Highland Dragon Rebel

by Isabel Cooper

  She prayed for his safety. She had a vague idea, one she’d no wish to examine closely, of how it would hurt were anything to happen to him. Yet the die was cast. She could do nothing. With any luck, she wouldn’t need to. The lord was of Madoc’s blood, and though that didn’t always count for much, he’d agreed long ago to the alliance.

  Moiread surrendered their horses to the grooms gladly—there were no longer treasures in their saddlebags, another weight off her mind—and then ventured out into the courtyard.

  Llanasef Fechan sprawled low and long across the hilltop, the gray stone walls letting more sun across them than Moiread was used to. Each of the four towers had statues carved into the stone at its corner: graceful maidens in robes to the east and west, warriors with spears to the north and south. The work was impressive, though she was no artist to judge.

  Otherwise, the keep was like others: well, chapel, stables, buttery, smithy, stores, and a good population of people occupying it. Some hurried on errands. Others, like the men her guide was leading her toward, stood leaning against one wall, enjoying the sunlight and chatting.

  Introductions came next: Alan, Tomos, and Luc, the man who’d led Moiread over. All were middling young and healthy-looking. All wore swords at their waists and armor on their backs. Tomos had a broken nose, which Alan quickly explained was the result of a fight over a horse, and not to be mistaken for any heroic scar.

  They welcomed Moiread easily, called her “boyo” and treated her as a slightly younger brother, speaking to her the way she remembered addressing the raw recruits when she’d been at war.

  The memory made her blink. Those days seemed a long time ago, and further away than the length of England and Wales would have sensibly explained.

  “All right, then?” asked Alan. “Not wearing you out, are we?”

  Moiread laughed. “Only trying to get my bearings. After so long on horseback, part of me still thinks the ground should be moving, aye?”

  “Boats are worse,” Luc said and talked for a while about his cousin who’d sailed to Italy with his lord. They passed around a skin of wine, very weak—none of them were on duty then, but it would be their turn in a few hours, and the commander ran things tightly—and compared stories, most of them exaggerated, until a new arrival made them straighten up.

  The boy was perhaps fourteen, with a youth’s spidery arms and legs. His straw-colored hair fell in a page’s cut, a neater version of the sort Moiread herself had, and the rich blue-and-yellow color of his clothes, as well as the jeweled dagger at his waist, spoke of rank. He stood on no ceremony, though; his face was all eager openness.

  “Hallo!” he said, his voice in the wavery in-between stage. “Are you Lord Madoc’s man?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Moiread said and bowed. “I’m Michael.”

  “And this is Iestyn,” said Tomos. “My lord’s eldest son and heir.”

  “I hope,” said Iestyn, painful with memorized dignity no matter how much he clearly wanted to skip the preliminaries, “that you and your master find our hospitality to your liking.”

  “I’m sure we will. You’ve been quite kind to us already, m’lord.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Iestyn hesitated, while his father’s arms men deliberately did not look amused, and then came out with “You’re a Scot, yes?”

  “That I am.” It seemed pointless to try to hide it. Nobody would ever mistake Moiread for Welsh once they heard her—nor, thank God, for English.

  Iestyn looked her over, trying to be subtle, clearly a shade disappointed in her apparent youth. “Were you a soldier? Did you fight the English?”

  “Oh, a bit. I’m older than I look, but I was too young to fight until the last few years of it.”

  Iestyn’s dark eyes widened. Even the men-at-arms looked impressed. “I’d heard it was hard fighting, that,” Alan said.

  “Hard as any I’ve had. I’ve not a great deal of comparison, y’ken.”

  She honestly hadn’t. There’d been raids in her youth. She’d gone on a few. But that had been theft and brawling—and once in a while a killing when events got truly bitter or out of control. War had been different. She hadn’t expected how different it would be.

  “What was it like?” Iestyn asked. “Where did you fight? Did you kill many Englishmen? Was it all with a sword, or did you have a lance too?”

