was not the only member of his company wearing an excess of wealth upon their person. The others walking behind him were less richly attired, but still opulent in appearance.
Tegan felt grimy and petty in comparison. She pulled her cloak in around her as the glittering party passed her and turned to watch Arthur greet them.
Metella halted before the High King and gave a great bow, with a grand sweep of his arm, the other hand to his chest. Yet he kept his chin up as he did it, perhaps to keep the golden vine wreath from dropping off?
“Arthur, High King of Britain, I bring you greetings from the Emperor of New Rome.” Metella spoke with an accent so thick and strange that Tegan barely understood his words, which were spoken in the everyday tongue of Britain. She wasn’t sure if she was impressed or not that the man had taken the trouble to learn their language. He did speak with an impressive volume for such a little man. His words rang over the hall, so those at the doors would hear him.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 16