by Joy Nash
Myrddin’s right hand gripped his staff; his left clasped the old woman’s hand as if anchoring her in this world. As Breena stared at her face, she was seized with sudden fear.
There was magic in that room. Deep magic. Magic beyond her understanding. Panic struck; she recoiled, yanking her mind away. The vision shattered. A shudder ran through her body. Her arm jerked, the back of her hand hitting the goblet.
The goblet tipped, the rim smacking the table. Wine spilled across the scarred wood. Breena stared at what she had done, aghast.
Another premonition from her vision, come to pass.
The deep magic she’d disturbed vibrated around her. As her shaking hand righted the goblet, she became aware of yet another force, rising from the ground and seeping into the space around her. Dark magic.
Dafyd! It had to be. Her own magic was hidden by Myrddin’s spell. The sorcerer must have sensed the deep magic she’d touched in her vision. And now he was looking for its source.
Dear Goddess. What had she done?
“God’s teeth, tongue, and cock!” Trent exclaimed. “What a crowd!”
“Aye,” Howell said. “ ‘Tis much bigger than last year. They’ve all come for the tournament, I reckon.”
Trent clapped his hands briskly and rubbed. “There’s a sack of coin to be earned here, lads.”
Rhys rolled his shoulder, and winced. He was getting too old for sleeping on rocks. The troupe had bedded down in the open on the road from Glastonbury to Tintagel. The few inns they’d passed had been filled with paying guests. There was scarcely an empty stable loft to offer a group of scruffy minstrels. But at least they’d eaten well. A song and a bit of entertainment could always be trusted to earn a meal.
Their brisk pace had paid off. The troupe had arrived in Tintagel the day before the festival. The village was abuzz with last-minute preparations.
The merriment had already begun in the city of tents on the field north of town. Trent, Howell, and Floyd were in their element, laughing and jesting with every soul they passed. Even Kane seemed less dour. Rhys trailed after them, but the commotion going on all around meant nothing to him.
His entire attention was focused on Tintagel castle.
It was the most impressive fortress Rhys had ever seen. And that was saying something, for Rhys was well acquainted with the Roman legionary fortresses in Londinium, Eburacum, and Isca Silurum. The sprawling structure, surrounded by high, thick walls, perched atop sheer rock. A dizzying drop ended in jagged rocks and turbulent sea. It might have been the stronghold of a god.
But the castle’s form, and its situation, was not the reason Rhys could not drag his eyes from it. When the troupe had first caught sight of the castle, at the top of the rise outside town, the atmosphere around it had been bright and clear. As Rhys entered the village, a dark glow streamed skyward, rising from the walls of the fortress. Magic. And not of the benign sort.
Before his eyes, the spell burgeoned into a blanket of darkness. It wrapped the structure with evil in much the same way Gwen’s mist protected Avalon with Light. Rhys did not mistake the crimson sparkle intertwining with the dark strands. This was surely Bishop Dafyd’s work.
Dafyd was not the sorcerer who had brought Breena through the standing stone—of that, Rhys was certain. But there seemed to be so few Druids in this Britain. In the past sennight, Rhys had encountered many people—monks, servants, villagers, farmers, innkeepers, travelers. And now, he was faced with the crowds assembled for the festival. Rhys could not detect even a wisp of minor Druid talent among all of them.
With so few rivals, the few Druids who did exist in this time had to be well aware of each other’s movements. Disputes were likely. Breena might have been brought from the past by one Druid, in order to provide an advantage over a rival. Or perhaps the two Druids Rhys knew of—Dafyd and Myrddin—were working together.
“My God, men!” Trent’s exclamation roused Rhys from his brooding. The little man had spun around to walk backward before the troupe, as was his habit. He spread his arms wide. “Will you but look at the people! I have never seen the like.”
To Rhys, the festival crowd did not seem exceptional. More people visited a regular market day in Aquae Sulis. A week of games in Londinium easily drew ten times the crowd. Apparently, the population of Britain was in decline.
