“Tell me yours are not,” Steffan replied. “As you are aware of Uther’s plans, Igraine must have asked you to help her with them. Will you refuse to help because it is wrong?”
Anwen tightened her grip on his hand. “I cannot refuse,” she said. “I am sworn to serve her.”
Steffan nodded. “You see?”
Anwen dropped her head. “That is why you cling to Merlin’s predictions. It gives you hope where there was none before.”
“If there is a king to be made from of this,” Steffan said, “then perhaps it is as well he will be reared away from Uther’s earthly impulses. Perhaps Merlin has the right of it there, too.”
“Merlin is working for his higher power, only he is moving mere people about with his manipulations. Does he not see what he is condoning, with this?”
Steffan lifted his chin and turned his head, as if he was looking down at the city. “I think he knows perfectly well. I think he also knows the price which will be asked, too. He fails to tell the price to those of us caught up in it, for fear we might hesitate.”
“The price?” Anwen repeated, her heart stirring uneasily.
“There is a price for everything. That is what I have learned.” He lifted his hand toward his eyes. “I rose through the ranks to the highest there was, too young and too fast. I dined with kings and princes and leaders. I grew arrogant and far too sure of myself. I was convinced the world owed me everything I wanted. For my folly, my sight was lost.”
“That was nothing but a Saxon hammer,” Anwen said. “You did not ask to be blinded.”
“In a way, I did. I grew careless on the battlefield, Anwen. I thought I was invincible. Fate made sure I learned I was not. Igraine and Uther, too, will pay for their treachery, one way or another.”
Anwen shivered again, even though the sun was warm on her shoulders. “I must go back. I told no one, not even Igraine, I was coming here.”
Steffan kissed her, stealing her breath and making her body thrum. “Thank you,” he said, his lips brushing hers.
“For what?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“For listening. For understanding. For being you.” His thumb stroked over the back of her hand.
Anwen’s eyes ached. She withdrew her hand. “As if being myself has such great benefit.” She moved around Steffan, to head for the stairs once more and hesitated. “Shall I take you back to the blockhouse?”
“I can find the way from here,” he told her, his back to her.
Anwen almost ran to the top of the steps down into the gatehouse, her heart swooping and spinning.
As she hurried through the busy streets of Venta Belgarum, she reflected that if there was a price attached to every decision one could make, then Steffan had failed to calculate what the price would be for himself and her, for their roles in Uther’s conspiracy.
There was comfort in that idea. She had already lost everything it was possible to lose. She had nothing more for Fate to take from her but her life. Without Steffan in it, Anwen would give up that life without quibble.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Two
Steffan could not eat at the feast. The tension in his chest was too tight. He listened to Uther bluster, cursing Gorlois and the day he was born, and any man who would betray their king. To Steffan’s ears, Uther’s complaints and threats sounded false and overly dramatic. No one else seemed to feel Uther was play-acting, though. His reputation for a high-flaring temper was sufficient for them to believe he meant every word he said.
When the pot boy filled Steffan’s wine cup for the second time, Steffan murmured, “How much has the King had to drink?”
“Very little, sir,” the boy whispered.
Uther sounded sober enough when Steffan hurried to his chamber after the feast. His voice shifted from place to place around the room as he stalked restlessly. “Another day of this will send me to the depths of madness,” Uther seethed. “When can we leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, my lord,” Steffan told him. “As soon as the assembly in the great hall is over.”
Uther gave a strained laugh. “There may be some good come out of this, after all. Lot and Urien want to ride with me to Cornwall, to help me deal with Gorlois.”
Steffan recalled the two northern leaders. Lot was a dour man with black hair, a thick beard and stark lines for a face. His beak of a nose was sharp, like his mind. Urien, his cousin, was as fair as Lot was dark, with a great beard and a half-shaved head, leaving long locks at the top, which he pulled back with silver rings. He was a ruthless fighter, Steffan remembered.
