“But I do not intend for you to die.” She gulped. “Though what you will think of what I am about to do, I cannot tell. You spoke more truth than you knew when you compared me to my mother. Like her, I am a sorceress. I learned my business at her knee. Like her, I bought my father’s safety with my life—in her case, it was to save him from the evil power of the black magician Anghus, and in mine, I purchased his safety against Anghus’s mercenaries from the King with my marriage to Bretagne. But it was always a possibility that Bretagne would continue to prove treacherous, and so we prepared for that eventuality, Robin and I, though the King knew it not, and does not know how dearly we hold our liege’s safety. And indeed, Bretagne has proved a traitor still. I heard him, with my own ears, plotting the overthrow of the King with the Border Lords—and his price for that treachery was my death. I think perhaps…you learned something of that today and came to warn me.”
A slight dilation of Atremus’s pupils and an inarticulate moan was all that showed his shock and dismay, but as he tried to nod, she knew, then, that he had somehow learned of the baron’s plans, as well. She patted his hand.
“Nay, listen, for all is not lost. I told you, there was always the chance that he would prove to be a traitor still, or to wish me harm, and Robin and I did plan for that. Now, let God be my witness, I had every intention of being a good and true wife to Bretagne. I did my best, with all my heart—which he spurned. There is justice in what I do!” The last was a cry, a cry to him for understanding.
He simply stared at her. Did he understand or not? She could not tell.
“Good, my friend—oh, my love!” she said, and then sobbed—then got control over herself, though she thought her heart would burst with the force of her emotion. “Atremus, I confess that I love you. I loved you as a child, with a pure and simple child’s love—but when I saw you standing at the door of this keep, my heart leaped to you with a woman’s feelings! And the more time I spent in your company, the more I came to love you—the man, the spirit within your shell of flesh, a spirit I would love if you were old as Methuselah, foul as a leper, scarred or maimed! And it is out of that love I bear you that I will dare this thing, whatever you may think of me, though you may repudiate me! This night, nay, this very hour, I shall exchange your soul with that of Bretagne—you shall possess his body, and he yours, and he will die in it, as you would have. I told you that Robin and I had planned for this. It is no light sorcery, and I do not do this without much thought. It would have been Robin’s spirit not yours, and this will put me in much peril, for he has always been my helpmate.”
She saw a fog of puzzlement in his eyes and laughed sadly. “Yes, you heard me a’ right. Robin is not my half sister, but my bastard brother, for this sorcery can translate only male to male and female to female. A clever actor, is he not?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Robin, who shrugged and grinned wryly. “And a cursed ugly wench I am, which made me both my lady Gwynnhwyfar’s best guard and safest servant,” Robin said, dropping his voice into his normal tones for the first time in half a year. “I practiced this ruse for so long it was second nature e’er we rode here.”
Gwynn nodded as Atremus blinked in shock. “And it was as brother and sister we would have afterward lived. Robin was prepared to take Bretagne’s place and would not have betrayed me afterward—you, well, you may well feel that so wretched a sorceress as I must needs be sent to the stake.” Her voice shook a little, then recovered. “I care not. I will take that chance. I only ask this—that you remember your oath to your King supersedes that of your oath to Bretagne and his father, and that when you wear his seeming, you will serve him as loyally as we, in our way, have done.”
There was no time to say anything else, for by now even Bretagne would be wondering at her absence. She rose to her feet and beckoned to Robin. “Tell Bretagne that—” she thought quickly “—that Atremus is dying and that he has something of great import to tell his liege, and that it concerns his fortune.”
That should be more than enough to bring Bretagne, hot-foot, from his own feast. He would hear the word “fortune” and in his greed, would assume that the old knight had a treasure squirreled away somewhere.
Robin nodded and marched out the door without a single word. Gwynn took her place in the middle of the diagram, took up the black knife made of volcanic glass in her left hand, the white one made of bone in her right, crossed her arms over her chest and, with three words of power, activated the first of the spells.
The lines of the diagram flared with sudden incandescence and glowed a fiery red. A wind of both air and magic, carrying tiny motes of energy like sparks from a fire, swirled up and around her, making her skirts dance and tendrils of hair that had escaped from her braids float in the light.
She heard heavy footsteps running up the stairs and smiled. It was as she had thought. Bretagne’s greed brought him to the trap.
“Atremus!” the baron shouted as he burst through the door. He was three steps into the room—and right in the middle of the second circle of the diagram, before he realized that all was not as it “should” be.
He stopped dead in his tracks. “What—” he said stupidly.
She shouted three more words of power and froze him where he stood.
Once again the lines of sorcery flared and glowed brighter than before. The wind borne of magic picked up, now swirling her skirts around her, surrounding her in a storm of sparks. Robin edged inside the door, slammed it shut and barred it against intruders. Not that Gwynn expected any. The servants were all fully occupied, and the guests being served the first of many delicious courses of food, with a set of comic tumblers giving them good and noisy entertainment. Even if Bretagne could have bellowed—which he could not, his voice being paralyzed along with the rest of him—no one would have heard him.
