But the wolf now grew within. And the beast knew no courtesy and knew even less of humility. I tried again. “I left my clothes at home, then found myself in need of raiment today.”
“And home is where?”
“Bromdale.”
“That’s a hundred leagues from here! When did you leave?”
“A month past. I’ve been…wandering.” Talking to witches and holy men, begging for a way to rid the wolf from me forever. Drinking draughts and eating weeds that did nothing but make me retch. Until one far-seer with more compassion than charlatan magic pointed me here to Camelot…and Merlin.
“You’ve been wandering naked for a month? Are you a madman?”
“Perhaps.” It was as truthful an answer as I knew. I saw the roll of Lancelot’s eyes, knew the famed knight was done with the madman. I held him blameless. A month ago I would have treated me the same. The derisive laughter and talk rumbled like a wave across the table. Despair tugged. “It’s why I must see Merlin.”
The one who’d fought with Lancelot did not join the laughter. “Have you a name?” he asked with all the courtesy I had forgotten.
“Marrok,” I said, letting familiarity and self wash over me in the saying of the name. “Sir Marrok of Brom Castle, son of Hadrian, Earl of Bromdale.”
Between one breath and the next the tone of the table changed. “He needs help,” one of the dark-haired men on the far side of the table said to the gray-bearded man beside him. “Find it for him.”
“What help for a madman, Arthur? A chirurgeon? A priest?”
“Merlin,” I said yet again. “Find me Merlin.” Despair beat against my skull. The beast howled to be free. Panting, I fought the blackness descending over me, fought the beast challenging my control. I had been a wolf too long—days now since my last shift. It was the threat of the wolf or else—
I chose the lesser of the evils and let the threatening darkness claim me.
Chapter 6
Marrok
I woke on a straw pallet laid on the wooden floor in a cell barely large enough to accommodate the bedding, a caned chair and me. The wood under me suggested a room above the main floor, while the curve to the wall with its high and slitted windows suggested a turret.
A quick body check assured me I had woken as a man not a wolf, still wearing Lancelot’s tunic.
Was the door locked?
I had only just begun gathering my legs under me to rise and check when it opened. A robed man just beyond his prime though not yet grayed appeared in the frame. I heard a scuffle and voices of more men without.
“A moment,” the man called behind him as he raised his hand. The noise from without quieted immediately. Then he turned his attention on me. “You asked for Merlin when you came. Have you any quarrel with him?”
“No quarrel. I seek his help, no more.”
“And if he refuses?”
It honestly never occurred to me he would. “Whatever fee he asks I’ll pay.”
“With what? A knight’s stolen garb?”
My beast growled at the insult. “Borrowed in need,” I corrected through gritted teeth. “The coffers at home are full. I am an honest knight.”
He gave me a long and penetrating look, as though he could tell the inner truth of me from that. “And what service would an honest knight require from Merlin?”
“A request for his ears alone.”
An almost-smile crooked the man’s lips. “Such a candid tongue can be dangerous.”
“Trust, sir, that I have the bite to back it up. Will you fetch your druid Lord here, or lead me to him now?”
The man turned about in the doorway and I rose to follow.
“Hold,” he bade, but whether he spoke to me or to the men without I didn’t know…until he pulled the thin door closed and faced me clearly. “Speak free,” he said as he straddled the cane chair, watching me yet.
“You’re Merlin?”
“I am. Does my face not please you?”
“Of course. I only—” I inhaled the scent of him to better remember him in case further treachery was contemplated. “Only—” Where to start?
“You’re troubled. Why? Let’s start there.”
I jerked my eyes to his. Had he read my thoughts? Very well, he was not the only one who could surprise. With one swift move I shed the tunic. Before he could react, I shifted, dropping to all fours as my wolf glared at him from behind bared teeth. I snarled.
And shifted back.
And in the moment where I hung between forms, Merlin snatched up the tunic. No small act, but a deliberate play of power as he held it in his lap.
