by Janzen, Tara
Edmee circled the tub, teasing and wary, giving him no more than he deserved for trying to push the boundaries she’d set, but he was not overly worried. A finer art he’d never mastered than the tricks to tease and entice, to turn sex into a sensually charged battleground of wills and willpower. For all she’d learned, Edmee was no master of the art of seduction. He’d been easy prey. He still was, but in this game, so was she.
“Come,” he said, sweetening his voice and lifting his hand to her. She hesitated, so he added a guileless smile. “Please, Edmee. Come have your way with me.”
At that she took his hand, the babe, and he slowly drew her near. With each of her steps, he rose higher out of the wooden tub, until he stood before her, water running down his body and excitement pooling in his groin.
Murmuring a soft sound, she sank to her knees in front of him. He reached down to cup her head in his hands. The first touch was always a gentle one, to prime a lover for what was to come. He’d taught her that, and she had not forgotten. She never forgot about the first touch, nor about anything else. She played him like a bard’s harp, and there was a mindlessness in the act that he adored: the short and long glides of a tongue, the feel of a wet mouth closing around him, the delicately calibrated scrape of teeth, and him with nothing to do but receive the rain of pleasure it all created.
She pressed her tongue into the slit at the tip of his glans, and his thighs tightened. God, she was good, so very good, but tonight that would not be enough. The thought hit him even as the fires of release kindled in his loins and he made his first thrust.
Damn the chit. He wanted a kiss to go with the rest of it. He thrust again, easing his shaft deeper, and Edmee clasped him about the hips, so that together they could forge an ancient rhythm out of heat and friction. A dark thrill coursed down his spine—and was made even darker and more thrilling by a new awareness he felt slipping through him.
She watches.
He lifted his heavy-lidded gaze from Edmee to the bed and searched the shadows there, wanting and needing to feel Ceridwen’s caress upon his body, even if ’twas only the luminous caress of her eyes.
The delights of voyeurism were well within his repertoire, but this was different. It went deeper, his need to make contact on an elemental plane. Ceridwen had kissed him and been enchanted, and enchanting.
A candle on the end of the table guttered out its life in a sudden blaze, throwing a flash of light past the damask curtains to the pillows and proving what his instincts had told him. She did await him there, watching, pale blue eyes glittering with shock and the pure undefiled heat of desire.
It was enough.
His head fell back as he groaned, and a surge of pleasure coursed through him, releasing the potion Edmee coveted.
Chapter 7
March 1198
Balor Keep,
Merioneth, Wales
Busy, busy, busy. So busy. Snit scuttled through the murky dark along the inside of the curtain wall, clutching his leather bag of hard-won booty: eyes of newts, and legs and tails too, and worm spore for his master, Helebore, plus a little something for his master’s master, Caradoc.
Caradoc the Ingrate, Snit thought, for nothing seemed to please the Boar. Why, only two days past Snit had brought the lord a rare wee beasty he’d found trapped in a spider’s web, and the Boar hadn’t deigned to give it a glance. But this eve’s prize was sure to bring a boon. A beautiful mottled gray rock it was, studded with fallen stars. Most of the stars that fell above Balor landed in the sea. Even if they started well inland, by the time they reached the earth, their course had shifted them over water where they fizzled and sank. Why, Snit conjectured, there must be a veritable mountain of fallen stars off the coast of Balor.
But one— A wide grin split his face as he fondled the stone through his pouch. One had crashed into the land, and he, Snit, had found the shards of it embedded in a smooth gray rock.
“Rich, rich, rich,” he hummed to himself. “Aye, I’ll be rich.”
He came to a corner and stopped, his gaze darting this way and that. ’Twas safer to stay close to a good stone wall, but ’twasn’t always possible.
“Ofttimes the bailey needs be crossed,” he told himself in no uncertain terms, girding himself for the mad dash that would take him to the keep and his master’s chambers.
The wide-open space loomed in front of him, flooded with a full moon’s light and all its accompanying shadows, each one a sure hiding place for robbers and cutthroats, and him with his precious rock to get home.
