Igraine nodded, hefting the bar.
Anwen opened the door and slipped out, then pulled it shut behind her and heard the latch drop into place.
Then, the heavier thud of the bar settling into the brackets on either side of the door.
Relieved, Anwen looked toward the top of the stairs. People were backing up into the room, tripping over each other and shoving.
Anwen plucked her eating knife from her belt. It was a small blade, although it was sharp. She hefted it. Her skin was clammy and cold, and the touch of the sea breeze through the big open window made her shiver.
What manner of man came for them now? Why?
No answers glimmered, this morning. The world had become a confused and uncertain place.
Just below the top of the stairs, a man gave a dreadful snarl. The women screamed and stumbled across the room, colliding with the big work table they had set up for their sewing. They streamed around either side of the table and over to where the big chairs sat, crowding close to them and clutching each other, their expressions fearful.
The man who stepped into the chamber was familiar to Anwen. For a moment she did not remember his name. A mad light shone in his squinted eyes. The sword and long dagger he carried in each hand were both covered in fresh blood. Blood splattered his tunic, almost disguising the red Pendragon symbol on the breast.
He smiled. “There you all are. Crowded in the corner like a good little herd.” He stalked toward the women. Behind him, another man covered in just as much blood stepped into the chamber from the top of the stairs. He hefted his sword, although he did not look as though he was enjoying himself.
Madog—that was the name of the man with the crease over his nose and mean eyes. Madog, who had tried to beat Steffan and failed.
Madog leapt with a happy cry and lunged with his dagger hand out. The women screamed and parted. He snagged one by the throat, the hilt of the dagger digging into her flesh.
It was Jenny, who struggled and clawed at his hand. He looked her up and down and gave her a shake. Her shoes swept back and forth over the floor, for she hung from his grip.
“You’re a lady’s maid from your clothes. You know all about last night, I’d wager.”
Anwen pressed her hand to her belly as she realized what was happening here. Anyone who knew of Uther’s visit was being dealt with. Only Jenny didn’t know…no one knew. Igraine had trusted only Anwen with the truth.
Madog carried Jenny over to the big window. The low sill only came up to his knees. He looked out and down to where the sea sucked and swelled against the cliffs, far below.
“Sorry, my lovely. Orders is orders,” Madog told Jenny. He pushed the point of his sword into her chest, shoving hard.
Jenny choked, her eyes opening wide.
Then Madog tossed her over the sill.
The women didn’t scream this time. They moaned and cried.
Anwen shoved at the nearest of them. “Go! Run! Around the table and down the stairs.” She shoved another and another in that direction. All the women turned and bolted, moving around the table which stood between them and the second man, who made no move to capture any of them.
Anwen turned to face Madog. His face worked with fury as he watched the women run away.
“I am the one you want,” she told him.
Madog’s narrow gaze settled on her face. “I know you.” He hefted the bloody sword. A smile formed. “My, my. The eunuch’s woman!” His chuckle was low and joy-filled.
Anwen waited. Let the man crow. It would give the women more time to escape. If Igraine was of sufficient mind, she would open the secret door and also escape.
“Madog, we should wait a wee,” the other man began.
“I told you what Uther said!” Madog screamed, his fury spilling over.
Anwen flinched and took a step backward, despite her determination to face down Madog. Her back came up against the other man’s hand.
Madog dropped the dagger and leapt at Anwen, his bloody hand reaching for her throat, the sword swinging around to spear her in the middle as it had Jenny.
She couldn’t move backward, so she stepped sideways. Madog, though, flicked his hand to the side with a snap of his wrist. His fingers gripped the front of her throat, cutting off her breath and preventing her from speaking.
Her heart tried to climb out of her body. Each beat hurt. She moaned, knowing Madog was seconds away from running the sword through her and tossing her through the window, too. She clawed at Madog’s wrist and hand, trying to release his fingers.
A quiet thud sounded. The other man grunted. He dropped to the stones, his eyes rolling.
Steffan stood behind him, his staff raised in both hands. There was blood on his face, yet his eyes were alive and snapping with fury. “Let her go, Madog.”
Madog screamed. It was a mad sound. His fingers tightened even harder. The pain brought tears to her eyes and stole Anwen’s breath. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes.
Madog lifted the sword the same way he had with Jenny, aiming the point at Anwen’s middle. “You can’t stop me, you blind fool,” he muttered and thrust the sword.
The end of Steffan’s staff deflected the blow from Anwen, making the sword ring. Steffan jabbed the staff against Madog. It didn’t seem like a hard blow, yet Madog staggered backward, his grip on Anwen’s throat torn away.
She dropped to the floor and propped herself up, breathing noisily, her hand to her throat.
Steffan moved passed her. His foot landed on the cross guard of the other King’s man’s sword, which scraped across the stones.
Steffan dropped the staff and bent and picked up the sword and tested it.
“No, Steffan!” Anwen croaked.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” Madog said, sounding happy that he had. “Now I will kill you.”
“You would have tried anyway,” Steffan said. He gripped the hilt with both hands. “Anwen, if I’m looking north, where is he?”
