He paused in his meander to glance at Lord Riall’s face. “Did she steal it from you? Was she the thief? And you did not come forward, not because you didn’t want it known, but because you were afraid to lay a charge of theft against the High King’s sister. Is that it? More believable, I think, than the tale you told me.”
Lord Riall swallowed. His eyes were glazed. He did not seem capable of speech.
“But that won’t serve, will it? Because you didn’t think Princess Morgan stole your dagger. You still don’t think it.” Bedwyr stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You and I both know she didn’t steal it. Or find it. You had it hidden too well. Your hiding place in the old oak was inaccessible to a woman of her station.”
At the mention of the oak tree, Lord Riall started. A spark of incredulity flickered briefly in his despairing eyes and died. He slumped in the chair and looked away.
“So,” Bedwyr concluded, “if Princess Morgan didn’t find it and didn’t steal it, only one possibility remains: you gave it to her.”
He waited politely for a denial. None came.
“Princess Morgan claims the stolen dagger was a wedding gift. Perhaps it was. Yours.” He cocked an eyebrow at Lord Riall, who recovered enough to pass a tongue over dry lips and give thought to this possibility of escape. Sir Bedwyr smiled to himself and resumed his saunter. “But this is the same dagger that you offered to me and Merlin in exchange for the crown of Gwynedd. Did you offer it to us first and, when we turned you down, give it to Princess Morgan as a wedding gift?”
A spark of hope lit Lord Riall’s eye. Bedwyr shook his head. “No, no, I cannot believe you would give away for nothing what you had offered to us on such dear terms. It argues too great a disrespect for the High King. A treasonable disrespect. I’m sure you’re a more loyal man than that.”
Trembling now, Lord Riall summoned the strength to nod.
“But however dear its terms,” Bedwyr continued, “the dagger changed hands. From your hands to Princess Morgan’s. No, don’t bother to deny it. I’m afraid you were seen.”
Lord Riall, who had opened his mouth to protest, shut it hurriedly and retreated into silence.
“As I recall, you refused my offer to take the dagger to Arthur and lay your case before him. You wanted more. You will tell me—today, now—what Princess Morgan offered you that I could not.”
Beads of cold sweat appeared on Lord Riall’s brow. Bedwyr picked up the dagger and pretended to examine its sheath. “Come, Riall. It’s the only way out. What were the terms?”
Lord Riall licked his lips and swallowed. Lines had appeared in his cheeks, and his flesh sagged. Bedwyr waited, but the man could not bring himself to speak.
“If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to guess. I can think of at least two advantages the princess has that I lack: kinship to the High King and skill in magic. Either one might tempt me, if I were in your place. Let’s say you gave her the dagger because she persuaded you that, through kinship or through magic, she could exert more influence over Arthur than I can.”
Bedwyr stood before Lord Riall and looked down at him. “Don’t believe her, Riall. You’re fooling yourself if you think she has power of any kind. She certainly has none over her brother. Why, they don’t even like each other…. You didn’t know? I thought everyone knew. Think of them as strangers born to the same parents and you’ll not be off the mark.”
He shoved the dagger in his belt. “As a result of Princess Morgan’s accusation of theft, a manhunt took place and an innocent boy was murdered. Whoever buried that dagger intended to implicate the Old Ones, and thus bears complicity in the murder. It’s your dagger, but Princess Morgan laid the charge of theft. Either you buried it or she did, or both of you together. Am I making myself clear?”
Lord Riall cleared his throat. “I didn’t,” he croaked.
“Didn’t what?”
“Bury it.”
“Good. But trading it to Morgan to use against the High King is an act of treason.”
“Treason?” Lord Riall squeaked. “It was a gift. She’s his sister!”
“Mmm. But not his most loyal subject. And the dagger was meant as a bribe, not a gift, or you’d have sent it through me. I didn’t promise you influence. She did.” He sighed. “The way I see it, you’re caught between the horns of a dilemma: murder or treason. Either you helped bring about the murder of an Old One, however unknowingly, or you attempted to betray the High King’s trust. Which is it to be?”
