by Joy Nash
Still, he had not shown the Aquilas his back. Only slaves and criminals endured the flagellum. He was not a slave, and he had no wish to explain the crime that had led to his arrest. He had said only that he had been ill. That was true enough.
The morning air was brisk. He stripped off his shirt, but left his breeches on. The scabs on his back itched terribly; he wished he could apply a salve, but the wounds were too difficult to reach on his own.
Cold water would help. The first shock on his healing skin brought a gasp. A moment later, all he felt was blessed relief. He waded to the deepest part of the stream. Crouching, he let the water run over his scabs.
It was too cold to stay there for long. Reluctantly, he dunked his head, scrubbing his hair with clean grit scooped from the streambed. Standing, he shook like a dog. And froze when he heard the small, feminine cry behind him.
Pollux.
He turned slowly. She stood on the shore, her herb basket anchored to one hip. Her free hand covered her mouth; above it, her blue eyes were wide with shock. Thanks be to all the gods in Annwyn he had not shed his breeches.
“Breena,” he said unsteadily. “I did not know you were here.”
The color had leeched from her face, making her freckles stand out like dark pebbles on white sand. Her dress was old, her feet bare. She looked more like a Celt wood sprite than a half-Roman girl of ten winters.
“Rhys,” she whispered. “Your…your back. What happened?”
He absolutely did not want to answer. He also knew there was no escape from Breena’s curiosity. With a sigh, he waded to the shore. He bent to retrieve his shirt while he considered how much of the truth he could safely tell her.
He decided to start with the obvious. “I was flogged.”
“With a flagellum. You were…arrested?” She swallowed. “Condemned to die?”
She was far too intelligent for someone so young, Rhys thought wryly. He shrugged into his shirt, trying not to wince as the fabric slid over his scabs. “Aye.”
“That is why you lost your harp,” she said. She had been most distressed when he’d arrived without it. He’d told the Aquilas only that it had been stolen. Again, true enough.
“I’ll make another one,” he said. And quickly, too, for without a harp to play, he would not eat.
“Why…why did they arrest you? Was it a mistake?”
Aye, it was a mistake, but not in the way she meant. He’d been beyond careless in casting magic too close to the Roman fortress at Londinium. A soldier had seen Rhys emerge from an illusion and had immediately sent up a cry. Scant moments later, Rhys had found himself arrested and charged with Druidry. Three brawny soldiers dragged him before their centurion, who had pronounced Rhys’s sentence with little ceremony. Forty lashes less one, and burning at the stake at dawn.
The flagellum was in itself an instrument of death. Multiple strips of leather, the ends tied with bits of metal and broken glass, flayed skin from muscle with ruthless efficiency. Rhys had borne only the first few blows in silence. After that, his screams had attracted a crowd.
But he could not tell Breena any of that.
“Aye,” he said. “A mistake.”
“And when they discovered their error, they let you go?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He’d gotten out of the mess the same way he’d gotten into it—with illusion. When the soldiers had opened his cage at dawn, he’d been simply—not there. Hidden by magic, he’d crawled away during the confusion of their search. But, again, he could not tell Breena. Not without admitting he was Druid. The Aquila family did not know of his magic.
“Roman legionary soldiers do not admit their mistakes,” he said. His tone was harsher than he intended. “I managed to escape before they could kill me.”
“Oh!” Her voice cracked. She looked down, and toed at the muddy stream bank. “I…I am sorry…that the…legionaries treated you so cruelly.”
He cursed himself as a heartless brute. “I mean no disrespect to your father,” he said quietly. “He is a legionary I am proud to count as a friend.”
She raised her head. “It must have hurt,” she said. “So badly.” Her blue eyes filled with tears. For him.
The back of his throat hurt. In the days following his escape, he’d lain in the forest, burning with fever, wondering if he would survive. He’d craved a word of sympathy; there had been none. He’d told himself it did not matter.
He had lied.
“It did hurt,” he admitted.
“Does it still?”
“Nay. It…itches. Fiercely.”