Madog laughed, the sound bursting from him with maniacal glee. “You’re blind! You think you can fight? Your soldiering days were over a long time ago, eunuch!”
He leapt as he finished, his sword raising up for a downward slash.
Anwen cried out a wordless warning.
Madog’s mad laughter had given Steffan both direction and distance. Madog was heavy on his feet, too, and his breath pushed out of him as he leapt. It was all the information Steffan needed. He stepped to one side, leaned away as the blade whistled through the air, and brought his sword around in a fast counter.
The two swords clashed, metal ringing. Madog spun away, cursing.
“Northwest, two paces,” Anwen cried.
Steffan leapt, bringing the sword down in the same style of slashing strike which Madog had just used. Madog scrambled backward, just barely avoiding the blade.
“West-northwest, five paces!”
Steffan jumped forward with both feet and lunged, driving the sword forward. The point skewered Madog’s tunic with a ripping sound and he hissed and spun away again and looked down at his side, where blood oozed.
“You cut him,” Anwen said, moving around the edge of the room to spot Madog. “North-north east, three paces.”
Madog screamed his frustration as Steffan thrust once more. He whacked at Steffan’s blade, all finesse evaporating. Metal clanged sourly.
“North east, four paces,” Anwen cried.
Madog made a sound in his throat which was more wild animal than human. He lunged around Steffan’s blade and lurched against the end of the heavy sewing table and shoved with all his might.
The table slammed into Anwen’s hips and pushed her backward. Her legs rammed up against the low sill of the great window. She circled her arms, her fright tearing at the back of her throat, as her weight toppled backward.
The moment seemed to last forever as she fought to regain her footing and save herself. Surely, her life would not end so stupidly? So abruptly?
The b
attle was lost. She fell backward, turning in the air beyond the window. Frantically, she reached out for something, anything, to grab and break her fall.
Sharp rock scraped her fingertips. She turned her hand into a claw and dug her fingers in.
The grip held. She slammed into the unforgiving rock face and hung, dizzy. She moaned, as she willed herself not to let go. It was the only thought she could hold in her mind.
A mortal cry rang out above her, evoked by a death blow.
Anwen closed her eyes. Madog had been mad with fury and Steffan was blind. He could not possibly win against such a cruel man, for Madog would follow no rules.
She let the knowledge form and tried to accept it but could not.
The thought came to her. Just let go.
“Anwen!” Steffan’s cry, from just above her.
Anwen looked up, her heart leaping.
Steffan leaned over the low sill of the window, his hands reaching out. “Speak to me!” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I’m here!”
His fingers groped. “Where?” he demanded.
“A hand-span lower and to your right.”
“I can’t reach any lower,” he breathed. He pulled himself up and disappeared.
Anwen shuddered, while her hooked fingers grew numb.
Steffan reappeared and straddled the window. He pulled his staff through and lowered it down, tapping until the end nudged her forearm. “Softness. There you are. Take the staff.”
“I can’t, not with that hand.”
“Turn yourself. Take it with your other hand. I’ll bring you up.”
Anwen rested her head against her burning arm and drew a shuddering breath.
“Anwen,” Steffan said, his voice low. “You’ve the courage. I have the strength. Let me help you. Take the staff.”
She was afraid. Courage be damned—her fear, now she could see a way out of this, crowded all her thoughts. What if she twisted and the movement pulled her fingers away from the edge? What if she couldn’t grip the staff tightly enough?
“Anwen,” Steffan said. “Reach for the staff. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
Her heart jolted. Her breath caught. Then, before she could imagine once more the many ways this might not work, she twisted herself around. She threw her free arm over and flailed for the end of the staff.
Her crooked fingers slid off the tiny crevasse. With a cry of abject terror, Anwen turned her gaze toward the staff, the one thing which could save her. She threw her other hand out one last time. Her fingers curled around the wood and she tightened them with fear-induced strength.
She hung from the end of the staff, her body trembling, her chest heaving.
Then she realized she was being drawn up.
Anwen lifted her head. The wide sill of the window was mere inches away.
Steffan closed his hand around her wrist and dropped the staff. “Use your feet,” he said. “Push yourself up. I’ll catch you.”
“Oh, you can see me now?” she asked, her tone dry.
“You are the golden light in my life,” he replied. “When you are there, I can’t see anything else.”
Her heart jolted again, this time for more than the peril of her situation. Anwen flailed with her feet until she found purchase on the rocks, her heart hammering the whole time. She pushed herself up, fear giving her legs strength.
Steffan’s arm snapped around her waist and pulled her against him like an iron band. “Got you,” he whispered. Then with a heave, he pulled her back inside…and tripped over his staff.
They both went down. Steffan twisted to take the fall on his back, with Anwen on top. They both groaned at the impact.
Steffan gave a soft curse. “At least no one saw that but you,” he murmured and stroked her cheek.
Anwen lifted her head. Igraine stood just beyond the door to her room, her eyes wide. At the head of the stairs, three of her ladies clung to the door, leaning in to watch.
Steffan grew still. “We’re not alone, are we?”
“No,” Anwen whispered.
