Magic in His Kiss

by Shari Anton

  Rhodri nodded, already knowing that someday, when he knew more of the battle, those who’d died defending Glenvair would be immortalized in song.

  Then she went to the next grave, and then the next, the burden of his grief becoming heavier with each fallen man she named. Even as he mourned, Rhodri noticed that Nicole’s task of sending men to claim their heavenly reward seemed to become less arduous. Both men confirmed the raiders were men of Gwynedd, but neither knew why they’d chosen to raid Glenvair.

  At the last grave, Nicole closed her eyes for just a moment before opening them again.

  “Morgan pen Carwn. He fought beside Connor.”

  Where I would have fought had I been here!

  He envisioned the gnarled elder as he stood side by side with his chieftain, loyal to the very end. Rhodri kept silent while Nicole spoke with Morgan. Dealing with the old man’s spirit wasn’t easy, judging from the variety of emotions flickering across Nicole’s face. Then she went so still and quiet that Rhodri began to wonder if he’d allowed her to speak to the spirits for too long.

  “Shut him away, Nicole. Come back to yourself for a time.”

  She shook her head. “Morgan requires an oath from you, Rhodri.”

  That shook him. “From me?”

  “He says you must swear on your harp that you will allow no man of Gwynedd to have me, so his death will not be in vain.”

  Rhodri didn’t hesitate. “He has my oath.”

  And his thanks. Now Rhodri knew for certain the raiders had come for Nicole. She wasn’t safe as yet. The refuge he’d promised her lay in ashes. The raiders could still be in the area.

  Nicole rose and came toward him, exhausted from dealing with the spirits, and likely heartsore over the reason of the raid. For the first time ever, he was glad to set aside his harp.

  She slipped into his open arms, in desperate need of whatever solace he could give her.

  “All quiet now?” he asked.

  She nodded, then gave him the names of the rest of those who’d died. By now he was so numb with grief he knew he’d have to mourn them all properly later. In song.

  “Morgan lay wounded for a time before he died,” she said, “long enough for him to hear Connor give the order for everyone to gather up what they could and make ready to go to Mathrafal.”

  Rhodri saw the sense in the order. “Mathrafal is the seat of the prince of Powys. Connor has gone to ask Prince Madog for aid for his people, and possibly to demand revenge against Gwynedd.”

  He sighed inwardly, so weary he wanted nothing more than to rest. Nicole’s slumped against him in fatigue, barely able to stand. But they couldn’t stay here, may have lingered too long already. He wanted to be far and away before the raiders learned that the object of their quest had passed through Glenvair.

  “If we hurry, we can be in Mathrafal by sunset. Within the prince’s castle, you will be safe.”

  “Rhodri, the contest—”

  “You are not to worry over it now. With haste, I yet have time to make Arwystli before the contest ends.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “This is my fault. A child and eleven good men died because of me.”

  He grasped her shoulders. “Nay, Nicole. These people died because Owain Gwynedd is a greedy, selfish bastard.”

  She nodded an acknowledgment, but Rhodri highly doubted she believed him. Well, he’d just have to make her see reason, but not until she was safely behind the thick, stone castle walls at Mathrafal.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They arrived in Mathrafal just before the gates closed for the night, and Nicole was sorry for it.

  Even as Rhodri tossed the horse’s reins to a stable lad and pulled down the harp’s sack, she wished the two of them could have one more night alone.

  Her anger over his deception had fled somewhere on the road between Tintern Abbey and Glenvair. His kiss at the stream, beneath leaves of gold, had led her to hope Rhodri might feel more for her than she’d dared to believe.

  Together, with his music and her words, they’d sped five spirits on the path to a glorious afterlife. A remarkable feat, to her way of thinking. But while the spirits were now at peace, she was not. She couldn’t hear the voices anymore, but the tale the spirits told of the fight where they’d lost their lives had left her stomach unsettled and her heart sore.

  Rhodri’s intimate touch would help her forget the tales of bloodshed and smell of fear. His mind-numbing caresses would clear her mind of screams and death cries. Their shared bliss might bind him to her, make Rhodri realize he loved her. Forever and ever. ’Til death did them part.

