Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  The private service, attended by only the highest ranked of the visiting nobles, ended at last. Dafyd raised his staff and blessed the worshippers. Gerlois, with Igraine at his side, paused for conversation with Lord Clarence of Tregear. Lady Bertrice chatted with Honoria of Bolerium. That lady’s husband had claimed Dafyd’s attention near the door of the chapel.

  Breena hung back as the rest of the nobles filed into the receiving room. Morfen did not meet her gaze as he paced toward her. She stepped into his path, and forced him to halt.

  “What is wrong?” she demanded.

  His lips twisted. “Nothing, my lady.”

  “You are in pain. Are you hurt? Ill?”

  “No.” Morfen sent her a quick glance, then looked away. “Please, Lady Antonia, I beg you, do not press me. My affliction is less than nothing. It will soon pass.”

  “You are lying,” she said baldly. “There is no reason to do so. Not with me.”

  She did not miss his nervous glance toward Dafyd. “Neither do I have reason to confide in you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “It has to do with the bishop, doesn’t it? What happened?”

  “It is not your concern, my lady.”

  “Of course it is! I am your friend.” Reaching out, she gripped his wrist.

  He gasped his next breath and jerked his arm back.

  “What—?” Before the monk could react, Breena grabbed his hand and shoved the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow. The skin on his wrist had been scraped raw, by what looked like the burn of a rope.

  She met his gaze in horror. “Dafyd…bound you? And…and what? Beat you?”

  Morfen’s head dropped forward. “It is not your concern,” he repeated.

  He tugged his hand from hers. Reluctantly, she let it drop. “Why did he do it?”

  “Punishment. For my sins.”

  “What sins?”

  “Impiety. Pride. The sin of honoring the Old Ones, when they deserve only contempt.”

  Understanding dawned. “Dafyd punished you for asking R—the minstrel to sing the ballad of Ceridwen?”

  Morfen nodded. “It is an evil tale.”

  “You do not believe that, any more than I do. Gwion stirred Ceridwen’s cauldron when Afagduu refused. That is why Gwion, as Taliesin, gained wisdom, while Afagduu remained in hideous ignorance. The story teaches that the path to wisdom is not an easy one. That is truth, no matter the source of the lesson.”

  Morfen cut her a glance with his good eye. “Bishop Dafyd would not agree.”

  “That does not give him the right to beat you.”

  “You speak blasphemy. I suggest you do not do so out loud. If my master hears you, he will not stop with the flagellum.”

  Breena gasped. “Dafyd whipped you with a flagellum?”

  His gaze shuttered. “Yes. For the good of my soul.”

  Breena did not know what to say. “I…I am sorry.”

  “I am not,” he said softly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The blackness was absolute. Myrddin drifted in the void. If he had a body, he did not feel it. Could not control it. Was this death? He thought it must be.

  His grief, and his regret, overwhelmed him. He had been a prideful fool to think he could command the deep magic he’d cast to bring himself to this place. He believed he had lived long enough, had grown so great in magic and wisdom, that he could challenge the gods at their own doorstep and emerge the victor.

  Idiot. There had been a time, long ago, when he would not have dared to insult the gods so boldly. Perhaps, after all, his younger self was the wiser man. He thought of Breena, whom he had trapped. And Vivian, whom he had lost.

  He had failed them both.

  Dafyd’s dark magic accompanied the duchess’s party from the castle to the tournament field. Rhys had expected this, and prepared for it. The haze of evil meant Dafyd was not yet sure where his enemy lurked. With luck, he would not know until it was too late.

  “Ah, here come the fortune seekers!” Trent’s cheerful commentary greeted the column of knights taking the field.

  Rhys studied the warriors eager to fight for Lord Vectus’s land, and the right to bed the woman posing as the dead lord’s daughter. They numbered twelve. Rhys had no trouble picking out Gareth from his competition.

  Proud idiot. To Rhys’s mind, the young knight’s big black stallion was more dangerous than its rider. Gareth’s opponents were a battle-hardened lot. At least two of the hulking warriors, whom Trent named as Sir Berwyn of Tregear and Sir Hugh of Siluria, looked as though they’d cut their teeth on knights of Gareth’s youth and inexperience.

