by Joy Nash
Floyd wore a tunic of crimson, Kane of chartreuse. Somehow, Trent had managed to secure a purple costume for himself. Rhys suspected he might have paid more for that one small tunic than all the rest put together.
“I look like an apple,” Floyd complained, smoothing the fabric of his crimson shirt over his belly. “What were you thinking, Trent, to garb me in such a color? I would have much preferred Kane’s green.”
“The green cloth was cut too narrow for your girth,” Trent said.
“Why would you want the green?” Howell demanded. “Kane’s shirt is the color of goose turd.”
“Aye,” Kane added darkly. “If goose turd be lit from within. Be thankful, Floyd, that you have the red.”
“The color ’twill likely not last, anyway,” Howell said, clapping a heavy hand on Floyd’s back. Floyd staggered forward two steps. “I’d wager the dyer ne’er clapped eyes on a madder root. Your shirt will run pink in the first rain.”
“Oh, aye, and that’s a relief,” Floyd muttered.
Kane interrupted. “What I cannot understand, is why Rhys would waste a fortune to clothe us.”
Trent clapped the youth on the shoulder. “Why, as an investment, of course! We’re sure to double his coin! And think of the food on the duke’s table.”
“I am!” Floyd said. “ ‘Tis the only reason I donned this humiliating costume.” He looked heavenward. “Where is my dignity?”
“Dignity’s a grandly overrated commodity,” Howell said. “It does not fill bellies. But a fine show, delivered with daring and color, will make us rich.”
“Let us just pray the sun shines until the festival’s closing trumpet,” Kane muttered.
“Lads, lads! Stop your whining.” Trent waved a wooden card. “Let us thank God above for this seal from the castle steward! The Brothers Stupendous will play this very night at the harvest feast, before Duke Gerlois himself!”
“The Brothers Stupendous?” Howell’s bark of laughter rang out. “Good God, Trent, I fear your brain took more damage than I’d thought, when that black-haired lass’s father came at ye with an ax last month.”
Trent grimaced. “It is cruel of you to remind me of that incident, Howell. How was I to know the lass was a virgin? Anyway, we have far more important matters to attend to at the moment. Do you know, ’tis said the beautiful Lady Igraine herself will stand at the duke’s side at tonight’s feast? And ’tis rumored she will also appear at the ceremonies on the field this afternoon. Time is growing short—we must decide on our show. We should open with a ballad, methinks.” He turned to Floyd. “What do you suggest?”
Floyd considered. “Oh, without doubt, it must be the tragic tale of the Battle of Llongborth. The heroic Prince Geraint was kin to Lady Igraine.”
“Ah, a brilliant proposal.” Trent shot a glance at Rhys. “You know the tune, I trust?”
Rhys cleared his throat. “Actually, I do not.”
“My God, man, ’tis most popular!”
“Not in Gwynedd.”
Trent huffed his irritation. “Ah, well, no matter. We’ll sing of Uther’s victory at Mount Damen. Surely ye know that one?”
Rhys shook his head.
“Nay? Truly? Well, then, what of the Night of the Long Knives? That tale of Saxon treachery never fails to stir the blood.”
“I will learn it quickly, if Kane will but teach me.”
The little man shot Rhys a look of pure incredulity. “How can it be, man, that you do not know the ballads sung in every public house in every town in Britain?”
“The songs I prefer are older,” Rhys said. “The tale of Rhiannon and Pryderi. The sagas of the Sons of Llyr. Or the ballad of Ceridwen and Taliesin.”
“You sing of the old gods and goddesses?” Kane was aghast.
Even Trent’s chin went down. “Fine enough, perhaps, for a tavern, but in Tintagel’s great hall? With Bishop Dafyd at the high table? It will not do. You’d best learn one of the popular ballads, and quickly.”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Rhys agreed.
“Fine. Well, come along then, lads. Rhys, Floyd, Kane—you find a quiet spot—if you can!—and rehearse your music. Howell and I will practice the tumbling. Come this evening, we’ll give the duke a show he’ll not soon forget!”
Chapter Ten
Myrddin ran in blind panic, forest flashing past in a blur. The dog’s teeth snapped at his tail. His mind, submerged inside the brain of the hare he’d become, could not reach its magic.