He’d cobbled together a history of sorts from the troupe’s idle banter. The Roman Empire was on the brink of collapse. The legions had abandoned Britain and the other frontiers. Germania was overrun with barbarians, and even Rome’s forces in Gaul were in retreat. There was speculation that within a few years, the city of Rome itself would fall. In Rhys’s time, such a notion would have been unthinkable.
Upon the Roman army’s withdrawal from Britain, many nobles, and a good portion of its merchant class, had also fled. Britain had been quickly divided among the various Romano-British lords and chieftains who had remained. The Saxon barbarians, immediately recognizing a weakened enemy, had wasted no time in attacking.
The noble family of the present high king, Uther Pendragon, had been among those who fled, after the murder of Uther’s father, King Constans. Uther had spent most of his childhood in Brittany and in remote Dumnonia, far from the violence brought to the eastern shores by Saxon raiders. He’d been barely more than a boy when he joined Ambrosius, his older half brother, in a quest to unite Britain’s fractious rulers under one high throne.
King Ambrosius had been a true diplomat. But diplomacy had eventually earned him a knife in the back, delivered by a treacherous Saxon during a sham peace treaty conference. Since that dark day, war in Britain had been constant.
“Aye, audiences aplenty we’ll have here,” Howell said to Trent. “As for earning coin, I’m not so hopeful. I wager few in this swarm have even seen an as this past year, let alone a denarius! More likely, we’ll be offered payment in skillets and brooms.”
It was true. The market was busy, but almost every transaction, from what Rhys could see, was bartered.
“Ah, well,” Floyd said, sniffing at the aroma of roasting mutton. “If sacks of bronze and copper are not forthcoming, at least we’ll be fed.”
They made their way through the village of tents. Some were elaborate structures, others little more than blankets tied to sapling frames. A pair of grubby children darted across the path. One clipped Floyd behind the knee—on purpose or not, Rhys could not tell.
Floyd went down hard, his arse hitting the ground with a solid thump. He spit curses at the urchins, who neatly vanished between the rows of tents. Laughing heartily, Howell and Kane gave their friend a hand up.
Floyd was soon grinning ruefully, rubbing his arse. “Ah, well, at least I missed the worst of the mud.”
Rhys smiled. Despite his fear for Breena’s safety, he could not help being amused by the antics of Trent’s troupe. The four men were like good-natured puppies, snarling and scratching, then just as quickly rolling and licking.
Floyd’s fall had attracted attention of the surrounding market-goers. Trent, ever quick to note an opportunity, elbowed Kane in the ribs.
“Quick, man! Your flute.”
The youth obliged. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Give us a song, minstrels!”
“Aye, do!”
The troupe suddenly found themselves in the center of a wide circle. “Ah, and so our dinner is cooked and served,” murmured Trent. “Good God, Rhys, what are you waiting for? Let’s see that harp!”
With wry amusement, Rhys slung his pack from his shoulder and obliged him. Trent flung his arms wide, pacing a wide circle around his companions. He bowed right, then left, then to the front and back.
“Gather ’round!” shouted Howell.
Kane began a lively tune. He’d played the same melody in a tavern two nights before. Rhys picked out a countermelody on his strings. Floyd’s tenor mingled with Howell’s deep bass.
Gather ’round, gather ’round, Journeymen and homeward bound! Feast you
r ears, feast your eyes, God hath made a man who flies!
On the final note, Howell dropped down on one knee. Using the big man’s thigh as a springboard, Trent launched himself skyward. He executed a midair flip before landing lightly on his feet.
Shocked exclamations arose. As it happened, Trent had landed not two steps before an elderly woman. He bowed low to the wizened crone.
“My beauty, I would fly to the moon for the merest chance to kiss your feet.”
The old woman laughed. “Cheeky lad.”
The crowd roared. The troupe sprang into action, taking new positions, and launching into a new song—a bawdy ditty that soon had the women shrieking and the men laughing heartily. More acrobatics from Trent followed. Rhys joined the well-rehearsed show as best he could with his harp and voice.
The short exhibition drew to a close when Trent climbed onto Howell’s shoulders, balancing with ease. The giant sprang skyward, launching his friend into the air. Trent executed three complete flips before landing with a bounce and a flourish.