He swore, a tangled garble of words. More robbers and cutthroats than usual since Morgan ab Kynan had returned from the south with his war band and the prisoner Ragnor. Caradoc was going to rend the red giant from limb to limb for his crime. Balor was to have had a lady, a real lady, and now they all must wait. Snit felt a particular affront at the delay. He’d been hoarding gifts for Balor’s bride for over a fortnight and was most eager to shower them upon the maid.
Morgan’s band wouldn’t stay long. They never did. Never long enough to learn anything, or see anything, or hear anything. Even those who lived in Balor never saw the things Snit did, or heard the sounds of the deep dark.
The Thief of Cardiff was a strange friend for someone of the Boar’s great importance. Morgan was light and clear—odd for a thief—barely a smudge of darkness about him, a man of no depth when compared to Snit’s lord. War had made them friends. Snit knew all about it from hearsay and rumor, as the Boar never spoke to him directly. ’Twould be unseemly.
A cloud passed over the moon, and Snit took it as an omen. He dashed across the bailey, hunching his shoulders around his leather bag, hiding himself in the cloud’s shadow. With a loud gasp, he came up against the wall of stone that was the south side of the hall. Nary a robber or a cutthroat had laid a hand upon him.
“Fie!” he called out into the bailey, crowing his victory.
A guardsman on duty at the bottom of the keep’s covered stairwell crossed himself and muttered a prayer. Snit caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye and spat toward the man’s feet. Fool.
He turned and felt his way along the wall until he came to the place he sought, a door no bigger than the lid on a wooden chest. Indeed, ’twas what the door had been, which accounted for its shape. Snit fumbled on his belt for his key and undid the lock on the hasp. Then he let himself in and barred the door behind him with an oak plank.
~ ~ ~
Inside the great hall of Balor Keep, Morgan watched as Caradoc raised a flagon of ale and quaffed the whole of it. When the earthenware vessel was dry, the Boar crashed it onto the floor with a mighty heave and called for another. Thick golden hair fell on either side of his face in cascading layers, but did naught to soften the harshness of his visage or the dark fury in his eyes. He was a striking figure, large and powerfully built, dressed in fine black camlet and samite in preparation for the bride that had not come. His surcoat was quilted and embossed with a rich gold thread, the damask tunic he wore underneath was pure white and embroidered with the same gold thread, a veritable fortune in clothes, and all for naught.
No talk or laughter rose from the tables spread down either side of the hearth, though all were full. Men ate in silence, the pall of their lord’s anger infecting every bite they took. The only one who dared speak was a small child, no more than three, by Morgan’s guess, and Caradoc’s daughter, by the look of her. A serious thing she was for one so little, and imperious, scolding the servants and making demands of a dark-haired woman Morgan guessed was her mother. Both would have to go when Ceridwen became Balor’s lady.
Morgan sat far to the left of the pair and his friend, though the term “friend” seemed to apply no longer. When Morgan had delivered his news of Ceridwen, Caradoc had nearly struck him down, indeed, would have, if Morgan had not blocked the blow. Of his own men, Rhodri and Dafydd had been closest, and both had drawn their daggers to protect him. Though no blood had been shed, such actions between men-of-arms left an
irreparable breach. The next messenger sent to Balor by the ruling Prince of Gwynedd would be one other than Morgan ab Kynan. He would not return, and he would warn Dain to take extra care with the maid, for old ties were being forgotten.
Thwarted in his first attack, Caradoc had taken his mood out upon anyone not quick enough to elude him. Half a dozen servants had been cuffed with the back of his hand, one so badly he had not gotten back up but still lay bleeding into the rushes behind the dais.
Morgan’s band didn’t often dare to travel by night, even when the moon was full, but the risks of facing the night were far less than the risks of remaining within the reach of Caradoc’s rage. Another slip like the thwarted blow, and ’twould be warfare. So they ate as if on tenterhooks, biding their meal and their manners until ’twas seemly to leave.
Sitting at the table below Morgan, the youngest of his band, Drew and Rhys, could not manage even that little bit. Their trenchers were hardly touched, nor their cups. Morgan doubted if ’twas the thought of fighting their way out of the keep that twisted their guts. Something more than a belated bride was amiss in Balor.