  “You look half dead,” he commented.

  Not precisely a lover’s compliment, but at least he was honest. She likely looked a fright.

  “I admit to fatigue. I have never at one time dealt with so many troubled spirits so freshly in their graves, and we did push hard to Mathrafal.”

  “With good reason.”

  Because he wanted to ensconce her in a place where he was sure Owain Gwynedd couldn’t reach her. That a prince would sanction the near destruction of Connor’s manor to capture her yet preyed on her mind.

  Aye, she knew her worth as a Pendragon princess. Her children would be of lineage of King Arthur, continue his bloodline. But sweet mercy, to kill innocents for the privilege of siring those children was foully dishonorable.

  At least she didn’t needs worry about having to marry a man of Gwynedd. Not only had Rhodri given Morgan an oath against that event, but surely Connor wouldn’t consider a man of Gwynedd’s dynastic family as her husband.

  In Rhodri’s wake, Nicole crossed a muddy bailey crowded with tents and cook fires. Chickens, geese, cows, and pigs shared small plots with their human owners.

  Glenvair’s tenants, she realized. A lump threatened to close her throat, her heart aching for these people who’d been forced to leave their snug cottages for the squalor of a castle’s bailey.

  Only a few men were about, the women and children likely tucked into their blankets for the night. Rhodri greeted those men he passed but kept walking toward the castle stairway.

  Apparently forewarned of their arrival by a guard from the castle gate, a man of elder years and middling height met them just inside the hall’s doorway, holding a tankard of ale, a mightily pleased smile on his lips.

  “Ah, at long last!” He extended an arm, inviting a hug into which Nicole stepped, having recognized Connor by his voice. “How tall you have grown, and how beautiful you have become! ’Tis glad I am to see you, my dear.”

  This was the uncle she remembered. Deeper lines creased Connor’s brow, and his hair had gone from gray to white. But he was still boisterous, solicitous—and drunk. His sloppy, sour-smelling kiss on her cheek turned her stomach.

  She supposed she could forgive him the inebriation. The man had left behind a severely damaged manor where he’d lost several of his people in a vicious raid. That must sit hard on him.

  Torn between sincere relief that he’d not been injured in the raid on Glenvair, and wanting to ball her hand into a fist and punch him in the jaw, she backed out of his loose embrace.

  Her energy sorely depleted from dealing with Glenvair’s spirits and the subsequent punishing ride to Mathrafal, Nicole wanted nothing more than to fall onto a pallet and sleep for two days. However, her outrage at Connor demanded voice.

  “I am glad you survived the raid, Uncle, but heaven have mercy, I am not pleased to be here! Do you realize how much hardship and misery you have caused with this scheme of yours?”

  He blinked, taken aback. “Now, Nicole—”

  She flung a hand in the air. “You nearly got Rhodri hanged! Did you know he was made prisoner of the earl of Oxford, and that we barely escaped with our lives?”

  “I heard, but—”

  “Then we were forced to walk across most of England while being hunted by the earl’s patrols. We survived by snaring rabbits and pilfering apples. I spent too many nights shivering on the cold, hard grou
nd, leaped too many fallen logs, and even forded a river!”

  Connor’s dark eyes narrowed and sharpened, reminding her she spoke uncommonly discourteously to a Welsh chieftain. “You look no worse for the hardship, my dear. Indeed, the experience may even have been good for you.”

  Aghast, she brushed aside a suspicion Connor might be right about that. Had someone once told her such a journey would make her stronger and more self-assured, she would have dismissed such a statement as nonsense. But that wasn’t the point.

  “Because you decided that ’twas within your right to choose a husband for me, you put me through hell. You nearly got Rhodri killed! Glenvair is in rubble!” And while a little girl’s spirit was now at peace, Nicole knew she’d never forget the child’s screams of torment. In a shaky voice she added, “Too many of your people died, and the rest are living in squalor. ’Tis too high a price to pay for this whim of yours, if you ask me.”