Lord Riall jumped from his chair. “Neither! You go too far—you’re trying to trick me.”
“How?”
“I—I—” He stood there, shaking and swallowing convulsively. “All I want are my rights.”
Bedwyr frowned. “It’s gone beyond that now. Someone’s been killed.”
“That’s none of my doing!” Lord Riall cried. “I was no part of that. And that royal witch lied to me! She promised me a kingdom within a year. Give me my mother’s dagger back, Sir Bedwyr, and I’ll go home. All I wanted were my rights.”
“Yes, that’s what I would do. I would disappear, like Merlin, with no noise or fuss. Pack up and go home.”
“Yes, yes!” Lord Riall cried, overwhelmed with relief and bowing gratefully. “I’ll go at once. Just let me have the dagger back, my lord.”
Bedwyr shook his head. “I’m afraid the dagger is needed as evidence for the hearing.”
“I could wait a day or two, my lord—”
“There’s no point. The dagger will go to Arthur in any case. If it belonged to Princess Morgan, whether she received it as a bribe or a wedding gift, then she relinquished possession when she buried it in the ground for anyone to find and claim. I found it. I’ve claimed it. But to do you justice,” he finished quickly, seeing Lord Riall on the verge of panic, “I will do as I previously offered and lay your mother’s case before the High King when I present the dagger to him.”
Lord Riall heard the steely note in the knight’s voice and choked back an angry retort. After a struggle, he blurted, “I can’t go home to Mother empty-handed!”
“Tell her you bring King Arthur’s thanks and his promise to consider her appeal.” He clapped Lord Riall on the shoulder and escorted him to the door. “I’ll have my scribe draw up a formal letter on bleached parchment in perfect Latin and deliver it to your tent,” he said pleasantly. “It will be something definite you can hand her. Will that suit? Be out of camp by midday, and may Mithras light your way.”
Lord Riall cast one last, anxious glance at the beautiful weapon in Sir Bedwyr’s belt, and hurried out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Royal Skirmish
“Did you hear? Lord Riall’s left camp. Without us.”
Elaine came through the doorway into Trevor’s chamber, her cheeks pink from the chill outside. Guinevere and Queen Esdora, side by side on a bench before the glowing brazier, looked up from their needlework, but it was Trevor who spoke first.
“At last. Overdue, don’t you think?” He sat in a chair beside his mother, his splinted leg resting on a stool, his head tilted to one side, smiling at Elaine.
She scowled at him. “He shouldn’t have come in the first place. He’s not king of anything.”
“Gone! What, his men and wagons, too?” Guinevere asked. “That’s sudden.”
“Indeed,” agreed Queen Esdora. “And significant. Elaine, my dear, is your mother free of company at the moment?”
“Yes, my lady. I was forgetting, she asks for you as soon as you’re free to attend her.”
Queen Esdora tucked away her needle and looked down at the strip of twice-bleached linen on which she had been working. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands, if I may, Gwen, while I pay my visit to your aunt.”
“She said to tell you,” Elaine continued with a gleam in her eye, “that Sir Bedwyr has gone to visit Princess Morgan.”
Guinevere and Queen Esdora exchanged glances.
“Well done, Gwen!” hooted Trevor. “Now the fur will
fly.”
Elaine frowned. “I don’t see what Gwen’s got to do with it.”
Trevor grinned and patted the seat his mother had vacated. “Come sit beside me, fair Elaine, and let me tell you how your evil cousin arranged an uncomfortable afternoon for Princess Morgan.”
“Oh, nonsense, Trevor,” Guinevere said sharply.
Elaine sat down between Trevor and Guinevere. “What does he mean, Gwen? What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Elaine turned to Trevor, whose arm had gently encircled her waist. “Let go, you oaf. I’m not going to marry you, and that’s that.”
“So you say,” Trevor agreed, giving her a light squeeze.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” He grinned. “I like a woman who knows her own mind. I’ll wait.”
“Time won’t change anything.”
“On the contrary, time changes everything.”