No, now was her hour—and she felt, for this moment at least, like a goddess of Justice.
“Bretagne of Clawcrag!” she shouted against the whine of the wind of power, flinging out her left hand, pointing at him with the black-bladed knife. “As God is my witness, I call you murderer, traitor and oathbreaker! Oathbreaker, that you forswear your vows that you made in exchange for my hand and fortune! Traitor, that you betray your liege lord and King to his enemies! Murderer, that you conspire to slay your King and your wife! I call you to justice, Bretagne of Clawcrag! I call you to answer for your crimes, and I summon all the powers of Earth, Air, Fire and Water to aid me! Gabriel, Michael, Raphael and Uriel, witness this work and lend me your power!”
She pointed the white-bladed knife at Atremus. “Atremus, Knight of the Realm, true-sworn liegeman to our King, I make of you the instrument of Justice! Let him serve your life, what is left of it, and let you take his place to be a true and loyal knight to your King! Gabriel, Michael, Raphael and Uriel, witness this work, and lend me your strength! As I will, so mote it be!”
From the tip of each knife, with a crack like lightning, a lance of power shot out and impaled each man. Gwynn was the center through which the power flowed—Bretagne convulsed and shook, his eyes bulging, his mouth open in a silent scream. The chamber was lit as bright as day by the glowing lines of energy, by the bright lances of magic, by thousands of tiny lightning bolts crackling from Gwynn’s body and striking randomly about the chamber. The pentagrams she had painted invisibly on the walls were glowing, too, feeding the spell, and she felt, heard, tasted, smelled nothing but the mighty force that held her transfixed, the still center of a whirlwind.
It was—intoxicating, and all-consumi
ng; there was no room in her mind for anything but the words with which she shaped the spell and she held them…held them…held them—
Until, with a sudden snap, and a last flare of light, the spell was complete.
The chamber dropped into darkness, lit only by the candles on the floor and the fire in the fireplace, silent and still.
Bretagne swayed and nearly fell. Atremus thrashed—or tried to—and began to howl, a garbled and inarticulate jumble of nothing like words. By that alone she knew that her magic had worked—it was Bretagne’s foul spirit that was lodged in Atremus’s poor, failing body, and Bretagne was not amused.
Bretagne—or his body, at least—recovered first. He blinked; he looked around. His gaze fell on Gwynn and he took four purposeful strides that carried him across the room to stand beside her, before she had even gotten her wits about her.
“My lady,” he said. “I believe we have some business below. The company awaits, and there is much that I must say to them.”
And before she could say anything, he seized her hand and led her—nearly dragged her—toward the door, then out of it, then down the stairs.
She was tired, so tired—and so numb of spirit, the expected aftermath of great sorcery—that she simply let him lead her. She did not know what he intended, but it hardly mattered. Her fate was in God’s hands now and if he chose to denounce her in front of the entire company—
Well, if she could not live with the man she now knew she loved with all her heart, she was not sure that life was worth the living.
As he drew her onto the dais behind him, the entire hall fell silent.
Ursula was, as she had expected, in her seat, looking smug and self-satisfied. When she saw Bretagne dragging Gwynn by the hand, she looked even more pleased.
Bretagne pulled Gwynn to the side of the High Seat—then suddenly dropped her hand and grabbed Ursula’s chair with both strong fists and yanked it out from under her. The strumpet landed on the floor of the dais with a thud and a yelp.
“Out!” Bretagne shouted. “ Out! Gather your goods and go! You may have a single mule and all you can carry, but be gone from my lands by sundown tomorrow, or by sweet Jesu, you’ll find yourself in a Magdalene convent before you can blink!”
As Ursula scrambled to her feet, her face holding mingled disbelief and anger, he “helped” her up with a toe to her well-padded backside. “You and you—” he said, pointing to two of his men-at-arms, neither of whom had any love for the wench. “You go with her and see that she doesn’t take what she isn’t entitled to, then follow her until she passes our Borders!”
Without further ado and with great relish, one yanked Ursula off the dais, and both of them hustled her out of the hall before she could even squeak.
Now Bretagne turned to Gwynn—and with both hands on her waist, he lifted her to stand on the seat of his chair.
“Friends, neighbors—” he said, addressing a company still held silent by shock and surprise. “This sweet lady…this, my good and true wife, has been—much abused. He to whom she should have looked to for protection and honor has been treating her as…as—” He shook his head. “I cannot say how ill he treated her. This wretch, my former self, this vile creature who she consented to wed—did not and does not deserve so good a woman, and the fate and words of Sir Atremus have brought a revelation. I am reborn into a new self and I see what great ill, what terrible dishonor has been done to her, and I hope in time to achieve her forgiveness.”
