The Night Dance

by Suzanne Weyn

  Rowena’s nightgown changed itself right on her body into a deep blue satin with draping sleeves and a daring neckline. Her hair was now caught in a swirl of braids at her nape, bundled with a net of sapphire stones.

  As the sisters admired one another, more sparks flew between Morgan’s fingernails, and six golden barges appeared on the sparkling lake, all of them silently moving toward the shore where the sisters stood in their gowns.

  As the barges grew nearer, the sisters saw the creatures standing on board. Each barge carried two figures. They were dressed richly in elegant robes with the vests, leggings, and boots of dashing young men. But from the neck up they were stags. Each had the head and many-pointed antlers of a large male deer.

  Morgan reserved the last part of her enchantment for the sisters. With a final jolt of energy between her fingers, she lifted any reservations or misgivings they might feel about embarking on a journey with these strange, virile creatures. Even Rowena, completely smitten as she was with her love for Bedivere, could not resist the lure of a possible adventure. Morgan had clouded their minds so that they saw these stag princes as completely acceptable escorts.

  The stag princes moored their barges and leapt over the sides, heedless of the water splashing around their boots. With gallant bows, each approached one of the sisters and offered a hand.

  The sisters took the hands that were offered and let themselves be lifted onto the barges, two to a vessel. Then the barges smoothly floated off.

  Morgan slumped against the wall of the passage, exhausted by the effort of conjuring such an elaborate spell. The stag princes would take the sisters to an enchanted island at the far end of the lake where they would feast and dance with them until dawn. Any time the sisters appeared here in the cavern, the stags would come to meet them.

  “Vivienne’s brats eliminated,” Vivienne said, satisfied with and, she felt, justifiably proud of her resourceful solution.

  PART THREE

  The Enchanted Ones

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vivienne’s Despair

  Vivienne wept with rage and frustration. She had seen her children. They were right above her! She had pounded on the impenetrable barrier and screamed to attract their attention. All the while they swam, blithely unaware of her desperate cries.

  They had grown up to be so lovely, like mermaids with their long hair floating around them. But she had only counted eleven of them. Where was her Rowena, her daughter with the second sight? Vivienne had known that even as a baby the girl had the sight.

  It was Rowena who could see into the scrying bowl. Rowena was the one she might be able to contact.

  But then there were barges, and she had sensed magic. Her daughters had floated away from her. Where had they gone? What had happened?

  Hours later they had returned on the golden barges. She’d seen odd deer men reflected in the lake. They were familiar to her. She had seen similar creatures during her training on Avalon. They were figures of romance, attentive and radiating male energy. But they were creatures of magic, illusions meant to captivate a female’s heart, with no true substance.

  They bore every indication of having been called up by Morgan le Fey.

  This was very bad. Why was Morgan near her girls? Where was their father? Why wasn’t he protecting them?

  Consumed with desperate rage, she hurled herself against the surface of the lake and was thrown back down to the bottom by its impenetrable field of resistance.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bedivere in Love

  Bedivere had returned to Glastonbury and washed with water from the town well. He’d even used the edge of his own sword to shave the rough bristles from his face.

  But the next day, when he returned to the forest for their arranged meeting, Rowena did not come. After waiting by the boulder for two hours, he walked to the wall and found the break through which she must have come.

  He felt hurt, angry, and humiliated. She’d played him for a fool, toyed with him! He glanced at his crippled hand and was filled with shame and insecurity. When she’d noticed it, she must have been repulsed, although she’d been too polite to show it. Now, though, she wanted no part of him.

  A movement on the other side of the wall made him turn his attention toward the sound. Crouching, he saw a boy’s legs in boots. A mat was pushed against the opening, and the boy settled onto it.

  “Boy!” Bedivere summoned him in a whisper.

  The startled goose boy put his freckled face to the opening. “Who goes there?”

  “Has something happened to Rowena who lives within?” he asked.

  “Locked up,” the goose boy revealed with a youthful lack of suspicion. “Her father, Sir Ethan, discovered she was going into the forest through this very opening. Now he has locked in all his daughters and will soon repair this wall.”

  “Thanks for your information,” Bedivere said as he got to his feet.

  He was elated to hear this news. She hadn’t been able to come to him. It wasn’t that she’d chosen not to meet him.

  He had saved young women who were trapped in towers, had even helped one get past an ogre. He’d rescued all the women of a town from giants! Freeing the woman who had captured his heart from an overprotective father shouldn’t prove too daunting.

  He went to the front gate and rapped on it. When no one came to answer, he ran the hilt of his sword, the one he had tucked into his belt, along the wrought iron. “Hello?” he shouted. “Hello?”

  After several minutes of this, the grand front door opened and a plump, elderly woman came out to see who was making the noise. “I am Sir Bedivere, knight of the Round Table.” He introduced himself with a gallant bow. “I seek a word with Sir Ethan.”

  The woman scrutinized him skeptically. “I will bring you a meal from the kitchen,” she said. “Wait there.”

  Bedivere realized how he must look to her. “I am no beggar,” he called to her, but she was already halfway back to the door.