The beast howled rage as I stood, naked and affronted—perhaps even a little mad—in front of the druid, jaws clenched to keep the wolf at bay.
With great calm, Merlin studied me as the moments crawled by, while I forced the beast to abide his scrutiny. At last, he handed me the tunic and I settled it over my chest, covering it and that which God had shamed Adam for.
“You have control of the wolf still,” Merlin said.
“For now,” I agreed. “But each day it grows stronger.”
“How long has it been?”
“A month. Five weeks. Just before the last new moon.” I had lost some days, I realized, upon the trail. “Can you help?”
“This is not fae magic.”
“Then no?” My heart sank as the beast rejoiced. “How then do I slay it?” I braced against the sudden howling in my head.
“You don’t.” He held up a hand to stem my protests. “You live as a werewolf until you can be cured.”
“But if you have no magic to cure me…”
“Then you must find the magic to cure yourself.”
“And if the beast wins out before I do?”
“You plan on letting it win?”
“I-I may not have the strength to do otherwise.”
“When you have drained every drop of your own strength, look to your wolf for more.”
“Are you mad? It would never consent to defeating itself.”
Merlin smiled. “Are you not smarter than a wolf?”
With that he left me to my room, my thoughts and to the cunning beast that crouched and waited within.
Which of us, indeed, was smarter?
Chapter 7
Marrok
If Merlin could not help me directly with the curse, he did ensure I was clothed and fed and lodged as would any errant knight be. When I spoke of leaving, he encouraged me to “Stay another fortnight. Fortune is not yet done with you here.”
“And what if I am done with Fortune?” I grumbled back.
But stay I did, wandering the halls of Camelot. In particular, the kitchens drew me close. At first I tried to convince myself it was because my wolf was comforted by the smell of meats roasting over the great fires. But while my nose might have been otherwise occupied, my eye was drawn to one particular body that labored there.
Why a swordsman the equal of Lancelot was doing menial kitchen work and not sitting at table with peers I learned from others over a handful of days. Under Kay’s orders, the steward kept the young man Kay had baptized Beaumains busy in the hot kitchen where it was my pleasure to watch him work.
Stripped to his leggings, his broad shoulders glistening with sweat, arm muscles bulging as he pumped the bellows to keep the great fire roaring…my breath caught at the primal beauty of him. On this my wolf agreed. How much was wolf-lust and how much my own quieter stirrings I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I wanted Beau.
On my fourth day at Camelot a parade of knights, lords and ladies left the castle with pennants waving and wagonloads of pavilions, food and drink in tow, off to a tourney at Joyous Garde. I stood with Arthur, Kay, Merlin and a handful of knights with obligations elsewhere to farewell the tourney-goers. We wished them all God-speed but with Lancelot among them, the only mystery was who might win second-best in the field.
On the fifth day I stepped from the shadows beyond the kitchen fires
to confront Beau. “Spar with me,” I said.
He dropped the sack of flour he’d carried in from the stores at my feet. “Does my Lord command or entreat?” he asked, unruffled at either my presence or my strident tone.
My nature had always been brusque and to-the-point. Keeping the wolf ever at bay and battling constantly with its beast-simple thoughts and emotions, my manner had become brusquer—and more demanding—yet. I had no patience for courtesy or games.
“Command. There is not a man left here your equal. I am bored. The practice will do us both good. Cross steel with me.” I wanted to cross much more with him. For now I settled on losing myself in the calm of his eyes, drawing his serenity like a curtain between the wolf and me.
“And there you see my dilemma. Sir Kay has tasked me with other duties today.”
“You would choose baking bread over what I offer?”
Even Beau’s influence wasn’t enough to stop the flare of anger that sparked in me.
“It is not my choice to make.”
“And if it were?”