“Oh!” She bent her head, sifting through her basket. “I have plantain. And I saw more, just upstream. I’ll make a cold poultice. That should help.” She pointed to a flat rock. “Sit down over there, and take off your shirt. I’ll be back in a trice.”
She smiled through her tears and scampered away. Rhys watched her go, a smile touching his lips. The little lass was as practical as she was good-hearted and impulsive. Slowly, he sat on the rock and pulled his shirt over his head.
She returned with a great handful of broad green leaves, which she wet in the stream and crushed between two flat rocks. He hunched forward; she knelt behind him. With great care, she spread the leaves over his back. As she’d predicted, the itching soon subsided.
His heart healed as well.
Four days came and went, in which Breena learned very well what Lady Bertrice meant when she’d muttered about Igraine’s “moods.” Breena found herself in sympathy with Gerlois’s sour sister. After just four days, she felt like muttering, too.
After Breena had so unwisely pressed the subject of Gerlois’s abuse, the duchess seemed to fade from the world around her, retreating into herself like a turtle into its shell. Igraine moved slowly, spoke little, and ate only when Nesta or Breena coaxed or threatened. During the times when Breena sat with her, she tried everything she could think of to break through the icy wall Igraine had constructed. Nothing worked.
She did not know what to do, other than count the moments until Myrddin arrived. Igraine’s luxurious sitting room in the tower was little more than a prison. Lady Bertrice and Nesta came and went, but Breena was not permitted farther than the roof terrace, or the atrium garden. Gerlois’s sister feared Breena’s red hair would lure men into sin.
At night, Breena tossed and turned in Lady Bertrice’s narrow closet. The silver vision intruded, more distinct than before. First came the signs—falcon, shepherd, spilled wine, a pane of cracked glass, a bloodred moon. Then Igraine’s face, clearly visible now. Her silent scream as her attacker struck. The man’s visage remained shadowy, but Breena recognized his shape and manner. It was Gerlois.
The day preceding the opening of the harvest festival dawned clear and cold. Preparations for the great feast, which was to take place the following evening, were well underway. Breena watched the activity in the castle forecourt from the window in Igraine’s solar. The duchess had not spoken a word since Breena had so unwisely pressed her about Gerlois’s abuse. Breena could not even reach her through the link of magic they shared—when she cast her senses toward Igraine, it was as if she hit a stone wall. Breena had thus far done nothing to gain Igraine’s cooperation in her own rescue.
The tournament for her hand, to take place in two days, loomed large in her thoughts. She could hardly think for worrying about it. She needed help. She needed Gareth.
She scanned the forecourt, and the mainland beyond, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Perhaps Myrddin had arrived in Tintagel village. Perhaps he and Gareth were already together, plotting a way to free Breena and Igraine from the tower. If only Breena knew more!
At noon, Nesta arrived with a tray of flatbread and cheese, and a pitcher of wine. Breena coaxed Igraine to the table by the window. When the duchess was seated, Breena returned to the sideboard to help the maid.
“It has been four days. Does the duchess often withdraw from the world for so long?” she whispered. “How long might this last?”
Nesta bit her lip. “It happens often enough, when something has upset her. But it has been quite some time since she’s left us for so long. Not since her babe died last winter.”
“Do you think the loss has something to do with her melancholy?”
“Oh, aye, to be sure. Childbed melancholy sometimes lingers, even when the babe thrives. Often ’tis worse when the child dies.”
“Was the babe stillborn?”
“Nay. She was born live, but weak. The duchess even put her to breast. Perhaps it would have gone easier if she had not.”
“The child was a girl?”
“Aye. My lady called her Morgan. The duke was sorely displeased. He expected an heir. He would not even look at the little lass.”
Breena darted a glance at Igraine. The duchess sat like a statue. “How long did Morgan live?”
“Two days. On the morning of the third day, when I came to attend my lady, I learned she had died in the night.”
“How sad,” Breena murmured.
Igraine stirred. “She did not die. She did not.”
Breena’s head whipped around. Nesta all but flew to her mistress’s side. Dropping down on her knees, she chafed Igraine’s hand.
“Please, my lady, do not think on it.”
