by Joy Nash
“You oversee Tintagel’s servants, my lady?” Breena ventured.
“I am the castle’s chatelaine. In Lady Igraine’s stead, of course.”
“Does the duchess not tend to her own home?”
“The duchess!” Bertrice shot Breena a look over her shoulder. “Why, that is ludicrous. The duchess cannot even tend to herself most of the time. She cannot be left alone for long, lest she harm herself.”
“Harm herself? Why would she do such a thing?”
Bertrice sniffed. “The woman is melancholy. For all her beauty, she is malcontent. Her mood only worsened after the babe was born…”
“Igraine has a child?” Breena blurted out, before she realized that Antonia would have surely known this.
But Bertrice did not seem to think the question odd. “She had a child. It died scant days after its birth. I am not surprised you do not know of it. My brother did not announce the babe’s birth, or its death. It was only a female, after all.”
“I’m sure the duchess was inconsolable just the same.”
“To be sure. Igraine’s condition deteriorated alarmingly after the birth.”
“She fell ill? A childbed fever?”
“No. Your cousin’s deficiency is of the spirit, and of morality. Not of the body.”
Breena did not quite know what to make of that. “I do not understand.”
“Lady Igraine fell into melancholy when her babe died, and her bleakness of spirit only became worse after she visited Caer-Lundein this spring. She tolerates very few attendants. Myself only, and one or two maid servants. The rumors in town have been rife. The duke has not been pleased.”
Lady Bertrice’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Perhaps she will accept you, since you are her kin. I can only hope that is the case. It would be a great help to me, I tell you. With the festival fast approaching, my direction is sorely needed in the kitchen. At the same time, the duchess is in need of constant care. She is greatly agitated by Gerlois’s command that she appear at his side during the harvest feast and tournament.”
“I will try my best to be agreeable,” Breena said.
“See that you do.” Bertrice bustled into the laundry. Three women, engaged in folding linens, looked up. They curtsied to the duke’s sister, and eyed Breena with curiosity.
Bertrice clapped her hands. “A bath. At once.”
The servants abandoned their work to comply with their mistress’s order. Two women erected a screen in front of a copper tub, while the third hurried through a doorway leading to the outdoors, where fires burned under three large cauldrons. Two sweating women employed in stirring laundry abandoned their task to draw clean water for Breena’s bath.
When the tub was filled, Breena waved off offers of assistance and ducked behind the screen to undress. She tucked her Druid pendant inside the linen towel she’d been given. It would not do to have Lady Bertrice notice that Breena wore the symbol of the mother goddess.
When she emerged from her bath, she found an undertunic, blouse, and overskirt laid out for her. The cloth was very fine, and the colors dark and rich. Her muddy shoes had been replaced with leather slippers. She dressed, and quickly slipped her pendant under her bodice.
One of the maids braided Breena’s hair, and wound it tightly about her head. Lady Bertrice, watching Breena’s transformation with a critical eye, produced a veil as a finishing touch. No doubt to hide the ungodly color of Breena’s hair.
Lady Bertrice surveyed Breena from head to toe and gave a curt nod. “Come along.”
Back in the busy central courtyard, Bertrice halted before an iron-strapped door. The soldiers guarding the portal snapped to attention.
“My lady.”
A stout wooden crossbar was raised. Breena passed into a small atrium garden, planted at the base of the old Roman watchtower. The door to the main courtyard shut behind her; the crossbar thudded into place on the other side. The only other exit from the garden was the door in the base of the watchtower. The structure stood some six stories high; Breena tilted her head back and looked up. Though the lower stories retained a watchtower’s small windows, the windows of the upper three stories had been widened and set with mullioned glass. The lowest of these three levels gave out onto a narrow terrace on the roof of the abutting building. This, then, was where Duke Gerlois kept his beautiful wife.
Lady Bertrice strode swiftly across the garden. The arching cane of a rose, heavy with bloodred hips, snagged her skirts. The atrium’s fountain was adorned with a carving depicting a stone maiden tilting a jug. But the vessel was cracked, and no water flowed. Slime edged the rainwater in the basin.