  It was not for want of trying that Rhys had failed to keep Gareth’s name off the lists for the competition. Rhys had cornered Myrddin’s spy near the privies at dawn. Gareth’s eyes had narrowed when Rhys claimed to be a Druid, and Breena’s friend. For a moment, Rhys had feared the knight would call out the guards and have him arrested.

  Then Rhys had remembered Breena’s assertion that Myrddin was descended from the Druids of Avalon, and carried the symbol of Avalon carved on his staff. He’d opened his shirt and shown Gareth the same mark tattooed on Rhys’s left breast.

  Upon seeing the mark, Gareth had become marginally more cooperative. He refused, however, to give up his place in the tournament, even after Rhys had outlined his plan. Gareth insisted that, should Rhys’s scheme fail, Breena would need his protection all the more.

  Fool. A wiser man would have leaped at the chance to abandon the tournament. Gareth was likely to find himself injured, or worse, and all for nothing. Rhys did not intend to fail.

  He shifted his pack on his shoulder. He’d told the troop he did not wish to risk leaving his harp unattended in the castle forecourt. In reality, he’d kept it with him because he would not be returning to Tintagel.

  “Fortune seeking is all very well,” Howell replied to Trent’s comment. “But bedding Vectus’s buxom daughter would be no hardship, either.”

  “The lass’s flaming hair alone would render me hard as a pike,” Floyd put in with a smirk. He gripped the air as if it were a woman’s hips, and made a crude thrusting motion.

  The very notion of Floyd using Breena caused Rhys’s blood to boil. With difficulty, he restrained himself from burying a fist in the singer’s soft midsection.

  He raised his eyes to the duke’s viewing booth. When his gaze touched on Breena, the bottom of his stomach hollowed out. It was impossible to look at her and not remember her naked, beneath him.

  She sat beside Igraine. Bertrice, Gerlois, and Dafyd were close at hand. As always, the bishop’s somber, black-garbed acolyte stood a step behind his master. The perversion Rhys had witnessed in the cellars sprang into his mind. Nauseated, he shoved the memory back into the shadows where it belonged.

  Breena wore a gown of deep blue. She had not looked his way, not even once, though the Brothers Stupendous had dressed for the tournament in all their rainbow glory, and Rhys’s position at the front of the crowd was plain enough. No doubt she was humiliated by what he’d forced on her last night.

  He closed his eyes on a wave of shame. He was the lowest brute imaginable. He loved Breena so much, and yet he’d used her like a whore. The memory of her nude body, stretched out on the bed, bound, awaiting his pleasure, was almost too much to bear. Her lush breasts…her gently rounded belly…her white thighs, parted to reveal her glistening feminine center, peeking from its veil of tangled red curls…

  The light had been dim. That had not prevented him from burning the image of her nakedness into his brain. He’d memorized the pattern of the spray of freckles dotting her shoulders and upper breast. He had wanted to nip at each red-brown dot. He’d wanted to take out his cock and rub it between her full breasts, until his seed spurted across those same fanciful freckles.

  Gods.

  Breena had looked at him with dreamy love. He had responded like an animal. She was far too precious to be subjected to his base urges. Aye, she had not protested, even when he’d ti
ed her wrists, but that had most likely been due to shock. He’d worked hard to ensure she found her release, but no one knew better than he what shame such forbidden pleasure brought come morning.

  What would she say if she knew how he longed to bend her over a table and mount her from behind? How horrified would she be if she knew he craved her on her knees, servicing him with her mouth? He could not bear to think of it.

  He did not know what he would say to her when they next came face to face. He didn’t think he could bear to see the contempt in her eyes. He was not the man she’d thought he was; after what had happened last night, she could no longer deny it. The loss of her good regard would rip a hole in his life that could never be filled.

  Breena came forward in the ducal box, at the duke’s command. She stood at Igraine’s side as Gerlois presented her to the knights vying for her hand. She went still when the name of Sir Gareth of Cornwall was announced. Her head jerked up; she looked directly at Rhys. If she had shouted her accusation across the field, he could not have understood it more clearly. He wanted to shout back that it was not his fault, that Gareth was a proud, stubborn idiot. But he knew it would not make any difference if he did.