Elaine scowled, but there was pleasure in her eyes. “You have an answer for everything.”
“I do for you.”
“Gwen!” cried Elaine. “Can’t you make him stop?”
“Make him stop yourself.”
“Kiss me,” Trevor offered, “and I’ll be still.”
Elaine colored prettily. “I don’t want you to be still. I want you to tell me what Gwen has to do with Sir Bedwyr’s going to see Princess Morgan.”
Trevor sighed. “I think it’s time she was part of this, don’t you, Gwen?”
“Now that she’s free of Princess Morgan, I suppose it’s safe.”
“Safe for what? What are you two planning?”
“Shall you tell her, Gwen, or shall I?”
“She’d rather hear it from you.”
“If only that were so.” Trevor winked at her and turned to Elaine. “Little beauty, ruler of my heart, I’ve a tale to tell you. Sit still and listen.”
“Let me go. A tale about what?”
“An old Roman dagger, a murder, and a royal witch.”
Elaine’s eyes widened and Trevor stifled a sigh at their blaze of blue. “A dagger!” she cried. “Whose dagger? The one worth a talent of silver? It’s been found?”
“Patience, Beauty. You don’t have to kiss me, but you do have to listen. We may need your help.”
Guinevere watched them out of the corner of her eye as Trevor told Elaine about Lord Riall’s dagger. Elaine’s interest in the story was intense, and she didn’t notice Trevor’s arm stealing back around her waist. Or if she did, she didn’t push it away. Perhaps she secretly liked his embrace. Something in her posture, in the angle of her shoulders, in the tilt of her head, hinted at coyness. Guinevere was delighted to see it. If Elaine began to flirt with Trevor, surely friendship could not be far away. Clever Trevor, she thought, to sneak in at the postern gate while Elaine stood guard over the barricades out front.
Princess Morgan stood as still as stone before her mirror of polished bronze. Although it was not yet dusk, she was dressed for bed in a long crimson night-robe. Her day gown lay on the floor at her feet, discarded in haste the moment Sir Bedwyr’s messenger had left.
A tremor ran through her and she stilled it instantly. Who did Sir Bedwyr think he was, to summon her to a conference in his tent? He was no more than one of Arthur’s spaniels, as she liked to call the Companions, who licked her brother’s boots and howled his praises in exchange for a dollop of power now and then. Summoned to a conference, indeed! Of course she had refused to obey. She had instructed Marcia to tell the messenger that she was sorry to disappoint so worthy a knight as Bedwyr of Brydwell, but that she was ill and could not leave her bed. And for a while, that had been that.
But the messenger had returned. In a cold voice that carried clearly through the tent cloth, he had informed Marcia that Sir Bedwyr was on his way to visit Princess Morgan. He had already left his tent. When Marcia had objected that her lady was abed and ill, the messenger had replied that Sir Bedwyr was a strong man and not fearful of infection. Morgan flushed at the memory. The arrogance of the man! How was such insolence to be endured?
She and Marcia had scrambled to be ready in time. She had exchanged her gown for her best night-robe—another of Arthur’s parting gifts and, like the others, of the finest quality but plain, without trim or ornament. The great carved bed she had brought with her from Tintagel had been dressed with crimson coverlets and furs. Two silver goblets had been set out and filled with wine—to serve as temptation only, for Morgan had no intention of offering any to Sir Bedwyr. The chairs in the chamber had been removed and Marcia’s low stool brought to the bedside. It was now the only place to sit, other than the bed itself, and would position Sir Bedwyr’s head a handspan below the level of Morgan’s.
Now Morgan stood before her mirror, still and concentrated, summoning her strength. For despite her contempt for Sir Bedwyr, she knew he had Arthur’s power behind him, and she understood Arthur’s power very well.
Why was Sir Bedwyr coming to see her? He had arrested Llyr—that rumor was already old. He had found the dagger. She had been back to the tree to check. What more did he need? His course was clear. Once Llyr was executed, the dagger would be returned to her, and she would take it with her to Rheged as a prize for her daring. It was sure to be more valuable than any of Urien’s own. And poor little Guinevere would weep all the way home to Gwynedd and never know why.
