by Joy Nash
Rhys sensed the binding spell on Igraine was a very old one. It must have been cast when the duchess was a child. Who would do such a thing? And why?
His gaze continued down the table. Gerlois’s large, pinched-faced sister was a dark smudge on Igraine’s left. The end seat belonged to Breena. Dressed in a stola of emerald over a long-sleeved tunic of lighter green, she put Rhys in mind of a lush fern. He did not want Breena anywhere near these people. He vowed to get her out of the castle, and headed toward home, as quickly as possible.
Breena kept her eyes on her plate. Rhys was aware of a confusing mix of anger and fear, and aye, of lust, when he looked at her. She’d always been the most troublesome female he’d ever encountered. As a girl, she’d wrapped him around her little finger. As a woman, she tied him in knots.
The players exited the stage amid a polite spatter of applause. Dafyd looked hugely gratified by their performance. Gerlois shifted in his seat, frowned, and drank deeply of his wine.
Trent rubbed his hands. “All the better to follow those fools.”
At Dermot’s signal, the little man stepped forward. Plumed hat in hand, he swept a low bow. Then, tossing his headwear to the floor, he took the stage at a run.
With a bounce on the balls of his feet, he launched himself into the air, turning heels over head. He landed just below the duke’s place at the high table, one knee bent, head bowed.
Duke Gerlois raised his brows and set down his wine. “What is this? Something new?”
Floyd stepped onto the stage, bowing low. “My lord duke! My lady duchess! I present to you the finest players and acrobats in Britain! The Brothers Stupendous!”
Rhys stepped forward with Kane and Howell, joining Trent and Floyd in the opening bow. As he straightened, his wry gaze met Breena’s astonished one.
He sent her a small shrug.
Her blue eyes laughed.
The Brothers Stupendous?
Breena covered her mouth, stifling a spurt of horrified laughter. Five less likely “brothers” could not possibly exist.
A giant, a midget, a horse-faced youth, and a fellow almost as wide as he was tall? Not one matched another in either features or coloring. She could hardly believe Rhys had consented to wear that blinding yellow tunic. His fellows were dressed just as garishly. Taken together, they formed an outlandish human rainbow.
Brothers Stupendous? More like Brothers Ridiculous.
Scant moments later, her mouth hung open in astonishment, and she was compelled to revise her hasty assessment. The small man in purple executed another amazing jump, flying through the air like a bird. The round man’s rich tenor, and the giant’s bone-rattling bass, blended with the flautist’s trilling melody.
Enthusiastic applause ensued. The small man bowed. Then the young flautist joined Rhys at the side of the stage. Harp and flute blended seamlessly. The giant crouched on one side of the stage, while the round man took a position directly opposite.
The small man scampered nimbly up the giant’s back. As he reached the man’s broad shoulders, the giant leaped out of his crouch, launching his “brother” high into the air. The audience gave a collective gasp. The acrobat, his body a purple blur, spun two complete turns through the air.
He landed neatly atop the round man’s shoulders.
The hall erupted in cheers. The smallest “brother” jumped to the ground, bowing to the front and back, right and left. Most of the hall was on its feet, shouting wildly. Gerlois himself stayed seated, but the duke looked impressed. Lady Bertrice nodded and applauded. Even Bishop Dafyd’s permanent scowl relented.
The show of acrobatics continued, one marvelous feat after another, involving differing combinations of Rhys’s four companions. Through it all, Rhys stood to one side, his long fingers moving across his harp’s strings, his eyes on the action onstage. Breena watched him surreptitiously. She had never seen him like this, wearing the persona he adopted for the world outside Avalon. He was entirely natural as a performer. One might have thought he’d played with the Brothers Stupendous for years.
Rhys’s unusual life had taught him to blend with all types of people. For the first time, Breena realized what a useful skill that was. As valuable as his beautiful voice, and his talent with the harp.
His eyes met hers, briefly. She felt the jolt of sensation all the way to her toes. He’d chased her though the Lost Lands. At one level, the thought thrilled her, even though she knew it was duty, not love, that had compelled him to come after her. Then she remembered the anger in his eyes, and her excitement changed into something more unsettling.
