His hand curled up, making a fist. “The head table, Mair?”
“It wasn’t what you think.”
“No? Were you not just eating with the senior commanders, while Arthur spoke of war?”
“Yes, but—”
Rawn shook his head. “You are changing. You are not the woman I—” His words halted as abruptly as he had.
“Rawn, are you jealous of Lancelot?” Mair asked, thinking of Pellinore and Bricius and Elaine.
Rawn rolled his eyes. “Gods above, no! There is no room in that man’s heart for anything but the passions of war. It’s why he’s pulling you in, Mair. He sees it in you, too.”
“Sees a passion for war?” She felt slightly ill at the description.
“Yes,” Rawn said flatly. “For war and power and everything we said would only impede the perfect warrior.” His gaze didn’t let her go.
Mair put a hand to her head. It was aching as Elaine’s did. “How did this happen?” she whispered. “We have been friends for so many years and now it seems as though it is slipping away. Nothing I do stops it.”
“Is that what you think?” Rawn’s voice was cold. “That we were friends?”
Her chest locked. “We were!” she protested, her voice bodiless.
Rawn shook his head. “It was an illusion, one you wanted. It never existed.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” she breathed, appalled. She pressed her hand to her chest. It felt as though an anvil sat upon it. She could barely breathe.
Rawn kissed her. Right there, where anyone who cared to look their way might see them. Mair grew stiff with surprise as his lips pressed against hers. Only, his touch was a reminder of too many other moments like this and the tension in her chest eased and fluttered away.
As her body relaxed, his arm came around her, holding her steady, holding her against him, in a way which let her feel the strength of him, the iron core which was her private delight. Mair sighed against his lips.
Rawn drew still. His arm dropped away. He lifted his head, so he could study her. The blue of his eyes was depthless. “That is why I dare say such a thing,” he told her, his voice deep, with the burr in it she had only heard in their nights together.
He stepped away from her, turned and strode down the wide road and through the gates, while Mair scrambled to put together her thoughts. She trembled.
Was Rawn the one she must guard against, the thing which Morgan had warned her she was not looking for?
Chapter Nineteen
Mair remained where Rawn had left her, a dozen paces along the main road to the gates of Amesbury, trembling. She didn’t know what to do.
“Come and sit for a moment, Mair. You look in need of propping up.”
Mair closed her eyes. She recognized the voice, and it was far too close for her comfort. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she turned to face Merlin. He sat upon a barrel, one of a line of barrels sitting against the wall of the building which edged the square, here.
Merlin lifted a flask of wine. “As it happens, I took two cups. Come and share a cupful with me.”
“Thank you, Prince Merlin, but if it—”
“You just sent one prince stalking from you in fury. Do you want to risk offending a second this day?” Merlin asked.
She sighed and moved over to the barrels. With a heave, she hoisted herself onto the barrel beside the one upon which he had rested the two cups.
He poured a small amount of the pale wine into her cup and handed it to her. He had thrown back his hood, and in the bright sunlight, his glossy black hair gleamed. The sunlight also picked out pale strands among the black. With a start, Mair remembered that Merlin was older than most men. He was of the same age as Bricius and Pellinore, and King Mark. Also, Cador of Cornwall, and Druston and Bryn.
Mair raised her cup to his, then sipped. “Why are you not at the head table with the council members, Merlin? Why are you sitting here?”
“Too many memories crowd me, today,” Merlin said. He waved his hand, to take in the square, the town, and the feast. “It was here in this square, at another feast, many years ago, when Uther met Igraine.” His smile faded. “Although that feast was not for a coronation.”
The occasion would have been for the passing of Ambrosius, Merlin’s father. “Are you very much like him, Merlin? Those who knew him say you are Ambrosius come again.”
Merlin’s mouth twitched. “In appearance, yes. My father was very Roman in his thinking, though. His family was one of the great Roman British families…the greatest, perhaps. He carried that awareness with him all his life.”
