Igraine shook her head. “I dare not tell them,” she said, her voice low. “They have husbands, and an indiscrete word, perhaps to entertain their husband…it would be the ruin of me.”
Anwen let out a deeper breath. At least Igraine had enough sense left to be cautious.
“Have you never yearned for a man, Anwen?” Igraine asked, her voice still soft. “Do you not know even a little of what I am feeling?”
“I do know, my lady,” Anwen said stiffly. Truthfully.
“Ah…” Igraine said, sounding both surprised and satisfied.
Anwen’s heart ached. She kept her gaze down.
“Then we have something in common, after all,” Igraine added.
“Something else,” Anwen corrected her.
“Oh?”
“Anwen! Anwen!” The cart which Morgan and Morguase rode upon had drawn level with Anwen and Igraine. Morgan waved fiercely. “Look at the rainbow, Anwen! See it! And it hasn’t rained at all! It’s just there!”
Anwen glanced at the rainbow on the horizon, painted upon black clouds. “It means there is rain where the rainbow is, Morgan. Or mist or fog, or moisture in the air.”
“I would not have known that,” Igraine admitted. “All it takes is damp air?”
“And sunlight,” Anwen added.
Morguase leaned against the side of the cart, her chin on her hands. “I’m bored,” she said, pouting. “I want Steffan to give us a lesson.”
“I don’t know where Steffan is,” Anwen told her.
“He’s in the cart five up from ours,” Morgan said instantly. “Tell him to come and teach us, please?”
Anwen smiled. “This is supposed to be a holiday for you, Morgan.”
Morgan’s smile was angelic. “Learning things is fun.”
Morguase’s pout deepened. “Mother, please tell Anwen to fetch Steffan. I want a story.”
Igraine glanced at Anwen. “Perhaps, to distract them…?”
“There is no room on the cart for him,” Anwen pointed out.
“He can walk alongside,” Morguase said quickly.
“He cannot see where he is walking,” Anwen said, hiding her impatience.
“He can keep one hand on the cart,” Morguase said.
“Go and fetch him, Anwen,” Igraine said, her tone firm. She lifted her hems and hurried along the road to catch up with her cart, caught hold of the railing and jumped onto it with a graceful movement.
Anwen was left standing on the side of the road, alone as she had wished, only now the fragile acceptance she had formed was shattered.
THE DRIVER TAPPED STEFFAN’S SHOULDER to draw his attention. “There be a lady walking beside the cart,” he said in a scratched voice. “On your right.”
Steffan turned his head in that direction. People would not speak to him if he didn’t appear to be looking at them.
“Oh!” the driver said, startled. “Oops! Careful there, lady.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Anwen said breathlessly.
It sounded as though she was on the cart itself. Had she leapt on to it?
“Steffan, I’m sorry to intrude, only the girls and Lady Igraine are asking for you. Morguase wants a story and Morgan wishes to learn something. Can you jump off the cart without seeing? Or should the cart stop?”
Steffan frowned. Her voice. What was it about her voice? It stroked his spine with soft fingers.
“Steffan?” Anwen repeated.
He stirred. “A story?” he said, keeping his voice even. “I can give them a story.”
“I should stop the cart,” the driver said, alarm building in his voice.
“There’s no need,” Steffan told him.
“You can’t jump!” the driver cried.
Steffan pulled up his feet and got to them and reached for the side of the cart. It was hip-high, made of undressed timber, the bark dry and flaking. He swooped his hand toward the front end of the railing and gripped the edge. “Anwen?”
“I’m here.”
“The road is flat here?”
“Flat enough,” she assured him.
He nodded and tucked his staff under his arm, and swung himself out of the cart and sideways, onto the road. It was a heavy landing, because he didn’t know where the ground was, exactly, although he had braced himself for the shock of it.
“Oh!” Anwen exclaimed, as he heard someone land beside him.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he told her. “Rest on the cart—sit where I was.” The cart groaned and rumbled as it went past them.
“I will have to guide your hand to the side of the cart the girls are upon,” Anwen said. Irritation colored her tone. “There is no room for you to sit upon it. You must walk beside them.”
Steffan considered it. “Is there room on the road for me and the cart?”
“Yes.” She gripped his wrist. “The cart comes. I will put your hand on the side.” Her voice came from behind him now. How close was she? The soft fingers played upon his spine one more time.
She extended his hand.
“Steffan! Steffan!” Morgan’s voice, excitement lifting it high.
All Steffan was aware of was her fingers upon his flesh. He thought he could feel the heat of her behind him. It might have been just the two of them, once more, twined upon the straw….
“Now,” Anwen breathed, her voice low and something jumped in Steffan’s middle.
She pulled on his arm and his fingers brushed wood railings. He had the sense to grip them and let himself be tugged into walking forward, his pace matching the cart, his heart climbing from his chest.
“You did it!” Morguase cried. She clapped her hands.
For a frightening moment of near panic, Steffan fought to stay on his feet and not be dragged along. Where was Anwen? Was she still behind him? Had she remained still and was now far behind?
Where was she?
