The Pendragon's Champions (The Last Pendragon Saga Book 5)

by Sarah Woodbury

  “You do bring momentous news,” Clydog said. “We must have a long talk. But not at this moment. You’ve had a long journey and I’ve been remiss in my hospitality.” He snapped his fingers. “Angharad!”

  A girl—or woman, rather—of Dafydd’s own age approached from behind Clydog’s chair. She kept her eyes on the floor, not looking at Dafydd as she spoke, so it was hard to get a sense of her beyond the red curly hair that formed a halo around her head and cascaded down her back, hardly contained by her attempt to tame it with cloth band.

  “Allow Angharad to assist you,” Clydog said. “You may wash the dust from your feet and then join me in the hall for dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Dafydd followed the girl from the hall and down a corridor to a room lined in stone.

  Sunk into the floor was a square hole, four feet on a side, which was also lined with stone. The girl gestured towards the hole with one hand. Dafydd stared in astonishment as two servants poured bucket after bucket of hot water into it to make him a bath. He’d never seen a room like this before. But it seemed the girl thought nothing of it. Of course, for her it would be normal.

  “Let me assist you with your armor,” Angharad said.

  “Again, thank you,” Dafydd said. “I’ve been sleeping rough this last week for most of my journey from Deganwy.”

  Off came the mail, sword, and shirt. Bare-chested, Dafydd sat on a stool near one corner of the bath while the girl worked at his boots. When they came off, he leaned back against the wall and sighed in relief to be able to wiggle his toes freely. There was a time when his mother had refused to let him have a pair of boots at all because she said his feet were growing too fast. By the time the cobbler finished one pair, Dafydd needed a bigger size. Thankfully, those days appeared to be past him.

  “The passes were blocked with snow all winter.” Angharad dropped his second boot to the floor. “You are most welcome here. My father hasn’t been able to get much in the way of news out of the east.”

  Dafydd stared at her. “Your—your—” He stopped and tried again. “King Clydog is your father?”

  Angharad forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Of course.”

  Dafydd swallowed hard. Now that he looked at the girl more closely, he should have known that she was no serving wench or slave. The cloth in her dress was woven close and dyed a deep green that set off her red hair. From the start, it was the hair that had distracted him, and it showed her to have ancestry from Ireland. Here on the west coast of Wales, relations between the two lands were close. He’d assumed that she was a slave for that reason.

  Angharad reached for the ties that held his breeches up at his waist, and Dafydd found his face coloring. He grasped her hands before she could untie them. “No, no. Please. I appreciate your efforts, but I can take care of the rest myself.”

  Angharad smiled in what Dafydd interpreted to be an amused and superior way, and nodded. “As you wish.” With a slight curtsey, she turned on a heel and left the room.

  Only after Dafydd was sure that she was truly gone did he remove the rest of his clothes and slide into the warm water. Closing his eyes, he acknowledged that it was probably a good thing that he would be here for only a few days. King Clydog might be amenable to Cade’s overtures. But his daughter, with that overstated hair and knowing look, could be more than he could handle.

  The hall had filled with Clydog’s people by the time Dafydd returned to it.

  “What did you think of your bath?” Clydog said.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” Dafydd said. “It must have been complicated to build. That and the fountain.”

  “It was the Romans, you know,” Clydog said. “Amazing engineers, even if they proved unworthy of our lands.”

  “Most of our people are reluctant to occupy their ruins,” Dafydd said.

  Clydog waved a hand dismissively. “Superstitious nonsense. There’s nothing here but stone and dirt. Besides, our people won in the end, didn’t they? Butchered the owners most like. I’ve noticed faded splotches on some of the walls that look to me like blood once dyed the stones red. I’m not afraid of a few Roman ghosts.”

  Dafydd supposed he wasn’t either, not after spending the last month in the service of Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon. He didn’t mention that to Clydog, however. Not yet.

  Clydog had other guests, and his table was full. Dafydd sat three down from the center of the table and was content with that, even if—as a king’s son and a knight—he might outrank every man here but Clydog himself and his son.

  “I’ve been thinking about you.” Angharad’s voice came low in his ear.