Inside the watchtower, flickering torches illuminated the steps of a stone stairway, winding somberly upward. After four complete turns, the stair opened into a narrow vestibule. The room boasted two doors. The one on the outer wall likely led to the roof terrace Breena had glimpsed from the atrium. The other, Breena discovered, led to Lady Bertrice’s bedchamber.
Light poured from the window, illuminating furnishings—table, chairs, trunk, desk, and bed—that had once been opulent. Now they were worn with use, the upholstery faded. In the window, Breena noted, fully half the glass panes were cracked. In one panel the glass was missing entirely; parchment was tacked in its place. The room did not lack for heat, however. Coals smoldered in an iron brazier, with more in a bucket nearby.
Bertrice crossed to a narrow door in the corner of the room and pulled it open. “You may sleep here until your marriage.”
Breena peered into a small storage room containing folded linens and discarded furniture, including a narrow bed. “Thank you, my lady.” With difficulty, she kept the impatience from her voice. “May I greet my cousin now?”
“Yes. Igraine is above, in her solar.” Bertrice blew out a short, irritated breath. “Let us hope the duchess is not in one of her moods.”
Myrddin had told Breena that Igraine’s beauty was renowned. Gareth, too, had proclaimed the lady’s loveliness. Their paltry descriptions fell far short of reality. The Duchess of Cornwall was nothing short of sheer feminine perfection.
Upon entering Igraine’s solar, Breena tried her best not to stare. Igraine’s skin was the finest, most fragile ivory, blushed with roses. Her blue eyes, high cheekbones, and red lips merged in graceful perfection. Lush hair, gold with a touch of dawn red, was piled high on her head. A few loose curls dangled, emphasizing her slender neck.
Her figure was flawless as well. Tall and slender, with generous breasts, a narrow waist, and lushly curved hips, Igraine rivaled any Greek goddess. Or perhaps it might have been more accurate to compare her to Helen of Homer’s Iliad, whose beauty had been famed, more so than that of Hera and Athena. For just like Helen’s, Igraine’s beauty was destined to launch a war.
When Breena entered the room, the duchess was seated on a chaise with a maid in the chair beside her. Igraine’s brows drew together; she put aside her embroidery and rose. Her maid did likewise.
Igraine was dressed in Roman style, as elegantly as any patrician’s wife. Her undertunic of saffron linen was overlain by a stola of heavy golden silk, embroidered at the edges with gold thread and seed pearls. Her jeweled girdle was set with topaz and amber, and the pins at her shoulders and sleeves were twisted silver and gold. Her slippers were jeweled. And none of her garb was old, or worn, or mended, as everything else in Tintagel castle seemed to be.
She looked at Breena with a question in her eyes. Breena, quite nervous now, met Igraine’s gaze.
Breena’s eyes widened. Faint white sparks, shifting and swirling, clung to the duchess’s head and shoulders. The magic of a Seer. Myrddin had told her Igraine possessed Druid magic, but Breena had never expected she’d be able to see the duchess’s aura. For a moment, she just stared, wondering if her mind was playing tricks. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, Igraine’s aura vanished, fleeing before a dull silver pall.
Without a doubt, Breena knew that Igraine was the faceless woman of her dream.
The silver magic was only part of it. Her height, her graceful carriage, her air of sadness—it was all so familiar. And the painting on the wall—Breena noticed it now for the first time since entering the room. The beautiful, sad young man held a shepherd’s staff in one hand, and cradled a lamb in his other arm. This, too, she’d seen in her vision.
A bone-deep shudder ran through her. First the falcon circling the tower, now this. Myrddin had been right. This place, this time, this woman. All of it was Breena’s fate.
Her breath caught in her throat, making a sound like a hiccup. Lady Bertrice sent her a quelling frown. Breena closed her eyes against what felt like a sudden, dizzying dip of the floor.
“Duchess,” Lady Bertrice said. “Why, you look quite well today! I am pleased to see it.”
