Once and Future Hearts Box One

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  There was another set of doors into the room at that end, too, which gave her an excuse for moving that way, if she needed it.

  Her heart jumped and scurried as she walked. Seducing a man who welcomed the attention was one thing. Disarming a man with charm when he was suspicious and surly was quite another task.

  She did not consider for a moment disobeying Vivian’s command. She was sworn to serve her and usually, Vivian’s wishes were few and made sense. In the year since Lynette’s mother had sent her to Gwilym’s court, she and Vivian had become friends. Vivian trusted Lynette more than any of her ladies, although Lynette’s ability to read and write had at first forced the trust. Despite not understanding why Vivian was so intent upon helping the stranger, Emrys, Lynette must trust that the princess had good reasons.

  On the other side of the table, Mervyn shoved back his bench with his knees and stood, his wine cup in his hand. In the other, he held a big flagon that sloshed heavily.

  The movement of his bench nearly dislodged others sitting upon it. Mervyn took no notice. Instead, he lurched along the table, aiming for the head of it. His strides were longer than Lynette’s. His small eyes beneath his jutting forehead were narrowed in concentration.

  Lynette thought he was approaching his father and Mabon, who had remained at the table. Instead, he stepped around his father’s tall chair, past Mabon and the silent Maela. He moved to the other end of the table and dropped onto the end of the bench near where Lynette stood, facing Cadfael on the other side of the corner.

  Mervyn’s wine slopped, staining his sleeve. He rested the cup on the table, his fingers curled around it and thumped the flask next to it. “You’re the one they call the Black, then?”

  “I’m not the only one with that name,” Cadfael pointed out. Unlike Mervyn, his voice and his movements were steady and sober. His gaze moved around the room once more.

  Lynette sank onto the empty bench, which put her behind Mervyn, shielding her from Cadfael’s view.

  “You’re Vortigern’s battle commander,” Mervyn insisted.

  Cadfael was slow to answer. “I…used to be.”

  Battle commander! Lynette dipped her chin, hiding her expression behind her veil as shock slithered through her. Vortigern had sent not only his daughter to a southern throne, but also his most trusted warrior!

  No wonder Cadfael had instantly become suspicious of Vivian and her. He was used to scanning an entire battlefield, spotting weaknesses and strengths and devising strategies for victory. Suspicion would rise quickly in his mind because wariness was how he stayed one step ahead of the enemy.

  “You serve Mabon now?” Mervyn asked. He sounded puzzled.

  “I still serve the High King. As we all do,” Cadfael replied stiffly.

  “Yes,” Mervyn said, eagerness flooding his voice. “I would serve him better, if I could. They say you are here to convince my father to fight with Vortigern. Is that true?”

  The probing question was the height of rudeness…and exactly like Mervyn. He was a colt in a barn, kicking his way to freedom. He and his younger brother were wild to go to war, while Gwilym counseled them to contain themselves, for war would come to them sooner or later. Later, though, did not suit Mervyn’s temperament.

  “Lad, you need to find a bed for the night and sleep off the wine,” Cadfael growled.

  “I brought the wine for you and I to share.” The whining tone in Mervyn’s voice was not flattering. Then he added, “Hey!”

  Lynette leaned back against the table, just enough to see around Mervyn’s shoulder.

  Cadfael had pulled the flask out of Mervyn’s hand. He unstopped it and filled his cup. “Go to bed,” he told Mervyn.

  Lynette looked toward Vivian’s table. It was empty. Even the other ladies had departed. Cadfael had not taken notice of any of them. The task Vivian had set her had was completed by Mervyn’s clumsy overtures. There was nothing else Lynette needed to do, here.

  She rose and slipped to the other end of the room. She would use the door at that end to step onto the verandah and move to the women’s quarters. She felt as if she had escaped by a narrow margin.

  Vortigern’s battle commander! Even Vivian would not have thrust her in his path had she known that. Surely, she would not insist upon continuing this madness with Emrys in the hills when she learned Cadfael’s true identity?