The castle was abuzz with the discovery of two men that morn, one dead, the other said to be gasping his last breaths in the leech’s chambers below the hall. Crushed he was, the dead man, Caradoc’s guards muttered, his bones ground to dust within his skin. The second man was said to be only half-crushed and raving of demons in the dark, of ungodly heat, and unbearable pressure. The two had been washed up on a shingle beach half a league south of Balor, after having been missing for a sennight.
Drew and Rhys had argued for staying inside the castle walls rather than face whatever had done the deadly deed. Morgan had prevailed, but it had taken Owain to convince the two younger men of the wisdom of leaving.
“Balor’s misery is its own and naught to do with us,” he’d said. “We’ll be far safer in the mountains of Eryri.”
Aye, and Morgan could hardly wait to get there. He had known Balor Keep when it was called Carn Merioneth and was related to both the former and the present occupants. He and Ceridwen were cousins, though not close ones, and the cousinry of him and Caradoc, although traceable, was even less close, but all were of the ancient ruling line of Merioneth.
’Twas an old story of blood and love. Gwrnach had vowed to marry Rhiannon—they’d been first cousins, as Morgan remembered—pledging to her both his love and the strength of his sword, but he’d lost the maid to Arawn and lost Carn Merioneth with her, until he’d taken it all by force and murdered his fair cousin in the bargain, or so the story went.
Thus by dint of his relations, Morgan had seen many changes in the holdings. Yet the place had changed more in the last year than it had with the destruction of the wooden palisades and the building of the wall and castle keep. He liked not what he felt when he came to Merioneth nowadays.
Much of his aversion was due to Helebore, Caradoc’s leech. The man’s name meant death, and truly he looked the part with his cadaverous pallor and sunken cheeks. Helebore had nary a hair on his head, neither on pate nor eyebrow. Burned off by the devil himself, Rhys had murmured several times since their arrival. Morgan wouldn’t go that far, but the lack did give Helebore a strange, eerie look about him, stranger even than his twisted little consort, Snit.
Aye, Caradoc had taken to keeping strange company of late. So ’twas well enough they were away after the meal.
Owain came up beside him and bent his head close. He was a heavy man, large and rough-looking. “’Tis time, Morgan,” he said. “To tarry longer can do us no good this night.”
“The horses?”
“All is ready in the bailey. You have only to bid adieu to our most congenial host. Try not to lose your head in the doing of it.” The last was said with what passed for Owain’s smile, a tight curve of his lips and no more than a twig’s worth of warmth in his eyes.
“My head is safe,” Morgan said, lifting his cup. “I saved his life at Acre. For tonight that memory will suffice, but no more, I fear.” He drained the cup of ale and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, then gave Owain a wry grin. “See if Drew’s and Rhys’s knees have stopped trembling enough that they may walk out of the hall without disgracing the lot of us.”
Their escape, for ’twas nothing less, went smoothly enough, mayhaps too smoothly. Caradoc seemed only too glad to be rid of them, all but shoving them out the gatehouse doors and dropping the portcullis behind them. Owain feared a trap, but none was sprung. Morgan’s fears were of a much less tangible nature. He’d brought a bound and gagged Ragnor to Balor, and that was as it should have been, and yet, because of Ragnor, he hadn’t brought Ceridwen ab Arawn—and mayhaps that was as it should have been also. Mayhaps the maid knew more of what wasn’t aright with Balor Keep than Morgan had allowed.
~ ~ ~
Caradoc sat sprawled in a chair by the hearth in Helebore’s chambers, watching the leech perform the ritual of extreme unction on the injured man they’d found that morn, Simon, one of Balor’s guardsmen. The other man had been named Cobb. Failures both, to have gotten themselves killed in the maze of caves underlying the keep and then spat out upon a cold shore.
Damn Morgan. He’d failed in his quest also. A simple enough matter, Caradoc had thought, to fetch one sniveling virgin and bring her back where she belonged. She had a brother, though, and Helebore thought that mayhaps the boy would suffice as neatly as the girl for his needs. Strata Florida was not so far. He would send someone in the morn.
