Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  Marche’s face was still dark with anger, but though Isolde could see the pulse of blood hard and fast beneath his jaw, he had brought himself under control.

  “I regret to have to tell you, Lady Isolde, that the captain of your husband’s guard has been found guilty of treason against the High King.” Their eyes met, and he added, “You understand?”

  Isolde looked from Brychan’s bruised face back to Marche.

  “Yes,” she said, “I understand very well, Lord Marche. Without Brychan, the men of Constantine’s army will never dare rebel against your rule. Although with Constantine’s forces divided as they are, half pursuing the Saxons and only a skeleton force left behind at Tintagel now, it would already be suicide for them—and easy slaughter for your own troops—if they were to try.”

  She stopped. “You must want Camelerd very badly, to tie yourself in marriage to a woman known as the traitor’s daughter and a witch besides. Why? Is it part of your agreement with Octa of Kent?”

  She had never really doubted the truth of what Coel had claimed, but the flicker of shock that narrowed Marche’s eyes and tightened his jaw would in any case have proven the claim true. Out of the corner of her gaze, she saw Brychan, in the grasp of his two guards, react as well, his head coming up with a jerk.

  “So,” Marche said at last. “You know of that.”

  “Yes, I know.” Isolde paused. Anger had come to life now, temporarily driving back grief and even fear. “You weren’t able to murder Coel quite in time.”

  This time, though, Marche didn’t react. He only watched her for a moment, then settled his shoulders in a brief, dismissive shrug. “So I see. Not that it matters. You’ve no proof.”

  A wave of loathing nearly choked her, and Isolde fairly spat the next words. “I might have known. You’ve broken three blood-oaths of loyalty. Betrayed three kings—first Arthur, then my father, and then Constantine. I might have expected you would betray your land—your people—as well. And in return for what? A place as a puppet ruler? A tame dog, begging at the Saxon table for what scraps of power they fling your way?”

  “Enough!” Marche’s hand shot out, catching hold of her wrist and twisting to pin her arm between them. His jaw hardened, mouth tightening to a thin line. “Year after year, we’ve fought the Saxons. Sent out our best men to watch them slaughtered and cut down. I saw countless of my fellows die—saw my own father die at the warrior Hengist’s hand.”

  Marche’s mouth twisted, and his eyes turned dark with memory—and, Isolde thought, with something more besides that she didn’t quite understand. The look was instantly gone, though, and he went on. “As brave a warrior as ever held a sword, and he had his guts spilled at the Saxon dog’s feet. I was at his side. Swore an oath to see him avenged. But how many lives must we pour into the Saxon maw before we admit we fight a losing war?”

  “So you plan one final slaughter? A sacrifice of all Britain’s remaining forces here?”

  “Sacrifice? How many lives will be saved if I can negotiate peace? How many men will be spared if we admit the Saxons are in Britain to stay? That Arthur will never come again, and that we now fight a losing war?”

  Marche stopped. No man, Isolde thought, is a villain to himself. Though I doubt even Marche believes entirely in his own words.

  Marche’s voice had been fiercely assured, but she’d seen something flicker at the back of his eyes. Something trapped and at bay, as though he’d set events in motion that now spiraled beyond his control. Octa of Kent, from all she’d heard of the man, would make for as dangerous an ally as a foe.

  Almost, she might have felt pity. But not with Myrddin lying at her feet in a pool of his own blood.

  Her lip curled. “I can believe, at any rate, that you know how to cut yourself free from a cause you believe will no longer profit you. My father—”

  Even braced for anger as Isolde had been, the depth of Marche’s response took her by surprise. Rage flared in his dark eyes, and he raised a hand and struck her, hard across the mouth, snapping her head back. “Quiet! You will not speak of him again! I gave all for your father. Betrayed a blood-oath to Arthur, my king. And did it gladly. Modred was weak. That was why he was punished.”

  Marche’s face was still flushed, twisted with fury. “If you mislike what I am now, you can thank your father for making me so. But I learned one thing from him. And learned it well. No oath is inviolable. Loyalties are as easily broken as made.”