Morgan patted Steffan’s hand. “Breton today!” she demanded.
“No, Latin,” Morguase insisted, for she was more familiar with Latin and didn’t have to work so hard to understand it.
Just as the cart was pulling Steffan along, the girls’ demands hauled his thoughts back to the mundane and the ordinary. He grabbed it and held on, making himself recall simple Latin phrases he could teach the girls, plus the stories which went with them.
This is as it will always be, he told himself as the lesson progressed. This simple life is all that is left for me.
And before the abject protests could properly form in his mind, he shoved them aside and concentrated on the lesson, instead.
Chapter Sixteen
There was no warning. No fumbling at the door, no tap of a staff along the cold stone corridors. Anwen only realized he was there when the door opened silently to avoid raising the alarm.
She was awake, even though it was late. It was the first night of their return to Tintagel. After days on the road, her bed was far too soft and warm. As the fortress grew silent, as the corridors emptied and everyone slept, her thoughts chased themselves in endless circles.
Even though her room was on the courtyard side of the tower, Tintagel was so silent and still she could hear and feel the waves crashing against the cliff the fortress was built upon.
The restlessness of the water matched her innards.
When the door eased open, Anwen sat up instantly. Her heart, which had not slowed for sleep at all, now accelerated beyond reason, hurting her chest with its wild beating.
In the moonlight, Steffan’s face was pale. He shut the door and leaned against it. “I shouldn’t be here,” he breathed.
“Yet you are.”
“I couldn’t…I should stay away.”
“If you think you must because of me, then you are wrong.”
He grew still. “Why do you say that?”
Anwen moved to where he stood. She didn’t touch him. Not yet, even though he was warm and her fingers tingled in anticipation of stroking his flesh. “No one cares about either of
us, except for the letters I teach and the stories you tell. Why should we care what they think?”
“Igraine would not approve and we both must preserve her good will.”
Anwen could resist no longer. She pressed her hand against his chest, over the warm leather which covered it. “Then we will fail to inform her.”
Still, he did not move. “I feel…” She saw his throat work in the moonlight which spilled through the narrow window. “I’m being torn in two,” he breathed.
“Go, then,” she whispered. “Go on. Open the door and step out. I won’t stop you.”
He let out a soft exhalation and remained where he was. “I don’t know why I came here.”
“Yes, you do,” she breathed and kissed him.
His staff clattered as it came to rest in the corner of the room. He pulled her against him. His arm was a strong band around her, keeping her there. He held her face and took control of the kiss, making it deeper.
When he drew her to the bed, she went willingly, wanting the tiny sliver of happiness it provided.
AFTERWARD, WHEN THEIR HEARTS HAD calmed and their breath, too, Steffan raised above her, his gaze upon her face.
“You are in moonlight,” he breathed.
Her heart jumped. “How did you know?”
“I can…almost see you,” he breathed. His voice was hoarse with excitement, even pleasure.
Panic touched her. Anwen brought her hand to her face, shielding it. She tried to roll out of the light. He held her in place.
“No, don’t move!” he begged. “Let me see. Stay still.”
Anwen shoved against his shoulder. “No!” She sat up, sliding out of the silvery glimmer and out of his hold, pushing herself into the dark corner of the bed. She wrapped her arms around her and shivered.
Steffan didn’t move. He didn’t try to pull her back into the light. Because his back was to the window, she could not see anything but the stark plains of his cheeks and the shadowed hollows of his eyes. His jaw flexed. “That terrifies you…” he breathed.
Anwen tightened her arms. “I would rather you go on seeing me as you have painted me in your mind.”
“Why? You are not ugly.”
“I am!”
He shook his head. “I have explored every tiny part of your face. I have tasted it. I have run my hands over every inch of your body and felt you beneath me. You are soft and supple and warm, and nothing about your face would make any man look askance.”
“Not that any man looks in the first place.” Her voice was as strained as his had been a moment ago. “And do not say it is their misfortune. I know what I am.”
Steffan reached for her. His fingers swept over her elbow, then down her arm to her wrist. He took her wrist and pulled. Gently. “You can relax. The moment of clarity has gone. Even if you were in full moonlight, I would see nothing but the golden shadow that is you, now.” The bitterness in his voice surprised her enough that she allowed him to draw across the bed, and up against him.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
He shook his head. “It is not my lot to see. These moments of clarity are provided to remind me of what I have lost, so I don’t grow complacent or content.”
“Why should you not be content?” she whispered.
“I suppose…to remind me of my place,” he breathed and kissed her. “I need the reminder, for when you are in my arms, humility is the last thing I feel.”
She thumped his shoulder. “Do not jest like that. It is the worst sort of teasing.”
“I wasn’t teasing.” He kissed her again, stealing her response, making her forget the last few moments and the fear which had swamped her. She followed Steffan’s lead and let herself believe she was worthy of this simple happiness and joy.
In his arms, she was beautiful—as long as he could not see her.
THE LARGE GROUP OF ROBBERS had been desperate indeed to attack a well-armed and large contingent of King’s men. Hunger drove them to a vicious offensive only hours after Uther’s company had left Amesbury.
