Once and Future Hearts Box One

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Not that one, no,” he said quietly. “There are none left now, that she made. Ygraine died many years ago.”

  “I see. Ygraine…she came from the north, too?”

  His answer did not come at once and she did not press him for it. Lynette focused on her stitching instead.

  “There is a place in the north, that is so wild and so mysterious that some say it is where the gods walk,” he said. “The lake there ripples when there is no breeze. The mountains sing on certain days and there are crags the birds will not fly near. Men speak of giant white wolves who guard the doors to the underworld that a man might find there if he looks properly.”

  Lynette shivered.

  “Sometimes,” Cadfael continued, “the peaks are wreathed in mist and clouds and they seem far away and cold. Sometimes, though, they are clear and so close you have only to reach out your hand to touch them. The streams that run from those peaks are clear and cold. To drink from them makes a man courageous and a woman beautiful, so now all the women of the north are of a beauty unsurpassed, while the men of the north are sought as warriors who never fail.”

  Lynette might have laughed at the tale he was telling, except that she had heard such tales all through her childhood. To listen to someone relate the stories now, as she worked on the shirt, seemed to take her back to the hearth where she had heard them all the first time.

  “There is a mountain there that challenges the strength of a man,” Cadfael continued. “They call it Cader Idris. If a man dares sleep upon its slopes, he will wake either mad, or a poet. North of Cader Idris lies the grandest mountain of them all. Y Wyddfa, where giants walk. One of them smashed his hammer into the earth, a long time ago, for the rocks he threw up can still be seen, a stony crown scoring the ground. That is the land where Ygraine came from. I, too. Tal-y-llyn, on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil, where they say the gods linger still.”

  The silence throbbed.

  Lynette’s heart would not stop its heavy beat. “Did you sleep upon Cader Idris?”

  Cadfael smiled, his gaze looking inward. “Once, long ago, when I was young and foolish. My friends challenged me and…well, I do not like to lose.”

  “So, you are either mad or a poet.” Lynette had already decided he was a poet, for the spell he had just woven, when speaking of his home, had prompted visions of snowy peaks, clear running streams and the song of the wind playing across them all. The scent of snow in the air and farther west, the scent of the sea. When the wind was right, the smell of salt drifted across the land.

  Lynette cut the thread and held out his shirt. “The circle of stones where the giant smashed his hammer. That is Bryn Cader Faner, yes?”

  His fingers curled about the shirt. His gaze met hers, startled. “You know the place?”

  “I do.”

  The shirt slid from her fingers as he took it back. “You read about it, then. No, you heard it when men spoke of it, while not seeing you were there.” There was a teasing note in his voice.

  “I grew up in Tomen y mur,” she replied.

  His brow lifted. “At the feet of Y Wyddfa. They say that place is holy, that gods linger and whisper their messages and that is why the Romans abandoned their fort, there.” He busied himself putting the shirt on. Lynette reached for the tunic and smoothed the edges of the rent together before beginning to stitch it closed.

  “Your father is Mostyn, then? One of Vortigern’s war dukes,” he said.

  “You would know him, I think.”

  “I do.” Cadfael tugged the shirt down, then inspected the repair. “A good man. A good fighter.” He frowned and his gaze came back to her. “I judged him to be violently loyal to Vortigern. How is it you are here?”

  “With a Roman king?” Lynette finished.

  “Well, yes.”

  “My mother arranged it. Gwilym is her uncle.”

  “I’m sure she has other uncles, ones who are in higher in Vortigern’s favor.”

  “Yet she sent me here.” Lynette focused on her stitching, for she would not explain her mother’s reasoning to Cadfael of all people. In the south, with Gwilym’s people, you will not draw Vortigern’s eye, her mother had explained, the day she broke the news that Lynette would join Gwilym’s court.

  “Then we are both strangers here, aren’t we?” Cadfael said.

  Lynette looked up at him, noticing yet again the blue of his eyes. There was a strength in his face that said he had endured much and would bear more. “We are a long way from home,” she agreed.

  He bent, bringing his lips to hers.