“Thank you. But whom have you brought to…”
Igraine’s question faded as the heavy, familiar silence descended upon Breena. Silver mist rose from the floor like a fog rising from a lake. Gray fingers of smoke reached upward, encircling Igraine, enveloping her, caging her…
A shadow moved to the left, at the edge of Breena’s vision. She swung her head in time to see the darkness materialize into the form of a man. He shoved past, his angry footsteps shaking the floor. It happened just as it always had, more times than Breena could count. Igraine’s eyes widened as the shadowy figure approached. He halted before her and raised his hand.
The man’s arm descended. Breena’s throat closed. She tried to move; she struggled to breathe. She could do neither. Blackness seeped into her vision.
And she was falling, falling, falling…
“Dear Christos! What has happened to her?”
“ ‘Tis just a faint, I think, my ladies—”
“Perhaps it is as my brother suggested. She carries a Saxon mongrel.”
Breena groaned, trying to make sense of the voices. Three women, talking at once. The cacophony of their speech only added to the pounding in her skull. She tried to bring her hand to her temple, but somehow could not figure out how to make the two connect.
“She’s waking,” a woman with a broad Celt accent said.
“But…who is she?” An utterly melodious voice uttered the question.
“Why, she is your own cousin! Lord Vectus’s daughter. Do you not recognize her?”
“Antonia? I thought…the Saxon raid…”
“She escaped. One of Gerlois’s knights found her. They arrived this morning.”
Breena struggled to fill her lungs.
“God be praised,” the lovely voice exclaimed.
“Poor thing.” It was the maid who spoke. “Only think what she must have suffered, if she is carrying a Saxon babe! ’Tis too horrible to contemplate.” Breena felt a light touch on her cheek. Then, as before, “She is waking, my ladies.”
With an effort, Breena opened her eyes. Three faces hovered above her. Bertrice, Igraine, and the unnamed maid.
“I am not,” she gasped through gritted teeth, “carrying a Saxon babe.”
Lady Bertrice’s pointed chin jabbed downward. “So you claim.”
“Bertrice!” Igraine admonished. “Surely fatigue and grief are sufficient cause for a faint.”
Bertrice sniffed. “I suppose.”
Breena sucked in a deep breath at last. Her lungs spasmed. Black and red swirls blotted her vision. She felt the room fade…
Unsympathetic fingers tapped firmly on her jaw. “Antonia! Stay with us, girl!”
Breena opened her eyes, twisting her head to avoid Lady Bertrice’s blows. “Please. I am fine. Or I will be, in a moment.”
“Thank goodness.” Igraine smiled her relief. The effect was dazzling. “Do you think you can sit up, Antonia?”
She was lying on her back on the floor, though she hadn’t felt herself fall. She pushed herself up with one arm, wincing as the movement brought a stab of pain to the back of her head. Tentatively, she touched the lump blossoming there.
“Nesta,” Antonia said. “Bring Lady Antonia some wine.”
The maid rose and crossed to a sideboard. She returned a moment later with a silver goblet, which she pressed into Breena’s hand. Obediently, Breena sipped. The wine was passable. Better, at least, than the sour swill Myrddin had carried. She dared not drink much, though. Her waking vision had left her stomach churning.
Lady Bertrice harrumphed. “I hope that blow to her head did not addle her brains.”
The duchess laid a cool hand on Breena’s forehead. “I am sure it did not.”
“Well. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps she fainted from exhaustion. But she’d better recover quickly, if she is to be married.”
“Can you stand, do you think, Antonia?” Igraine asked gently. “Nesta, help Lady Antonia to the chaise.”
The ground lurched only once or twice as the maid helped Breena to a padded bench. A pillow was placed under her head, and Bertrice ordered Nesta to the kitchens, to fetch meat broth and bread.
“Is my cousin betrothed?” Igraine asked Bertrice after the maid had gone. “I had not heard of it.”
“She is not, as of yet,” Bertrice admitted. “But the duke believes it prudent she should have a husband within the sennight.”
“So soon? Why, she has just lost her family!”
“All the more reason why she needs a husband,” Bertrice countered. “Especially if there is to be a babe.”
“There is no babe,” Breena said.
“Humfph,” Lady Bertrice snorted. “So you say.”