He said cautiously, “Do they wish to help, or watch? They are generally slow to commit themselves to any action.”
“I don’t care,” Uther said. “They will ride beside me for two days on the way back. That is precious time to cement relationships I wouldn’t have otherwise. Now, if only we could start,” he finished with a growl. “I am the High King. I’ve a mind to outlaw all diplomacy for being insufferable.”
“When you return from Cornwall, you can do what you like,” Steffan reminded him. “First, you must get through tomorrow.”
“I am running out of curses for Gorlois,” Uther said. “And in truth, they leave a sour taste in my mouth.”
“Then don’t curse,” Steffan suggested. “It would look natural for you to drop into dour silence tomorrow. Everyone will know why you simmer, without further insults to Cornwall.”
“That is something I can do,” Uther muttered. “By the way, where is Merlin? I did not see him at the table tonight.”
“He has already left for Cornwall.”
Uther completed another circle while Steffan listened to his rich coronation robes swish and flutter. “There is another thing which leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” he muttered.
“Working with Merlin, my lord?”
“No, that damned sleeping potion he insists I must use.”
“Does it work?” Steffan asked curiously.
“Too well. I wake and don’t know if a night has passed or a year. I’ve never slept alone for so many nights in a row. Somewhere, Merlin is laughing at me!”
“READ THE LETTER AGAIN, ANWEN,” Igraine insisted, as she settled in the cushioned chair by the window. Through the window, Anwen could see the restless green sea which washed endlessly against the Tintagel cliffs, and little else. The air was fresh and sweet, with just a touch of salt in it.
Anwen didn’t reach for the letter. She had memorized the instructions from too many repetitions. Merlin’s clear writing and phrases came back to her. Before she spoke, she glanced around the room once more. Igraine’s bedchamber was empty of everyone but Igraine and Anwen.
“There is no one here,” Igraine assured her. “From the silence, I judge everyone is sleeping.”
Which was what Anwen wished she could do. The journey from Venta Belgarum to Tintagel had been a wild one, with the carts and wagons bouncing and rattling at a speed which threatened to break them apart or separate them from their wheels. At least a dozen horses were left behind as they grew lame or their riders too exhausted to continue.
Gorlois had set a cracking pace, driving the company deep into the night. They arrived at Tintagel at mid-afternoon on the second day—yesterday. The wagons were pushed into the courtyard and everyone streamed into the fortress, stretching and yawning and rubbing their eyes.
Gorlois swung Morgan and Morguase to the ground and kissed their cheeks, then kissed Igraine’s hand. He swung into his stallion’s saddle, turned the horse and clattered straight back through the gate. He and most of the men rode for Dimilioc. He left behind two dozen of his armed soldiers to defend Tintagel, if it was needed. Tintagel, though, was such a strong fortress only half that number could hold an entire army at bay.
Anwen had been more than ready to sleep, too, while Igraine crackled with energy and drive. Anwen had been forced to follow Igraine to the big chamber at the top of the tower, obeying Merlin’s first instructio
n never to leave Igraine alone.
The other women all trailed Igraine into her room, as was usual. Igraine rounded on them. “Out, all of you! Leave me be!”
“My lady, we must protect you if the High King’s army arrives here,” Yvette objected.
“He will go to Dimilioc,” Igraine told her. “Everyone knows my husband’s army is quartered there. You can guard me in the audience chamber as well as you can here. I need to think. Out!”
The women had shuffled out, some of them sending Anwen looks of deep resentment and puzzlement.
As Igraine waited for the hot water she had requested, she made Anwen read Merlin’s letter again. The letter had arrived at the house in Venta Belgarum before dawn and handed to Anwen, for she had slept across the door to Igraine’s room that night.
Anwen read the letter slowly, translating from the Latin, while Igraine washed and changed her gown, then held out the comb and requested Anwen comb her hair.
