Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  “But why?” Isolde asked.

  “Why?” He shrugged. “For one thing, if I’m going to be beaten, I’d rather it was in anger than in cold blood—just for the sheer joy of the thing. And for another—”

  He stopped, his jaw hardening, his gaze turning angry once more.

  “For another?”

  The bearded prisoner looked down at Cyn again and was silent so long that Isolde thought he wasn’t going to respond. At last he said, expressionlessly, “The guard wanted Cyn to lick his cock and pray to him as God Almighty. And in another moment he’d have done it.”

  He paused, then looked up. “Hurt me a lot less to be horse-whipped than it would have Cyn to realize he’s not as brave as he thought.” He sighed, rubbing his brow with the back of one hand. “Though he’s beginning to suspect it, all the same.”

  Cyn’s face, peaceful now, looked even younger in sleep, the pale lashes golden against the bruised skin above his cheekbones. Isolde felt slightly sick. She looked away. Then, her eyes falling on the mutilated fingers of the bearded man’s left hand, she asked, “And did you really cry when that was done?”

  He was silent again for a moment, watching her, as though debating how much to say. Then he shrugged and gave another of those quick, humorless smiles. He lifted the water jar to his mouth and swallowed another draft before saying, “Cry? No. I was too busy wanting to tear the liver out of the man that did it to cry.”

  He looked down, turning the hand this way and that, his eyes on the twisted fingers and white scars, then moved his shoulders—impatiently, this time, as though shaking off whatever memory the sight recalled.

  “Does no harm to let Cyn think so, though.” He paused to take another swallow from the jar, then added, half to himself, “Mind you, Cyn faced his first battle without turning a hair—and I puked my guts out and blubbered like a babe after the fighting was done. So I suppose it evens out, in the end.”

  Isolde studied his face curiously. “How old were you then?”

  The man came back to himself with a start. He eyed her, then jerked one shoulder and picked up the bread again. “Thirteen—maybe a few months more.” He raked a hand through his beard, then swore under his breath.

  Isolde, watching him, said, “You’re probably crawling with lice, the both of you. There’s not much I can give you for a cure. But I could probably arrange for you to at least shave your beard. It would—”

  “No!” The man spoke sharply, almost violently. He finished the bread in a few quick, savage bites, then looked up, the edge of hostility back in his eyes.

  “You’ve done enough. And I can’t imagine you’ve any wish to stay in this stinking hole. So go—get back to where you belong.”

  Isolde nodded. “All right. I’ll be back in the morning to check on Cyn.”

  The man swore under his breath. “Haven’t you meddled enough?” He stopped and eyed her, a muscle jerking in his jaw. “Just what makes the queen herself care so much about Saxon gutterscum?”

  Isolde watched him a moment. She’d seen too many injured men snap like wounded dogs at the offer of sympathy or aid to blame him for his rage. And they’d not even had the gall of captivity to contend with—or the certainty of worse to come. In their place, she thought, let alone this man’s, I’d likely feel the same. Being angry was better—easier—by far than crying for mercy or admitting to fear.

  “Question for question,” she said evenly, her eyes on his. “How does a Briton-born come to be fighting on the side of that same gutterscum?”

  Utter stillness descended over the bearded man’s frame, though, oddly, the anger died out of his eyes, leaving them only flat and wary once more.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look Saxon enough to pass for one, and you speak the language well. But it’s not your native tongue. And your accent in Latin isn’t Saxon, either. I’d guess you’re maybe half of Saxon blood. A Saxon mother, maybe, and a father Briton-born.”

  He was silent a moment, and when he spoke his voice was flat as his gaze. “Anything else?”

  She was about to reply, when she saw for the first time a mark on the man’s neck, half hidden by the strands of matted golden-brown hair. A circular patch of whitened skin that she recognized at once as the brand of a Saxon thrall ring. A slave, then—or at least he had been at one time. Captured, like so many others, by raiders as part of the fortunes of war and sold into the enemy’s service.