  The crier announced the rules of the contest. A general melee would reduce the field of twelve contestants by half. Afterward, a mounted joust would eliminate four more knights. The two that remained would fight in hand-to-hand combat for the honor of Lady Antonia’s hand.

  The warriors split into two factions, taking positions at opposite ends of the field. Swords were drawn; shields raised. A trumpet sounded. Hooves thundered. The opposing teams collided in the center of the field.

  Iron swords spit sparks. The crowd shouted insults and advice. But Rhys saw little of the action. His attention was consumed by Dafyd’s pall.

  The sorcerer’s dark spell was a complicated bit of magic. It would take time and concentration to unravel just enough to slip Rhys’s own illusion inside.

  He drew a deep breath, and prayed Breena was ready.

  A roar rose from the crowd. Rhys’s attention snapped back to the field. The melee had been short and brutal, and Gareth’s faction had prevailed. Fortunately, the young knight appeared unhurt.

  “Sir Gareth put in a fine effort,” commented Trent.

  “Aye,” agreed Kane.

  “The brawny Sir Hugh has my coin,” commented Floyd.

  “Coin?” Howell scoffed. “What coin might that be?”

  “Why, the markers I won from you last night.”

  Rhys ignored the banter. As the six remaining contestants prepared for a series of one-on-one mounted duels, he once again focused his mind on Dafyd’s spell. The pall was like a thin, dirty blanket, knotted with threads of dark magic.

  Summoning a subtle spell of Light, Rhys went to work moving and shifting the dark strands. Once he opened a narrow rift, he would cast his illusion. He hoped the ruse would blind Dafyd to the light magic being cast. If all went well, Dafyd and Gerlois would remain unaware of Breena’s and Igraine’s flight. To them, it would appear as if both women remained in their seats. Meanwhile, they would be riding east on the three horses Rhys had stolen the night before, hidden by the most powerful lookaway spell he could muster.

  “My God,” Floyd shouted. “Tristan of Seaton is down!”

  “Not surprising,” Trent declared dryly. “My own grandmother sits a horse better than he.”

  Rhys shook off the distraction of the jests flying around him. It was difficult work, lifting strands of dark magic with only light magic as a lever. Just touching his mind to Dafyd’s spell made him feel ill. The spell was like slime—difficult to grasp, even more difficult to hold. Cold sweat broke out on his temple. His efforts would be far easier if he employed deep magic—but that, he did not dare. Not only would casting deep magic alert Dafyd to Rhys’s magic, it would also render Rhys unable to cover their escape once he reached Breena and Igraine.

  “Oh, well done, Sir Carden!” Floyd exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see that blow he landed to Sir Gareth?”

  Rhys’s attention wavered.

  “Christos!” Trent peered across the field. “That’s blood on Gareth’s right arm, to be sure.”

  Floyd clapped Howell on the back. “My imaginary coin is safe, friend.”

  Howell shook his head. “The contest is not over. Sir Hugh took a mean blow as well. He is favoring his right side.”

  “We shall see,” Floyd answered.

  A sheen of cold sweat broke out on Rhys’s brow. There. He’d succeeded in creating a small, open seam in Dafyd’s spell. The bishop, watching the field as intently as any of the other spectators, did not seem to sense anything amiss. Holding the slippery strands of dark magic left Rhys few resources with which to fashion his spell of illusion, however. With great care, he eased part of his attention from Dafyd’s spell.

  His control on the dark magic faltered. The opening he had made narrowed, but did not close. Swiftly, Rhys turned his mind to the problem of crafting an illusion of Breena and Igraine.

  “Ah,” said Floyd with satisfaction. “The final contest is set. Sir Hugh against Sir Gareth.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now we shall see who’s to bed the flame-haired wench.”

  The spell formed in Rhys’s mind. He was almost ready to whisper a Word and drop it into place. Once he did, Breena and Igraine would be free.

  Breena’s stomach rolled. Gareth had advanced to the last round, but blood stained the sleeve of his tunic. How could he face Sir Hugh? She glared at Rhys across the field. He had promised to stop this. But he hadn’t.