The little man in purple executed a handstand, flipping his body into the air. He landed on the dais, directly before the duke and duchess. Passing one hand behind his back, he conjured a perfect apple, as if from thin air. The audience murmured in amazement.
With a flourish and a grin, he offered the fruit to the duchess.
Igraine stiffened. She sent a glance toward her husband, and accepted the gift after receiving Gerlois’s nod. The acrobat bowed again. Then he flipped neatly off the dais. Someone tossed him his plumed hat. Catching it neatly, he made a sweeping bow.
The applause was generous. But the show was not yet over. Rhys strode to the center of the stage, his harp cradled in his bent arm. He bowed low before Gerlois, his fair head catching the light from the torches. His yellow tunic shone like gold. He spoke in perfectly accented Latin, his voice filling the hall.
“My lord duke. I am honored beyond words to stand before you. May I offer a humble song?”
Gerlois raised a hand. “You may, minstrel.”
Rhys bowed a second time, and began to play. Music rippled like water. A soft gasp arose from the audience. The melody was so beautiful, Breena’s heart squeezed.
Rhys added his voice. His song was a ballad. Breena had never heard it, but the audience seemed to know it well. The poem was an ode to Prince Geraint, Igraine’s dead cousin. The verses were long and complicated, and yet Rhys, who had certainly only just learned them, did not trip over a single syllable.
By the time the last lingering note of Rhys’s voice had faded, every woman in the room, Breena included, was in tears. Even Lady Bertrice’s expression had softened. Lady Igraine was particularly affected; so much so that Gerlois, in a rare show of care, took her hand.
Rhys made his bow. Gerlois eyed him with open curiosity. “Your tongue is pure silver, minstrel. How is it I have never seen you before, neither here at Tintagel, nor at the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein?”
“I am recently come from Gwynedd, my lord.”
“Gwynedd? I cannot believe they breed such fine minstrels in that wild land.”
“Did not God create both music and wilderness, my lord?”
Gerlois grunted. “Well said, minstrel. See that you and your companions return for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Rhys bowed again. “As you wish, my lord.” He turned to join the rest of his troupe.
“Wait,” a voice said.
Breena twisted in her seat, shocked. Brother Morfen had spoken. The acolyte had abandoned his silent post in the shadows. He advanced to the table. His cowl drooped low, shielding his disfigured face from the chandelier’s light.
Bishop Dafyd frowned. Morfen did not seem to notice his master’s displeasure. He spoke directly to Rhys.
“Gwynedd is my homeland as well, minstrel. Will you play a song from my youth?”
Rhys’s gray eyes flashed with curiosity. He looked from Morfen to Gerlois. “If I know it, brother. And if my lord duke allows it.”
Gerlois waved a hand. “I am not unwilling to hear another song. Pray, continue.”
Rhys bowed to the duke, then turned to Morfen. Breena wondered how much he could see of the acolyte’s face. If he was repulsed, his expression did not show it.
“What is your wish?”
“The ballad of Ceridwen. Do you know it?”
Rhys’s brows rose. “Aye, of course.”
Dafyd’s frown
deepened; he leaned forward in his seat. For a moment, Breena thought the bishop would deny his acolyte’s request. But then he seemed to change his mind. He sank back in his chair.
Rhys’s gaze fell to his harp; he began to play. Breena knew the ballad; she’d heard Rhys sing it countless times. But a glance around the hall told her the song was not a familiar one for the people of this time.
She was not surprised. The ballad of Ceridwen was a song of the magic of the Old Ones. As the poem unfolded, Dafyd’s scowl deepened. His fingers tightened on his goblet. Breena half expected the bishop to leap to his feet and denounce the pagan song. But he did not.
Rhys’s voice rose, rich and full. The tale told of a goddess crone, Ceridwen, who was possessed of a magical cauldron. Her son, Afagduu, had been born with a dark and hideous face. Filled with love and pity for her child, Ceridwen brewed a potion with dangerous deep magic. She was determined that if her son could not have beauty, at least he might have wisdom.