Water. Up ahead. The crisp scent teased his nose. A river. Deep and swift. Fear gaped like a ravenous jaw. A dead end. The dog would win.
No. He angled his course over smooth, wet rocks. His hind feet slid too fast. Paws scrabbled for purchase, and found none. The ground fell away…
A splash. Cold! Water closed over his head. He twisted, frantic, lungs bursting. He could not breathe. And then…
He could. Air, blessed air, flowed through his gills. The current rippled over his shining scales. Water magic bathed his new body—that of a fish. The dog could not catch him now! With a flip of his tail and a twitch of his fins, he glided downstream.
Up on the riverbank, out of sight, the dog stood at point. Magic skimmed over its fur. Its body melted, reforming into a brown-pelted otter. The creature splashed into the water and renewed the chase.
Trent was too short to see over the heads of normalsized men, and too proud to ride on Howell’s shoulders. Rhys wasn’t quite sure how the wily little man had managed it, but somehow he’d secured the Brothers Stupendous a prime bit of dry ground in the front row of spectators. Every man, woman, and child from the village crowded behind them, eager for a glimpse of the beautiful Igraine, Duchess of Cornwall.
On the far side of the field, the viewing stands erected for the nobles stood well above the muddy ground, awaiting the lords and ladies who would fill them. Colorful canopies topped the padded benches, allowing the sun to warm the spectators from the south while blocking the wind from the north. Below the high platforms, several rows of benches had been provided for the wealthier merchants.
A pair of horns blew. Anticipation rippled through the crowd. The gates of Tintagel opened, emitting a slow procession of horses and litters. The nobility rode out first, each lord preceded by his standard bearer and flanked by his knights, whose bright tunics bore their lords’ colors. If a lord’s wife or daughters were present, they rode behind. As each party approached the field, the knights who were to compete in the upcoming tournament turned their horses onto the field. The nobles dismounted and climbed to their places in the viewing booths.
Howell, standing at Rhys’s right elbow, kept up a running commentary. “There’s Clarence of Tregear…Maddock of Bolerium…Ah, Lord Maddock has brought his lovely lady wife, Honoria. A stalwart female she must be—not many noblewomen are willing to brave the indignities of the road.”
The next group came into view, prompting the giant to snort. “What a sour-looking wife Lord Hyroniemus has! I do not envy that man. Here’s Timon of Siluria—his heir will surely make a fine showing on the field tomorrow…Lord Allan of Seaton…that poor bastard has only daughters—five of them! But they are young yet, and I see he’s left them at home.”
Howell paused, squinting back toward the castle gate. “I wonder if Lady Igraine will truly appear. ’Tis said she has not left the castle since returning from Caer-Lundein last Eastertide.”
A small group of brown-clad clerics followed the nobles. Rhys’s gaze sharpened as he picked out Bishop Dafyd’s litter. The drapes were pulled back, revealing the round form of the bishop seated upon a red velvet chaise. He raised one hand in blessing.
Rhys’s skin crawled. The aura of menace clinging to the hypocrite was sickening. But the crowd, it seemed, held their duke’s brother in high reverence. The spectators lining the path of the procession bowed low as Dafyd passed. Some held their children aloft, seeking added blessings. To Rhys’s mind, they would have been far better off fleeing in the opposi
te direction.
Bishop Dafyd’s attendants bore their burden to the viewing platform. The bishop alighted with the help of the tall, black-cowled attendant Rhys had seen at Glastonbury Abbey. The pair climbed the steps to the duke’s center box.
Trumpets sounded a second time. All eyes turned to the castle. The booming voice of a herald rose over the commotion of the crowd.
“All hail his grace, Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall, honored heir to King Erbin of Dumnonia!”
Gerlois, mounted on a huge white stallion, rode out from Tintagel. A thunder of applause greeted him as he crossed the narrow path to the mainland.
Rhys eyed the duke’s approach with open curiosity. Gerlois was Dafyd’s brother—Rhys had wondered if the duke might also possess Druid magic. But nay. There was not the merest spark of an aura about Gerlois.
