Everyone who had trailed out behind Igraine also sank down before the King.
Uther gestured for them to stand again.
Igraine rose, straight and slender.
Uther glanced at Lot and lifted his chin.
Lot’s eyes narrowed. He was looking at Morguase.
Anwen drew in a breath which hurt. “No! He cannot. Morguase is barely thirteen…!”
Steffan caught her arm and held her on the spot. “Now we come to it,” he said softly.
“Come to what? Steffan, he is giving her to Lot!”
“It will tie the northern lord to Uther,” Steffan said. “It is politically expedient.” His voice was the same implacable, inflectionless one he had used every time he had spoken of Uther. His fingers tightened. “Watch Igraine,” he said softly.
Anwen peered at the Duchess.
Igraine’s face was the same pasty gray color it had been when she had learned of Gorlois’ death. Her chin trembled. Her eyes were large and glittered with unshed tears. Her chin remained up, though. She made not a murmur of protest.
“Oh, Steffan, poor Morguase! Lot is inspecting her now. He is actually walking around her, looking from all sides.”
Steffan’s jaw rippled. “That matches what I have heard about Lot over the years.”
Anwen gasped again, for Urien had stepped forward and dropped down to speak to Morgan. He laughed up at her, cajoling her.
Morgan stared back at him. Then she moved backward and without looking, reached for her mother’s hand and clung to it.
Anwen felt a fierce surge of pride in the little girl.
Urien laughed and got to his feet. He shrugged and patted Uther’s shoulder.
Uther looked around the yard. The wagons and carts which had accompanied him were moving into the yard now. One of them turned in a full circle so it faced the gate once more. The back opened.
Uther waved toward it. It was a signal.
Two Christian sisters stepped down from the back of the wagon and walked over to where Morgan stood with her mother. One of them held her hand out to Morgan.
Anwen drew in a shaky, painful breath. “No, he would not…!”
“Tell me,” Steffan breathed.
“Two sisters of the Church. They’re here for Morgan. Uther is taking Morgan away from Igraine, too.”
Morgan shrank back against her mother.
Igraine stood like a marble statue while her tears slid down her face. She said nothing.
Uther made a low comment.
The sisters bent and picked Morgan up, one with her arms around Morgan’s waist, the other containing Morgan’s kicking legs.
Morgan screamed and struggled. In that silent courtyard, her screams were as piercing and heart-rending as they were when they sounded in the dead of the night.
Igraine took a half step forward. Uther’s gaze met hers and she halted. Then she closed her eyes.
While Urien and Lot turned to watch the sisters overcome Morgan’s struggles and push her inside the closed wagon, Uther stood with his gaze straight ahead. Anwen saw him swallow and with swooping sensation, she realized he liked this arrangement no more than Igraine.
Anwen turned and pressed her face against Steffan’s shoulder, so she did not have to watch. Morgan continued to scream, even as the wagon rolled back through the gate and across the narrow bridge and Anwen shivered.
“This is Igraine’s price,” Steffan said, his voice reverberating in his chest, against Anwen’s cheek. “This is the price she must pay for her choice—Gorlois and her daughters and the guilt she will carry for the rest of her life.”
“It’s our price, too,” Anwen said, as hot, aching tears scalded her cheeks.
Steffan sighed. “Yes, ours, too.”
ANWEN COULD NOT BEAR TO watch Uther take Igraine back inside the fortress where the rest of his entourage and the household would witness him publicly claim the Duchess of Cornwall as his queen.
When Steffan made no move to follow everyone inside, she was grateful. Instead, he picked up her hand. “Come with me,” he murmured and walked across the yard with his staff tucked under his arm. He knew Tintagel well enough he did not need to tap his way around, and Anwen would warn him of any out-of-place objects which might trip him up.
“The stables?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“It seems appropriate,” he said, his mouth turning up at the corners. His hand tightened on hers. “Uther can have his audience chamber. Once, I would have resented that such grandeur could not be mine. Now a stable with fresh straw and warm air seems as refreshing as the wind which blows in from the sea.”