“You don’t count yourself a part of that heritage?” Mair asked curiously, for her family were very proud of the status they had held in Roman Britain.
“I have searched in every by-way and corner for knowledge,” Merlin said. “Wherever a glimpse of a greater truth was offered, I took it. If I was ever a man like my father, that time has long gone.”
“Do you regret that?”
Merlin considered her question seriously, turning the metal cup in his hand and gazing at the design carved into the lip, a flow of vine leaves moving over and under each other. “There was a time, shortly after I learned that Ambrosius was my father in fact and not just in my heartfelt wishes, when I would have given up everything I knew, every passion and interest which stirred my blood, to become a good son to him. The type of son everyone thought the seed of Ambrosius should be. My father, though, made me see it was too late to be that man. My fate was already set in the stars.” He drained the cup with a jerk of his wrist.
Mair’s heart beat hard. She had never spoken about such personal matters with Merlin. He had always been the silent figure beside and one step back from Arthur. “Do you resent you cannot be what you wanted?” She wondered if he would answer the question or if she had stretched Merlin’s unusual openness too far.
Merlin picked up the flask and refilled his cup. He leaned over to check the level of her cup, then put the flask back, settling it softly against the lid of the barrel. “You are an educated woman. Did your education include the Greek scholars?”
Mair shook her head. “Romans.”
“Caesar, Cicero.” Merlin said.
“Yes.”
“Even your education was pure, wasn’t it?”
Mair lowered her cup. “Pure?”
“Not a single conflicting school of thought which might distract you from the ideals your family have fought to maintain for generations.”
Mair considered Merlin. “Are you criticizing my family?” She trembled with her own daring. To confront Merlin himself! Only, he was implying that… What was he implying? She wasn’t certain, but it felt as though he disapproved of something.
Merlin poured a finger-width more wine into her cup. “You will find it useful to acquaint yourself with the Greek philosophers in the near future. You will need their guidance.”
Coldness traveled the length of Mair’s spine and made the skin on the back of her neck tighten. The hair there tried to lift, prickling hard. “I will?”
“Epictetus will serve you right now, though,” Merlin said, as if she had not spoken at all.
“Epic…” She frowned. “He was a Greek general?”
“I doubt he ever raised a sword,” Merlin replied. “He was born a slave. Epictetus said one should ‘make the best of what is in our power and take the rest as it occurs’.”
Mair frowned. “We should let the Saxons defeat us and take our lands?”
Merlin laughed. “Ah, but denying the Saxons and sending them back to their own lands…that is something within our power. It will take every ounce of our energy and determination, and every skill and strategy we have, but it is within our power.” His gaze met hers. “To accept what one cannot change…that is the thought which let me accept my father’s wisdom about my future. You might find it a comfort, too.”
Mair put the cup down with a small thud against the damp wood. Her insides swirled uneasily. �
��My return to Corneus. You know about it.”
His gaze was unrelenting. “Saxon women are given by their fathers to the most appropriate man as brides, did you know?”
Mair held herself still, trying to control the wild beating of her heart. Why was she afraid? Everything in her urged her to run and not listen to another word Merlin said.
“Roman women weren’t given first names until recently,” Merlin added. “The daughter of Agrippa was referred to as Agrippina. Roman men offered their daughters freely to their friends and the influential they wished to impress.”
Horror touched her. Mair pushed herself off the barrel. “Thank you for the wine,” she said stiffly.
“Arawn Uther is a good man,” Merlin said, his voice lifting, as she turned away.
Mair closed her eyes. “I know.” And she did know. It was as if Merlin could read everything in her mind and heart. For that reason, she didn’t bother explaining herself. She spoke the words in her heart. “I have a different path to walk, but I don’t want it. Not like you wanted yours.”
“Epictetus also said it isn’t the event which disturbs you, but your judgment of the event.”