  Connor wasn’t so far gone with drink that her barbs didn’t sting. She’d drawn blood as surely as if she’d stabbed a dagger in his heart. He went pale and looked over her shoulder at where Rhodri stood behind her.

  “You saw Glenvair?” Connor asked, suddenly seeming old and powerless.

  “We did,” Rhodri answered in a sympathetic tone.

  In the ensuing silence, Nicole noticed the other people in the hall. Men lounged on the floor and played at dice, or sat at trestle tables and drank ale. The only females in the room were the serving wenches, keeping the mugs full and ready to perform other services for the males for a coin or two. Such was the nightly ritual of most castles in England, and apparently in Wales, too.

  Her arrival had interrupted both games and talk. Every eye in the hall was aimed at her and Rhodri, witness to her tirade. With the bubble of her anger burst, Nicole almost felt sorry for the uncle whose hand tightened on his mug, the color returning to his cheeks.

  “Owain Gwynedd has much to answer for,” he stated. “Come sit. I wish to hear more of your journey.”

  Her emotions wrung out, Nicole followed him across the hall and eased onto the bench. Connor sat down beside her and waved his mug at the man sitting on the other side of the table, who slid sideways on his bench to make room for Rhodri.

  “Cynddelw, I ask you, is my niece not all I told you she would be? Lady Nicole de Leon will make for the most fair, most compassionate princess in all of Wales! Do you not agree?”

  Nicole immediately recognized the name. Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr was the pencerdd of Powys, with whom Rhodri had studied the bardic craft.

  With an indulgent nod, Cynddelw agreed to her uncle’s overstated compliments, and Rhodri bit back a smile.

  Connor placed his tankard on the table before saying, “Prince Madog agrees that something must be done about Gwynedd, and he will lend me the funds to begin rebuilding—Glenvair.”

  The hitch in his voice revealed his truly deep sorrow over the damage to his manor and the loss of good people who’d died in the manor’s defense.

  ’Twas good of Prince Madog to lend the funds. She looked about the hall but spotted no princely figure, so she assumed the high nobleman and his wife had already gone up the stairs to their bedchamber.

  And now that she’d had her say—or most of what she had to say, because there was still the issue of her marriage to deal with—Nicole placed a hand on Connor’s forearm. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Uncle.”

  “’Tis sweet of you to say so, my dear.” He turned to Rhodri. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Startled by the question she should have anticipated Connor would ask, all she could do was think, Sweet mercy, Rhodri, lie! She did not want to explain her burdensome gift to her uncle tonight, if ever.

  “I assumed you had taken the people somewhere safe,” Rhodri answered, “and Mathrafal seemed the most likely place. Given the destruction at Glenvair, I would have brought Nicole here, regardless. Best the lady reside behind the protection of thick stone walls.”

  Nicole didn’t like the sound of what Rhodri considered best for her, reminded too much of how she’d felt about Oxford’s thick stone walls. However, she was most grateful he’d seemed to hear her plea to withhold the truth from Connor. Only five living beings knew of her ability to hear the restless dead—her sisters and their husbands, and Rhodri. For now, she preferred to keep the knowledge from spreading further.

  “Well done, Rhodri,” Connor said. “Many good men died—and little Mererid.” His fist hit the table, rattling the tankards. “I will never forgive Gwynedd for Mererid!”

  “Nor will Wales forget,” Rhodri promised. “Once I have heard the whole tale, I will put it to song. All shall learn of Gwynedd’s treachery and dishonor.”

  “Certes you will,” Cynddelw stated. “You must also put to song the tale of your bringing the last of the Pendragon princesses back home to Wales.”

  “Aye, but I believe I shall wait until that tale has a proper ending.”

  But before she could ponder over what Rhodri would deem a proper ending, she caught a disconcerting gleam in his eye she didn’t quite understand.

  Cynddelw laughed lightly. “To think, not only are you the only one who can write the tale, but you will also be the hero! How fortuitous for you. This could be the making of you, Rhodri, a legend among bards!” Then his look turned thoughtful. “Mayhap you should write the tale now, tonight. You could sing it in Arwystli—you are planning to make haste to Arwystli, are you not?”