While Anwen combed, they discussed the arrangements Merlin had requested. For the first time Igraine showed Anwen the hidden door. It was behind one of the ceiling-high wall hangings. When closed, it laid flush with the curved wall, with only a crack in the stonework to show where it was.
It was heavy to move, because the front of it bore the same stone as the walls around it. Igraine slipped her finger into a small hole and hauled with all her might until one edge emerged, then put both hands on the edge and pulled until the door creaked open.
Anwen looked down the curved stairs, which hugged the tower wall. They were dark and narrow, lit only by a small window high up by the roof.
“Beyond the curve is the guard room landing,” Igraine said. She pushed the door closed once more. “They guard the outer door.”
“There are guards there now?” Anwen whispered.
“As the outer door is unlocked, yes,” Igraine said.
“Then you expect Gorlois to ride back tonight?” Anwen asked, alarmed.
Igraine grimaced. “I convinced him that guarding Dimilioc was the greater need.”
Anwen twined her fingers together, her heart thudding unhappily. The lies were piling up, one upon the other.
That night she slept upon the narrow bench at the foot of Igraine’s bed—if it could be called sleep at all. She was far too hot and restless even when she dropped the furs to the floor. The bench was too narrow even for her.
When daylight arrived, Anwen felt groggy, as if she had drunk a cup too much wine. The feeling did not pass as the day marched on. She stayed hunched upon the footstool by Igraine’s chair, as Igraine sent for dozens of people and requested all manner of work be completed, including a complete cleaning of her chamber, from ceiling to floor. The furs were taken and beaten, her mattress restuffed, the pillows cleaned and plumped.
As it was spring, this was normal work for the time of year. No one thought it was strange, although the timing—with the King’s men about to descend upon Cornwall—made it a little odd.
Anwen listened to the women talking in the reception chamber as they restitched hems. They decided Igraine was merely keeping everyone busy so their thoughts would not linger upon what Uther and his men would do to them.
Late that afternoon, a goat herd sprinted across the land bridge and into the yard, his nervous goats following him, instead of the other way around. “King’s men! The King’s army is here!”
“Where? Where?” came the answering call from a dozen different throats.
Anwen stood by the high window on that side of the keep, listening. The goat herd dropped his voice to a murmur as the people surrounded him. Thoughtfully, she went back to Igraine’s room.
“The King’s army have arrived, my lady.”
Igraine looked up from her embroidery. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “This late in the afternoon, they will camp for the night. Gorlois will presume they will attack at first light.” She dropped the linen back into the basket, as her other hand lifted to her throat. Her gaze met Anwen’s.
Merlin’s instructions had been clear. The night the army arrived would be the night Uther would visit.
Jenny ran into the room, breathless, her hand to her ribs. She paused, blowing hard.
“Where is the King’s army?” Igraine asked her. Anyone might have thought Igraine was calm and controlled, except Anwen could see a pulse jumping at the base of Igraine’s throat. She held her hands together not in elegant repose, but to hide their trembling.
Anwen wondered how often Igraine had hid nervousness or fear or any other strong emotion with this gauze of serenity. She had always presumed Igraine was a contained, sensible woman, with a natural control remarkable for a woman her age.
Jenny gathered her composure. Breathing hard, she said between gulps, “A mile north of Dimilioc, my lady. It is as Gorlois assumed—Uther plans to attack the army’s fortress, not here.”
Igraine did not glance at Anwen. She nodded instead. “Thank you, Jenny. Please tell the steward to close the gates and bar them, just in case.”
Jenny nodded and hurried away again, her hand at her side, her fingers digging into the flesh to relieve the stitch. Anwen heard her clatter down the stairs once more.
“And now we come to it,” Anwen said.
Igraine put her face in her hands for a moment. Then she rose to her feet and moved to the window to look out upon the sea. “Yes, now the time is near,” she said, her voice strained beyond recognition.