  “I’ll send someone out with food,” she called over her shoulder just before disappearing inside.

  Bedivere was stumped. He no longer had his horse, or his companions, or his armor to make him appear formidable. Even if he’d had these things, who would he attack? Certainly not this kindly house servant who was willing to feed one she believed to be a raving lunatic wandering in the forest.

  And if he gained an audience with Sir Ethan, why should Sir Ethan allow him to see Rowena? Even with a shaved face he remained a disheveled figure.

  Bedivere walked back along the wall and gazed up at the high windows. His heart leapt as he saw a slim figure with long, coppery hair appear at one of the windows. He raised his hand to attract her attention, but in the next second, she was gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sir Ethan’s Next Plan

  Sir Ethan stared at the slippers lined up in a row outside the bedchamber that his daughters shared. He could not believe what he saw. They were torn, dirty, utterly destroyed.

  Again!

  This was the third morning in a row that the slippers had turned up in this condition.

  He had done everything he could think of. He’d changed all the locks. The goose boy had guarded the opening in the wall until he’d been able to bring in a mason to repair it. Mary was now with them every minute of the day. It will take a greater mind than mine to unravel this mystery! he thought in despair as he stomped away from the line of tattered slippers.

  And then he stopped short, struck with an inspiration.

  That was it! He needed to recruit some help, a greater mind—but from where?

  He sat on a carved hallway bench to think about this further. Many clever young men—students, merchants, and soldiers—lived within Glastonbury. Each might lend a unique perspective to solving the problem. What if he offered a prize to the man who could tell him where the girls were going at night and how they were getting there?

  He recalled his conversation with Rowena. His daughters were of an
age where they required husbands. For years he had meant to begin the process of finding suitable candidates.

  He had never done it, though.

  There always seemed to be more pressing, more immediate concerns to attend to. And there was an element of avoidance; he knew it was true. He didn’t want to entrust one of his precious daughters to some unreliable young man. The fellow might appear to be solid at first, but it took a great test to tell what he was really made of. Ethan’s years of military service had taught him that.

  Still, it had to be done, this business of finding husbands for them, and now might be an excellent time to begin. A young man clever enough to figure out this puzzle would certainly seem bright enough to make a good life for one of his daughters.

  Of course! He would allow the young man who won to select one of his daughters to marry!

  Brilliant!

  He frowned and folded his arms, thinking. How would he go about doing this? A sign would have to be made. The monks were skilled calligraphers, always transcribing copies of books; he’d make a donation and get one of them to write the announcement. Then he’d go into Glastonbury and post it for all to see.

  He stood, full of new purpose, but a sudden concern made him pause. What if some undesirable fellow won the contest—a person of low moral character or of meager social position, or both?

  He shook off the thought. This was too excellent an idea to forsake because of idle worries that would probably never come to pass. The majority of people were, after all, usually fairly decent. And this man would be brilliant.

  Putting aside his concerns, Sir Ethan went off to saddle his horses for the ride to the monastery. When he got there, he was greeted by Brother Joseph.

  At first, Sir Ethan did not recognize the monk who had tended to him so many years ago when he had gone out searching for Vivienne, but after they had spoken for a few moments he recalled the voice and gestures.

  Brother Joseph seemed aware of the look of recognition from Sir Ethan, and he returned it. “What news of your wife?” he asked.

  Sir Ethan shook his head. “I often wonder if she was indeed a forest spirit as you told me those many years ago,” he confided.

  “It is surely possible,” Brother Joseph said as they walked together through the quiet monastery halls. “The mystic Island of Avalon is said to be very near to here, though few know the way to it. The wizards, priestesses, sorcerers, and sorceresses of old come from there. It is the repository of powerful magic, and it often spills over into our world.”

  Sir Ethan recalled the otherworldly beauty of his wife, and it filled him with nostalgia for the old days when they were together. He remembered the terrifying fear he’d known when this monk had suggested that their children might be figments of enchanted imagination rather than real little girls.

  “My daughters have proved real enough,” he told Brother Joseph. “They remind me daily of their mother. As such, they are both a comfort and a torment to me.”

  “Do you see any signs that they have abilities from the other realms?” Brother Joseph asked as they reached a room where monks stood at separate podiums quietly copying Latin words from thick books.

  “No,” Sir Ethan said. Although he had noticed a faraway look in the eyes of his youngest, Rowena, a look that reminded him powerfully of her mother, he thought it more prudent not to mention it.

  After he’d made a considerable donation to the monastery, a monk named Brother Theodosius began work on the announcement Sir Ethan wanted made. The monk wasn’t the monastery’s finest calligrapher. His work was, in fact, a bit sloppy, but for sign making it would do.

  Soon Sir Ethan possessed a good-size parchment with the words he desired in an elegant, artistic script. They read:

  Sir Ethan of Colchester announces a contest

  open to all men from the ages of eighteen to thirty.

  He who is able to unravel the riddle

  and solve the problem posed to him

  will win

  the hand of one of Sir Ethan’s twelve beautiful daughters

  in marriage.