He put the staff against the door of the tack room and drew her into the room and over to the bench. He put his back to it and picked up both her hands. “I have been a complete fool, Anwen.”
Her heart jumped. “You are the last man anyone could accuse of being foolish.”
“Which makes my error all the more stupefying,” he said.
Anwen drew in a shaky breath. “You were wrong about Uther?” she guessed.
He tilted his head and his eyes widened a little. “Yes. How did you know?”
“You have not cursed his name when you speak of him, yet the admiration in your voice is gone. Before, you yearned for everything Uther and his army had once given you.”
He sighed. “That is where I was foolish. I wanted my old life back, Anwen. I wanted everything I had lost when the Saxons took my sight. I wanted the glory and the company of great men and everything I said when I stood here this day and told you I was leaving Tintagel.”
“You’re coming back again,” she breathed, in a long sigh.
“Oh, I’m still leaving,” he said.
Her heart jumped again.
“Only, you’re leaving with me, this time,” he added. “That is, if you will have me.”
Her trembling made her voice shake. “Leave Tintagel? I’ve never lived anywhere else. Where would you go?”
“Where would we go,” he amended. “Wherever we wanted,” he added. “I have no stomach to serve the King anymore. If Uther follows the practice of most leaders, he will distance himself from everyone who had anything to do with last night. It means Igraine will dispense with your services, too.”
Anwen frowned. “Both us did our duty even though we didn’t want to! Why would they discard us?”
“Because every time they saw us, they would be reminded of their guilt. It is the way of it, Anwen. Be thankful it is so, for it will give you a freedom you’ve never had before. I have a mind to travel. To see…well, to visit, the places we have only read about, you and I.”
“How would we live?”
“When I request I be released from his service, Uther will be overwhelmingly generous,” Steffan said, his tone dry. “Igraine will do the same. We will have enough between us to travel far and wide. And when we have nothing left, we can teach or write letters and read them for those who cannot.”
Anwen shivered. Steffan must have sensed it, for he pulled her against him. “I know it seems frightening for you, to leave the only place you know and move about a strange world. It is what I do every single day, Anwen. I must grope and explore. When I first lost my sight, I was terrified. Now, I can tell you it makes life interesting in a way you cannot understand just yet. You will, though.” He lifted her chin and bent his head toward hers. “Say you will,” he breathed, his lips brushing hers.
“I will,” she whispered and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss lengthened and deepened, until Steffan let her go long enough to pick her up and carry her over to the fresh pile of straw.
ONCE THEY WERE AWAY FROM the fortress and no one could hear them, the nuns slapped Morgan’s face every time she screamed, until her face was swollen and her throat raw. She knew, though, that to stop screaming would be the same as giving in to them. She continued to kick at them and scream, despite their blows, which grew heavier as the journey lengthened.
It was dark when
the wagon stopped and the door was wrenched open. A huge man with a ring of iron keys on his belt reached in and plucked Morgan up by the arm. He thrust her under his monstrous one and clapped his filthy hand over her mouth.
He carried her into a stone building which was far bigger than Tintagel and far colder and darker. He walked for what seemed like miles, through corridors which echoed and down stairs to a room which dripped with dampness.
A single lamp burned fitfully and smelled of rancid pork.
The monster used the keys on his belt to unlock an oak door with bars in it. He tossed Morgan inside, onto old, moldy straw. There was nothing else in the tiny room but the straw. Not even a light.
He slammed the door shut and locked it. Then he peered through the bars. “Here yer stay, ‘til you learn some humility.” He brushed the keys across the bars, making unmusical notes.
As he left, he extinguished the lamp, plunging the cell into darkness.
Morgan pushed herself into the corner and wrapped her arms around her and sat shivering. Her face throbbed where the nuns had slapped her. Her throat ached. It hurt to swallow.
That was not the greatest hurt. Oh, no.
Morgan rocked in the dark, toting up the offenses which had been delivered.