  Her sense of betrayal was sharp. Her anxiety was overwhelming. Why hadn’t Rhys cast his illusion? She sidled a glance at Bishop Dafyd, who sat to her right beyond Igraine and Gerlois. His eyes were on the field, his expression impassive. If he suspected anything was amiss, she could not discern it.

  Brother Morfen, standing behind Dafyd, shifted slightly. He gazed at Dafyd, the expression in his good eye steady and calm. It sickened her, knowing he’d endured a beating at Dafyd’s hands. The monk was tireless in his devotion to his master. How could he stand such abuse?

  The duchess sat with rigid spine, her hands clenched in her lap. If Breena’s signal to flee did not come soon, she feared Igraine’s resolve would crumble. She looked across the field and willed Rhys to hurry. And she willed Gareth to win his combat with the beastly Sir Hugh. Or at least, to come away from it unharmed.

  Gareth and Hugh had each taken up two swords—double-edged spathas. Breena leaned forward in her seat, her fingers twisting painfully. Fighting with two weapons meant twice the chance of injury for the combatants. Fighting with no shield meant little chance for defense.

  A blast of trumpets sounded. “All stand for Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall!”

  The crowd surged to its feet. The duke stood last. All eyes turned toward Breena as Gerlois spoke. The duke proclaimed that, on the morrow at midday, Lady Igraine’s cousin would wed the winner of the upcoming contest. Somehow, Breena managed a smile and a regal nod.

  The two warriors saluted the duke. She wished she could see Gareth’s eyes, but they were shadowed by his visor. Despite the wounds he’d sustained in the melee, he had fought well in the mounted duels. Hugh had also taken a mighty blow; likewise, the older knight showed little effect. Gareth’s opponent was larger and heavier; Breena suspected the wagers flying about favored Hugh. She hoped them wrong, but in truth it hardly mattered who won the fight, only that Gareth came out of it unhurt.

  Trumpets sounded, and the contest began. The combatants circled, taking each other’s measure. Gareth’s grip flexed on his swords; Sir Hugh came up on the balls of his feet.

  The two knights lunged at the same instant. Swords struck high, then low. Sparks spit from the blades. Gareth moved with cunning; Hugh favored vicious force. It was soon apparent which strategy was more effective. Hugh’s powerful reach was longer than his younger opponent’s. He pressed his advantage, slashing and advancing as if he were harvesting a fi
eld of barley.

  Gareth drew first blood, opening a gash on Hugh’s thigh. Blood trickled, but the older knight did not miss a step. On a vicious lunge, his blade connected with Gareth’s upper arm.

  Gareth’s weapon hit the ground amid deafening screams and jeers. His right arm fell limply to his side. His left, gripping his one remaining sword, angled into a defensive position.

  And Rhys’s illusion whispered over Breena’s skin like a warm breeze.

  Her gaze shot across the field. Rhys raised a hand, and circled it overhead. Her signal to flee.

  But she could not move. She stood frozen, transfixed by the duel on the field. Hugh pressed forward swiftly, both swords raised; Gareth stumbled back. The crowd roared. Gerlois and Dafyd were on their feet, leaning forward over the railing. Even Morfen seemed intent on the violence below.

  Rhys gestured again, angrily. He was moving now, coming around the field, on a course meant to intercept Breena and Igraine on their flight to the oak grove. There was no time to waste.

  Panic bled into Breena’s veins. Of course, they must go, no matter what Gareth faced on the field. Gareth himself would tell her the same thing. And surely Sir Hugh would not kill his opponent once he surrendered. She placed a hand on Igraine’s shoulder, their prearranged signal. She met the duchess’s frightened eyes with a brief nod.

  She whispered the words of a lookaway spell. Holding her breath, she kept one eye on the bishop as she and Igraine eased from the booth. Neither Dafyd nor Gerlois so much as blinked in their direction.

  She tugged Igraine down the stair. Halfway to the field, the duchess looked back and froze. “Dear Christos!” She started trembling. “We are here, and…and there, as well.”

  Breena glanced back, and felt her own moment of disorientation. It was eerie, holding the duchess’s hand, while at the same time looking up to see herself and Igraine seated next to Gerlois and Dafyd.