Beau’s brow furrowed. What was wrong with me, asking senseless questions that only fueled the rumors that I was a madman? I clawed at reason. For a way to make this right. To stop the look of pity that edged its way into Beau’s bright eyes.
“This evening,” Beau said. “Kay commands my days but the nights are mine. My sword is yours then, if it please you.”
Swordplay by moonlight? Only one thing could please me more.
But I wasn’t to know the feel of his blade against mine that night. For it was by the light of the westering sun that Lady Lynette galloped into court, riding as though the Hounds of the Wild Hunt pursued her.
Chapter 8
Lyn
For a week now I’d ridden toward Camelot, frustrated by the slow but tireless pace of my palfrey. My head knew I could do no better by a horse than steadfast Alice, but my heart yearned for a hot-blooded destrier that, in truth, would likely break either lungs or knees riding at speed for more than a league or two.
Instead I settled for a brief sprint into the castle’s courtyard as we topped the final hill. Hope pounded in my chest the closer we neared. Would Gawain take up my challenge? Could I dare believe it might be Lancelot?
I threw the reins to the dark-eyed man who met me in the courtyard. I slid into his arms as he helped me dismount though I barely needed the aid in my haste.
“Take me to Arthur—or Merlin—I have a desperate boon to ask of them.” Only then did I note the man was young. Not young enough to be a page, not old enough to be a seneschal.
Handing off Alice’s reins to a stable boy who hurried up to us, the dark-eyed man took me by the elbow and guided me silently but surely into the castle’s halls where we were quickly met by a gray-haired man in rich robes.
“Kay, we have a petitioner. Where’s Arthur?” my escort asked.
The gray-haired man scowled at me.
“Please,” I begged. “My matter is urgent. A noble woman’s life. My sister…”
The man’s scowl only deepened, but he struck off with us in tow, leading us to a small hall where sat a man behind a desk surrounded by a handful of men in passionate debate. I caught only the words “King” and “Mark”, “Cornwall” and “tribute” clearly before they broke off at our approach. Somewhere in the room, too, Old Magic curled. Probably in the bones of Camelot itself.
“Sire, a petitioner, if you please. She claims her matter is urgent.” Kay bowed, and I fell quickly into a curtsy.
The man behind the desk—King Arthur—sighed. I was no more than a burden to him. Another neighbor squabble. Another plea for a tax extension. He beckoned. I had only taken a step when Kay’s arm across my chest blocked my way.
It wasn’t me the king had beckoned to but a water boy who set down a goblet and tray of confectionery at Arthur’s elbow. Only when the servant stepped back, waiting to bear away the empty vessels, did Arthur nod to Kay, who dropped his arm and allowed me forward.
“Sire, my younger sister has been captured by the new magistrate of the Red Lands. He holds her there now. I beg a champion of your court to rescue her.”
The king leaned forward. I seemed to have his attention at last. “New magistrate?”
“My father slew the old Baron, but suffered wounds that killed him too. The son, Sir Ironside, rules there now, and he’s taking his vengeance out on my sister. On me, as well, for I have it that my anguish at the thought of how he’s treating her joys him.” I sniffed back the tears that threatened. “Though not as much, I fear, as my innocent Nessie will joy him. His own servant—” I prevaricated only a little to avoid any hint of fae involvement—“tells me he waits now on a champion. And while I trust the hearts of my father’s men, I cannot trust their skills.”
“I’ve heard of this Ironside,” my escort put in. “His father held the Red Lands through brutality. The tales tell of the son who is far more perilous.”
The king steepled his hands before him. “Any man I would name for the deed is gone now from the court. Most are away at Joyous Garde and the tourney being held there.”
I hoped my face adequately betrayed both my disappointment and the fear that threatened to overwhelm me at the news. With a single word—gone—my hopes of a Lancelot or a Gawain had just been thoroughly trampled.
“Appoint me her champion, Sire.”
My flagging heart leapt at the words… Until I saw who uttered them. The knave standing behind Arthur stepped to the edge of the desk, not to clear away tray and goblet, but waiting on Arthur’s word.
