by Nina Mason
“Nothing you need fret about,” he assured her.
He slowed and, as she came alongside, he gave her a dazzling smile. She bit her lip. Holy cow. The man was gorgeous. Jaw-dropping, heart-thumping, pussy-dripping gorgeous. Yes, she was spoken for and pregnant, but she wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. And there was no crime in looking.
Actually, now that she thought about it, was she spoken for? Leith said he loved her and seemed happy about the prospect of a baby, but he’d made no move to put a ring on her finger. In fact, he’d never mentioned anything long term. Not that she would consider cheating on him, however alluring the temptation might be.
As she swept her gaze over the druid, she fought to keep her lust at bay. His wardrobe didn’t help matters. Or, rather, the lack thereof. His gleaming, muscular torso was bare save for the amulet hanging on a cord from his sinewy neck.
Below the waist, he wore only a belted plaid, a rougher version of the one Leith had donned that night in the dungeon, and knee-high boots—the soft-leather sort that laced around buttons all the way to his knees.
Encircling his impressive biceps were the same tattooed bands as Leith’s. Leather bracers covered his forearms from wrist to elbow. He carried a dirk in his belt and a bow and quiver of arrows across his sculpted back.
He wasn’t better looking than Leith, just different. Her knight’s good looks were rugged and rakish while Bran’s were more ethereal and godlike. Leith’s eyes radiated the intensity of strong passions repressed. Bran’s reflected the serenity of deep inner peace. Both had black hair, but Leith’s was a soft brown black, while Bran’s was a sleek blue-black. At some point along their journey, she planned to ask the druid about his beliefs. She’d been more or less adrift since turning away from her Catholic upbringing and the whole Celtic gestalt seemed pretty cool. What she knew about it, anyway, which could fill an acorn and still rattle.
For now, however, other matters occupied her thoughts. Stealing the chalice, breaking the curse, and now the added prospect of attack by goblin raiders.
She wasn’t placated by Bran’s nonchalance. Everything she knew about goblins painted them as hideous, gold-hording creatures with unpleasant dispositions.
In Worlds of Warcraft, goblins were crafty tinkers who built high-tech gadgets and weapons and controlled mercantilism. Long-armed, bat-eared, and green-skinned, they were characters players could create.
In Final Fantasy, depending on the version and level, goblins were small hooded enemies that attacked with curved knives. There were four types: basic goblins, black goblins, guard goblins, and knockers. Some traveled in hordes and with wolves while others were solitary. All but knockers could be easily defeated.
In one of the storybooks she had before her parents died, goblins were humans who’d been transformed by their many years underground in the mines. For reasons she never understood, they could be driven off by loud singing.
Since this wasn’t a game and she had no weapons, she thought she might give singing a try. The only song that came to mind was the old ballad she had sung to Leith. As she hummed the melody, she shifted to ease her saddle soreness. She’d only ever ridden rental-stable nags that plodded along like they were half-dead. The druids had insisted she wear the gown Belphoebe had worn at the time of her escape, to help her blend in once she reached Avalon. A diaphanous toga of sorts, the garment left nothing to the imagination. If not for her bra and panties, everything Gwyn owned would be on display for all who cared to look.
Bran seemed oblivious, which made her wonder if he might be gay. She was sure she had read somewhere that the Celts were a warrior culture that prized masculine beauty and love above the heterosexual variety.
Her gaze swept from Bran to his horse. As gorgeous as its rider, the beast was black with flowing mane and tail, slender legs, and intelligent brown eyes. Its hooves were silver and its golden bridle adorned with tiny bells.
The mare she rode was almost as pretty. White and slightly smaller, but with the same silver hooves and bell-clad golden bridle.
The bells jingled with each step, producing a soft, magical sound that made her think of faeries—the tiny benevolent kind with gossamer wings and pointed ears, not the sort that stole the wounded from battlefields, ate their own children, and put cruel curses on gallant knights.
Gwyn set a hand on her belly, thinking of the life growing within. Would Leith be pleased she carried a girl? She was. She’d always wanted a little girl she could dress up like a little princess.