  “We are English subjects, boyo,” Tomos said dryly. “You should perhaps sound a little less gleeful.”

  For the moment, said Iestyn’s snort. At twelve, he was already too wise to speak those words aloud. “I’m only curious. I’ve never seen a battle.”

  Moiread’s first thought was that he was too young for it—but there’d been plenty of boys his age fighting at her side, or carrying arrows and water to those who did fight. Besides, they were all young. “Messy things. They serve their purpose at times. And I was mostly a swordsman. Horses dinna’ care for me.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity. I’ve a white mare of my own—my lord my father gave her to me on my birthday—and she canters as sound as anything.”

  “You and Lord Madoc should get on well, then.”

  Iestyn smiled with a boy’s good cheer. “Good! He’ll likely be my brother, after all.”

  * * *

  Bronwyn was sixteen years old, short, slender, and pale, with dark hair drawn up into smooth, round cauls on either side of her long, oval face, and big, dark eyes that regarded Madoc with calm politeness. She’d made her curtsy well when they met, the dark-blue folds of her gown falling in graceful lines, and smiled at him with a well-born maiden’s proper demureness.

  “My eldest,” Lord Elian had said. “My treasure.”

  Walking alongside them in the castle gardens, with Elian’s wife, Teleri, on his right hand, Madoc was aware of how the four of them fell into pairs. Young Iestyn had run off after making his greeting—as quickly as manners and his father’s rule would allow. Guests from afar might be interesting, but the ceremony of the first meeting generally was not, at twelve.

  The fifth among them did nothing to disrupt the pattern. Signor Antonio was a scholar but no priest. He was older than Madoc but in healthy, well-fleshed middle age, with no trace of gray in his thick black hair. In a saturnine way, he was handsome. Yet as he walked the gardens with them, a tall, solid figure in his dark, high-collared robes, there was nothing about him that suggested romance. Indeed, he seemed set apart from the other four and from Llanasef Fechan itself. Perhaps his faint accent gave that impression, or his studies had lent him a cosmopolitan air.

  Madoc was glad for the scholar’s presence, as another outsider to the family, and glad for what he heard shortly after the women took themselves off to a bench in the corner of the garden and left him, Elian, and Antonio to speak. “Antonio will be aiding us,” Elian said. “I have some knowledge of the art, but no gift, much to my sadness.”

  Unlike Calhoun, he sounded truly regretful. His line was mortal, but many of them had at least dabbled in sorcery over the years. It was one reason why they’d long been friends with Rhys and his forefathers. Such shared gifts tended to produce either love or hate—or often both, varying with time and tide. Madoc could only be thankful that the alliance with Elian had been steady, and now that he had a skilled man on hand to help.

  Llanasef Fechan was close in feeling to Madoc’s land, but it was not his. Subtle differences could do more to trip up a magician—particularly in such significant rites—than vast gaps that a man could easily see and avoid. Madoc had been tempted to keep the visio dei in effect, that he might better learn the land that way, but his first view of the castle in that sight had nearly crossed his eyes with the confusion of motion and color. He also wished no distraction around folk who would not understand it and could well take offense.

  “Then you have my most heartfelt thanks,” he said, with a small bow in the scholar’s direction. “And
I’ll try to keep myself from asking too many questions. It isn’t often I have a chance to compare learning in these matters.”

  “Ah,” Antonio said with a careless flick of his hand, “my lord flatters me by asking my aid, and I will do what I can, but my learning is small. A few books here and there, a master met by chance in my life… I expect I would have as many questions for you as you for me. But in working together, we will assuredly each learn a great deal.”

  “Oh, of that I’m certain,” said Madoc.

  “And perhaps we may all talk at our leisure,” Elian suggested. “I’ve some wine from France, a decent vintage. After we dine, there may be time for two men of learning and one eager listener to enjoy it and to speak of many things.”

  “I would by no means impose on your time more than I’ve done already, my lord,” said Madoc, smiling, “but that sounds like more than a pleasant way to pass an evening. Though I would not take you from your family.”