He turned and took both her hands in his, as she stared down at him, hope and joy beginning to dawn in her heart and tears starting in her eyes even as a smile curved her lips.
“So I ask you, my lady, my friend and my love, will you forgive me all that has been heaped upon you these past six months? Will you permit me to be to you the husband of your hand and heart? Will you allow me to lay my life at your feet?”
She tried to answer his eloquence with her own, but tears flooded her eyes and choked her throat, and all that she could do was to answer, “Yes—”
But it was enough. With a mighty roar, the entire hall erupted with the cheers of the assemblage, as Bretagne lifted her down and into his embrace.
A gentle embrace, not the crushing grip that the “old” Bretagne had once used to flatten her into submission. The kind of embrace that she had dreamed of and never dared hope for, as Bretagne turned her tear-streaked face to his and placed his lips on hers in a warm, passionate kiss.
Her knees went weak, she melted into his arms, half delirious with a surge of unexpected desire that fired her loins and wilted her will. It was a very good thing that his arms were supporting her or she might well have collapsed to the floor at that moment.
But he was not finished.
He lifted his mouth from hers long before she was ready and signaled to two manservants. “Go to my lady’s solar,” he said quietly, “and remove that poor old knight. Place him in Ursula’s chamber, and send someone to tend him. We must keep him comfortable until he dies, which, for his sake, I pray will be soon. I would not have him suffer longer.” The men nodded sympathetically and hastened to do their lord’s bidding.
He looked back to the assemblage. “Let it be known both far and wide,” he said, his voice now full of threat as well as promise. “That he who so much as offers insult, much less an injury, to my lady, will feel the full weight of my wrath—and hell itself will not be so deep that it can hide them!”
There was a hidden meaning there, which would be understood only by those who had attempted to conspire with Bretagne to murder Gwynn and to undermine the King. There will be no bargain. Whoever they were—and for Atremus to have come to her this afternoon with his own warning, some one or more of those conspirators must have been among the company—they would probably be puzzled, but they would not be unclear about Bretagne’s feelings.
Then Bretagne looked about the company again, with Gwynn nestling in his arms. His eyes scanned the crowd below the High Table, and when his gaze found a monk among the crowd, a stranger in the robes of the Poor Friars, he beckoned to the man.
“Father,” he said as the man came forward and the cheering eased then stopped so that those watching could hear what was to come next in this evening of surprises. “I have a great favor to ask of you. In light of this, and of my pledge to now be a true and gentle husband to this lady, would you say the words of marriage over us again, and renew our vows?”
The monk gaped at him, but quickly recovered his wits and nodded hasty agreement. His eyes gleamed a little, perhaps anticipating a golden reward, and he raised his hand to make the sign of the cross over them both.
The vows were quickly exchanged, the blessing as quickly said, and the monk got his anticipated reward as Bretagne stripped a ring from one of his heavily laden fingers and pressed it into the fellow’s hand.
Then he led Gwynn to the High Seat and placed her in it, taking the second chair from which he had so lately evicted the wretched Ursula. From there, throughout the feast, he plied her with selected dainties, pressing upon her the tenderest bits of meat, the crispest bits of crust, the sweetest pastry. Gwynn was in a daze of happiness throughout the meal, hardly able to think, only to look into the eyes of her husband and see her beloved Atremus twinkling back at her. This, some six months late, was the bridal feast that she had hoped fo
r. And she thought she knew very well why Atremus-Bretagne had had the monk wed her and her husband all over again….
And when the last of the meal was done, the last of the entertainment over, he took her by the hand and led her, once again, up the stairs to the room that had seen so much pain.
There he shut the door behind them both and once again took both her hands in both of his.
“My lady—my dearest lady—” He faltered. “I cannot ever thank you enough, nor repay you for this gift of life that you have given me. And if it is your will that we should live, as you had planned with your sibling, as brother and sister—”
“No!” she all but shouted, then moderated her tone. “No, my good lord,” she said more softly, gazing up at him through her lashes, feeling her cheeks warm with blushes. “I told you that I have always loved you, your spirit—how can I love you the less now? It is still you— ” Now it was her turn to falter. “Unless it is that you have…no feelings for me—”
He laughed—not the loud and crude roar of Bretagne, but the hearty peal of laughter that she remembered from the days when her father had bested Atremus at chess. “No feelings? Oh, my heart, I have loved you from the moment I saw what a woman you had blossomed into! Why do you think I asked that monk to resanctify the vows? I wished to make certain that we were bound in body and spirit in the eyes of God!” He clasped her to his chest and once again she melted into his embrace. “My love, my very love—” Then he stopped and pushed her a little away. “But…what are we to do with Robin?”
She laughed. “We send my maid back to my father, where Robin-the-maid will vanish and bonny Robin-the-lad will reappear! My father will legitimize the boy and make him his heir, and a true reward that will be for all his labor and love! He loves Robin as I do, and surely that is a meet recompense for all he has done on my part!”
Charmed Destinies Page 11