A slender figure in buttercup yellow came hurrying to intercept her, smooth brow puckered with worry. “Saints preserve us, ye look as though ye’ve seen yer own fetch.”
“Nothing so dire, I assure thee.” Rhiannon’s brittle attempt at flippancy fell flat. “Linnet, I can no longer court Lord Beltran’s interest. I beseech thee, tell him I’m exhausted and have gone to bed.”
“He sleeps in the next chamber, barely a wall between us,” Linnet murmured. “If he truly wishes to see ye, I doubt anything I say will keep him out.”
Fresh panic sparked through her. “Then I won’t retire until he’s gone to Vespers or whatever he does to pass the night.”
“A wee bit late for evasion, my lady. He’s nearly upon us and in a rare swivet.”
“For pity’s sake, deflect him if he follows!” Fleeing, Rhiannon scrambled down the stairs into the fragrant night.
The soft lavender gloaming drifted down like mist around her. An ethereal moon floated in a cloudy sea, one familiar friend in this bewildering mortal world. She drew strength and resolve from it, the symbol of the Goddess these mortals would burn her for worshipping. She absorbed tranquility from the still green hedges and banks of blossoms breathing gently in the night, exuding their pale perfume.
Torchlight bobbed and flared around the Banqueting House, and she gave it a wide berth, slipping on cat’s feet along the graveled paths. She’d wend her way to her chambers circuitously—the same way she navigated through Faerie, by pretending to go someplace else, ever turning away and away from her goal.
Beneath the distant music, a soft cry pierced the silent night. Her footsteps faltered, healer’s instincts aroused to tingling alert. An echo of fear rippled through her, the start and stumble of a small panicked heart. A boy was jeering in the darkness, crowing with high-pitched laughter whose spite curdled her blood. Unnervingly like the way Mordred had laughed when he taunted her long ago, before their father defeated him.
Another soft cry pierced her heart. Without conscious decision she was running toward it, kicking her farthingale aside to free her steps, breath sharp as splintered glass in her lungs. She burst into a secluded glade, where a pale statue of some barefoot maiden gripped a bow. Moonlight softened the darkness to reveal the scene—two half-grown youths in satin and velvet, stranded somewhere on the uncertain threshold between boy and man, faces twisted as they slung pebbles at the marble Goddess. But nay.
A piteous mew rose from the terrified white scrap of a kitten clinging to the marble maiden, just beyond reach of its tormentors.
Outraged comprehension rushed through Rhiannon in an icy flood. Sparing no thought for her own safety, she sprinted across the clearing and flung herself between the frightened kitten and its oppressors. A late-slung pebble stung her arm as she deflected the missile.
“How dare thee!” she raged. “Is there no shame in thy hearts, no scrap of conscience nor decency?”
Her sudden arrival and the ferocity of her defense seemed to startle the aggressors. The pair faltered. Then the larger of the two—a big black-haired lad, nearly a man—checked their retreat with a hoot of contempt.
“Who are you to command us? You’re naught but a girl yourself.”
Making the most of her slight frame, Rhiannon straightened her shoulders and planted her hands on her hips. “If thou would know my name, run and ask thy Queen to provide it. Or find better sport somewhere, I care not where.”
The younger boy, wiry and sallow-skinned with the look of Spain, bent to scoop a handful of gravel from the path. “The sport here’s good enough.”
“I command thee desist!” Her voice rang with all the authority of a queen’s daughter. This time they barely hesitated, but spread to flank her. Caution prickled through her. If they both came at her together, she could never fend them off.
Lightning-quick, she spun and gathered the kitten into her arms. Protectively she cuddled it against her breast. The poor creature clung to her, tiny claws digging into her bodice like needles. Feeling its swift frantic heartbeat beneath her fingers, a scalding flood of anger surged through her.
“Oh, thou art mighty knights, bold as the great Lancelot himself, to set thyself against a woman and a mewling kitten! What great foe wilt thou challenge next—a babe in the cradle?” she cried.
At this, the younger lad shuffled his feet and glanced away, some latent spark of chivalry firing. A shoot of hope unfurled within her.
But the older jeered. “I know you now, by your queer speech! My father spoke of you. He says you’re a witch and a heretic.”
“What, a Protestant?” The younger boy took heart—Spain in his voice, for certain. “Don’t you know they burn girls like you at Smithfield? We’ll see how proud you are then, dancing hotfoot on the kindling!”
Rhiannon felt sickened, as much by their naked malice as the ugly threat. Warily she glanced around the shadowy garden, hoping for some passerby whose arrival would startle them into flight.
But she’d given the torchlit areas a wide berth to make her own escape. She glanced at the moon to get her bearings, then at the palace’s distant chimneys dark against the heavens. She could outrun them in a twinkling, even with the kitten clutched to her breast...if not for her heavy skirts and the cumbersome farthingale.
A sharp hail stung her cheek and bosom—a handful of gravel slung by the younger boy, growing ever bolder as they realized her vulnerable placement.
“Nay, wait!” said the elder, voice deepening with intent, a new note of cruelty that made him nearly a man, albeit one any mother would weep to claim. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she, Rodrigo? Fair enough for what we’re planning, any rate. Why hie ourselves all the way to the Southwark stews when we can find our bit o’ muslin right here at Hampton?”