  Mother and daughter were talking quietly. Green branches dipped over them, almost touching the white linen top of Teleri’s headdress. Sunlight speckled the scene with flecks of gold. Looking at the pair, Elian smiled fondly. “Were it more than an evening, I would be most loath to go. But we can all spare each other for so short a time. You will be here for several days, yes?”

  “If you’re gracious enough to harbor me so long.”

  “Then we can both pass a great deal of time in the ladies’ company.” His smile took on a significance, though a sincere and wholesome one, that made Madoc once more aware of how they were paired with the women. “And my son will have a chance to plague your serving man. He is Scottish, yes?”

  “Oh yes,” said Madoc.

  “Don’t worry.” Elian clapped him on the shoulder. “I know well that any ideas Iestyn gets into his brain are likely his own fault. My boy was a shade bloodthirsty before you ever approached my gates. God willing, the stories will sate him for a few years yet.”

  “Such are the ways of boys,” Madoc agreed with a laugh. He had to force it, though, and he wondered at Elian’s sudden reassurance.

  Truly, the reminder that Moiread was to all appearances a man now, and the hindrances that created, were uncomfortable. Still, Madoc had passed more than a few nights celibate before, and the world went on. As for Iestyn or the other men, surely Moiread could look after herself.

  Even so, Madoc glanced off toward the main castle when he could, seeking a woman he knew he wouldn’t see, and wondered what she was about.

  Thirty-five

  At dinner, Madoc still wondered. Moiread sat a short distance away at one of the lower tables, but too far for him to speak to her or overhear what she said to her companions. She looked in good humor. She smiled and laughed with her companions and talked easily, making lively gestures with her hands.

  They’d bought good clothing on the road, replacing both that which they’d ruined at the inn and that which they’d had to leave behind on Rhuddem’s death. Moiread wore a cream-colored linen tunic trimmed with green, along with green hose. Her hair, grown out of its crop over their journey, was neatly tied back.

  Even though her illusion of masculinity was firmly in place, Madoc felt desire stir as he watched her. The gestures were hers: the flash of her eyes, the way she turned her head, the outward flick of a hand to dismiss a point. The rich darkness of her hair was unchanged, and the brilliance of her eyes. He knew her true form—both of them—and seeing her as a man now, he realized, held the additional thrill of secrecy, of knowing what those around her couldn’t guess.

  “Lord Madoc?” Teleri spoke gently, calling his attention back to the table.

  “Ah, I’m sorry. I just…wanted to be sure Michael was having no trouble. Not that your men would give any, I’m sure.”

  “I’d like to think not,” said Elian. “The pair of you must have had a hard time of it, though, if you came through England. Bitter feelings there, I’d think.”

  “Some, yes,” said Madoc. “We kept to ourselves as much as we could. Michael tried to speak rarely.”

  “Did they offer you insult?” Iestyn asked. “Did you fight?”

  “Some, but nothing dire,” said Madoc. “On both counts. Michael broke a man’s nose, I believe, but that was hard to avoid.”

  “Didn’t you want to?” Before Iestyn could say more, he caught a quelling glance from his father and fell silent.

  “Wanting’s no part of it,” Madoc replied. “We had to get ourselves here, didn’t we now? Besides, the wars are done for both our countries. Two men on their own would have been fools to try to start them up again.”

  “I should like to think,” said Bronwyn, speaking for the first time during the meal other than pleasantries, “that no man would be fool enough to begin another war. Not in our lifetime, I pray, and not after.”

  “Would you have the English foot on our necks for all time?” Iestyn blazed up, whether out of patriotism or the chance to needle his sister Madoc wasn’t entirely sure.

  “It’s been there all my lifetime, and it doesn’t weigh so heavily to be worth the hardship of lifting it. The trouble with you,” Bronwyn added, “is that you’re too young to believe anything but the most romantic of stories.”