“I do not—”
Igraine placed a hand on Breena’s shoulder. “Lie back, Antonia. Try to relax. You’ll feel better in a moment.”
“I’m fine,” Breena lied. She was not fine. The waking vision had frightened her badly. And the prospect of a forced marriage did not help.
The duchess pressed the forgotten wine into her hand. “Drink again. It will help with the dizziness.”
Breena accepted the cup. The piece had once been very fine; now the intricacies of the silverwork were worn almost smooth in places. More fading opulence. Remnants of a safer, more prosperous time.
Lady Bertrice addressed the duchess. “Nesta will soon return with refreshment. I trust you and Antonia will be all right until then? I am wanted in the kitchens. There is much to do before the harvest feast.”
Igraine nodded. “Go with the Christos, sister.”
The door closed on Lady Bertrice. Breena let out a long breath. For a moment, silence ensued as Breena and Igraine exchanged a long look. Breena wondered at Bertrice’s comments about the duchess’s weakness of spirit. Igraine did not seem melancholy at all.
But there was something odd about the duchess. Breena tilted her head. The white glow reappeared, clinging to Igraine’s head and shoulders. Igraine’s Seer’s magic was stronger than Myrddin had led her to believe. And yet, Breena was certain Igraine could not reach her power. Dull silver strands flowed with the white, trapping it as if within a cage. The effect was so overpowering that Breena wondered if Igraine was aware of her power at all. There was some force holding it in check.
She wondered why Myrddin had not explained Igraine’s magic more fully. She understood much better now the task the old Druid had given her. Igraine had need of another Seer to protect her because her own magic could not.
Swiftly, hiding her lips with a feigned sip of wine, Breena murmured the Words of the joining spell Myrddin had taught her. She felt her power fly to Igraine. The link formed like a perfect knot joining two strands of silk. But if Igraine felt the connection, she gave no sign of it.
The duchess took Breena’s cup, and set it on a table. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Breena said. “I’m sorry to have caused such worry. I cannot think what came over me. I never faint.”
“You have good reason to feel fragile. You have lost your family. And now, you have the prospect of marriage to contend with.”
“There is no reason for me to wed,” Breena said. “I am not carrying a babe.”
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br /> Igraine’s hand rested on the chaise. “If my lord Gerlois has ordered you to wed, then wedded you will be. The duke does not often change his mind once he reaches a decision.”
The speech was delivered with an undercurrent of wretchedness. Breena felt a rush of concern for this sad, beautiful woman.
“Do you never question your husband’s decrees?”
“It is not my place to do so. A husband is the protector of his wife’s soul. It is a wife’s duty to obey her lord.”
The rote words were spoken in a whisper. Breena’s eyes searched the duchess’s face. When Igraine would not meet her gaze, Breena impulsively covered Igraine’s hand with her own.
The gesture lifted the edge of the duchess’s sleeve. Breena stared in shock at the ugly purple bruise encircling the delicate wrist. She inhaled sharply.
Igraine gasped and snatched her hand back. Standing abruptly, she shook her sleeve down.
“Igraine,” Breena said softly.
The duchess’s eyes met hers. The beautiful blue of her irises were shadowed with shame.
“Is it also a wife’s duty to bear the mark of her husband’s anger?”
Igraine reared back. “You overstep yourself, Antonia.”
“I think I do not. Does the duke abuse you?”
“He is my husband. My lord. It is his right.” The duchess rose and moved away. The discussion was over.
For now.
Chapter Nine
Rhys avoided the Aquila bathhouse, choosing instead to wash in the forest stream just beyond the farm’s barley fields. He had not relished the prospect of submerging his mangled back in a steaming hot bath. The thought of answering Marcus’s questions appealed even less.
He should not have come to the Aquila farm. He should have taken refuge on Avalon after his escape from the Roman army prison. But he had not. He told himself he’d dragged his battered body to Lucius Aquila’s gate because it was closer than Avalon. That was a lie. Though he’d first sought out the Aquilas at his grandfather’s command—to secretly gain information about a child Seer Cyric had sensed with his own Seer power—Rhys had gradually come to think of the Roman farm as home, and the Aquilas as his family.