She turned to Bran. “Will the child I’m carrying grow like a human baby?”
“Is her father of the Fae?”
“Yes, but he used to be human.”
“I see,” the druid said, looking serious. “That makes the answer more complicated. Were she a pure-blooded faery, she would mature and age in the manner of a tree.”
Gwyn squinted at him, frowning. “Like a tree? What does that mean?”
Bran smiled as serenely as a saint. “In the same manner as trees, the natural-born Fae grow from seedling to sapling to adulthood over a time span similar to that of a human child, but once they reach maturity, age at a rate imperceptible to the naked eye.”
“And if she’s only half faery? Will she age and die like a human?”
“That will depend on her genetic makeup,” he said, still wearing his saintly smile. “But, in general, faery genes tend to dominate. Have you never wondered why there is no name for the offspring of a human-faery coupling?”
Now that he mentioned it, she’d never heard the hybrids called by a particular name, despite such couplings being commonplace in the lore. She had heard “changelings” mentioned in connection with the faery folk, but as she recalled, that term referred to the sickly creatures left in the place of a stolen human infant, not the offspring of a human-Fae coupling.
“Why is there no name for them?”
“Because, for all intents and purposes, they are Fae.”
Gwyn wasn’t sure how she felt about his declaration. “So, my daughter will age like a tree?”
“Aye,” he said. “Just as you and your husband will.”
“He’s not my husband,” she replied with a lump in her throat. “But we love each other very much, and I’m certain we’ll be getting married as soon as we break his curse.”
After all, there wasn’t much point in getting married if she’d be dead in a couple of weeks. The thought’s grim reality kicked her in the chest, stealing her breath and almost knocking her off her horse.
Quick, think about something else, like what to sing if the goblins should attack… or how to steal Queen Morgan’s cup.
As much as Gwyn would rather not dwell on the perils ahead, she couldn’t help but be intrigued by the objective of her quest. Might the cup be the long-lost Holy Grail of Arthurian legend? It seemed possible, given Morgan Le Fay’s role in the tales.
Having considered using Morgan Le Fay as her SCA persona, Gwyn had done quite a bit of research on the mythical enchantress. In the Arthurian legends, Morgan was one of the half-sisters of King Arthur who used her magic to try and steal her half-brother’s throne.
Now that Gwyn knew Morgan actually existed, she was more inclined to believe the earlier stories, which described her as the shapeshifting pagan goddess of sexuality and combat who, like the rest of the old gods turned faery, escaped into the hidden realm when the Christians conquered Ireland.
Nothing Gwyn had read, however, connected Morgan directly to the Holy Grail, the origins of which were a subject often debated by her fellow re-enactors. Many believed the Holy Grail and the Holy Chalice, the cup used by Jesus at the Last Supper, were one and the same. Others argued the grail the knights of legend sought was not a cup at all, but rather a precious stone called lapis exillis that had fallen from the heavens.
Whatever the coveted grail might be, there was general agreement the wondrous object bestowed upon its owner the gifts of happiness, eternal youth, and an infinite supply of food and wine.
Gwyn, equally thrilled and daunted by the prospect of being on an actual “grail quest,” turned to Bran. “What is the story behind the chalice Cathbad has ordered me to retrieve? Do you know?”
Turning his head, Bran settled his serene blue gaze on her. “It is the Cup of Truth the Lord of the Seas gave to King Cormac.”
Gwyn, disappointed by his answer, slumped in her saddle. “So, it’s not the cup Jesus used at the Last Supper to serve wine to his disciples?”
The druid shrugged one of his powerful shoulders. “That is debatable. There are many who believe the Holy Chalice and the Cup of Truth are one and the same.”
* * * *
Leith gaped at Tom in disbelief as they climbed into the van at the Callanish car park. In the three days he had waited around, he imagined a dizzying array of possibilities, but never the one the prophet had just described. He hadn’t imagined it, because he hadn’t believed it possible—and still could not! How could Cathbad send his darling Gwyndolen, who carried their child—a lassie, if the druid spoke the truth—off to Avalon alone? To steal Morgan’s magic chalice, no less, the source of the queen’s magic powers.