  “Oh? Well, the trouble with you—”

  “Enough,” said Elian. “Disgrace our house in front of a guest any more, and it’ll go badly for you both. Madoc, I ask your pardon for my children.”

  “Not at all,” Madoc said. “I’ve heard worse arguments from men three times their age.”

  “Ah, you’ve been at a court or two in your day,” said Signor Antonio, getting a general laugh from the table. “What would you counsel, Lord Madoc? Prudence or boldness?”

  “I am, thank God, not likely to be the one deciding,” he replied. “Lives and land both hang on such choices. I would not spend them lightly, but neither would I hoard them when spending can gain a people’s freedom. What say you, sir?”

  “Ah.” Antonio spread ringed hands, his smile deferential. “But I am a foreigner, and my own people more the conquerors than the conquered. My views mean little. Man is born to submit. It is only a matter of knowing the right master. That’s as much as I would dare to say.”

  Later he said more, but not of politics. In Elian’s solar, drinking good red wine, they spoke of angels, spirits, and demons. Madoc argued for the French translation of Liber Sacer, the grimoire from which he’d learned much of what Gilrion’s court had not taught him. Antonio held firm for the Latin and mentioned something called the Secret Book of Raquiel, which he’d read in Greek but sadly not brought with him.

  From there, they moved to the details of the ritual proper, working out the day and hour, who should stand where, and how far away the guards should be. “I would have Lady Bronwyn as our fourth,” Antonio said. “I know Iestyn’s your heir, my lord, but a boy his age is young to be given such a weighty task.”

  Elian nodded. “Time enough for such things when he has a cooler head on his shoulders. Bronwyn will do well. Besides,” he added with a smile at Madoc, “the last I spoke with your father, he believes it might be best for us both if she had some part in binding our lands.”

  “Truly?” Madoc asked, hearing the blatant second meaning to Elian’s words. The patterns he’d sensed that afternoon were real, then. As in Gilrion’s court, he was not particularly surprised. Courtesy and duty drew a smile from him, and he was saying, “It is an honor for you to consider such a request, sir,” before he’d even thought the words.

  “We can speak about it more after the rite,” Elian said. “Best to complete one task at a time, when God gives us such luxury.”

  * * *

  Sleep should have been easy. Long practice had left Moiread far from picky about her bed, and this one was likely to have clean bedding, warm blankets, and a whole roof overhead. She’d done considerably worse. She’d been on the
road all day. By rights, she should have been dozing in her plate at the meal, as she’d almost done on the night when she’d met Madoc.

  After an evening of trying not to watch him, of smiling, laughing, and not turning her head to note when he left the room with Lord Elian, of responding with polite interest to comments about his likely marriage, she knew she’d only spend hours tossing restlessly.

  Taking sword and whetstone, she left the hall and found herself a bench up against the castle wall, just beneath one of the towers. She was far from the only person in the courtyard. Servants went back and forth, extinguishing fires and sweeping rushes, and carrying plates of food back to the kitchens. Men-at-arms went up to their duty on the walls, or came back for their own meal and bed. A few glanced at Moiread. She nodded greetings, and they raised no alarm.

  Pools of yellow light dotted the dark courtyard, shining out of open windows and doors. People with candles or lanterns made smaller, moving sparks. Around them all, the castle loomed, a collection of great dark shapes, and the stars shone impassively above. A crescent moon cut a slim slice out of the blackness.

  Madoc would, of course, marry the girl. Bronwyn was no fairy princess with two other suitors, playing out a game for her mother’s pride. Nor was she a child whose father distrusted magic. She was a lady of Madoc’s own people: beautiful, young, virtuous, and a possible link in a wise alliance. Moiread could see nothing to impede the match.

  It was none of her affair.

  She scraped the stone up one side of her blade. It was a good sword. It took an edge well, balanced nicely, had a fine grip. She’d trusted it for years. It had served her well, save when it was too large for the fight at hand, as it had been in the inn.