Why was Sir Bedwyr paying her a visit? Had that savage, Llyr, been telling him a different story? Even if he had, it did not matter. Llyr was a hillman; she was Arthur’s sister. She was the one who would be believed.
No one was likely to question that the dagger was hers. It was too valuable to belong to anyone else. Certainly, no one would suspect Lord Riall of possessing such a treasure. And it was too late to ask him, for Marcia had reported that he had packed up and left camp earlier in the day. If that little mouse had lied to her and shown the dagger to someone else—the memory of his constant sweating returned to her with force, a sweating she had attributed at the time to his relinquishing his treasure to her—she had Marcia as witness that he had given it to her as a wedding gift. She was sure she would get the dagger back.
If, however, trouble should arise—it was always possible where someone as weak as Riall was concerned—and she had to sacrifice ownership of the dagger, she was prepared to do so. She’d had the forethought to remove the ruby, which she considered to be the weapon’s chief value. She would let the dagger go, if she had to. She would deny any knowledge of it, and no one could prove otherwise. There was no reason for her hands to tremble so at the thought of Sir Bedwyr’s coming.
“Bring me my crown of pearls,” she ordered as Marcia bent to retrieve the day gown.
“Please, my lady, not again. The High King meant you to wear it at your wedding and not before.”
“He thinks only of Urien. Never of me. That’s why it pleases me to wear it before humbler men.”
“Morgan!”
“Fetch it.”
Marcia shrugged and obeyed. With her own hands, Morgan settled the circlet of precious pearls around her head and gazed again into the mirror. The face that looked back at her, pale, impassive, and majestic, was the face of a queen. She exhaled in a little sigh of satisfaction. The trembling of her hands had ceased.
Morgan’s page stuck his head through the tent flap to report the approach of Sir Bedwyr with an escort of armed men. “And a standard-bearer,” he added, wide-eyed. “With the dragon standard.”
Morgan smiled grimly. So this was to be a formal visit. She had been right, after all, to insist upon the pearls.
She placed herself with care in the center of the bed, arranging the coverlets, cushions, and furs neatly about her to give no hint of a sickbed. She wanted Sir Bedwyr to know that she was not ill; that she had refused to see him on his terms; and that despite surrounding himself with the formal trappings of royalty, he was seeing her now on hers.
Sir Bedwyr entered the bedchamber without bravado and politely mad
e his reverence. He had taken care, Morgan saw, to prepare himself for the interview. His cloak was brushed, his boots polished, his face washed, and his chin shaved. The royal cipher of red and gold enamel on his shoulder, which proclaimed him the representative of the High King Arthur, had been rubbed until it shone.
She asserted her rank by speaking first. “Good day, Sir Bedwyr. I hope you are well.”
He bowed again. “Princess.”
She gestured toward Marcia’s stool. “Please, my lord, be seated.”
His sharp glance took in the neatness of the bed, the silver goblets, the crown of pearls, and the wooden stool. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he bowed again. “Thank you, my lady, I will stand.”
Her gaze hardened. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“I have come for information,” he said evenly. “I won’t take up much of your time. The question is easily answered.”
“Then ask it.”
“The dagger that you claim was stolen from you—what precisely did it look like?”
Morgan hesitated. She had already told him that it was a beautiful weapon housed in an exquisite sheath; that he would know it when he saw it; that it was a wedding gift and worth a fortune. She had been circumspect out of habit, and now she was glad of it. Why did he need to know more?
“Claim?” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt my word?”
“Please, princess. A description of the weapon.”
It was a trap; she sensed it. He knew something she did not. But if she denied ownership of the dagger, she would lose any claim to it. Better to stall for time until she saw what he was after.
She kept her face calm and her voice as pleasant as she could make it. “You’ve found it, then, have you? I am in your debt. That was quick work.”
“I found a dagger. I don’t know if it’s yours.”
“Is it valuable?”
“Extremely.”
She forced a smile. “Then it’s most likely mine.”
Guinevere's Gamble Page 20