  A proper lady would shrink back, out of his reach, Lynette told herself. A gentle woman would run as far from him as possible. A true lady would be horrified he pressed unwelcome attentions upon her. A lady would not have put herself in the position where he could.

  She did none of those things. Frozen, she let him kiss her. Her heart squeezed and her breath caught as his mouth touched hers, for it was a gentle brush of his lips. For such a big man, a warrior, she would have expected a kiss from him to be as rough and harsh as any other man’s kiss.

  He did not grind his mouth against hers, bruising her flesh. It was the lightest of kisses, barely there at all.

  Yet her heart turned over and her breath escaped in a ragged exhale.

  He pulled away from her, just enough so he could look at her. He seemed puzzled. The pulse in his neck jumped.

  Lynette pushed to her feet and kissed him. There was no decision behind her action, only pure wanting. She would experience that gentle touch once more. She would taste him again. She would taste him properly.

  She wound her arm about his neck, to help her reach his lips, for he straightened in shock. With her other hand, she steadied his face, feeling the rasp of whiskers against her palm. Her fingertips, though, smoothed over soft flesh.

  She pressed her lips against his and breathed her delight into him. Holding herself against him like this, she could sense his rock-like strength.

  Cadfael stirred. His arms came around her and he pressed her back until the shelves halted her. Still he moved, until the length of his body was against hers, holding her up. He kissed her, his hands about her face. It was still gentle, although there was no softness to this kiss. He plundered her mouth. His tongue stroked her lips and pressed inside, as his fingers stroked the flesh of her throat.

  Lynette’s thoughts fractured and scattered. Instead, she became a purely sensory creature, absorbing the pleasure he gave her with the simple touch of his lips and the fine stroke of his fingers.

  Until he groaned and grew still.

  Lynette drew in an unsteady breath. Her whole body throbbed with the power of the kiss and she blinked, for the light in the little storage room was now overwhelming.

  Cadfael stepped away from her. He held up his hands, his palms toward her. She understood. Stop. No further.

  Silently, he picked up his sword and knife belt and his cloak, bundling them in one arm. Then he reached for the partially repaired tunic, too, and pulled it from the table, his gaze locked on hers.

  Lynette wanted to protest that the mend was incomplete. Her voice failed her. There were too many emotions in his face and his eyes for her to understand all of them, although the one she did recognize stole her tongue.

  Guilt.

  He rammed the tunic on top of his cloak, turned and shoved the curtain aside, then strode from the room, across the bigger workroom, to the outer door and tore it open.

  The door swung shut behind him, leaving Lynette standing at the storeroom door, her heart racing, her body aching with unfulfilled need and her thoughts bouncing off each other.

  The women all stared at her, their eyes big. All, except Vivian, who smiled and bent her head back over her work.

  Chapter Eight

  It was cold outside, more so than it had felt when he stepped onto the verandah and explained to the guard why he sought entry to the women’s workroom.

  Cadfael shoved past the guard, back onto the t
iles. The guard gave him a startled look, his eyes sliding down to the bundle in Cadfael’s arm.

  Nothing had changed out here. Men still moved through their sword practice in disciplined ranks, their movements measured by older, more experienced warriors. Servants and slaves fed the pigs and goats. Grooms brushed down horses out in the sun, where their coats gleamed with good health and care.

  In the far corner by the abandoned barrel, Mervyn and five men who looked to him sat on the edge of the verandah, their swords sheathed and cups in their hands. The minimum daily practice every man undertook as soon as he was strong enough to hold a sword in one hand apparently did not apply to Gwilym’s oldest son.

  Mervyn had been sprawled in the same place when Cadfael emerged from the stable after seeing to Mars and crossed the yard to the women’s quarters. Mervyn’s eyes were bloodshot, yet his focus seem unimpaired by the wine.

  After two days of avoiding the prince with curt excuses, Cadfael thought Mervyn now understood Cadfael did not want a petty princeling hanging from his elbow—not one with a reputation for cowardice, who wanted only to enhance his own reputation by lingering beside Cadfael, where he could catch Vortigern’s eye.