  With an angry twist, Isolde jerked free of his grasp and said, her voice still biting, “And is that why you had Constantine murdered? Had he learned you were still playing the traitor?”

  “I said be silent!” Marche struck her again across the face, harder this time, so that bright sparks of fire danced before her eyes. “You’ve no need to know more.” He stopped, chest heaving, and then, regaining control, he grated out, “I made you a proposal, Lady Isolde. You can either accept it or die. The choice is yours.”

  All about them, the silence thickened. And Isolde, watching the massive, brutal face before her, the heavy body and powerful hands, felt sudden sickness roll through the pit of her stomach as she realized what she would have to do.

  She drew in a steadying breath, willed her voice to be as cold and hard as his. “Very well. I will agree to marry you. Provided you grant me two conditions.”

  Marche’s eyes narrowed. “And those conditions are?”

  “One of the Saxon prisoners you hold in the north tower has…died,” Isolde finished, after a brief hesitation. “You will see him given the rites of funeral of a Saxon warrior. His body sent by fire to his gods.”

  Marche was silent, frowning, and then he gave a short nod.

  “Very well. And the other?”

  Isolde glanced at Brychan, still held fast between Hunno and Erbin, then back at Marche. “You will give me your word—your sworn oath—that Brychan’s life will be spared. And you will leave me here now to speak with him alone.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Isolde saw Brychan give a convulsive start and open his mouth as though to speak, but she kept her eyes on Marche’s face. His expression was almost blank, but his eyes drilled into hers so long that Isolde felt cold sweat prickling on her neck beneath the heavy coil of hair, and she had to will herself not to break away from the gaze. Then, at last, Marche gave another curt nod.

  “Very well. You have my word he will not die at my hand.” He stopped, and then a slow smile curved his mouth. With another twist of sickness, Isolde knew that he was remembering that brief moment when she’d made him afraid. “The marriage will take place tomorrow. I will trust you to be prepared.”

  Chapter Twelve

  HUNNO AND ERBIN HEFTED MYRDDIN’S limp body between them and were gone, and Isolde let out her breath in a shuddering sigh, pressing her hands tightly against her eyes. Her mouth throbbed where Marche’s hand had struck, and her skin still crawled with the memory of the bargain she’d just made.

  With every part of her will, she forced back all thought of Marche. All thought of Con, too, and what he would say about what she was about to do. Whether she ought to hope he saw and understood the choice she’d made—or to hope he was indeed gone to nothing, with neither care nor thought for this world.

  Whether, even for the sake of saving his country and his throne, he would forgive her giving herself to the man who’d caused his death.

  There was still a smeared, crimson pool of Myrddin’s blood on the floor.

  For a moment, Isolde thought she would be sick, but Brychan cleared his throat, starting to speak, and she managed to steady herself enough to look up at him. Brychan’s olive skin was muddy, and she could see the effort it cost him to speak at all, but he said, with something of the old stiff formality, “My lady, I can’t let you—”

  Isolde shook her head, stopping him before he could go on. “No, Brychan. There’s no other way. You heard what Marche said. I can either be wedded to him or die. And if I’m dead, there will be no one at all left to
stand in his way or to keep him from betraying Britain to the Saxons.”

  She forced her voice not to waver, forced herself to sound certain and firm, with no trace of the doubts that were crowding in on every side. She paused, then added, her eyes steady on Brychan’s, “You have never liked or even entirely trusted me, Brychan. I know that well. But you must trust me now. For I don’t suppose Marche’s men will leave us alone for long.”

  Brychan’s mouth tightened briefly, and then he said, with an effort, and still stiffly, “I’m sorry, my lady. I know my lord king would have trusted you with his life. That should be—that is—enough to win my allegiance.”

  Isolde’s throat ached with another of those quick stabs of grief, but she pushed that, too, away. Later you can weep for Con. Bid him goodbye in case what you’re about to do cuts you off from him for all time. But not now.

  “The night after the fighting at Dimilioc. There were no guards on duty in my husband’s tent. Why?”

  Instead of answering directly, Brychan asked, “It was true, then, my lady, what you said of Lord Marche? That he was responsible for the death of my lord king?”