Much as Howell had predicted, the impromptu performance did not produce much in the way of coin. Trent added only two quadrans—half of an as—to the communal purse. But he gained a string of painted wooden beads, and a hat with a plume, which pleased him well. And of course, many offers of food and drink.
The stew was simple fare, but filling. The meat and turnips had been provided by Lord Gerlois’s bounty. Hard barley bannocks were plentiful. There was even puls, a sweet mixture of curd cheese, grain, and honey. Ale flowed like water from a mountain spring.
Howell and Kane had erected the troupe’s tent at the edge of the field. Their position—a too-windy bit of hillside—overlooked the tournament grounds. Tintagel castle rose from the cliffs beyond, its dark cloud hanging above it like a pall. The troupe’s hearty laughter seemed incongruous to Rhys. He had to remind himself none of the others could sense the malevolent magic.
He eyed the line of colorful banners hung over the castle gate. “Bishop Dafyd’s standard is the one with the white cross, aye?”
“To be sure,” Howell said around a bite of stew. “No doubt he’s been here several days already. His party would have come by sea, rather than jostle his Excellency’s tender arse over the road.”
“And the rest? To whom do they belong?”
“Why, to just about every noble in Dumnonia. Clarence of Tregear’s standard is the lion; Allan of Seaton, the oak leaves. The stag belongs to…” Howell frowned, looking toward Trent.
“Maddock of Bolerium,” the little man supplied promptly. “Lord Timon of Siluria has the bear, and the double-headed eagle belongs to Hyroniemus of Carn Brea.”
“The castle is likely filled to the rafters with nobles,” Floyd commented.
“Gerlois of Cornwall’s standard must be the black tower,” Rhys said. It was the largest banner, and hung directly over the gate.
“Aye, that’s right,” Howell said. “Only Dewnan’s flag is missing. That is old King Erbin’s seat. He is too infirm to travel.”
“What of the high king? Will he impose on the festivities with his Druid counselor?”
Trent frowned. “If he does, ’twill be with an army at his back. To meet the army Gerlois has assembled here.”
“I’d welcome Uther’s attack,” Howell declared. “Gerlois’s defiance of the high king must stop. If that means war, so be it.”
“Ho, man! Are you mad?” Floyd shook his head. “I have no wish to be caught in the middle of a war.”
Rhys was inclined to agree with Floyd. He would like to investigate Gerlois’s island fortress before any war began. He turned his attention once again to the pall hanging over the castle. He had to get in. He could, perhaps, slip into the gates under the cover of a lookaway spell. Such a spell worked best when those near it were largely inattentive, preoccupied with their own business. It would be difficult to pass through an active checkpoint undetected. He might cast an illusion, and give himself the appearance of a local lord. Though, presumably, the guards would know who was expected.
Shape-shifting was another option. A falcon could fly easily over the castle walls. But shifting involved deep magic. It was dangerous of itself, and doubly so in this situation. When Rhys’s deep magic touched Dafyd’s pall, there was a danger the sorcerer would sense it. And Rhys was not willing to give up the advantage of anonymity just yet.
“With so many noble guests in residence,” Rhys said slowly, “surely there is a great need for entertainment inside the castle.”
Trent gestured with a half-eaten bannock. “Oh, to be sure. No doubt the castle forecourt is teeming with minstrels and actors rehearsing for tomorrow’s feast.”
“Therein lies our opportunity,” Rhys said. “Surely if we are to be paid in coin, rather than in chickens or pottery, we must perform inside the castle.”
Howell’s mug thunked on the board that served as their table. “Are ye mad? The sorry likes of us, inside Tintagel castle?”
“Why not? Our talents are many and varied.”
“But our costumes are not,” Howell countered. “My God, man! What castle guard worth his salt would allow a ragged bunch like ourselves past his gates?”
“I’m afraid Howell has the right of it,” Trent said with a sigh. “ ‘Tis a pleasant dream, but I fear the market square must be our stage. There are merchants galore in Tintagel village. I anticipate a tidy fortune—if not in copper and brass, then, aye, in poultry and pots.”