Lot, who had stolen her sister. Igraine, who had not fought to save her. Uther, who had delivered this upon her.
Oh, and the base cause of all her misery. “Arthur,” she said softly to the dark.
Arthur, her bastard half-brother, who would be born at Christmas. Because of him, she had been brought here.
One day, she would deliver the same terror and pain upon him and his kin.
One day.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Steffan seemed to know everyone in Dimilioc. Or they seemed to know him. As he led Anwen through the fortress, every man they passed glanced at Steffan with a startled expression, then murmured a greeting as they hurried away.
Anwen recalled what Daveth had said of Steffan’s time here, when he had reported to Igraine and asked her to deal with the blind man. No wonder everyone wanted to step around Steffan.
The surgery was still full of wounded soldiers from the skirmish at the King’s camp two nights ago. As Uther had taken over Dimilioc upon the death of their Duke, both King’s men and Cornish soldiers laid in the low beds. Three physicians examined and treated the wounded men.
Anwen saw the bed in the far corner, separated from the others by a thick drape which had been hastily nailed to the ceiling. She tugged on Steffan’s hand. “Over here,” she said, pulling him in that direction.
They moved around the curtain and stopped at the foot of the bed. It was not a bunk, but a full-sized bed with sheets and furs and cushions. In one respect it was the same as the bunks the soldiers laid upon—the occupant was grievously injured.
Merlin opened his eyes a sliver, then completely, when he saw them. He lifted his head, hissed in pain, and let it fall back upon the cushion.
“God’s teeth,” Anwen breathed.
Steffan moved around the side of the bed. “From her tone, I am guessing you do not look well, Merlin.”
Anwen squeezed the end of the bed, her fingers digging in. “The surgeon said you were recovering.”
“I am,” Merlin said. He lifted his hand, which laid on the covers. It was wrapped in thick bandages. “My hand is broken in four places, although that is the worst of it. The rest is bruises and cuts, which will mend.”
“Bruises are the worst,” Steffan said. “You had to pick up a sword, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Merlin said calmly. “The gods ask for full payment when they deliver. This was mine, this time.”
“Does Uther know?” Steffan asked.
“I have no idea,” Merlin said, his tone light. “As soon as I can sit upon a horse, I am going home to Maridunum. I haven’t seen the cave in five years, and it will be the last time for quite a few more.” He frowned, his gaze upon Anwen. “You appear much changed from when I saw you last.” He rolled his head to glance at Steffan. “I supposed that has something to do with you?”
Steffan smiled. “How does she look? Pretty?”
Merlin’s gaze came back to Anwen. She plucked at her dress self-consciously.
“A blue gown, a white undergown and bronze combs in her hair. Yes, she looks pretty.”
Anwen could feel her cheeks heating.
Merlin frowned. “You are both leaving Cornwall…” he said, as if he had just realized a fact which should have been obvious and was feeling stupid because of it.
Steffan’s grip on his staff tightened. “There is no place for us here. Not now. We will remind the wrong people of the wrong things.”
Merlin nodded. “There is a reason I am not returning to the court. It does not pay to give powerful men what they want. They are never grateful, after. Yet we were all creatures of the gods that night—no matter how much you roll your eyes, Steffan. However, there are other places than beside the High King’s chair.”
“Where?” Steffan said.
Merlin frowned. “My Sight has deserted me since that night. I could no more tell you than fly. I can only speak as a man with a little wisdom.” He paused, wincing. Then he said softly, “Uther is not the only High King you can serve.”
Anwen started, surprised. Merlin had told Igraine there would be a child. He had not said the child would be a king.
“This great king of yours, Merlin?” Steffan said, his tone light.
“Yes,” Merlin said flatly. “This great king who shall be.”
Anwen shivered.
“I could use a man of your qualities, Steffan,” Merlin added.
“Me?” Steffan said, his tone one of disbelief.