Rhys was surprised to see the duke arrayed in full Roman armor. The polished iron segments gleamed in the sun. A crimson Roman army cape fluttered from his shoulders, and the hilt of a gladius glinted on his belt. The Roman garb contrasted oddly with the twisted torc about Gerlois’s neck, the symbol of a Celtic chieftain’s royalty. In Rhys’s time the Celts and Romans were only beginning to blend as a people. Three hundred years, it seemed, had completed the transformation.
Gerlois was a large man, his bearing that of a hardened warrior. Only his large girth hinted at his age, which Howell guessed to be near forty. Rhys eyed the man’s armor. It was clearly a relic; the soldiers he’d seen in this time wore lighter and more maneuverable chain mail. Their swords were longer than the ones worn by the Roman legions—spathas, Howell called them. In a low voice, Rhys questioned his friend about the duke’s affinity for the trappings of Rome.
“Aye, to be sure, Gerlois loves to flaunt his Roman ancestors,” the giant replied. “He hopes to convince us the glory of Rome is not quite gone from Britain’s shores. Bah! Rome is nothing but a hulking carcass, being picked clean by Visigoths and Vandals! There are none of us so foolish as to pin our hopes upon a set of antique armor. Uther would never stoop to such inane pageantry.”
Gerlois halted his mount at midfield. His subjects, their bellies full of the duke’s mutton, roared their enthusiasm. Gerlois lifted his arms in acknowledgment. After a moment, he reined in his warhorse and rode to the center viewing booth. He dismounted, but did not immediately climb the stair. As an attendant led his prancing stallion to the far end of the field, he looked toward the castle.
Murmurs of awe wove through the crowed. For the third time, trumpets blared.
“By heaven!” Kane’s voice trembled. “The rumors were true! The duchess approaches!”
Rhys could hardly hear his own thoughts over the roar of the throng. The woman might have been a goddess for the adulation she inspired. Curious, he shaded his eyes to get a better look at her. He caught sight of not one, but three noblewomen. Each rode a white mare decorated with colorful streamers. The trio was escorted by no fewer than eight knights on horseback.
“I give you Lady Bertrice of Cornwall,” the herald cried.
“Gerlois’s widowed sister,” Howell shouted.
“I give you Lady Antonia of Vectus!”
“Truly?” The giant craned his neck. “Why, I thought Vectus’s daughter died in the Saxon raid along with the rest of her family. Now it seems she was spared. By the Christos, look at those bosoms! And that hair peeping from under her veil—why, ’tis like a living flame…”
A low buzz sprang up in Rhys’s ears. The roar of the crowd faded. Nay. It could not be.
The herald’s voice seemed very far away. “I give you Igraine, Duchess of Cornwall!”
The spectators sent up a deafening cheer. “God’s teeth!” Howell yelled directly in Rhys’s ear. “I am stunned. Lady Igraine is even more beautiful than they say!”
The Duchess of Cornwall might have been a withered old hag, for all Rhys noticed. He did not see her. How could he, when his eyes were fastened on the redhaired woman riding at her side?
The buzz in his ears became deafening. A wave of overwhelming relief threatened to turn his legs to molten wax. He had to lock his knees to keep his limbs from folding.
Great Mother. He’d found her.
And she did not look wretched, or frightened, or desperate. On the contrary. Garbed in flowing green, her brilliant hair swept up under a scrap of a silk veil, seated on a white mare decorated with ribbons, Breena looked like a princess.
Rhys could hardly wait to throttle her.
She had to find Gareth.
That thought was uppermost in Breena’s mind as she entered the duke’s booth in the tournament stands. Igraine, draped in a white cape embroidered with silver thread, took the seat on Gerlois’s right. Bishop Dafyd and Lady Bertrice sat with the duke and duchess in the fore of the box, Dafyd on Gerlois’s right, Bertrice on Igraine’s left.
Breena moved into the rear of the booth, where two empty chairs waited. One, it seemed, was meant for Dafyd’s disfigured acolyte, but the monk had not availed himself of it. Instead he stood stiffly behind it, his cowl draped forward to shadow his face. Breena felt a rush of sympathy for the man. But when she nodded in greeting, his only response was the barest nod. He turned his face away.
The autumn day was crisp and clear; she clutched her cloak tightly about her shoulders as she sat. The garment was lined with fox fur. It did little to warm her icy panic.