  The winner may choose his own bride, who

  comes with a handsome dowry.

  Brother Theodosius handed the rolled parchment to him. “Ride with care for these are perilous times,” the monk said to him. “Have you heard the news that our King Arthur was slain in battle?”

  Sir Ethan stepped back, aghast at these words. He had great respect for Arthur, the son of Uther Pendragon, the chieftain in whose army he had once served. He owed his title to the older man, and he’d heard that Pendragon’s heir was a noble king. He had assuredly brought stability to the country by uniting the lesser kingdoms and warding off outside invaders. “By whom is he slain?” he asked.

  “Mordred, his own kinsman. The knights of the Round Table were all slain along with him, every last one.”

  Sir Ethan shook his head woefully. “Such brave and noble men! We’ll not see the like of them ever again.”

  With this troubling news on his mind, Sir Ethan rode into Glastonbury and posted his new sign on a thick tree in the town square.

  He watched as eligible young men gathered around the sign and began to nod and murmur excitedly to one another. Inside of a half hour the murmuring grew into boasting and posturing as the men tried to scare off potential rivals.

  Sir Ethan felt satisfied that this plan would work perfectly. Any one of the young men gathered around his announcement struck him as a suitable enough husband for one of his daughters. They might not be as noble as a knight of the Round Table—but that was no longer even a remote possibility, it seemed. That noble breed had disappeared, gone like the fierce and brave unicorns of old.

  These lesser men, who appeared to be merchants, like him, and also tradesmen, itinerant soldiers, and scholars, crowded around the sign. Occasionally a man came by who seemed to be of high-born stock, possibly a duke or count. Sir Ethan was pleased to see even these wealthy gentlemen stop to read his sign.

  His eyes narrowed with concern, however, when he caught sight of a scruffy beggar quietly reading the announcement. He didn’t like the fiery determination burning in the bedraggled pauper’s dark eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Eleanore Revolts

  Eleanore’s hands went to her hips as she scowled darkly at her father. Her sisters, who surrounded her there in their bedchamber, all wore similar expressions. “How could you?” she cried, made bold by her genuine outrage. “You’ve offered one of us as a prize? A prize!”

  “Rowena told me you wanted husbands,” Sir Ethan defended himself.

  The sisters turned their angry looks on Rowena.

  “I said we wanted to meet young men and fall in love,” she insisted. “I didn’t say I wanted to be given away like a prize pig. This is a different thing entirely.”

  “What if some arrogant idiot wants me for his wife?” Ione fretted. “He’ll always be telling me what to do, and it will always be the wrong thing that shouldn’t be done at all…because he’s an idiot.”

  “If he’s an idiot he won’t win,” Sir Ethan pointed out.

  “Win!” Eleanore cried. “He’ll win one of us—a flesh and blood human being, one of your own daughters—as a prize! Can’t you see how wrong this is?”

  “Eleanore, I recognize that you girls have been sheltered,” Sir Ethan began angrily, “so I understand that you are perhaps unaware of the ways of the world, but you might be interested to learn that young women frequently, in fact nearly always, are given in marriages arranged by their parents.”

  “Well, that’s insane!” Rowena burst out, throwing her arms out at her sides.

  Sir Ethan frowned at her insolence.

  “She’s right,” Eleanore backed up Rowena.

  “This argument is insane,” Sir Ethan exploded, clearly out of patience. “We can end this contest right now. All you need to do is tell me why your slippers are ruined every single morning even though when you enter your bedchamber they are in
perfect condition! Where do you go? How do you get out?”

  The sisters glanced at one another from the corners of their eyes. Eleanore knew what they were thinking because she was thinking the same thing.

  Nothing could compel them to give up the dancing they’d enjoyed these past three nights. Of course they knew that their stag escorts weren’t potential husbands, but how could they resist them? They were so charmingly attentive, fetching the girls food and drink, dancing with them until dawn.

  The island the golden barges carried them to was a paradise. Icy fountains of bubbling drinks flowed without stop. Musicians strolled constantly, playing every kind of lively, exciting music.

  Ornate mahogany tables groaned under the weight of delicious foods, some that they had never even seen before like the tart star-shaped fruit and the tiny, glistening black fish eggs served on toast that they so especially loved.

  And most of all, they danced, danced like they were on fire. The musicians never tired of playing, and the sisters were on their slippered feet nearly the entire time, stopping only to refresh themselves with food and drink.

  The stag princes partnered them, moving with animal vigor, leaping, spinning, carrying the sisters over their heads as they jumped high into the air. Their large deep eyes caressed attentively and it didn’t matter that they were not directly amorous. The way they danced—holding the sisters tight one moment, throwing them wildly the next—conveyed an exciting sensuality that was thrilling in itself.

  In part, they were aware that this was a fantasy, maybe even an enchantment of some kind, but they felt powerless to resist it. It was every hope of exotic excitement suddenly become reality, and they were completely enthralled by it. On the luxuriant, thrilling island in the middle of the glittering, fathom less underground lake, they felt beautiful, desirable, utterly seduced.