“Because of you, Cador will serve the next High King as a good and honest servant. He will instill those qualities in his sons, who will in turn…” Merlin paused. “It is of no matter right now,” he added. “I don’t like seeing a good man go to waste, or a good, strong woman, either.”
Anwen dropped her gaze as Merlin’s slid toward her.
“Don’t you think you have both paid enough of a price for your choices?” Merlin asked.
She gasped and looked at him.
So did Steffan. “I thought you said your Sight had failed you?”
“I don’t need the Sight to guess what is in your mind,” Merlin said. “You have been ever mindful of consequences since you lost your Sight. You call it price, I call it the will of the gods…it doesn’t matter what the name is. It is the toll taken for our choices. You have paid for your choices, Steffan. Anwen, too. Now you get a rare chance to choose again and this time you can choose well.”
“Because you say this is the right choice,” Steffan said flatly.
“Because if this King does not meet your expectations, you can make sure the next one does,” Merlin replied calmly.
Steffan drew in a sharp breath. “I thought you would teach him…”
“If Prince Merlin was to set himself up as a tutor anywhere, the entire world will know where to search for the baby prince,” Merlin said. “My role will be far less direct than that and I won’t be teaching the boy his letters, either. That role is for someone else.” His gaze moved to Anwen.
She scratched at the foot of the bed with her nail, her heart thrumming.
Merlin seemed to relent. He relaxed and smiled. “There is time, yet. The child must be born, first, and I am still not entirely certain Uther will abide by his agreement to give the boy to me to arrange his rearing.”
“And what price has Uther paid in all this?” Steffan said, as if the thought had been troubling him while they talked.
Merlin’s smile faded. “There is always a reckoning.”
“He got what he wanted,” Steffan ground out. “People died to give it to him. Now he will marry her and wash the affair clean. He has paid nothing.”
Merlin sighed. “He will,” he said softly. Sadly.
Lorient, Kingdom of Brocéliande. Britta
ny. January 466 CE. (Ten months later.)
ANWEN LOOKED AT THE SEALED letter and the familiar script on the front with some confusion. “For me, my lady?” she asked the red-headed woman in front of her. “I don’t understand. We did not know we would travel this way. How could Merlin have left a letter for me?”
Queen Ilsa laughed and pushed the letter into Anwen’s hand. “I can see you have not had much experience dealing with people with the Sight.”
“You have?” Anwen asked, as she broke the seal.
“One of the most powerful of Merlin’s kind lives in the forest of Brocéliande,” Ilsa replied. “I have given up being surprised by how much the Lady of the Lake knows about my inner thoughts and what I will do in the future. It is easier that way. Merlin stopped by on his way to the east. He told me you two would be coming and all about you. We have expected you all this winter, especially once we heard the news about the queen.”
“Her child was born?” Anwen asked sharply.
“A boy, at Christmas,” Ilsa said.
“You had better read the letter,” Steffan added. He sat on the other side of the table from Ilsa and Anwen. Arawn, the king, would return in a moment.
Anwen opened the letter and sighed.
“What is it?” Ilsa asked.
“He has written in Latin,” Anwen said.
Steffan laughed.
Anwen scanned the lines of script, translating and composing. “Oh, Steffan…”
He sat up. “What does he say?”
“In five years’ time, Count Ector of Galleva, in the north, will be in need of a tutor for his son, Cai, and his foster son, Arthur. We are to present ourselves to him with Merlin’s recommendation. I am to teach the boys their letters and you are to teach them philosophy and languages—especially Saxon.”
She put the letter down, feeling winded.
Ilsa smiled. “Merlin is like the Lady—things never work out if you don’t simply do what he says.”
Anwen touched her fingers to Steffan’s hand. “It leaves at least four years for us to…goodness, what do we do?”
Ilsa picked up the pitcher of wine. “For a start, you can spend the remainder of the winter here. Then you must meet the Lady, and Elaine and Evaine and Bors and Ban. By then, I am sure you will have a better idea of what you might do for the next few years.”
Pendragon Rises Page 23