“No! My sister’s life is not an excuse for some…some…kitchen boy…to play at being a knight.”
Arthur’s thoughts were impenetrable as he looked from me to the kitchen boy before swinging his gaze back to me again. What he would’ve spoken I shall never know because another of the men in the room spoke first. “An excellent choice, Arthur.”
I glared hate at the man with the staff. “Did you not hear that Ironside is a perilous villein? I require a knight—nay, not just a knight but one of the best this court is renowned for. If there be none here I’ll ride to Joyous Garde.” Blinking away the tears of frustration that threatened to fall, I turned on my heel.
“Hold,” Arthur commanded. He had no fae gift of compulsion, but the authority of his voice alone stopped me. “You mistake if you believe knighthood is the station itself. And you mistake if you believe Merlin or I would endorse anyone unworthy of the title.”
Merlin!
How had I not recognized him? How was it that only now when I knew the man with the staff for who he was did the Old Magic that had seemed to permeate the room itself settle over him alone?
What did they know about the kitchen boy I didn’t? I stole a glance his way. Boy was, of course, only a subservient term, although it hadn’t been that many years past since he’d left boyhood behind. A year older maybe than Nessie, a year younger than me. The spread of his bared shoulders spoke to many hours of physical labor—or weapons practice. I followed the ripple of his muscles until they disappeared into his legging’s waistband and let my imagination fill in the rest of the details from his flat hips to his thick corded thighs to his thick—
I dragged my gaze up, past the burl of his arms to the goodly form of his face with its hint of beard and the seawashed eyes I could, at another time, drown myself in.
I could ask for worse in a traveling companion. But mere strength and beauty did not a knight make, any more than the title did. I needed a man, one with fire in his soul and determination in his heart. This knave had the physique, certainly—and the longer I stared, the more appealing it became—and Arthur seemed to vouch for his skill. But did he have the courage and fortitude of a seasoned warrior, as well as the cunning of an experienced leader to know when to charge and when to prudently bide? Neither a daunted nor a dead champion would get my Nessie back.
“Do you doubt him?” Merlin asked.
Had he seen into my heart
? Or did my face betray my thoughts? If I said yes it would be the same as my proclaiming that I doubted Arthur and Merlin. If I said no…
Nimue had made it clear I had to offer my champion no encouragement, only abuse. But she was only fae, not a god, to see each transgression fall. Or did I mistake the reach of her power? Panic clutched my heart. “Not his skills for which you vouch, merely his youth and inexperience. Laying steel to a game hen doesn’t give one the courage to raise steel against another man as armed and skillful as you. I’m not chancing a recipe into his hands but my sister’s life!”
“A fair distinction,” Merlin agreed calmly.
It was not so much his demeanor that struck me but the knave’s. Throughout, his liquid gaze remained cool, unaffected.
“And yet you desire fire, flamed by the passions of that same youthful nature that you so disdain.”
I started. Once again Merlin had seen into my soul. “Is both so impossible?” I asked.
He grinned. “In Camelot nothing is impossible.”
Chapter 9
Gareth / Beau
Perhaps it was the drudgery of the kitchen work that had compelled me to offer my sword to this lady’s quest. Perhaps, as I’d rather think, it was being unable to stomach the thought of an innocent young woman in the clutch of a villein.
But more likely it was the lady herself who compelled me, bewitching me with her fierce love and compassion for her sister along with the very visible charms of her sex.
In her place, I too would have been disappointed with the nameless and untested man barely out of his youth that was all she knew me for. Her respect was mine to be earned, no matter how demeaned I might be until I had proven myself by deed. Until then, her sharp words might cut my soul but they were wounds to be silently suffered. Was she truly disappointed her words alone were not enough to provoke me? Did she truly believe that forbearance was a fault and wrath a virtue?
Captive Heart Page 3