The robbers fell upon the middle of the column, where the carts hauling food and supplies were, taking on anyone who stood between them and the carts. Ilsa had drawn her short sword instinctively, even though she wore no armor and was not upon her war horse. She had been riding upon a cart with Alun, Eren and Arawn Uther. She had learned that when the company traveled, it was always a good opportunity to spend time with the three.
While her children hid in the corner of the cart, Ilsa rose to her feet, drawing her sword. The first brigand was easily dealt with because he wasn’t expecting resistance or weapons from a woman. She brought the sword flashing from between the folds of her gown, to pierce his heart and stop him in his tracks even before his ax was fully raised.
He fell back soundlessly. Already another robber climbed onto the cart behind him. The man wore rags and his teeth were black stumps. The fury in his eyes at being challenged made him dangerous. Ilsa brought the sword up to the ready position.
Around her, she could hear the clash of sword against sword and other weapons, the cries of men and women. There were few women left in Uther’s entourage.
Ilsa ignored them. She did not wonder where Arawn was or how he fared. After eight years of campaigning, she had learned to starve her imagination until the fighting was done.
The man leapt at her. She could not afford to side-step him and deliver a blow that way, for the children cowered behind her. Instead, she angled the sword upward and as he moved into range, it was easy to punch the sharp tip in under his chin. His impetus drove the sword into his skull.
He grunted and twitched.
A third man she had not seen reached around the second and slammed his dagger into her belly.
The second man had sacrificed himself to secure her blade so the third could attack with impunity. She could not withdraw her sword easily.
She could withdraw the knife, though, for the fool had let go of the handle, grinning victoriously.
Ilsa gripped the hilt and pulled it out. The pain the movement caused was enough to snap her fully alert and aware, shaking off the shock of the blow. She flipped the knife and rammed it into his chest, just beneath the ribs, angling upward. After so many years of practice, she knew exactly where to aim.
Surprise showed in the man’s face. Then his surprise faded. So did his life. His eyes turned glassy as she watched.
Both bodies dropped, pulling her arms down. Pulling her down. For the first time, Ilsa was afraid. She was injured and unable to fight. Who would protect the food now? Who would protect her children?
She was already falling and couldn’t halt it. She had no strength left.
She folded with a sigh, sinking to the floor of the cart, her eyes closing. That was the last of the skirmish she remembered.
She returned to consciousness some time later—she didn’t know how long, although it was long enough for Merlin to have tended her wound. He was still bent over her, stitching the last of it, when she opened her eyes and groaned at the agony.
Merlin’s black-eyed gaze shifted to her face, then back to what he was doing. “Arawn is untouched. So are your children. You took out their leader. The fight ceased after that.”
Relief was a warm, expanding bubble in her chest. “And me?” she asked, her voice not much more than a whisper.
“You’ll live,” Merlin said, his tone dry.
A tent had been built quickly for Merlin to treat her—the walls sagged and daylight showed between the roof and the walls. It gave her privacy, though. She was grateful for that.
“You took on three of them, Ilsa?” Merlin shook his head. “Uther laughed when we told him. Even he only dealt with two.”
“I had no choice.” She hissed as pain flared in her belly. “I really will survive?”
Merlin hesitated. “Yes,” he said, his tone flat.
“What is it you will not speak of?” she insisted, for she knew that tone of his. Most mistook the tone for one
of arrogance and authority. She knew Merlin used it to hide uncertainty.
Merlin picked up shears and snipped the thread. He dropped the sheers into a bowl and straightened. His gaze met hers. “You will live,” he assured her. “Only…there will be no more children, Ilsa.”
Ilsa’s thoughts floundered. Until that moment, she would have said she was quite content with the three children which fate had given her. Now, though, she felt the loss of other children she would never know. “Oh…” she breathed.
Merlin rested his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed gently. “Arawn waits to see you. Are you ready?”
She tried to sit up. His hand kept her still. “No, you must remain this way for a few days, to give the wound time to seal. No bending or stretching.”
“We’re travelling! I cannot stay here!” Ilsa thought of Uther’s drive to reach Venta Belgarum and permanent quarters for his army. He would be irritated if a wounded woman forced him to remain by the side of the road for days. “Uther will be mad,” she whispered.
Merlin’s smile was small. “I will deal with Uther.” He rolled down his sleeves. “I’ll send Arawn in.”
That had been three days ago. Ilsa had spent the night in the tent, with Arawn at her side. She didn’t know what Merlin said to Uther. There was no explosion of curses heard across the camp, which normally alerted everyone to Uther’s irritability.
On the second day, as soon as it was fully light, the tent was struck around her. She was lifted onto a pallet on the back of a cart. The day of travel was extraordinarily taxing even though she did nothing but sleep and rest. The jolting of the cart made her body throb and pulse.
Merlin checked her that evening, once the men had built the tent around her once more. He looked grave. “This day of travel has not done you any favors,” he said mildly.
Ilsa already knew that, for the throbbing had not faded.
Merlin shook his head. “Complete rest it must be. I will speak to Uther again.”
Pendragon Rises Page 15