Anyone brave (or foolish) enough to attempt such an intrepid feat would almost certainly fail—and lose their life for their trouble.
Remembering his father’s execution, Leith clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. When the English drew and quartered a man for high treason, they didn’t just hang him and cut his corpse into pieces. Oh, no. The execution was far more gruesome and degrading. First, they strung the traitor up. Then, they took him down while he yet lived, sliced off his manhood, and cut out his entrails. Next, they set fire to his severed parts in front of him while he suffered the agonies of his injuries. Finally, after he died of his wounds, they cut off his head and divided his torso into four pieces, which were sent to the corners of the kingdom for display. The head, typically, remained in London, where it was put on a pike outside the Tower of London or, as in his father’s case, atop a public monument elsewhere in the city.
The images of his father’s death still haunted him. The sentence was carried out before twenty thousand spectators. As his father stepped onto the platform, the crowd jeered, hissed, and chanted. Cries erupted here and there of ‘It’s a lie’ and ‘He is a murdered man!’ The executioner placed a hood over his head, set the noose around his neck, and tucked a white handkerchief into his fingers. When his father dropped the cloth, they released the platform. He hung still for about five minutes before he began to convulse with agitated jerks. Blood appeared through the hood near his ears.
All around Leith, who was being eaten alive by horror and grief, the crowd cheered.
After they cut the poor man down and subjected him to the aforementioned indignities, a second executioner appeared. He wore a black crepe mask and carried an axe. He advanced toward the body, calmly checked the neck, and raised his axe. With one sharp blow, he separated his father’s head from the rest of his body.
Grabbing the severed head up by the hair, he raised it to the crowd and loudly proclaimed, “This is the head of a traitor.”
Leith lacked the stomach to watch the man perform the grizzly act of quartering his father. The next day, he saw his head displayed atop Temple bar. That night, when the city was quiet, he used a rope to pull it down.
If Morgan caught Gwyndolen trying to steal her chalice, she would do no less than he’d watched the English do to his father. He had witnessed the vicious punishments the queen inflicted upon the knights who crossed her—and the even greater atrocities she visited upon her enemies.
Had he known she’d find herself on such a dangerous mission, he would have taught her to shift, bairn or no bairn. As grievous as the loss of another child would be, they could always make another. She, however, could only be replaced by another incarnation, if and when the good Lord decided to send her soul back to her miserable husband once more.
Rage supplanted his frustration. What the devil had Cathbad been thinking? Leith turned to Tom, ready to press for more details, but changed his mind. No, he mustn’t dwell on the druid’s motives. He’d only spin like a dog chasing its own tail. He needed to focus on the solution, not the problem, and come up with a plan to save Gwyndolen from becoming Morgan’s tithe to the Dark Lord.
He had time to think. Far too much, regrettably. They were only just setting off toward Stornoway, giving him hours to kill before reaching Glenarvon. He scrubbed his face with a hand.
Christ, could I use a drink.
While waiting at Callanish, he’d finished the bottle under his seat. Luckily, he’d had the means and foresight to buy another. Fishing out the bottle, he took a long swig and wiped the mouth before passing the whisky to Tom. Why not? What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Or him. And it wasn’t as if the centuries-old prophet couldn’t hold his liquor.
“Tell me again what possessed Cathbad to send her on this absurd errand alone.”
“He wanted her to prove her worthiness.” Tom took a pull on the bottle. “And she isn’t alone. He sent one of his priests with her.”
Leith’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Which one of his priests?”
“Bran MacFebal.”
Leith flinched when he heard the name. He’d met the handsome druid when he delivered Belphoebe to Brocaliande. Biting his lip, he combatted the green-eyed monster mauling his insides. As much as it pained him to think of Gwyndolen traveling through the dark forest in the company of the raven-haired druid, it was better than her making the journey on her own.