  Dafydd turned to look into her bright green eyes that flashed at him from underneath pale lashes. Did he see anger there? Why? “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “Ever since I saw you walk into this hall, you’ve seemed familiar,” Angharad said. “I just remembered why. Last summer, I saw you chopping wood behind the stables at Caer Dathyl. You’ve deceived my father. You’re not a knight. You’re a kitchen boy.”

  Dafydd groaned inwardly. He didn’t regret his sojourn in the kitchens of Caer Dathyl, but he hardly would have thought that it would come back to haunt him here. Still, he didn’t look away. “I was a kitchen boy for a time. But it was only ever meant to be temporary. I haven’t deceived your father. I do serve King Cadwaladr of Gwynedd, and I am a king’s son.”

  “Of Ynys Manaw? That’s hardly much of a kingdom, is it?”

  “Don’t tell my father that.” Dafydd was stunned at her rudeness but tried to maintain a façade of politeness.

  “I suppose you have brothers?” Angharad said. “Surely it isn’t you who will inherit?”

  Dafydd gritted his teeth. “I tell you again. I am the son of a king and was knighted in the presence of King Cadwaladr himself.”

  Angharad pursed her lips. “You don’t look like a knight. You look like a big oaf.”

  Dafydd’s jaw dropped. And then he coughed a laugh. “As I mistook you for a slave when we first met, I suppose that’s only fair.”

  Although her own words had been cruel, Dafydd was appalled to see tears glistening in Angharad’s eyes at his insult. She opened her mouth to speak, then firmed her jaw. Wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, she stomped her foot. “I can’t do it. I can’t!” Without explaining, she turned and ran from the room.

  “Some knight.” Dafydd cursed his foolishness as he took a long drink from the cup that Angharad hadn’t had time to refill. “The first girl you come across in a week, and before you know it, she leaves the room in tears …”

  The man next to him leaned in closer. “All women talk like that. My sister used to be an exception, but recently she’s changed.”

  “Angharad is your sister?”

  The man hadn’t spoken to Dafydd earlier when Dafydd had sat down. He’d been too busy conferring with men on his other side, but now he held out his hand. “Seisyll, son of Clydog.”

  Dafydd shook his hand and looked closely at him. Seisyll wore his red hair close-cropped and had a small scar along his left jaw-line. The worn sheen to his scabbard and the broadened shoulders of a fighting man indicated he might be well-worthy of his station as Clydog’s heir.

  “Seisyll!”

  A woman bore down on them. By any standard, she was beautiful, with thick, honey-colored hair, an elfin face, and a perfect figure. Seisyll leaned back in his chair as she approached, affecting an unconcerned air. “My wife, Lilwen.” He waved his hand carelessly.

  Dafydd had the instant impression it was a less than happy marriage.

  “Yes, my dear,” Seisyll said.

  “Where is Angharad?”

  “I don’t know. She was here a moment ago.”

  “That girl.” Lilwen’s hands were on her hips. Then she noticed Dafydd. “Are you that knight who arrived this afternoon that I told Angharad to wait on?”

  “Uh—” Rudeness seemed to be the order of the day among the women of Clydog’s household. “I am Dafydd
ap Cynin. My father is the King of the Isle of Man. I serve in King Cadwaladr’s teulu.”

  Lilwen nodded as if that was no more than she expected. She gazed around the room, her hands still on her hips. “That girl. Never where she’s supposed to be when she’s supposed to be there. I told her—”

  “Lilwen.” Seisyll’s voice sounded a warning tone.

  Lilwen pinched her lips and didn’t turn to her husband, but she didn’t say anything more either. Dafydd thought it likely Seisyll would hear about this later. He might exert control in public, but Dafydd guessed that their conversations in private might be another matter.

  “I will see to Angharad,” Lilwen said.

  Lilwen stalked through the same door through which Angharad had disappeared.

  Seisyll leaned in. “I apologize for the behavior of my wife and sister. There was a time when we had peace, but not recently.” What he didn’t say was not since I married Lilwen.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Dafydd said.