  Chapter Three

  After prayers and breaking fast the next morning, Vivian and her women returned to their wing and settled in the common room to take up their usual duties.

  There had been no time for Lynette to share with Vivian what she had learned about Cadfael the previous night. They were constantly surrounded by ladies, including Elaine, Padrig’s wife, who was sharp-eyed and sharper of tongue. Elaine had been included in Ninian’s retinue for barely a month before Ninian told Vivian she must take the woman instead.

  Vivian set herself up at a small table to grind and blend the herbs she had taken from the kitchen last night, preparing them for ingestion. The other women glanced at her work curiously. Even Elaine did not dare question her, though.

  Instead of opening her sewing basket, Lynette settled by Vivian’s side to read to her the letter that had arrived upon the latest ship. The ship was from Amorica, although people did not say that loudly, even here in Gwilym’s kingdom. Vivian had a cousin in Brittany, Mallt, the daughter of King Budec.

  Brittany was where it was rumored the young sons of Constantine, Ambrosius and Uther, had fled when Vortigern slaughtered their father and mother and the oldest son, Constans, then took the title of High King for himself.

  Whenever Vortigern’s excesses tried the patience of Britain, the rumors would rise once more of Ambrosius’ imminent return to save them from both Vortigern and the Saxons. The rumors were frequent enough and wild enough that no one believed them, yet the idea of Ambrosius’ return was presumed by many to be a fact. One day, he would come.

  Only, it had been twenty years and Ambrosius would be a grown man now, yet he still had not returned.

  The rare letter from Brittany never mentioned Ambrosius. Vivian’s cousins led a quiet life, with little money to spare for the sending of letters. Mallt did not read, either, which required she pay a scribe for a letter.

  Despite the stilted style and the need for someone to read them to her, Vivian loved receiving the letters. “They bring images of far off places I will never see for myself,” she told Lynette once. “In my mind, I can travel to Brittany, when I hear them.”

  Lynette had only cracked the seal on the letter and unrolled the first handspan when the outside door opened. Maela stepped into the room.

  Everyone put down their sewing and turned to look at her.

  Maela cleared her throat. “Lady Vivian…it was suggested I might be more comfortable among your ladies than the women your mother…I mean, your queen, keeps around her.”

  Lynette recalled the queen’s women. They were all older matrons, wives of Gwilym’s officers and lieutenants. They were accustomed to their own company and they kept the queen’s room far too hot, with additional braziers to add to the heat from the hypocaust.

  Elaine sighed loudly.

  Maela flinched at the vexed sound.

  Lynette put the letter aside. “Please come and sit with us, Maela.” She picked up the twists of herbs lying on the stool next to Vivian’s table, put the herbs next to Vivian’s elbow and placed the stool between her chair and Vivian’s.

  Maela sidled between the women, her smile tremulous. She sank onto the stool and smoothed her gown over her knees with fluttering hands. “I…have no sewing…” Her cheeks flushed. “I could carry only what fit into a single pack. Cadfael insisted we must be free to move swiftly and not be weighed down by a woman’s notions…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m sure there is a spindle to spare, somewhere,” Vivian said, her voice kind. “There is always more spinning and weaving, heaven knows.”

  The room remained silent around them a
s the women stared and listened.

  “Iva, get the old spindle from the chest, please,” Vivian directed. “Mabyn, the goat’s wool in that bag there, please bring it here.”

  The two women put aside their sewing and moved over to the chests that held the wool findings for spinning.

  “Goats…oh…” Maela breathed and pressed her lips together.

  “You have not spun goat hair?” Lynette asked her, trying to keep her voice even and hide her surprise. Really, who had not spun every fiber there was to be spun, before they were married? Was Maela that sheltered?

  “It is just the same as sheep’s wool,” Vivian lied, for it was decidedly different. “I thought you might like to spin it, for it is the softest and most delicate thread, gentle on the fingers and your skin won’t smell afterward.”

  “Which won’t drive away your husband,” someone added softly, from within the group of women behind Maela.

  Everyone laughed heartily.