  Her eyes met those of the bearded prisoner, and for a moment she saw, not just hostility, but fury, tightly controlled, flare at the back of his blue gaze, and knew that he’d seen her notice—and understand—the scar.

  And so she said only, “No. I’ll go now. If you won’t take a salve for your back, do you at least want me to leave you something for the pain?”

  The man started to shake his head, but then he stopped, his gaze falling on Cyn. An expression Isolde couldn’t read passed like a shadow across his face, and he nodded slowly, turning back to her.

  “Yes,” he said. “Give me a draft of whatever sleeping potion you gave Cyn, if you’ve any left. And can you leave some for me to give the boy later on?”

  Isolde drew the drafts out of her scrip and handed them across. She followed his gaze to look again at Cyn’s sleeping face. “What did he say to you?” she asked. “Just before the poppy-draft started to work?”

  The man didn’t turn, and for a moment she thought again that he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, still in the same flat tone, “He said he was afraid—not of dying, but that they’d break him if they started in on him again. That he was afraid of what they’d make him do or say if he had to suffer any more pain.”

  Isolde was silent a moment. Very gently, she reached out and brushed the mud-caked hair from the boy’s brow, as she had done from the brow of her husband, just a short while since. Cyn stirred and gave a soft, indistinct murmur, but his eyes remained closed.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  The bearded man’s gaze barely touched her, no more, before returning to his companion’s face.

  “I said I’d see him through. But that he’d manage fine.”

  Chapter Five

  ISOLDE SHUT THE DOOR TO her workroom behind her, then paused a moment, leaning back against the closed door, her hands moving to rub the base of her neck as she felt the full weight of exhaustion settle over her like stone. Her neck and shoulders were stiff and sore from crouching on the floor over Cyn, and her wrists ached with the effort of holding the bones she’d set steady so that they might be bandaged and bound.

  The workroom lay on the ground floor of Tintagel’s southern wing, a square, windowless room, the low ceilings hung with drying bunches of herbs that sifted a light, fragrant dust over the whole. Along one wall ran the wooden countertop, its surface worn smooth and nearly black, that she used to hold the clay dishes and jars for sorting seeds, the stone mortars and pestles for grinding the dried stems and leaves. A great copper brazier stood in the center of the floor for melting the sheep’s tallow used in ointments and salves, while set against the room’s outer wall were the cupboards where she stored the salves and ointments themselves so that the cool of the outside air on the stones might keep them from turning rancid before their time. There was peace, here. Peace and silence.

  It cost her a sleepless night every month, when, under a full moon, she gathered herbs from Tintagel’s kitchen gardens, made sure the servants and guardsmen heard her murmuring under her breath in the ancient tongue. But the effect was worth the price she paid in whispers and crossings and surreptitious signs against the evil eye; here, if nowhere else within Tintagel’s walls, she could be alone.

  Isolde closed her eyes, and some of the room’s cool, herb-scented calm crept over her. Alder bark and barley seeds for burns, chamomile for fever, yellow nettle ointment for wounds. She might not allow herself memory of where or how she’d learned the words, but they were comforting as a tale—or a prayer—all the same.

&nb
sp; It was a sound in the doorway that made her turn, muscles just beginning to relax tightening instinctively once again, even before she saw who stood there.

  Isolde forced herself to incline her head in formal greeting. “Good evening, Lord Marche. Father Nenian told me you wished private speech?”

  Marche, King of Cornwall, stepped into the room, followed by a pair of armed guardsman, who stationed themselves on either side of the door. He made Isolde a brief answering bow. “Lady Isolde.”

  He must, Isolde thought, have once been a handsome man, broad-chested and powerfully built, with a square-jawed face, thick black hair, and strong, solid bones. But the years had coarsened him, leaving his skin weathered and scored with broken veins, and his eyes were puffy and tired-looking.