Due to the difficulty of the spell, and the immense power of its magic, only the first three drops of the potion would hold boundless knowledge; the rest would be poison. The concoction required constant stirring for a year and a day. Afagduu refused to do the work, so Ceridwen charged a kitchen boy, Gwion, with the task.
Afagduu eagerly awaited his prize. But, as is so often the case with deep magic, disaster struck. The instant the potion’s magic blossomed, the cauldron tipped. The first three drops fell on Gwion’s lips, not Afagduu’s.
“Thief!” the goddess cried. Enraged, she lunged for Gwion; the lad barely dodged his mistress’s ire. He fled the cottage, the crone chasing after, screaming threats and imprecations.
The hapless lad, desperate to escape and overwhelmed with deep magic, transformed into a hare, then a fish, then a dove. The crone countered by shifting into the forms of a dog, an otter, and a hawk. Finally, Gwion became a grain of wheat; Ceridwen changed into a hen, and ate him.
The magical meal caused Ceridwen to become heavy with child. Nine months later, she gave birth to a new son. The child was beautiful. His fair hair shone upon his brow like silver. When he became a man, he took up the harp. His music and song spread wisdom and Light in Annwyn, and among the people of Gwynedd.
“Thus,” Rhys sang, drawing the ballad to its finish. “The great bard Taliesin was born.”
The harp song faded on a final, plaintive note. Rhys took a step back, and inclined his head.
Morfen bowed in return.
“I thank you, minstrel.”
Chapter Twelve
The otter cut through the current, its sharp claws swiping at Myrddin’s fish body. Myrddin twisted and flipped his tail—too late. Pain slashed along his side.
Black terror consumed him. He could not die this way. What would happen to Vivian? With his last strength, he leaped, breaking the water’s surface.
The warm air singing across his scales shocked him. The sun’s rays blinded. He flailed, wildly, reaching out…for what, he did not know.
Wind caught under his outstretched wings. The downy feathers on his breast ruffled. Air magic bathed his face. He blinked, and looked down, and saw the ground fall away.
The laugh in his throat emerged as a warble. He was a dove, wild and free. Elation struck. The otter could not harm him now.
But the otter was no more. In its place, on the river bank, stood a hawk.
The great bird spread its wings, and took to the sky.
“ ‘Twas a fine show, my handsome bard.”
Rhys looked up. The serving wench was very shapely, and very bold. Her eyes held that inviting look common to loose women. Rhys had known a hundred like her. He was not interested in knowing another.
Earlier, when she’d caught his eye and smiled, he made the mistake, out of habit, of smiling back. That had encouraged her to ply him with food and ale. All evening, she’d made a point of returning to his table. She spoke with Trent and the others, but her eyes kept returning to Rhys.
Rhys wasn’t given to vanity, but he was not so modest that he did not know there was something about him that attracted women like geese to water. His height, he supposed, and his unusual coloring. And his harp, of course. A tragic song never failed to leave a woman sighing.
He’d ignored the black-haired wench, in favor of watching Breena. Her color had risen during his performance, but now that it was done, she looked paler, and anxious.
The players that had followed the Brothers Stupendous were having a difficult time engaging the audience’s attention. This troupe also boasted a harpist, but the instrument was smaller than Rhys’s, and the pitch was higher. Rhys could not decide if he liked the difference.
He hardly noticed the serving wench sliding onto the bench beside him, until he felt her breast press the side of his arm. Startled, he jerked around, nearly knocking her over backward. Reflexively, he reached for her. His hand stroked down her arm and locked on her elbow.
“Ah.” Her blue eyes danced. “So the fair son of Taliesin remains with us after all. Here I thought he’d flown to Gwynedd, so far away were his eyes.”
She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “There. Ye can see me better now. I’m called Nesta. And ye?”
“Rhys.”
“Ye’ve traveled far, to attend the festival, if ye hail from Gwynedd.”
“Aye.” His gaze drifted to Breena, at the high table. “I’ve put a fair bit of road behind me.”