The fog had fled from Igraine’s eyes. “Morgan. My daughter. She did not die. She did not!”
Breena moved closer. “Why do you say that?”
Nesta shot Breena an apologetic glance. “She often went on so in the beginning,” she murmured. “It will pass.”
Igraine’s gaze clung to Breena’s. “Gerlois wanted a son. When he came into my room, and saw our daughter at my breast…he flew into a rage.”
Breena sucked in a breath. Gods. What had Gerlois done?
“He took her.” Tears ran down Igraine’s face. “He took her away. But he did not kill her.”
Breena’s arm went around the older woman’s shoulders. “I am so sorry. Nesta, please. Bring your mistress some wine.”
Nesta rose, frowning, but moved to the pitcher on the sideboard.
“You believe me?” Igraine asked, her voice low.
“I do.”
“Then you are the first.”
Nesta pressed a goblet of wine into Igraine’s hand. Igraine took a few sips, then placed the vessel on the table.
“Leave us,” she said to Nesta. Her voice was steady.
“My lady! You have not eaten.”
“Antonia will attend me. I am sure there is much for you to do in the kitchen.”
“But Lady Bertrice—”
“Go, Nesta.”
“Do not worry,” Breena told the woman. “We will be fine. If Lady Bertrice is displeased, I will speak with her.”
The maid gave a reluctant curtsy and withdrew. Breena took a seat and covered Igraine’s hand with her own.
“You cannot stay here, my lady. Not if you truly believe your husband stole your daughter away.”
Igraine’s laugh was short. “Of course I must stay. How can I leave? It pleases Gerlois to keep me locked away in this tower. I am to provide him with an heir. That is my only purpose.”
“You cannot believe that. To my mind, you owe the man nothing. He beats you, he tore your babe from your arms—”
“He is my husband.”
“He was never meant to be your husband. You were promised to Uther!”
“Yes,” Igraine said slowly, “I was. But that was a very long time ago.”
“You loved Uther. You danced with him only months ago, in Caer-Lundein.”
Igraine stiffened. “I had no choice. He all but dragged me from my chair at court. I went because…because I have known Uther forever. He is a distant cousin. He fostered with my uncle, King Erbin, as I did. He was such an arrogant boy! But we were great friends, the three of us.”
“Three?”
Igraine sent Breena an odd look. “Myself, Uther, and Geraint, Erbin’s son. But surely, you know that, Antonia? Geraint was your own kin as well.”
“Of course,” Breena said quickly, though she had no idea of whom Igraine spoke.
“Uther and Geraint were as close as brothers. They were like puppies, constantly snapping and wrestling, but they loved each other deeply. And I loved them both. Geraint was like a brother to me. But Uther…my dreams of him were not sisterly at all.”
Igraine raised her head, and seemed to stare intently, but Breena knew she saw nothing but the past. “I am older than Uther by three years. An eternity when one is young. When we first met, I was taller than he. Even after he became much larger and broader, I never missed a chance to remind him that I was his elder.”
Breena smiled. “How did he respond?”
Igraine laughed. It was a musical sound. “Absurdly! He’d fall to his knees at my feet, and tell me…and tell me he meant to wed me, so he might stay forever humble.” Her smile faded. “We began slipping off alone together, whenever we could. My old nurse, Vivian, aided our mischief. I promised myself to Uther when I was seventeen, and he fourteen. But even at such a young age, he was so strong, and so very confident.”
“Did King Erbin not consider it a good match?” Breena asked. “I cannot think why he would not. Uther was the king’s brother.”
“Erbin would not entertain the notion. He thought Uther too young, and too wild. He wanted the tempering of age, my uncle said. I vowed to wait for him. Less than a year later, Uther joined Ambrosius’s knights and rode to war. Barely a month later, the Saxons struck Llongborth. Geraint died defending the town. King Erbin was stricken with grief.”
Igraine brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Gerlois drove the Saxons off after Geraint fell. He became my uncle’s new heir. When he asked Erbin for my hand, my uncle gave his blessing willingly.”
“But what of your promise to Uther?”