Although some of his references escaped her grasp, Rhiannon grasped his meaning well enough. Cold fear sheeted over her, but she knew better than to show it. Men and boys, they were all like wolves. Let them scent her terror and they’d be at her throat.
Or under her skirts, which seemed now their intent.
“Ha! Thou claim to wield a man’s blade and do a man’s business?” She laced her voice with derision. “Against an unwilling woman?”
“You’ll be willing by the time I’m ready.” Her opponent leered and loosened his codpiece. “You’ll bloody be begging me for it. Watch here, Rodrigo, and see how a man does his business.”
Gripping the kitten against her chest with one hand, Rhiannon cast about desperately for some means of defense. Her legs weakened with sickening fear. Had she overcome bandits and a dragon and Morrigan’s malice, only to lose her precious shield of maidenhood to this half-grown braggart?
“What the Devil is going on here?” A man’s voice, cold and pitiless as revenge, brought them all spinning around. A black-clad figure strode into the clearing, sable cloak unfurling like great wings in his wake. His aura blazed fire to Rhiannon’s Sight—the white heat of divine rage.
She closed her eyes, strength and hope flooding her trembling limbs. A few minutes ago she would have done anything to avoid him. Now she could have wept with relief to see him.
“Lord Beltran.” She fought to steady her voice. “What is happening here is that I found these...gentlemen...tormenting this poor helpless creature for sport. Perhaps now they find the sport less to their liking.”
His keen gaze swept from the trembling kitten clutched to her chest to the youth’s loosened codpiece. A terrifying coldness
hardened his features to granite.
“Best retie that codpiece, boy,” he growled. “And find yourself another diversion—at once.”
Moonlight flashed on his gold-and-steel medallion, no less cold or hard than the menace in his narrowed gaze. Perhaps the younger lad recognized the symbol. Or perhaps he sensed the blazing image of the wrathful angel that burned in Rhiannon’s vision.
The boy called Rodrigo scuttled back from danger. “Madre de Dios! It’s him.”
“Who?” the elder asked uneasily, hand twitching near the hilt of his sword.
“The wrath of God, amigo.” The younger boy crossed himself. “God’s Vengeance.”
She watched fear infect the elder like a creeping plague. Her would-be assailant adjusted his codpiece and grumbled an oath.
The young Rodrigo fell to his knees, hands clasped, his sallow features rapturous as he gazed up at Beltran. “Will you give me your blessing, senor?”
“I’m no priest,” Beltran muttered, shifting. “Off with you, chico. And best take your intemperate friend with you.”
Unsurprised, she watched the pair retreat, Rodrigo dragging his unnamed comrade behind. The elder shrugged him off, but at least he went.
Rhiannon’s breath escaped in a shuddering rush. Trembling, she crossed to a stone bench and sank down, cradling the kitten to her breast. The little creature had stopped shivering and nestled into her warm bosom as though it belonged there.
“Damn it to hell, why did you run from me, Rhiannon?”
She tingled with wariness as the Blade of God stalked toward her, darkness cloaking his features.
“Thou knowest why, Lord Beltran.”
His voice deepened with purpose. “I would have taken nothing you weren’t more than willing to give.”
“Perhaps that’s why I was running,” she said softly.
Now he towered over her, close enough to touch. The sweet spice of frankincense made her dizzy. She glanced aside, struggling to show nothing of the alchemical reaction his presence evoked—not her breathless excitement, nor her melting yearning, nor the confusion and alarm her vulnerability provoked.
You must keep him at a distance if you value your immortality. You could lose everything in his arms.
She bent over the kitten, cupped carefully between her hands, hair falling forward to curtain her features.
“Thou could have let them have me just now,” she said lightly. “Another missed opportunity to be quit of me.”
“Devil take it, Rhiannon! I may be a butcher but I’m no rogue,” he said roughly, hunkering on his heels before her. “I’d no more abandon an innocent woman to random brutality than I would that dumb beast you’ve rescued, poor mite.”
Still avoiding his probing gaze, she stroked the kitten’s milky forehead with a gentle finger. The little creature dissolved into purrs.
“Thou art a decent man,” she allowed, “despite the harsh and unforgiving God thou choose to serve, and thy Church’s bloody dictates.”
The breath chuffed from his lungs. “God doesn’t look to me for leniency, Rhiannon. I’m His unflinching sword-arm, His judge and executioner, His wrath and His rod of punishment.”
“Justice may be blind,” she murmured. “But it should also be merciful. This grieving, strife-torn land cries out for God’s mercy and thine. Why wilt thou not see it?”
Restless, he thrust to his feet and paced the clearing. “I’m a Blade of God. It’s not my place to show mercy.”
“Why must thou be so stubborn?” Seized by a feverish urgency, she placed the kitten carefully on the grass beneath the bench, safe from harm, and rose. “After such evidence as thou have seen today, thou can no longer deny I speak the truth! The Convergence is nearly upon us, Beltran, or that dragon could never have passed the Veil. My sister is growing stronger, and the Veil thin as cobwebs.”