Mair shook her head. “Words.”
Merlin’s long fingers rested on her shoulder. “Put those two thoughts together, Mair. Change what you can, with all the power you have—and you have greater power than you realize. How you respond to what you cannot change…well, that is also a decision you get to make. We are not helpless in the face of anything.”
He lifted his hand from her shoulder and Mair stumbled away, feeling as though she had been released and was escaping.
She had taken only a dozen steps, her direction aimless, when high, childish screams sounded and, beneath them, the clash of metal against metal.
Mair whirled. So did nearly everyone standing or sitting at the nearest tables.
The sound had come from a small house on the edge of the square. The door was ajar. Struggling sounded.
Mair ran toward the little house, drawing her sword. So did others in the square, including Idris. Mair was there first, though, for she was closest. She burst into the house, shoving the door aside with her elbow. She came to a halt three paces inside the door.
Rhiannon stood with her eating knife at the throat of a filthy, unkempt man in rags. She gripped his hair with the other. He struggled to keep the knife from his throat. Rhiannon’s expression was implacable.
At her feet sprawled another thief. His eyes were open. His belly, too.
Behind Rhiannon, little Anwen was partially concealed behind a cupboard, one eye watching her mother. Beside her, squirming on a sack of grain and screaming with hunger, was the baby.
Idris burst in behind Mair, as Rhiannon said to the first thief, “You made the mistake of trying to rob my children.” She sliced open his throat with a powerful sweep of her arm.
The man fell to the floor, gurgling and clutching at his throat. His feet kicked as the blood spread across the beaten earth. Then they grew still.
Many more voices were raised in question outside the door. Mair could hear dozens of boots and feet on the stones. She moved around Idris and closed the door. As she shut it, she saw Merlin was at the front of the crowd coming to investigate. “Tell everyone it is over. We will deal with it,” she told him shortly.
Merlin nodded as she closed the door and dropped the bar into the brackets on either side.
Rhiannon drew her gown back together and picked up the baby. Idris swept her up in his arms and held her, his cheek against her black hair, as the baby kicked and protested.
“I am unscathed,” Rhiannon assured her husband. “They came in as I was feeding Emrys and wanted anything I had.”
“Robbers and thieves will think this coronation feast a rich hunting ground, with all the finery and jewels,” Idris said in his deep, low voice. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of it sooner and guarded you while you were here.”
Rhiannon leaned away from him, so she could look into his eyes. She smiled. “You keep persisting in this notion that now I am a mother, I am somehow weaker. My love, do you not understand? As a mother, I am far stronger than I have ever been.”
While the pair stood together, Mair sat on the sack of grain where the baby had been lying a few moments before, the jolt Rhiannon’s words delivering stealing the strength from her knees.
What Rhiannon said was true…and somehow, it was significant. Mair didn’t know why, or how. It was mixed up with Merlin’s prodding words and thoughts, which had sliced through her middle and her mind, like a plow share turning over the earth.
Mair drew Anwen up against her and gave her comfort, while her thoughts bounced and spun ceaselessly.
MORGAN, AS ARTHUR’S APPOINTED PHYSICIAN, had demanded and received a small house in which to tend any sick or injured patients. She took the room at the back of the house as a bedroom. It let her sleep away from the dirt and damp where the rest of the host had laid last night.
She hurried through the empty front room toward the bedroom. She needed to change into her black, simple gown. It had tight sleeves, which didn’t impede her work, and the black hid blood stains. It was a sturdy gown, in warm wool. A most serviceable garment. And now she had two bodies to see to, plus Idris demanded she examine Rhiannon, baby Emrys and Anwen to discern any hurts they might have received from the thieves Rhiannon had dispatched.
Men were poor, blighted fools. As long as women let them continue to think they were stronger and more powerful, they were biddable and easy to manipulate.