“It crumbled like dust. We never had Erbin’s consent; the betrothal was not legally biding.” Igraine lifted her gaze. “But how could you know of my childish promise to Uther, Antonia? Almost no one did. Your parents certainly did not.”
Breena could not think what to reply. She was supposed to be Antonia, but lying to Igraine felt very wrong.”
“Myrddin told me,” she said at last.
Igraine’s eyes went round. “Uther’s Druid counselor? But Antonia, how—?”
“I am not Antonia.”
The duchess drew a sharp breath. “But…of course you are! You survived the Saxon raid. One of Gerlois’s knights brought you to me.”
“No. I was nowhere near the massacre. I am not your cousin. Saxons killed the real Antonia. Myrddin arranged for me to come here, using her name as a ruse. So I could speak to you.”
“Antonia…is gone, truly? That poor, poor child…” Igraine shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the remnants of a dream. “If you are not she…then who are you?”
“My name is Breena. Myrddin—and Uther—sent me to you. I am here to help you flee.”
Igraine’s eyes flared with alarm. “Surely you are not serious. I cannot flee. It is impossible.”
Breena leaned across the table. “It is entirely possible. Myrddin is coming for you, on Uther’s order. Indeed, he may already be here.” She hoped. “He will take you to Uther.”
“But…Gerlois is my husband.”
“He struck you,” Breena said. “He rejected your child. Under the old Celtic law, you have the right to put him aside.”
“How strangely you speak! What do the old laws matter? The church is the only authority now.”
“The church follows the teachings of the Christos. Is he not a god of love? I cannot believe he would smile on a husband who beats his wife. You loved Uther once. Do you love him still, as he loves you?”
“My feelings matter little,” Igraine said, clearly shaken. “What you propose is insanity. Gerlois will not give me up to the king. Not without a war.”
“If you do not leave him, it will mean your death.”
Igraine gripped the edge
of the table and stood. “No. Gerlois may strike me, but he would never—” She broke off as Lady Bertrice’s plodding footsteps sounded on the stair.
“We will speak more of this later,” Breena whispered as the door swung open.
Igraine seemed to fade into herself. “Speak all you want,” she said. “It will make little difference.”
Bertrice bullied the duchess into eating, then took up a seat in a cushioned chair. “Fetch my embroidery,” she ordered Breena.
Breena was only too glad for the excuse to leave the solar. She hurried down the stair to Bertrice’s chamber, but she did not immediately disturb Bertrice’s needlework. Instead, she went to the sideboard, and poured a goblet of wine.
She hurried to her small room and shut the door. Setting the cup on the table, she lit the lamp that lay beside it. Bracing her hands on either side of the cup, Breena dropped her head forward and let her mind fall into a trance. The harvest feast, and the tournament for her hand, approached with frightening rapidity. She had to know if Myrddin was near.
Her magic gathered. Light and shadow emerged on the surface of the wine—shifting, breaking, re-forming. The world faded; the heavy quiet fell like a blanket around her. She whispered a Word, and then added Myrddin’s name to the silence.
A dimly lit room sprang into view. A sliver of sunlight shone through the shutters, which were not quite closed. Thorny rose canes arched over the sill. Her gaze fell on the figure of a man, sitting upright in a chair.
Myrddin.
The Druid’s posture was rigid, his hand on his staff, as if preparing to rise. But his body was utterly still. For a moment, she feared he might be dead. But no. If he’d died sitting upright, he’d have fallen to the ground.
His eyes were open, staring unblinkingly at some point in the distance. Or, more likely, at some world visible only to him.
Gods. This was not what she’d wanted to See. She’d wanted to find Myrddin inside Tintagel’s gates, or in the village—or at the very least, approaching at a quick pace! Not deep in a trance, sitting in a dark cottage that was gods knew where.
The scene was lightening now, as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness. Myrddin was not alone. He sat beside an iron-framed bed. An old woman lay upon it, her white hair spread out over her pillow. Her eyes were closed; her sleep restless. Her lips moved, as if she were mumbling something, but of course, Breena could not hear.