  “It was true.”

  Brychan was silent, his eyes black with fury, and a spasm of anger twisted the taut, shuttered face. “Would I had known. I’d have seen him dead for what he’s done.”

  He stopped to draw breath, and Isolde saw him flinch as the movement jarred his ribs, but he went on almost without pause, the flare of anger dying to a cold, hard blaze. “The night after Dimilioc, I should have been on guard at the tent of my lord king.” His face twisted again. “And I would have been there. But that Constantine himself ordered me—and the rest of his guardsmen, as well—to stay away.”

  “Con told you to keep away?” Isolde repeated. “But why?”

  Even as she spoke, though, she could guess what the reason would have been. And Brychan’s face gave her answer enough to be sure. He looked down, avoiding her gaze, a dull flush of red creeping up under his skin.

  “It’s all right, Brychan,” she said quietly. “I knew Con.”

  Brychan looked up at that. “They none of them meant anything, my lady. It’s only that…after battle…a man needs—”

  “A woman,” Isolde said. She raised a hand and brushed tiredly at her cheek. “Any woman. I know.” She paused, remembering Con’s own words, a half shame-faced I’m sorry. And then: It stops you from thinking about what you’ve just done. For a time.

  Brychan’s face was working. “I should have stayed, though, all the same, my lady. I should—”

  Isolde blinked a press of tears away. “You can’t blame yourself for obeying his orders. You had no reason to expect danger that night, any more than Con did himself. And now…now we had better speak of what’s to be done. I don’t suppose Marche will leave us alone very long, whatever he promised.”

  Brychan’s face still looked pinched beneath the bruising, but he nodded. “You indeed mean, my lady, to be wedded tomorrow to Marche?”

  “I can think of no other way. Until we are wedded by law, Marche will have me under guard at all times. But after—”

  Isolde stopped, swallowed, started over. “After the marriage, after he is sure he has won, he will relax his guard. And it’s then I may find a chance to get away.”

  She paused. Then: “That is why, Brychan, I made speaking with you alone one of the conditions for agreeing to what Marche proposed. You heard the message that Rhys brought tonight, and—”

  She stopped, drawing in her breath sharply, as a memory of the picture Rhys had made, standing before the council hall, returned, sharp and clear. His face and clothes spattered with mud from a desperate ride, his chest heaving as he fought for air. His cloak—

  “It was dry.”

  “My lady?”

  Isolde turned her gaze back to Brychan. “His cloak—Rhys’s cloak was dry. It was raining outside, but his cloak was dry. His entrance was planned.”

  “Then Rhys—”

  Isolde nodded, her mouth tightening as she repeated what Coel had said only hours before he died. “In any army—among any king’s band of fighting men—there are those whose loyalty can be bought. The story Rhys told may be true, or it may be false. But nearly all the fighting forces of Britain are now at Tintagel, gathered in one place together. And if Marche plans to betray them—offer them up to the Saxons—he would be a fool to give up the element of surprise.”

  Brychan nodded. “You mean that we can’t count on the two weeks Rhys claimed it would take the Saxon forces to march here.”

  “No.” Isolde stopped as another realization struck. “Coel told me, as well, that he’d received word that Marche was massing troops in secret at Castle Dore. And I would wager against any odds that those troops are Saxon, sent by Octa to wait at Castle Dore until the invasion begins. And then to strike at our troops from behind while the rest of the Saxon army attacks from the fore.”

  Drawing in her breath, she tried to steady herself. “Before he died, Coel told me that he had sent his informer—a traveling goldsmith, or at least so he appears—to Castle Dore to find whether the rumors of troops gathering there were true. If I can find this man—and if he has found what he sought—I can bring him before the council and give them warning of what Marche plans. They’d not take the word of the Witch Queen, not when they’ve just elected Marche High King. But they’d have to listen to a servant of Coel—at least learn for themselves whether what he claimed was true.”

  Brychan opened his mouth as though to object, but she stopped him. “It’s a thin chance—scarcely any chance at all. I know that. And I may not even succeed in escaping from Marche’s watch here. I know that, as well. I think I must try. But”—Isolde stopped again, and said, meeting Brychan’s gaze one more—“I will not make the attempt without your consent and agreement that I should go.”