“It must be a grand thing, to see the world. Me, I’ve spent all my life here at Tintagel castle. But I do not normally serve in the hall, except for grand feasts such as this one. Most often, I attend the Lady Igraine.”
Abruptly, Rhys gave the lass his full attention. “Do you, now?”
She laughed. “Aye, and I thought that would capture your interest! If there is a man born who is not awed by the duchess’s beauty, I have never met him.”
“A blind man, perhaps.”
“The high king himself lusts after Lady Igraine,” Nesta confided. “Uther made his intentions clear last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. ’Tis why the duke now guards his wife so jealously. She rarely leaves her chambers in the tower.”
“Indeed.”
“Gerlois could not very well keep his lady wife locked away during the festival. The villagers have been restless, clamoring to see her. But Gerlois will not allow Igraine to dance, or even to speak to any save her close companions.”
“You mean the pinched-faced matron?”
Nesta chuckled. “Lady Bertrice may have a sour face, but she is tireless in her devotion to Tintagel. She is the duke’s sister.”
“The resemblance is strong,” Rhys agreed. “And what of the red-haired lass? The one offered as a tournament prize?”
“Lady Antonia. Poor thing. Her family recently fell to the Saxons.”
“All Dumnonia is abuzz with the story of that raid.”
“ ‘Tis glad I am the Saxon wolves rarely wander so far as Tintagel.” Nesta shuddered, pressing her breast against Rhys’s arm. “Enough talk of death. I would rather talk of beauty.” She touched his hand. “Your songs entranced me tonight, Rhys. Your fingers on the harp…they are very clever.”
Nesta had clever fingers of her own. Presently, they were skating up Rhys’s thigh. Gods. He did not need this. Subtly, he shifted away. “You flatter me falsely.”
“Ye are too modest. Your song was so bittersweet, it brought tears to my eyes.”
“ ‘Twas the tale that moved you. Not me.”
She picked up his hand and turned it over, stroking from the base of his forefinger to the tip. “Perhaps we could put that to the test. Play a song just for me, after the feast is done.”
“‘Tis doubtful I could. My companions…”
“Surely your friends would not begrudge ye a few hours of pleasure?”
“There would be little privacy. The castle forecourt is crowded with—”
“Nay, not in the forecourt! In the castle. I know a place where no one will disturb u
s. Lady Igraine’s private garden. ’Tis at the base of the tower.”
Rhys stilled. “Aye? Truly? But surely there are guards. How would I get past them?”
Her eyes danced. “You will not need to. There is a second entrance to the atrium. ’Tis a secret. A hidden door in the floor of the old Roman tower, under the stair. It leads to a storeroom below the kitchens. I do not think even the duke knows of it.”
“Indeed.” He pitched his voice low. “And how might I find this storeroom?”
“Slip through that door just behind you, but do not go as far as the kitchens. There’s a stair to the right, leading to the cellars. Go past the wine and oil, and the baskets of apples. There is a small room just beyond, in the foundation of the old watchtower. It is filled with old wine casks. Look up at the ceiling, in the far corner, and ye’ll see the trap door.”
Her gaze fell to Rhys’s lips. “Will ye come, then?”
He hesitated. “Perhaps.”
In the next instant, before he could react, Nesta’s lips were on his. She kissed him, deeply, her round breasts pressing against his chest, one hand sliding down to stroke him beneath the cover of the table. His cock couldn’t help responding, and he knew she felt it. His hands went to her shoulders, to push her away, but before he could do it, she pulled back of her own accord.
She rose, and propped her empty tray against one hip. Her eyes fairly smoldered as she smiled down at him. “I’ll wait for ye near the old fountain.”
Hips swaying, she walked away.
Breena pushed back her chair and lurched to her feet.
“Lady Antonia!” Lady Bertrice frowned. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
“I…my stomach…”
“You are ill?”
Sick at heart, perhaps. “No. Not ill. I…just need a bit of air.”
Bertrice glanced down at her plate. “The third course has just been served. Sit, and I will accompany you to the inner courtyard when I am finished.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Breena said swiftly. “I would not hear of it. I can go on my own. There is no reason for you to interrupt your meal.”