  And then Seisyll’s attention was caught by the man to his right again, and Dafydd decided it wouldn’t make things worse to exercise his curiosity before anyone else insulted him. He wasn’t used to having such an unfortunate effect on women. Normally, girls liked him. Certainly Rhiann liked him, even if she loved Cade more.

  He eased to his feet. When nobody, not even Seisyll, appeared to notice, he stepped down from the dais, walked to the door, and poked his head into the hallway. With a last glance towards the high table to see if anyone was watching him (nobody was), Dafydd trotted up the stairs to an upper floor. He didn’t try to disguise his movements but allowed his feet to tread normally. When doing something mildly surreptitious, it was always better to pretend one knew what one was doing.

  There was no one to stop him, however, and it wasn’t difficult to find where Angharad and Lilwen had gone. All he had to do was follow the sobs.

  “Angharad! Shut. Up.” Lilwen’s dulcet tones echoed in the hallway. Dafydd checked behind him a last time. Fortunately, nobody else was in evidence and the noise from the hall below was great enough to drown out the smack that followed.

  “Ouch!” Angharad said. “That hurt.”

  “I’ll smack you on more than your bottom if you don’t stop that weeping! You have a husband to catch!”

  “I can’t do it your way, Lilwen,” Angharad said. “Please don’t make me!”

  “You don’t have a choice. Your way of finding a husband was not to attract one at all,” Lilwen said. “What did you look like when we spied Sir Dafydd in the distance? Clothes in rags; hair a raging mess. It’s no surprise your father didn’t try to sell you sooner. He mistook you for a boy of twelve!”

  “I won’t do it! You can’t make me.”

  “I can, and you will. The time has come for you to find a home of your own and get out from under my feet. This will never be my house as long as you are in it.”

  “You took the keys to the cellars.” Now Angharad’s voice had a little more strength to it. “You already got what you wanted.”

  “What I want is you married or in a convent by midsummer, or I will tell your father that you dallied with one of his men-at-arms, and then he won’t have a choice but to send you away. He’ll banish you to some place where you won’t shame him anymore.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Try me,” Lilwen said. “Now, go chat up that knight from Gwynedd again.”

  With that, Dafydd started backing away from the door, worried Lilwen would catch him eavesdropping. He’d grown up with only brothers and had never heard a conversation quite like this before. He didn’t know what to make of it. Marriage to anyone, much less Angharad, was the last thing that interested him right now.

  But then Angharad spoke again, and he held back. “I can’t.” She moaned as she said the words. “He seemed nice at first, but now it’s all ruined. You’ve ruined it. He thinks I’m a cow.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Lilwen said. “You need to try again. Men like it when girls say mean things to them. It makes you more interesting.”

  Dafydd almost snorted but caught himself in time. Lilwen couldn’t have been more wrong. Although, if this was the technique she’d used to ensnare Seisyll, perhaps it worked on some men.

  “But—“

  “No buts! By the breath of Saint Mary, wipe your eyes and get downstairs again!”

  Angharad had been reduced to sniffles. The conflict appeared to be winding down. Dafydd slipped into a room with a half-open door just in time for Lilwen to stalk out of Angharad’s room and back down the stairs without seeing him. A moment later, Angharad followed. After she’d gone, Dafydd leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was never going to understand women.

  Chapter Three

  Dafydd

  The next two days brought success, at least in terms of Dafydd’s mission, as Clydog felt himself up to the task of supporting Cade. On the personal front, however, things went from bad to worse.

  At first, Seisyll tried to help Dafydd out. He leaned across the table at Dafydd’s first breakfast, his voice low. “My wife is sometimes hard to—” But before he could say more, Lilwen dragged Angharad to the table to sit with them and forced her to make small talk.

  With every meal that followed, Lilwen appeared more and more triumphant, and the only consolation to Dafydd was that Angharad seemed as miserable as he. At least Angharad had stopped insulting him, and he knew that even the ones she’d thrown at him earlier had been for show.

  “Sir Dafydd, tell me of the kitchens at Caer Dathyl.” Lilwen’s tone had a sickening sweetness to it, and she wore her usual sneer fixed firmly in place, belying her façade of amenability.