  He watched her a moment before saying, “I wished to speak with you about your safety, Lady Isolde. The battle here was temporarily won. But the enemy will no doubt return. And a fortress under siege is no place for a woman. There is a house of holy women nearby. An abbey, standing on lands I granted to the Church some years ago. Not large, but all the same an establishment of some wealth. I would offer you escort there—from my men, or myself, if you prefer. At a house of holy women you would be secure from the fighting that will surely begin again.”

  It might even, Isolde thought, be true. Marche’s voice was respectful, his face grave. Only his position, a little closer than courtesy would permit and blocking her path to the door, made her chillingly aware of his strength and the brute physical power that seemed to emanate from him in waves. That and the presence of the two armed men at his back.

  Isolde was silent, selecting several more pots of salve to put in her scrip. Then: “I hadn’t heard that the Saxons had taken to respecting the sanctity of either abbey or church. We’ve both heard the stories of chapels looted. Nuns raped and slaughtered like sheep on the altar steps. Surely I am safer here, surrounded by fighting men, than alone among a group of unprotected women, holy or no.”

  Marche shifted position, his mouth tightening in a grimace of pain, and Isolde remembered the wound he’d taken in the battle just fought and won. She’d not seen the wound herself—Marche had his own physicians to tend his hurts—but it was said to have been a sword cut to the thigh, laying the leg open nearly to the bone. And he’d been lucky, Isolde thought, to come through the battle with that his only wound.

  The stories were already flying about the fire halls and campfires of how Marche had led the charge that won the day. A charge uphill, into almost certain death, past the Saxon wizards with their skull-and-skin drums to face the Saxon shield wall. And yet, so the story went, Marche had ridden first of all and showed not a flicker of fear. And likely true, Isolde thought. Marche, son of Meirchion, King of Cornwall, was a brave man.

  Now he said, “I could offer you conduct to one of my own holdings, my lady, if that be your wish. Castle Dore is farther removed from the fighting—on the southern coast. You have my assurance that my men there would see you kept safe.”

  Isolde began to fill her scrip, placing the vials and pots in one by one. “Yes, I’ve no doubt I would be kept safe at Castle Dore. As safe as the Saxon prisoners in their cell.”

  Save that she had survived by pretended witchcraft for seven long years, Isolde might have missed the brief flare of frustration that showed in Marche’s eyes, the hardening of a muscle in his jaw. As it was, the look was gone almost at once, and he said, “My lord King Constantine would not have wished you to put yourself in danger, my lady. Can you imagine what the Saxons would do to the wife of the High King—the man who’d slaughtered so many of their own—should you fall into their hands?”

  A battle, Isolde thought again, that I have fought these seven years.

  “I can imagine,” she said. “Quite well. But nor would my lord Constantine have wished me to abandon my duties here. The next High King has still to be chosen by the council. And so long as the council meets, I will sit in my husband’s place.”

  Marche had regained control, and seemed not even to notice the shortness of tone. Instead his gaze, dark and suddenly weary, met hers, and he said quietly, “Do you think I don’t grieve for the young king? I served as regent to Constantine—taught him the arts of war as was my duty. But he was like my own son, as well.”

  Words were easy. But the grief in his eyes was genuine. Isolde was sure of it, and the knowledge struck her more coldly than anything else had done. She turned abruptly away, gathering up the last of the jars and glass vials. Then: “I have nothing more to say. My decision is made. But there is another matter I would speak to you about. The men you have appointed guard over the Saxon prisoners are grossly mistreating their charges.” Isolde paused, then turned back and gave Marche a level look. “I know you will be as shocked to hear this as I was.”

  Behind Marche, she saw the men-at-arms shift and stir, and Marche shot them a quick, lance-sharp glance that might have been either a warning or an order for silence. Then: “These men are spies, Lady Isolde. Sent to penetrate Britain’s lines and carry back word of our defenses.”

  “And that justifies torture?”

  The flare of frustration was nearer the surface this time, the anger less readily contained. But when Marche answered, his voice was grave, with only a faint metallic edge, though he did draw a step or two nearer.