Helebore’s thin, colorless lips moved as he spoke the last rites, his voice nearly drowned out by his patient’s mutterings, ravings, and occasional screams. Every now and then, much to his distaste, Caradoc caught one of the ritual Latin phrases. Each one darkened his mood. He had been keeping himself on a tight tether, letting his anger steep, and sizzle, and burn, and fill him with the power of rage. Now he was close to breaking. His skin couldn’t hold the pulsing, white-hot thing that his fury had become much longer.
He had wanted her, only her, and she was being denied him.
He clenched his hand into a fist and forced a deep breath into his lungs, holding himself in check. ’Twasn’t time yet to give in. The man who awaited him on the ramparts deserved his undiluted wrath, the one who had taken her from him—Ragnor.
“Two hundred swiving marks and oranges.” The words soughed through his lips, soft and hissing.
None other than his old friend would have dared to ask for so much, yet ’twas as nothing compared to what the girl was worth. He knew Lavrans, too well, and he knew no woman would escape the jongleur. Lavrans would put her in chains if needs be to collect his two hundred swiving marks.
The thought brought a ghost of a smile to Caradoc’s lips. ’Twould be good practice for the maid to live with Dain Lavrans as her keeper, for no one had less of a heart, excepting possibly himself. They’d both had those fickle organs cut out of them piece by bloody piece in Saladin’s prisons and by their desert masters. ’Twas only Morgan who had come through unscathed.
Dain must have been good, very good, Caradoc thought, his mood growing darker, for Jalal al-Kamam did not have a reputation for sparing his slaves. Yet Morgan had been spared much. Not so himself. Kalut ad-Din had spared him nothing.
“Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine,” Helebore murmured. Deliver us, we beseech Thee, O Lord.
“Old habits die hard, eh, priest?” Caradoc called out, his lips tilting into a sneer. He had no use for the Church’s drivel, and he liked it not when Helebore regressed into his former ways. The man had come to Balor from Ynys Enlli, the isle of saints off the far west coast of the Lleyn Peninsula in North Wales. The Culdee monks on that sea-girt rock had tossed him off a cliff one fine spring morning, expecting he would be drowned by the weight of his grievous sins.
They had been wrong.
Helebore rolled his black eyes in Caradoc’s direction, implying both disdain and chastening without missing a syllable of the rites. Caradoc paid no mind, his attention having strayed to
the scuffling sound and the flash of movement behind the brown-robed leech. He bared his teeth and slowly leaned forward in his chair, growling, until the little weasel, Snit, yelped and scrambled to safety inside the dusty cupboard he called home.
Helebore ignored both of them, making the sign of the cross on the soles of the dying man’s feet.
“Perducat te ad vitum aeternam.” And bring thee unto life everlasting.
“Enough!” Caradoc roared, his limit for piety suddenly and violently reached. He thrust himself to his feet and brought his fist down hard on the table holding the dying Simon. The table rattled with the force of his blow, and the half-crushed guardsman let out a pitiful, whimpering moan. “If you must pray, pray my bride is come to Balor,” Caradoc hissed at the gaunt leech, and hit the table again. “If you must pray, pray Ragnor is strong enough to endure my attention that my pleasure may last.” Once more his fist came down, rattling the boards as he leaned in close. “If you must pray, dear Helebore, pray all you have told me of the pryf is true, for if ’tis not, Ragnor’s fate will seem as a blessing compared to yours.”
A moment of tremulous silence followed the tirade, then another moment into which Helebore injected a most pious “Amen.”
Finished with his service, the leech cocked a hairless eyebrow in his lord’s direction. Caradoc glared, and between them Simon—jiggled to the edge by all the pounding—slipped off the table, fully expired.
“Milord,” Helebore said, after a brief glance at the dead man. He gestured toward the spiral stone staircase that led to the ramparts. “Shall we attend to the next dying man?”
“Aye,” Caradoc muttered, reaching for his cloak and swinging it over his shoulders. “Attend and rend.”