Igraine skirted around Madog’s still body and the pool of blood spreading beneath it. “I don’t think you need to be concerned, Steffan. All I saw was your gallant rescue of a lady. So did everyone else.” She glanced toward the door. The women there all nodded.
“Although, if you are finished with the rescue,” Igraine continued, “I do need Anwen back for a while.”
“Not quite finished,” Steffan said. He caught Anwen’s face in his hands and kissed her, deeply and thoroughly.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Despite everyone telling Morgan everything was all right, that there was nothing to fear, she knew they were lying. She knew her father was dead.
She had seen him in her dreams, rearing back off his horse, a great feathered arrow at his throat and the red, deadly spurt of blood. It was a true dream. She didn’t have many of them. They were as different from normal dreams as day was from night. What she had seen was true.
Morgan had learned to let adults fuss around her while she pretended. It was easier that way. While old Elen tugged at her dress and untangled her hair with mutters and curses for active children, Morgan instead reached out for her father and found him. He laid on a wagon, covered with a white pall blanket. The wagon rattled and shook as it followed the worn ruts to Tintagel.
He was nearly here. The gatehouse was just ahead of the horses pulling the wagon. Now, Morgan could hear the wagon and the horses not just in her mind, but with her ears, too.
“Mercy sake! Someone else?” Elen muttered, glancing at the window slit.
Morgan went over to the window. She climbed onto the edge of her bed, then onto the high end of the leg and balanced herself so she could peer through the window. She didn’t need to look out to see what happened next. Only, Elen would tell others she had seen without looking, if she didn’t pretend to watch.
The wagon came through the open gates and stopped in the middle of the yard. The captain who accompanied it—not Brithael, for Merlin had dealt with him—but Dwyn, who would one day be a great warrior, stopped his horse beside the cart. Dwyn swung out of the saddle and walked to where Morgan’s mother stood upon the steps into the keep.
Her mother raised her hand to her throat, her gaze upon the wagon.
The captain bowed low.
Her mother moved past him without acknowledgement. She went straight up to the cart and peered in. Then, with a hand which shook, she pulled the blanket aside and looked down at what remained of Morgan’s father.
It was only an empty husk. The sight of it did not distress Morgan, for her father now walked in places where he no longer needed his body. Morgan’s mother, though, gripped the side of the wagon, shaking so badly she could barely hold herself up.
Her women all hurried out of the keep and surrounded her and helped her back inside.
Morgan looked at old Elen. “The King will come for my mother, now,” she said. “You had best get my good gown out of the chest.”
Elen crossed herself, backing away.
ANWEN HAD NEVER BEFORE CLIMBED to the sentry ramp above the gates of Tintagel and looked out upon the breadth of Cornwall.
“They say you can see for ten miles, from here,” Steffan said, tucking her in front of him, which blocked the cold breeze coming off the sea.
“I can see for ten miles, at least,” Anwen said.
A guard glanced at her, startled, then at Steffan. He edged away, as if he expected an explosion.
Steffan chuckled and put his arm around her. “As long as one of us can,” he breathed and pressed his lips to her temple.
She let herself lean against him. “Is there a reason you made me climb up here?” she asked.
“I wanted you to see a horizon which was farther than a mile away,” he said.
“Or did you want me to see the spectacle which approaches?” Anwen asked, as she spotted the flash of metal and the dust of a large company of horses, fa
r away.
The guards jerked to attention and shaded their eyes to see the approaching troop for themselves.
“That would be the King, I imagine,” Steffan said, his tone empty of any inflection. “Earlier than even I expected.”
“We should prepare for his arrival,” Anwen said.
Steffan’s arm tightened. “Not yet. I want to breathe this air for just a little longer.”
“The air is the same down there,” Anwen pointed out.
He shook his head. “No, it really isn’t.”
BY THE TIME STEFFAN LET Anwen climb down to the courtyard, the King’s troop were nearly there. Steffan pulled Anwen over to the corner of the yard, well out of the way of the household as everyone spilled out into the yard to greet the King.
The horses slowed for the narrow land bridge, crossing one at a time. The first through the arched gates was Uther. He sat upon his horse, his back straight, his gaze straight ahead. He wore the rich, embellished clothing of royalty and his helm was crowned.
“He does appear every inch a king,” Anwen said.
“It is a pity not every inch of him is kingly,” Steffan replied.
Anwen glanced at him, startled.
Then the second rider came through the gate. This man was tall, with thick black, long hair and no war helmet. “Long black hair, a big nose and a sharp chin,” Anwen said. “Black pennant. Do you know him, Steffan?”
Steffan sighed. “Lot of Orkney. The next man through the gate will be Urien, then. Blond hair, with silver rings, and eyes bluer than Uther’s.”
Anwen gasped, as a man matching Steffan’s description trotted through the gate. He jumped down with a flex of his muscled body, smiling. His smile looked as though he might laugh at any second.
Both men joined Uther, who had removed his helmet. As they waited, more men arrived in the yard.
Igraine moved out into the yard. She wore her most elegant gown and jewels sparkled at her throat and ears and wrists. She was gloriously beautiful.
She sank into a deep curtsey before Uther and signaled to Morgan and Morguase, who stood behind her, do the same.
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