MacFebal would know the dangers lurking in the Borderlands, and how to summon the aid of Manannan mac Lir, the god of the seas, who had helped him find his way to Avalon centuries before.
I ought to take comfort in that knowledge, not use it to torture myself.
If fair Gwyndolen found the druid’s charms impossible to resist…well, it was a small, albeit painful, price to pay for her safety.
When Tom offered the bottle, Leith seized the neck and took a long pull. The whisky was an island brand. Less peaty than he preferred, but far from undrinkable. He wiped away his spit before handing the bottle back to Tom.
Like most Highlanders of his era, Leith knew MacFebal’s story. After hearing of Avalon from a faery with a silver branch, he set off from Ireland in search of the enchanted isle. Along the way, he met the sea god, Manannan mac Lir, who told him of things to come. When at last he reached Avalon, the queen kept him captive for what seemed to be a year, but was in reality a century.
For unknown reasons, Morgan let him go with a warning: if he returned to the mortal realm, he would crumble into dust as soon as his feet struck the ground. So, MacFebal sought refuge in Brocaliande and became a druid.
Tom held out the bottle, now half gone. Leith took a healthy slug. The whisky burned his gullet and warmed his wame. It also took the edge off his angst. He wiped the bottle and passed it back to Tom.
Rolling down the window, Leith lit a cigarette, smoked with vehemence, and let the wind take the ash and smoke. The landscape was flat, the sky gray and dreary. Not unlike his mood.
He already missed Gwyndolen like mad, damn them all—the druids and their crafty ways, Morgan and her curse, Cumberland the Butcher, and even the so-called Bonnie Prince.
Each had played a role in stealing his happiness.
If only there was a way for him to enter Avalon, but there wasn’t unless Morgan repealed his exile, which she could only do if he asked her. And he couldn’t put the request to her unless he entered Avalon, which he couldn’t do because of the ban.
It was a classic Catch-22 situation.
As he sat there smoking with the cool wind in his hair, an idea put down roots. He might not be able to go to Avalon himself, but he could send an envoy—and he knew just the person to appeal to: Sir Axel Lochlann, the knight who guarded the gateway on the Black Isle.
A Highlander of Viking descent, Sir Axel was a good man. In life, he’d been a noble deprived of his
property and title by King Edward I, the self-proclaimed “Hammer of the Scots.” He had joined Robert the Bruce’s crusade to free Scotland from Edward’s tyranny and was knighted on the battlefield beside James Douglas. Axel was taken to Avalon after receiving a mortal wound at the pivotal Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.
Many were the times Leith and Axel had swapped war stories over a bottle, first in the main hall of the knight’s quarters, and later, in Faery Glen, where the big shaman-warrior stood guard.
Even so, Axel—being loyal, devoted, and slow to act—would not be easy to persuade. Still, it was worth a try. The worst his former comrade could do was refuse to vouch for him.
Leith licked his lips, tasting bitter tobacco and briny sea wind. Good. That was settled. He’d pay a visit to Sir Axel in Faery Glen as soon as possible.
Heartened by his plan, he steered his thoughts back to Gwyndolen with more optimism. Morgan had used the enchanted chalice to cast the curse, so perhaps the cup was needed to break it as well. Did he dare hope she might succeed in her mission?
He shook his head, hard. No, action, not wishful thinking, would win the day. Turning to Tom, he offered the bottle. The prophet waved it away, so Leith replaced the cork and stowed the whisky under the seat. The glass clinked against something metal. The biker’s pistol. He’d forgotten all about it. The gun would be of little use to him in Avalon, but might help him grease the way.
Sir Axel, as he recalled, had a weakness for modern firearms.
“Oh, blast,” Tom said. “I almost forgot. Queen Morgan’s been hiring vampire mercenaries. Cathbad thinks she might be raising an army to thwart the prophecy.”
Turning an angstful gaze on Tom, Leith said, “Does she know about Finn?”
“Cathbad suspects she might, but isn’t certain.”
Leith swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. If Morgan knew about his son, she also knew he’d deceived her about Belphoebe, which did not bode well for his plan to return to Avalon.
Chapter 16