Accolon sat on the low bed in the corner of the room. He looked up as Morgan entered. His handsome face worked. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Are you drunk?” Morgan asked him. She moved to the saddle bags where her equipment had been stored, and her gown. No chests could be carried on this dash across Britain.
“Not drunk enough,” Accolon replied.
“Then why are you here?” Morgan asked, untying her belt. “The wine is out there. The town has emptied every cellar of every flask. You could bathe in wine today, if you want.”
“My heart stopped when I saw you.”
Morgan paused, her belt in her hands. Then, realizing she had betrayed herself, she moved once more, putting the belt away and reaching for the ties on the back of her gown. “Excuse me?” She kept her back to Accolon.
“That is what you said, when we first met. ‘My heart stopped when I saw you. I have not slept a night since then.’ You put your hand over my heart.”
Morgan made herself glance at him. She kept her smile warm. “That was a long time ago,” she said softly. “You remember it still?” She turned back and opened the saddle bags and searched for her gown.
“Was it true, even then?” Accolon asked.
Morgan sighed. “Accolon, you really shouldn’t be here. I have a reputation, and I have patients arriving at any minute—”
“Only, you have barely spoken to me or touched me…we have not laid together since you came back to the south,” Accolon said. “And I finally began to think. I have been doing very little thinking for too long a time.” He didn’t sound quite as drunk as he had when she walked in.
Morgan drew the black gown from the bags and shook it out. “Accolon, my sweet, my darling…I have been so busy since I returned to Arthur. I have spoken of nothing but prescriptions and treatments to anyone since I arrived.”
“Not even to Lancelot?” Accolon asked. His red-rimmed eyes shifted to meet her gaze.
Morgan managed to look surprised. “That boy? Accolon, what is this? Why are you accosting me in this way?”
Accolon got to his feet. “Being near you has the same effect as too much wine,” he breathed. “Only, now I haven’t been near you for a while, I begin to see things clearly once more. I can see that I have done what you wanted and now my use is at an end.”
Morgan glanced at the doorway into the front room. The others would be here in a moment. “Accolon, really, I must prepare.”
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He took a step closer to her. “Tell me now. Speak clearly for the first time, so I may measure the depth of my foolishness. Tell me.”
Morgan let her smile die. “Tell you what, Accolon?”
“Tell me I see it clearly now. I did what you wanted. I killed that sodden bastard of a husband for you…that is what you wanted, isn’t it? All the hints, the sighs. Crying on my shoulder. Showing me the bruises he left. Then that final letter you sent, hinting about the life you might have had if not for him.”
Morgan stepped back and painted her face with horror. “You…killed Urien?” she breathed.
“It is what you wanted!” Accolon slapped his fist into his hand. “I rode three days straight from the camp to Rheged, just to give you that heartfelt wish, then three days back, to be in the camp when the news reached it. I thought…” He threw his head back and laughed. “I thought you wanted to share that life with me.”
Morgan glanced toward the door. Had she heard voices approaching the house?
Accolon gripped her chin, wrenching her face around, so she was forced to look at him. Even when angry, he was a good-looking man. The honey-colored hair was thick and soft. He was a considerate lover, too. She had forgotten that, until now, with his hands on her flesh.
Morgan swallowed. “Accolon, my dearest love. Let me go and we can talk. Just you and I.” She fought to speak clearly around the grip he had on her chin.
He shook his head. “I don’t trust anything you say, anymore. I didn’t come here to talk. I only want to know the truth. You can tell me that. I’ve already half guessed. So tell me how much of a fool I have been.” He shook her, making her teeth grind together. “Tell me.”
Morgan sighed. She met his gaze. “Yes, you have been a fool.” She thrust the knife in her hand into his belly and yanked upward, as Accolon’s eyes widened and his lips parted. “You are even more of a fool if you think I would let you live after this. Arthur and Merlin, against every wise choice they should have made, instead offered me a good life. One of respect and meaningful work. I will not jeopardize that, not even for you.”
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