  “I—I—” Dafydd didn’t know what to say, so he studied Lilwen’s profile instead. When she asked the question, she’d made sure he met her eyes, but he’d felt Seisyll kick her under the table. Now, she kept her head bent over her plate and didn’t look at him. That was probably wise as her husband, who sat across the table from her, was glaring at her with daggered eyes.

  Beyond Lilwen, Angharad’s chin had come up and she gazed at the opposite wall as if she couldn’t quite believe she what she was witnessing. “No, my lord, don’t say another word to her. Lilwen doesn’t really want to know about your time in the kitchens. She wants to put you at a disadvantage by reminding everyone of a period in your life you’d perhaps rather forget.”

  “Angharad—” Seisyll put out a hand, either to stop her from saying more or out of sympathy.

  Now that Angharad had snapped, Dafydd didn’t care what he told them. He’d lain awake last night, worrying that his first mission for Cade had already become a disaster because he didn’t know how to handle a woman’s tongue. And now … amusement bubbled up within him that all his worrying was for nothing. Angharad was defending him and finally speaking up for herself. It was a huge relief to have an authentic word come out of Angharad’s mouth. Neither the venom, nor the tears, had seemed normal for her.

  Dafydd threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t mind at all. Your sister-in-law hasn’t offended me.” He put the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to contain the laughter that wouldn’t be contained. While Seisyll stared at him, Dafydd got himself under control. “I served in the kitchens and lived among the common people as one of them in order to learn about myself as a man.”

  Lilwen’s head came up at that. “Really, I don’t think—”

  “No, you don’t think, do you, Lilwen!” Angharad said.

  Lilwen’s hand flew back, and she smacked Angharad across the cheek. She was bringing her arm up for another blow when Seisyll caught it. “Don’t.”

  Dafydd rose to his feet to place himself between Lilwen’s chair and Angharad’s. Angharad had a handkerchief to her face, but she looked up at him as he loomed over her.

  He held out his arm. “Take a turn around the courtyard with me?”

  Angharad brought down her hand and wadded the cloth in her fist. Th
e red marks left by Lilwen’s fingers were clear on her face, but she had her chin up and looked straight at him. “Of course, my lord. It would be my pleasure.”

  “I like you more and more, Angharad.”

  Angharad’s eyes widened, but she took his arm, and the two of them strolled behind the other diners on the dais. He looked over the top of Angharad’s head towards the front doors of the hall. Carved and painted with outlandish, possibly Roman, designs, he wished they were closer so they wouldn’t have to navigate the distance under everyone’s gaze.

  But as it turned out, they could have been invisible for all that anyone cared about what they were doing. It was Seisyll and Lilwen who’d caught everyone’s attention. They’d risen to their feet opposite each other at the high table and were glaring at each other. Everyone else in the hall gazed towards them with rapt expressions, ranging from astonishment to outright pleasure. An open fight between Clydog’s heir and his wife—one that had been a long time coming—was worth staying around for.

  But not to Dafydd. Angharad’s hand felt comfortable on his arm, and her stride matched his. She was taller than most women—easily taller than Rhiann—with the top of her head at his shoulder.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” Angharad said.

  “Everyone at that table was a heartbeat away from saying something they’ve long felt but might later regret.” Dafydd and Angharad had reached the side doorway that led upstairs, and he paused to look down into her upturned face. “Seisyll has the conversation in hand—at last, it appears—and I wanted to meet the real Angharad.”

  “The real—”

  The front doors to hall flew open, cutting off Angharad in mid-sentence. In walked—

  “Christ save us!” Dafydd didn’t wait to confirm his first impression. He wrapped his arm around Angharad’s waist, hauled her through the doorway into the side passage, and pressed her to the wall on the other side of the opening.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Ssshh,” he said. “Wait.”

  Dafydd peeked around the doorframe. Mabon ap Arawn, dressed in unrelieved black, strode towards the king’s dais. Clydog had noticed him—who wouldn’t have?—but so far all he’d done was glance at him, allowing his retainers to move in to surround Mabon and prevent him from accosting the king. Dafydd guessed none of the people in the hall but he knew the identity of this visitor.