“Coin is far more portable,” Rhys persisted. “Surely you agree that the best talents must be displayed on the highest stage! And surely our talents are the best. It would be a disservice to the duke to stay away.”
Trent laughed at that. “Until this very moment, Rhys, I did not think you an ambitious sort.”
“If ’tis possible to gain glory, why not try? Why should we grub among peasants, when we may dine with nobles? And surely, with this wind, it is much warmer inside Tintagel’s walls.”
“Aye, all true enough,” Trent said, eyeing the roof currently over their heads. It was nothing more than an oiled cloth, one corner whipping in the stiff breeze gusting off the sea. “ ‘Twould be very grand, I am sure, to pitch our tent in Tintagel’s forecourt, and make our bow at tomorrow’s feast.”
“Who chooses the entertainers for the duke’s table?” Rhys asked.
“Why, the castle steward, I imagine,” Trent said.
“Then why not beg an audition?”
“Dressed in rags?” exclaimed Kane. “The guards at the gate would laugh us into the sea! We would never even see the steward.”
“New clothes can be had easily enough,” Rhys said. “I saw several textile merchants in the market.”
“And with what, pray tell, shall we pay for these new garments?” Howell demanded. “Our good looks and charm? Our music and wit? We could sing for a solid month and nay earn a single costume fit for the duke’s stage.”
“Ah.” Rhys opened his pack. He removed his harp, a spare shirt, and a few other personal items.
Howell peered inside the satchel. “As empty as our own pockets. What are you about, man?”
Rhys drew his eating dagger. With a swift stroke, he reached inside the pack and cut a swift slash in the bottom. Then, sheathing his knife, he turned the satchel upside down and shook.
Three shining bits of metal spilled into the dirt at Trent’s feet. The little man was on the coins in a trice.
“Will they be enough, do you think?” Rhys asked.
Howell, Floyd, and Kane were all on their feet, crowding around their leader.
“Good God,” Howell breathed. “Silver!”
“Are they real?” asked Kane.
“Aye, of course,” Rhys said.
“We shall see.” Trent reached for his own dagger, his gaze intent as he scraped the tip across the face of each coin. He squinted at the coins, then tested each between his teeth.
“They are silver! Not coated copper or brass at all.” The little m
an’s eyes narrowed on Rhys. “Where did you get them? Surely not in Gwynedd.”
Rhys hesitated, unsure how to answer. Pure silver denari were common in his Britain—he hadn’t anticipated the troupe’s amazement. In this time, it seemed, silver coins were a rarity. How to explain?
He needn’t have worried. Trent kept right on talking, inventing his own tale. “You must have the devil’s own luck! ’Tis many an abandoned villa or fort I’ve searched, but I’ve yet to find a single cache buried by the liver-hearted nobles who fled across the channel. Where did you come across these?”
“Er…an abandoned villa.” The Aquila farmstead was the first possibility that popped into his mind. “Near Isca Silurum.”
“Caer-Leon, ye mean? Aye, that was once a rich bit of countryside.” Trent peered at the three coins, front and back. “Two from Hadrian’s reign, one from Trajan’s. Why, these coins are more than three hundred and fifty years old! And yet, they look all but newly minted.”
“Is that a problem?” Rhys asked warily.
Trent grinned. “Not for the right people. And trust, me, my good man. If anyone knows the right people, ’tis I.”
“Ah, don’t ye look the fine dandy,” Trent declared to Rhys the next morning. “With that bright tunic and your lofty, fair head, the lasses will swoon at your feet.”
“Or, more likely, cover their eyes against the glare,” Rhys replied. Dressed in his new yellow tunic, he all but rivaled the sun itself.
Trent had been as good as his word. He’d taken the first of Rhys’s silver coins and traded it for bolts of colorful silk. Overnight, the second coin had transformed the silk into tunics and breeches. Rhys was not sure what the little man had done with the third coin. He suspected it was deep in Trent’s pocket.
“Aye,” laughed Howell, tugging at his own sky blue shirt. “The other minstrels will fade into the shadows.”