  Cadfael would have to walk behind Mervyn and his men to reach his quarters. At this moment, he didn’t care. As he moved down the long verandah, his thoughts focused upon what had just happened.

  Why had he kissed Lynette? He had never been tempted to kiss another woman, not since Ygraine had passed. He’d bedded plenty, both whores and willing maids, yet he had not kissed any of them.

  He had not made a conscious decision to take the kiss. He had been moved by learning Lynette was of the mountains, just as he was. It didn’t explain why he had kissed her, though.

  His heart thudded unhappily, guilt swirling in his belly and making his head hurt.

  He ignored Mervyn when he reached him and moved along the verandah to the door of his borrowed room, at the furthest distance from the women’s quarters. He had his spare hand on the left-hand side of the door and was about to push it open, when Mervyn spoke, behind him.

  “Look at him, tail between his legs. Can’t bed a woman, can’t even get his clothes back on before she tosses him.”

  The other five sniggered obediently.

  The thudding in Cadfael’s head exploded, spilling fury through his blood and wiping all thought.

  He dropped everything he carried and leapt at the princeling, his hands reaching for the man’s throat.

  The gasp of the others warned Mervyn, who spun and staggered to his feet, out of the way.

  That was good. That was fine by Cadfael. He pushed off the edge of the verandah with his boot, flinging himself at the man. His shoulder rammed into Mervyn’s belly, forcing the air from his chest in a forceful grunt.

  Mervyn landed on his back in the muddy yard. Pigs squealed and scurried out of the way. The men thrusting their swords into imaginary enemies spun on their heels, alerted.

  Cadfael got to his knees, pushing himself up with his hands on Mervyn’s chest. He gripped one hand with the other and swung, the back of his fist connecting with the man’s jaw.

  Mervyn grunted again and spat blood. He surged up onto his feet, his bloodshot eyes filled with fury.

  “Get him!” the cry came from behind Cadfael.

  Cadfael jumped to his feet and swung around. He grabbed the first throat that came within reaching distance and tossed Mervyn’s man back at the others. They fell into the dirt in a tangled heap.

  Mervyn’s arm snaked around Cadfael’s neck, his fingers clawing for his throat.

  Stupid.

  Cadfael grabbed his wrist, ducked under the arm and moved around Mervyn, bringing his wrist up high against his back.

  Mervyn cried out piteously at the pain.

  “You know nothing of life, you pampered fool,” Cadfael breathed in his ear. “It is little wonder no woman will marry you.” He planted his boot in the small of Mervyn’s back and shoved hard.

  Mervyn cried out again as he staggered forward, his hands out to break his fall. The lines of practicing fighters broke up, as they shuffled out of the way. They didn’t thrust out their arms to break their prince’s fall.

  Mervyn sprawled in the dirt, his cloak up over his head and his tunic hiked to show soft white flesh above his leggings.

  Cadfael turned about to face the other threat. The five were back on their feet now, with bloody murder in their eyes. They were more sober than Mervyn and that was also just fine by Cadfael. He tightened his fists and strode into their midst.

  * * * * *

  There was always a background noise of animals and men working out in the courtyard that passed through the stout door into Vivian’s workroom as a pleasant, soft hum that assured Lynette everything was as it should be.

  A few minutes after she returned to her stool at Vivian’s table, shaking in the aftermath of Cadfael’s kiss, the hum was interrupted by cries of alarm.

  Everyone paused, looking up.

  Vivian went to the small window and looked out. “Oh!” The note of surprise was tinged with an emotion that Lynette thought might be amusement or satisfaction.

  Her exclamation was a signal. The other women all surged to the window behind Vivian to peer out.

  “Isn’t that Cadfael? That’s him, who just left here, yes?” Olwen asked.

  Lynette’s heart, still hurrying, shot skyward. She pushed away from the table and hurried to the door, not bothering to squeeze in for a tiny glimpse of what happened outside. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the verandah.

  There were dozens of men gathered in a tight circle, in the opposite corner of the courtyard. Whatever they were standing around was the source of the noise.