  “If you had seen the sights my men and I have, my lady—the villages burned by Saxon raiders, every girl and woman in the place above five years old raped and the men with their eyes gouged out, left to wander and starve—you might change your opinion of what Saxon prisoners deserve.”

  Isolde pushed aside the cold prickles that rose along her spine in response to Marche’s slow advance. “I have seen the villages, Lord Marche, and every one of the horrors you describe. And I have just come from an infirmary filled with men maimed and broken and screaming with Saxon wounds. But I have also seen British soldiers driving nails into the road from a Saxon settlement to keep the ghosts from following behind—and thought that they had good reason to fear revenge from the dead.”

  Marche inclined his head, so that his face was momentarily hidden. “You have a tender heart, Lady Isolde. As befits a lady so young. But I assure you—”

  Isolde’s temper snapped. She was remembering the look of dumb, bewildered suffering in Cyn’s eyes, the utter humiliation and shame in his face, and all at once she was too angry to play the verbal game of parry and thrust even a moment more.

  “That was an order, Lord Marche, not an invitation to debate. Tintagel is still my domain, as Constantine’s queen, and I will tolerate no torture in any place I rule. And so long as you are a guest within my walls, you will control your men. Is that understood?”

  Before Marche could reply, she turned away, passing swiftly through the workroom’s door. When she had reached the flight of stairs leading to her own rooms, though, she stopped and leaned back against the rough stone wall. She thought, Whatever I may say, I wonder whether I have any more real power here than the Saxon prisoners in their cell.

  Slowly, she pushed back the sleeve of her gown and looked down at the rose-colored patch of skin on her inner wrist—the heart-shaped mark she’d had from birth. It was visible in the glow cast by the torches mounted at intervals along the wall. The sign of a witch, the devil’s teat, so the stories went, given to suckle the spawn born when he came at night to her bed.

  I must be growing used to it, Isolde thought. It hardly even hurts now. She raised a hand and pushed a strand of windblown hair beneath the hood of her cloak. Now…Now I only wish that even a part of what the men fear were still true.

  THE COUNCIL CHAMBER WAS HOT, ACRID with smoke from the fire in the great central hearth, and the rows of benches were crowded with men. Isolde paused a moment in the doorway, listening to the buzz of voices as the men ate of the platters of roast mutton and drank ale from the cupfuls the serving women poured. Night had fallen, and from the courtyard outside came the raucous shouts of guardsman, some playing
at dice, others calling out wagers on a fight between two snarling, yelping war-dogs.

  And before these council sessions could end, one of those here tonight must swear blood-oath to the land of Britain as the country’s High King.

  At the head of the room, set high in the wall, was a grinning skull, yellowed with age, the last remains of a warrior whose name had years since been lost to the mists of time. Tintagel might now be a Christian domain, but the skull had protected the hall longer still.

  A harper was singing. He was a traveling minstrel with a thin, ugly face and a slender frame, who had only weeks ago won a place for the season at Tintagel’s hearth. His fingers plucked deftly at the strings of his instrument and his voice, thin and reedy, rose over the low rumbling babble of the men.

  “Men went to Dimilioc with a war cry,

  Led by Constantine the Brave.

  Speedy steeds and dark armor and shields,

  Spear shafts held high and spear points sharp-edged,

  And glittering coats of mail and swords.

  He led the way, he thrust through armies,

  The Saxons fell before his blades,

  Their fighting turned wives into widows;

  Many a mother with tear-filled eyes…”

  It was beginning, just as Myrddin had said. Soon, Isolde thought, maybe Con, too, will have a sword forged by the gods or a magic scabbard that stops blood spilling from a wound. She turned her gaze away.

  There were thirty or more men in all here tonight, the dukes and petty kings of Britain, accompanied sometimes by their sons or chief men-at-arms. Their shields, emblazoned with the devices of their lands, hung on the timber walls, while their swords and spears lay close by on the floor at their feet. In such times as these, arms were kept within reach.

  One of the guardsmen bearing Con’s Pendragon badge had detached himself from the rest and now came to meet her, threading a path through the assembled men.