“That creature was a demon, vomited up from Hell.” The lion’s growl reverberated through his voice as he pivoted and stalked toward her. “The Name of God caused it mortal anguish, but it was your witchcraft that banished it. These are strange events, Rhiannon, and I assure you the Church won’t tolerate them. If anyone should testify to your peculiar magick, the bishop will see you burn.”
“And still I must strive unaided—nay, opposed by thee!” Exhausted and overwrought, she surrendered to a flash of temper and stamped her foot. “I vow I have reached my limit. I’ll waste no more time dallying with a narrow-minded, pigheaded doddypol who lacks the wit to see the truth before his own eyes.”
“Doddypol?” His tawny brows hoisted.
“It means fool, fool, fool!” Furious, she clenched her fists and glared at him. “I tell thee I’ve had enough of thee.”
He halted, dangerously still. “Unfortunately you’ve no choice but to tolerate me. The Queen has placed your fate in my hands.”
“I’m not so certain, Beltran. The Queen doubts thy virtue after that outburst on the stairs. Any staunch Catholic with status at this court would serve my purpose better than thee. Why, I found half-a-dozen men at that fete tonight who would champion me and gladly!”
“No doubt they would,” he said, low and menacing. “In exchange for such sweet pleasures as I savored today, with you all but naked beneath me. Will you lure FitzAlan and his cronies the same way?”
She burned with outrage. “How dare thou imply I used woman’s wiles to lure thee? Thou art the one who cannot seem to keep thy distance, no matter thy political ambitions—”
Hearing her outraged voice ringing through the garden, Rhiannon tumbled to a halt. Over the echo of their quarrel, the stately strains of a pavane lilted through the night. This was no place for a rousing row on such dire matters as these, no matter how he vexed her.
Besides, she’d resolved to spend her efforts elsewhere. She only hoped Beltran wouldn’t denounce her outright or arrest her, as she knew was still a danger. Beyond that, she need no longer waste her breath on the provoking man.
“My ambitions?” Deliberately he stalked toward her. “Now what would a Faerie princess know of such business?”
“I haven’t been living in a cave,” she said irritably. “I know thou art being considered to head thine order. Besides which, I’m told thou art sworn to chastity, which I assure thee matches mine interests to perfection. ’Tis best for both our sakes to keep our distance.”
Now he looked distinctly dangerous. “Is that so?”
Rhiannon knew little of men, either mortal or otherwise, but she was learning to know this one. Nervously she glanced around the glade. For all she knew, Morrigan herself could be lurking, though the day’s mighty effort must have exhausted her.
Beneath the bench, the kitten mewed plaintively. Grateful for the diversion, she hurried past the scowling man to scoop it up.
“’Tis growing chilly. I’d best take this kitten inside where it’s warm, and see if I cannot find its mother.”
“So we intend to keep our distance?” His warm breath licked her ear, and she jumped. Keen though her senses were, his tread was silent as mist when he wished.
“Precisely so,” she said briskly, starting past him.
His hand closed beneath her elbow, drawing her close. Another wave of weakness assailed her. “I don’t intend to seduce you, Rhiannon, if that’s what worries you. What you said about my vows, at least, was accurate.”
She stifled an odd flicker of disappointment. �
��I thought thou might agree.”
His grip tightened, making her heartbeat quicken. “But I do intend to escort you chastely to your chamber, before you stumble into some new mischief. You have a habit of finding trouble, girl.”
She gritted her teeth and raised her chin. “Beyond a doubt, Lord Beltran, the worst trouble I’ve found since I passed beyond the Veil is thee.”
Chapter Fourteen
Another English dawn, cold and clammy as a tomb. Who’d believe May Day was nearly upon them, a scant two days hence?
Beltran heaved a breath and rose stiffly from his knees. He’d fallen asleep before the little reliquary in his dayroom sometime after the bells rang Matins. It wasn’t the first time he’d failed to keep his eyes propped open through a night-long vigil. Now he was staring forty in the face, his lapses appeared to be growing more frequent.
Groaning, he rolled his head on his neck, wondering dully why he drove himself this way. Why did he flog himself more relentlessly than he’d ever hounded any witch or heretic?
The old rituals had mattered to him once, when the stronghold of San Miguel seemed a haven of order and cleanliness. Of course, the Southwark stews would have seemed that way to the boy he was, compared to the hell on earth of his Da’s smithy, and the filthy crib where his Mam whored on her back for any man with a groat to pay her.
He’d wanted to punish the whole world for his parents’ failings—his father’s dumb unthinking violence, his mother’s apathy to their misery. He’d settled for wielding the hammer of justice to smite God’s enemies. He’d thought any inkling of compassion or forgiveness had been knocked from his head by his father’s fists.
In those early years of fervent devotion, he’d never dreamed a woman like Rhiannon le Fay could exist. Her gentle touch, her lilting voice, her gaiety and compassion had been revelations to him. The way life and love surrounded her, flowering wherever she walked like the Holy Thorn on Glastonbury when Joseph of Arimathea planted his staff. She watered the barren soil of this wretched world.
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