  Isolde saw comprehension dawn in Brychan’s dark eyes. He said, unflinchingly, “You mean, my lady—?”

  “I mean that at the best of times, Marche’s oaths have all the value of a treaty scratched in blowing sand. I can’t think the promise he made me tonight will be worth any more.”

  A faint smile touched the corners of Brychan’s mouth at that, then faded, his lips tightening grimly. “True. And if you do manage to break free—”

  Isolde nodded. “Especially then.” She stopped. Then, quietly: “The choice is yours, Brychan. I would not leave you—”

  But Brychan broke in, his voice steady. “As you say, my lady, there is no choice to be made. You must go—there is no other way if Britain is not to fall entirely into Saxon hands.” He paused, then added in a different tone, “Is there anything…anything I can do for you, my lady? Any help I can give?”

  The marriage, Isolde thought, will take place tomorrow. She saw again the exultation—and something more—in Marche’s dark eyes, his slow smile.

  She shook her head, as though it might clear the memory from her eyes. “No. Just try to stay alive. And I’ll do the same.”

  AS ISOLDE HAD EXPECTED, HUNNO AND Erbin were waiting at the door of the hall when she and Brychan emerged. Without speaking or even exchanging a glance, the two guards separated, Erbin falling in beside Isolde, Hunno reaching to tie Brychan’s wrists before him with a leather thong. Marche had given his orders, so much was plain.

  Isolde saw, too, that Erbin took up a position beside the door to her own chambers, hands behind him, feet spread apart, his dagger drawn. I was right, she thought. The guard will not be relaxed before tomorrow night—if at all.

  The girl Marcia was waiting within, slumped and dozing on a stool by the lighted hearth, though she started awake as Isolde entered.

  “I have no need of you tonight,” Isolde said shortly. “You may go to your own bed.”

  Marcia shook her head, her mouth curving in a small, satisfied smile. “My lady Nest has given orders that I stay. I’m to sleep at the foot of your bed until you’re wedded to my lord king.”

  Isolde’s li
p was throbbing, still; her eyes were gritty with fatigue. “So that they can be sure I take no one else to my bed whose child I might pass off as Marche’s—or even King Constantine’s? The guard at my door should be enough to assure even Lord Marche I won’t run—or receive anyone here. Unless you believe me witch enough to vanish and appear at will or bed with the demons of the air?”

  A sullen look settled over Marcia’s thin, pockmarked face, and she said, dropping all pretense at deference or servitude, “Serve you right if you were got with a demon child—like your grandmother before you—and bore a son like your father, God curse his name. I’d tell them—I’d give them an earful in the council hall if you tried to pass it off as my lord king’s.”

  “You’d tell them what?”

  Marcia gave Isolde another of those sly, sharp looks, then shook back her dark hair. “I’d tell them my lord King Constantine hadn’t warmed your bed in months—he’d been too busy in mine.”

  “In yours?” Only a moment earlier, Isolde had felt almost nothing but dislike for the other girl. Dislike—and distaste, as well. Now, though, she couldn’t find it in her to dislike Marcia. Or even to be angry. There was something pitiful in the girl’s dark eyes as she made the claim. A kind of hollow, savage hopefulness that she might be believed. Not just that Con had shared her bed, but that she’d been wanted by a man—any man.

  “That’s a lie,” Isolde said wearily. “Constantine would never have so much as looked at you. And you can be thankful Nest knows that as well as I do.”

  A flush of anger had spread across the other girl’s face, and she said, eyes narrowed, “What do you mean?”

  Isolde unfastened the brooch that held her cloak in place, then slipped the cloak from her shoulders. “You remember Branwen?” she asked. “You think she died of ordinary illness? Or maybe old age?”

  She let the cloak drop onto the storage chest by the bed, then turned back to find Marcia watching her, fear for the first time shadowing her gaze. Isolde nodded. “Yes. You may be a favorite of Nest’s now. But she’s a dangerous ally to have, if she ever decides you’re more threat to her than friend.”