  Maela blushed.

  The suffusion of color spread across her cheeks. It emphasized Maela’s small, upturned nose. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks—pale things that made her look very young.

  Iva and Mabyn handed Maela the small spindle and findings, which she fumbled and settled on her knees, with a flustered expression.

  “There is no rush,” Lynette told her. “The bag has been sitting at the bottom of the chest for more than a year.” It had been there when Lynette first arrived. No one wanted to spin such delicate thread when there was no call for it.

  The room returned to soft sounds of industry. The loom in the corner clacked with a pleasant rhythm as Heledd worked the shuttle with quick movements. Spindles touched the tiles with low knocking sounds.

  Lynette put the letter away and collected the basket that contained her sewing supplies and the shirt the queen had asked her to make for Gwilym. Vivian would not want the letter read aloud in front of Maela, whom she did not know or trust.

  As she sorted her threads and checked her progress on the sleeve of the shirt, Lynette sought to find a topic of conversation to draw Maela out. No one else was bothering to try.

  “Your husband, King Mabon, seems to be a fair man,” she ventured.

  “Fair in judgement, or fair in appearance?” Olwen asked, not lifting her gaze from her spinning.

  “Both!” Iva declared, making everyone laugh again.

  The faint blush was returning to Maela’s cheeks. Possibly, she was not used to the frank and ribald conversation among ladies, if she had grown up in Vortigern’s court with her Saxon mother. Not that Lynette knew how Saxons raised their children, other than thrusting a sword in the hands of either sex as soon as they were taller than the weapon.

  “Mabon is a pretty man, with those black eyes of his. A proper Celt he is,” Heledd said. She bent to toss the shuttle across her threads. “He’s much too young for my tastes, though.”

  “You have taste, Heledd?” Olwen asked.

  Heledd rolled her eyes.

  “That husband of yours says otherwise,” Olwen added. “He’s all hair and eyes.”

  The women laughed loudly, for Heledd’s husband did have a long and bushy beard and eyes that protruded.

  Lynette caught Maela’s eyes, as she looked up, startled at the burst of laughter. “Heledd’s Dewi sat on Mervyn’s right, at the table last night,” she said. “You may have noticed him.”

  Maela’s lips parted in surprise, then the corners of her mouth turned up and she nodded. “I did see him,” she added. She put her hand to her lips to hide her smile, as if the merry expression was indiscreet. The Lord knew, perhaps in Vortigern’s court, looking happy was indiscreet.

  “Although Mabon is handsome,” Lynette told the young girl. “You must find that compensation for having to leave your father’s court and come all the way south to Calleva.”

  The merriment faded from Maela’s eyes. “I was pleased to leave,” she said, her tone flat. She got the spindle turning with a jerk of her hand. She put too much energy into the movement and the spindle moved too fast, kinking the small amount of thread already on it, forcing her to unravel the length and start again.

  Vivian’s gaze met Lynette’s. She said nothing as she spooned the herbal mix onto an open leather pouch.

  “Was life at court not…comfortable?” Lynette asked carefully.

  Maela struggled to control the spindle, then caught it with her other hand and put it back in her lap and sighed. She met Lynette’s gaze. “No, it was not comfortable at all.”

  “Because of…your mother?” Lynette probed.

  Maela looked down at her lap where her hands squirmed. “I suppose that would be natural, wouldn’t it?

  If it was not her mother who made life at court intolerable, then who? Her father?

  Lynette debated pursuing the subject any further. She felt as uncomfortable as Maela looked. She had not forgotten they were speaking of the High King and his Saxon queen. While everyone in Britain stood behind Vortigern in the quest to rid the land of Saxons, no one really liked Vortigern.

  He was an effective king only because his methods were extreme. He had invited the Saxons into Britain and used them to turn back the Picts in the north, which many had criticized. Now the Saxons had a toehold on the land and would not leave, instead raiding and pillaging British towns and farms as they felt moved.