  Abruptly, a portion of the circle broke apart as men hastily stepped out of the way. Through the opening, two men staggered. One—Cadfael, she realized with horror—had a hand about the throat of the other as they stumbled into the center of the courtyard.

  Slaves and servants and other household members, including Ninian’s women, were pouring out of other rooms of the house, to stand on the verandah with their hands to their mouths, their eyes wide.

  The man Cadfael attacked fell backward and went down with Cadfael on top of him, both hands settling around his neck. Lynette could see the man’s face now. It was Gruen, one of Mervyn’s favorite lieutenants.

  Gruen, who likes to use his fists when a woman he beds doesn’t meet his satisfaction. The warning given to her by another maid whispered in her mind, now.

  As Gruen and Cadfael landed, another two men ran and threw themselves upon Cadfael’s back, as the spectators moved to gain a better view. Dilwyn and Elis, both Mervyn’s men. They pummeled Cadfael’s back and head and shoulders. Cadfael didn’t seem to notice.

  It was only when they both hauled on his arms, that his grip around Gruen’s neck loosened. They yanked Cadfael away. He landed heavily on his back.

  Instantly, all three of them—Dilwyn, Elis and Gruen—piled on top of him.

  Lynette drew in a shaky breath. Three against one!

  Apparently, other men in the courtyard did not like the odds, either, for a mutter of dissatisfaction emerged from some of them.

  The three attacking Cadfael paid no attention. They had him down on the ground and were pounding him with their fists.

  Mervyn himself pushed through the surrounding men. His nose was bloody and his cloak had been torn away. His tunic was smeared in mud. He held his dagger in his hand. There was a hard, determined light in his eyes as he pushed at the backs of his officers, trying to squeeze in between them.

  Lynette started forward and halted with her arm about the verandah post. There was nothing she could do. Mervyn would kill her as quickly as he would Cadfael.

  The watching men, soldiers all, didn’t like it, either. Folant, the king’s most senior officer, a short man with iron gray hair and wise eyes, strode up to the struggling men. He had his sword in his hand. With a curt, low wor
d, he gestured to his men.

  Dozens stepped up around them and dragged each man away. Mervyn’s men didn’t go easily. They kicked and protested loudly. Mervyn writhed like a rabbit in a snare, screaming. “Let me at him I say! He insulted me! My father will kill all of you if you don’t let me go!”

  Folant was unmoved by the threats.

  Lynette pressed her hand to her mouth. Cadfael lay on the ground, not moving. There was blood on his undershirt, for he wore no tunic and no weapons.

  Folant gestured. A slave ran up with a bucket and tipped the water over Cadfael. He stirred and groaned.

  Folant bent and offered his hand, which Cadfael took and hauled himself slowly to his feet. The two spoke in quiet tones, their words not reaching Lynette. Folant looked amused.

  Cadfael turned and trudged toward the stables. His hair, his clothes, dripped red-tinted water.

  Lynette dug her fingernails into the post, forcing herself to stay where she was despite her inclination to hurry after him and check he was not badly hurt. She recalled his raised hands. Stop. Enough.

  He would not welcome her attention.

  Her heart skittering with more than the tension of the moment, Lynette made herself turn away and go back into the workroom, instead.

  Everyone had returned to their seats. The weavers were fussing at their looms, setting up their shuttle races once more.

  Vivian’s stool was empty.

  Lynette made a fuss of settling her gown about her ankles as she sat down, which allowed her to look at every corner of the room. Vivian was not in it. She had used the chaos in the courtyard as a distraction and had vanished. Likely, she was going to see to Emrys.

  That left Maela and Lynette at the small table, the other four at the bigger tables and the three weavers at their looms. Maela did not comment on Vivian’s vanishing.

  Mabyn giggled. “Whatever did you do to the man, Lynette? He stormed out of here and immediately set to with Mervyn and his men.”

  Olwen shook her head. “That Gruen is a nasty man.”

  “Elis is not much better,” Iva said. “Whatever the black one handed out, they deserve it, I say.”