  “I am,” Rhodri acknowledged while accepting a tankard of ale from a serving wench, who gave him a winsome look Nicole couldn’t misunderstand.

  Then she knew—she knew—which part of their journey had put that disconcerting gleam in Rhodri’s eyes.

  Nicole picked up the tankard the servant had set down before her without so much as a by-your-leave and took a long, fortifying swallow.

  Oh, the wretch! Rhodri dare not include their night of passion in his song! Surely he wouldn’t—would he? But damn, that’s what bards did. They were the keepers of Welsh history, committing important tales to poetry to spread across the land.

  But must he tell the whole of the history?

  Oh, sweet Lord, she would never be able to hear the tale without blushing and running from the room!

  “Well, then,” Cynddelw said, “you should most definitely begin the writing of it tonight. No bard alive can sing this tale’s match! You would be sure to win the chair!”

  Far too casually, Rhodri said, “I have not yet decided which events in the journey to include, or not.”

  “Then you must tell us the tale. Connor and I can aid you in your decisions.”

  She could imagine her uncle’s reaction to certain parts of the tale!

  And oh, God, Rhodri was leaving on the morn, off to Arwystli. And if he won the contest, she might never see him again. How would she bear it? To never again see Rhodri ap Dafydd.

  She leaned forward, pointedly, toward Rhodri. “I wish to hear the tale when finished. Perhaps there are events I remember differently than you do, or events I feel you should include that you might not consider important.”

  She was thinking of a certain pig and a twisted ankle, and while she’d only once—moments ago—hoped Rhodri could read her mind, she now willed him to understand her meaning.

  A flash of chagrin told her he did, indeed, understand her very well. Then he leaned toward her and put his hand over hers.

  “My dear princess, you may be assured I remember every event, each word spoken. When the final phrase is written, the last note chosen, you will be the first one to hear the whole of it and give approval. On this I give you my oath.”

  Nicole swallowed hard, both touched and assured. Rhodri always kept his oaths. She took comfort in his promise, even if he did remove his hand from hers.

  “But the contest!” Cynddelw protested. “You will have four days of travel on which to improve both the poetry and melody!”

  “Our journey was both long and harsh,” Rhodri
said. “The heroine of the tale is, as Connor has rightly stated, beautiful, delightful, and compassionate. You will also hear that she has the courage, fortitude, and intelligence worthy of her heritage, and to her I give the right of approval. But that is for another day. Right now, the lady is also weary beyond even a Pendragon’s endurance and deserves the comfort of a warm meal and a soft bed.”

  “Most certes!” With several claps of hands, Connor called back the toothsome serving wench and gave orders for warm food for two and a chamber suitable for a princess of Pendragon. This time the wench found her manners and curtsied to Nicole before rushing off to do Connor’s bidding.

  The conversation then turned when Rhodri asked of news of other happenings in Wales. She listened with half an ear, unable to pay attention. When her food came, she picked at the bread and broken meats, forcing herself to eat.

  Rhodri’s duty was now done. He’d delivered her into her uncle’s custody. On the morn he would make haste to Arwystli, go on with his own life, pursue his ambition, leave her behind to face her own destiny.

  She’d known all along this day would come and had thought herself prepared. She wasn’t. For all she’d berated her uncle for putting her through hell, all she could dwell on now were those bits of heaven she’d found in Rhodri’s arms.

  The wench returned. “My lady, your chamber is ready. I will take you up, if it pleases you.”

  It didn’t please her at all, but she couldn’t very well sit in the hall all night simply to hear the sound of Rhodri’s voice, be near him as long as she could. She might want to, but even in her morose mood, she recognized how useless and pitiable such an action would be.

  So she would be strong and sensible and, on the morrow, have a long talk with Connor about Alberic’s order regarding any marriage her uncle might have in mind, and she would face whatever fate tossed her way.

  She was, after all, a Pendragon princess.

  With all the royal bearing she could muster, Nicole stood and bade good night to Connor and Cynddelw. To Rhodri she needed to say more.