UTHER INSISTED STEFFAN RIDE WITH him to Cornwall. He gave Steffan his second war stallion, a great beast with a perfect stride, who followed Uther’s mount like a shadow. Steffan had no need to direct the horse at all. He clung like a bur to the saddle and tried not to slow the pace of the small party which raced to catch the main army group, which had left Venta Belgarum a day ago.
They took little sleep. When they did, they dropped to the ground and pillowed their heads on their arms, their horses’ reins beneath them.
Uther burned with an energy that showed no sign of waning. He spoke little in the long hours they rode. He was focused upon his inner thoughts. Merlin directed the men accompanying Uther, driving them through the night, along narrow tracks and unknown byways which took miles off their journey.
Merlin had returned to Venta Belgarum at the last moment to lead the group to where the main army camped in Cornwall to await Uther’s arrival, which they expected in three days’ time.
Thanks to Merlin’s knowledge of the terrain and his relentless drive, they arrived at sunset at the main encampment a day before anyone expected them.
Steffan was glad to get off his horse. Merlin curled Steffan’s hand around his arm, pulled his hood down low over his forehead and led him through the camp. Steffan could hear Uther’s steps beside him, although Uther remained silent until they were inside a tent.
Warm air bathed Steffan’s face.
“When do we leave?” Uther asked Merlin, his tone strained.
“As soon as you are ready. There are fresh horses waiting for us.”
“Give me the tunic,” Uther said.
“Here.”
Steffan heard a distinctive slap of metal, one he recognized, and it had not come from Uther’s direction. He reached for and found Merlin’s arm. “You wear a sword?” he demanded.
“It is necessary to make men think they see who they expect to see,” Merlin said curtly. “I am as tall as Brithael and my coloring is similar and I can speak the Cornish accent as easily as my own.”
“This is your magic?” Steffan breathed. “Accents and tunics?”
“They are not the true magic which will happen tonight,” Merlin said softly. There was a note in his voice, the call of a distant trumpet.
Steffan shook his arm. “Take off the sword,” he said urgently. “You are no fighting man but if you carry a sword, any man can attack you with impunity.”
“I know enough to defend myself. Let go, Steffan. I know what I am doing.”
“Do you?” Steffan asked blea
kly.
“Tonight, we must trust him,” Uther said, from close by. His hand gripped Steffan’s shoulder. “You can come no farther, friend. You and your staff are too well known in these lands.”
Steffan nodded.
Uther patted his shoulder and was gone.
“Look for us at dawn,” Merlin said.
“And when you do not appear by then?” Steffan asked, his voice a growl.
Merlin’s laugh was soft. “I am in the lap of the gods tonight, Steffan. Their power strums in me like a harp. Fear not—this will happen as it should.”
Then he left, too.
The tent suddenly felt too small and too warm. Steffan stepped out and from the west heard the fading beat of horses ridden fast. He made his way through the camp carefully, moving west, until he was upon the outskirts and beyond the hot, smoky air around the campfires. Cool, fresh air bathed his face.
His vision was completely dark. Not even colors played in his mind. It was what happened when his emotions had been held inside too tightly and for too long. Nothing would relieve that state until Uther returned at dawn, so Steffan wrapped his cloak around him and sat upon the soft spring grasses to wait.
IGRAINE REFUSED TO EAT AND Anwen had no appetite, either. The other women took their supper in the outer room, then got back to their sewing and spinning while the longer evening light held.
At Igraine’s request, Anwen closed the chamber door.
Igraine washed and changed into a gossamer thin chemise which hid little of her lithe body. She slid her arms into a fur-lined robe with wide sleeves, a full collar and a single tie at the waist.
Anwen offered to comb her hair once more. Igraine refused.
Instead, she sat restlessly in her chair, watching the sun dip toward the sea. Anwen pulled the footstool to the other side of the window and sat upon it. She was tall enough she could just see over the stone sill.
Silently, they watched the sun touch the sea, then sink beneath it, painting the ocean a dull pink. When the sun had disappeared, pink clouds remained. The sky turned indigo, then black.
Pendragon Rises Page 20