Myrddin was not coming to Tintagel. He was trapped in a trance. What in the name of the Goddess was she to do? She scanned the tournament grounds for Gareth, her only lifeline in this time.
She spotted him at the edge of the field, with Gerlois’s tournament knights. Mounted, they wore the green and white of Cornwall over shirts of mail. Gareth’s Jupiter looked eager for action. The warhorse’s big body shied to one side.
As if the young knight had felt her regard, he looked up, tilting his visor with one gloved hand. Their eyes met, and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
It wasn’t enough. She had to speak to him. She had to tell him about her vision of Myrddin. And of the evil spell that had descended over Tintagel when she’d touched the elder Druid’s deep magic.
There was to be no competition this first day, merely introductions of the lords and their champions, followed by a display of horsemanship. Afterward, the duke was to present Breena—or rather, Antonia of Vectus—as his cousin and ward, and announce the contest for her hand.
Gareth would be shocked. She wished she could warn him before the announcement was made. She’d briefly contemplated using Nesta as a messenger, as the maid had free run of the castle. But there was neither pen, parchment, nor ink in Igraine’s tower, and Breena did not trust Nesta to deliver a verbal message; the maid was far too friendly with Lady Bertrice. And so Breena had been forced to bide her time. She hoped to snatch a few moments alone with Gareth at tonight’s feast.
More than thirty mounted knights arrayed themselves behind their lords’ standards at one end of the field. The crier called each nobleman’s name, then announced the warriors competing under his banner. How many would vie for Breena’s hand? Gareth had sworn to Myrddin to keep her safe; he would likely add his name to the lists. But could he win? She eyed his competition. She had no way of knowing.
Unsettled, she cut her gaze to the crowd of commoners across the field. The unruly mob shifted like a drab mosaic—the dominant colors of their dress were gray, brown, and a dull green—except for five bright flashes of color in the very front row.
She focused first on a figure in cerulean. The man was a veritable giant, standing head and shoulders above every other person present. His four companions were as vibrantly garbed as he. A fat man in crimson, a slight young man in putrid green, and a very short fellow amazingly garbed in royal purple. A step to one side, stood a tall, fair-headed man clothed in brilliant yellow.
The man in yellow was not looking at the field, but toward the duke’s booth. In fact, Breena thought, it almost looked as if he were staring directly at her.
Her cheeks heated, despite the chill in the air. He was tall—though not as tall, nor as brawny, as the giant in blue. The man in yellow had very fair hair. Silver blond, in fact. Just like Rhys’s.
Her heart skipped a beat.
The man, still staring, lifted his hand in a sort of salute. And the distance between them seemed to vanish.
Breena closed her eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them again.
It could not be. But it was. She would know him anywhere.
Dear Goddess. Somehow, he had followed her. And she did not have to guess how he felt about the journey. Even from across the field, she had no trouble reading the emotion on his face.
Rhys was furious.
Chapter Eleven
Tintagel’s forecourt was wide and unpaved, enclosed by high, forbidding stone walls and crowded with tents. Rhys breathed a sigh of relief as the guard waved the Brothers Stupendous through the castle gate and onto the hallowed ground on the other side with little more than a grunt. They were delivered into the care of the assistant to the castle steward, a man called Dermot. He sported a flushed face and a harried air.
“Brothers Stupendous?” He gave the troupe a dubious once-over. “You jest.”
“Nay, my good man, we do not,” said Trent, puffing up his chest. “We are the finest minstrels and players in all of Britain.”
Dermot snorted and began a trek across the castle forecourt. Dafyd’s dark spell hung in the air above Rhys’s head; he could feel the weight of it on his limbs and in his heart. But if the others noticed, Rhys could not discern it. On the contrary, his “brothers” were in excessively fine spirits.
As for Rhys, he wanted nothing more than to slip away and begin his search for Breena. Dear gods, she’d been offered as a tournament prize! He could not believe it. What was she doing, masquerading as Lady Igraine’s dead cousin? Rhys had to extract her from whatever scheme she was involved in, and quickly, before Dafyd became aware of her magic.
Rhys had veiled his power with a spell, so as to stay invisible to Dafyd’s magical senses. Now that he’d gained admission to the castle without magic, the longer he avoided using his power, the safer his search for Breena would be.