  Vortigern held them at bay with sheer force and brutality. For twenty years he had done nothing but fight them to a standstill, holding the western half of the island for the British and the Roman families who had remained after the departure of the legions.

  Men grumbled about the methods Vortigern used. They spat when his name was mentioned—although not where those known to be genuinely loyal to the High King could see. Yet Vortigern was effective in halting the Saxons, even if he could not dispel them altogether and for many, that was enough to pay him with their allegiance.

  To have Vortigern as a father and a Saxon mother, living among Celts and Romans…Maela’s life must have been a merry hell.

  “I would speak to you, Lynette,” Vivian murmured, pulling Lynette’s attention away from the crown of Maela’s golden head, all that she could see of the girl right now.

  Vivian tugged the thongs tight around the small pouch she had been filling. The bottom bulged. She tucked the pouch in the purse hanging from her belt, rose and moved over to the chests and opened one, pawing through the findings.

  Lynette moved to stand next to her. The chests were far enough away to avoid eavesdroppers if they whispered.

  Vivian kept her gaze on the contents of the chest. “I saw when Maela came in just now—I saw over her shoulder. Cadfael lingers in the courtyard, monitoring everyone who comes and goes.”

  Lynette’s heart sank. She knew what Vivian was asking without her having to speak it aloud. The stables were on the other side of the courtyard from the women’s quarters. Vivian must cross the yard to reach them. If Cadfael was there, he would see her and take note.

  Vivian wanted Lynette to distract him.

  “You’re leaving? Now?” Lynette said, her voice rising. “Surely this afternoon—”

  “And let Emrys linger without help?” Vivian shook her head. “I must go now. I will head for the kitchen. I want to collect food from there, anyway. If he is still where I saw him, going to the kitchen will put me behind him when I cross to the stables. With you before him, I have no doubt he will not think to check his rear.” She dropped the lid on the chest and straightened.

  Lynette schooled her face, keeping her expression serene. Her perturbation must have shown, though, for Vivian frowned and her jaw tightened. “Do not disobey me on this, Lynette.”

  Lynette shook her head. “Why this man? Why Emrys? If you would explain it to me, perhaps I would understand better why you risk yourself this way. You have never been so…” She halted, aware of where her words led her. She swallowed.

  “Foolish?” Vivian finished. “To you,
it appears that way. You must trust me, Lynette. Trust me and do what I say. It will all work out.”

  “You have…seen that?”

  Vivian’s gaze turned inward. “I have seen the end,” she said softly. “I do not know what lies between, yet I am sure the end will come to pass, which means I must do this. And you must help me.” Her gaze came back to Lynette. “Please,” she added.

  Lynette sighed. Vivian never begged. She cajoled and she ordered, but she did not say please. To bring her to it now… “Very well,” Lynette said, reluctance making her speak slowly. “Although I do not have your faith in my ability to distract the man. He is far too angry.”

  Vivian patted her arm. “You underestimate yourself, Lynette of the North. I saw his face last night at supper.” She plucked from the rods on the wall the crumpled and worn cloaks they had found among the discarded garments in the big chest in the corner. She held the longest of the pair out to Lynette. “Ready?”

  Lynette took the green garment. “I am not ready. Not at all.”

  Vivian laughed and took her arm, tugging her toward the door. The other women lifted their heads to watch them go, although none would dare question Vivian directly. Even Maela remained silent, though her greater rank would allow her to demand an explanation if she cared for one.

  Vivian opened the door and pushed Lynette through, then shut it behind her.

  There he was. The big man sat on an upturned barrel in the sunny corner of the yard. His back was against the corner post of the verandah and his arms were crossed. He scowled as he watched world go by.

  He appeared to be ready to do murder.

  Chapter Four

  Cadfael saw the princess’ companion as soon as she stepped out of the guarded door where the women spent their days.

  Not that he was watching the door, of course. However, in this yard full of men in muddy, dark cloaks and tunics, the hint of color and elegant movement drew Cadfael’s gaze like sunlight bouncing on water.

  He had learned her name last night. Lynette, the most favored of Vivian’s companions…and the most trusted.