The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “He knows how desperate I am.”

  His blue eyes frowned. “Ye canna escape your destiny, lass. My advice is to accept this Valgus as husband. Set about breeding sons for the glory of Rome.”

  “I won’t. I can’t.” She took a step forward and dared to place a hand on his arm. She felt the taut muscle contract under her fingertips, but when she looked up at his face his eyes betrayed no hint of compassion.

  “Aiden said you would help me. He said if you weren’t willing, that I should tell you”—she let her eyes show her desperation—“to treat me as you would his granddaughter.”

  A sharp, foul expletive fell from Owein’s lips. “He canna have told ye that.”

  “He did!”

  “In that case …” Owein’s attention drifted blatantly down Clara’s body. “There is something ye can offer me.”

  Her stomach lurched. “You … wouldn’t ask that.”

  Lust, pure and raw, darkened his eyes. “Why should I not?”

  Panic beat in Clara’s chest. At the same time, warmth spread from her belly to the tips of her breasts. From there it climbed steadily to her cheeks. “Aiden says you are a man of honor,” she choked out.

  “Honor is a cold comfort. Do ye know how long it’s been since I had a woman? Since I’ve even seen one?”

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  “Two winters. Two winters since Sempronius Gracchus’s men killed my wife with no mercy even for the babe in her womb.”

  His voice was flat, but Clara sensed his barely controlled violence. He’d lost a wife and child! Aiden hadn’t told her that.

  “I’m … sorry.”

  “Eirwen was killed fighting for our home. I wasna there to die at her side.” He looked away. “That, lass, is how I treated Aiden’s granddaughter.”

  Clara’s breath left her. “Aiden’s granddaughter was your wife? But he never …” She shuddered. How could Aiden have sent her to this man? Clearly, Owein despised her, and everything Roman. “I … didn’t know,” she finished lamely.

  “There’s much ye don’t know. Go back to Isca, lass. Ye dinna belong here.”

  He stood. The sheer bulk of him overwhelmed her; she was forced to tilt her head to look up at his face. She fought her instinct to recoil, until a sudden movement of his body sent her stumbling backward. But he hadn’t moved in her direction. On the contrary, he was the one in retreat. He strode to the door, nearly wrenching it from its pegged hinges. And then he was gone, absorbed by the snow-shrouded night.

  Ill-mannered lout, she thought. But she trembled for the pain she’d seen in his eyes. She sank down on the chair he’d vacated. With a wife and child dead, he had a right to be bitter.

  She was sick to her bones, thinking of the Second Legion’s mountain purge. She knew Father had been disgusted when the reports of the botched village raids reached the fortress. Father hadn’t wanted to resettle the free Celts in the first place—in his view, the scattered mountain villages posed little threat to Roman civilians. But after the governor’s niece had fallen prey to Celt brigands on the road near Isca, the order had come from Londinium to clear the hills of all natives. Had Father not complied, he’d have been stripped of his command. Slaughter hadn’t been his intent; he’d wanted a peaceful resettlement. But the Celts were a proud people. They hadn’t surrendered.

  Sighing, Clara rose and retrieved her tunic from the bench. It was still damp, but it hardly mattered. She couldn’t remain dressed in Owein’s shirt. She grasped the hem, battling a sudden reluctance to remove the garment. The linen imparted a measure of comfort. Had Owein’s wife woven it? Had he worn it while he kissed her? She shook off the thought. With an efficient motion, she pulled the shirt over her head and laid it on the pallet.

  Donning her own tunic was a challenge because of the damage Owein had done to her girdle and sleeve pins. She fastened them the best she could, then retrieved her boots, staring at them sadly. Ruined. Half the pearls were gone, and the leather was stained beyond repair. With a sigh, she slipped on her ugly wool stockings and slid her feet into the ruined boots. She took a step. Her soles were still tender; it was like walking on broken glass.

  She’d no sooner dressed than the door scraped open. Owein appeared once more, his arms laden with deadwood. He glanced at her briefly, taking in the change in her attire, but said nothing. Depositing the wood near the hearth, he went down on one knee and set to the task of stacking it.

  She hobbled past him and peered out the door. The sky was a startling blue. “The storm has lifted.”

  Owein grunted a reply. Clara limped across the room to the pallet. Bending, she scooped up his shirt and held it out to him, feeling for all the world as if she were taming a wild beast to her hand. “I thank you again for your kindness.”

  He rose and accepted the worn linen. “No kindness. I had little choice.”

  “You might have left me to die.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I might have.” He frowned at his shirt. Then he folded it carefully and stowed it in his oaken chest.

  Clara forced herself to go to him, her hand hovering above his shoulder. “Owein. I need your help.”

  “I’ve given ye my answer.”

  “I won’t accept it.”

  “Ye must. Your father will most likely die. ’Tis a hard thing to bear, but the sooner ye accept it, the better ’twill be. Marry the man he chose for ye, lass. Once ye have a passel of brats to care for, ye’ll stop looking to the past.”

  Her hand descended onto his shoulder. The supple leather and soft fur of his shirt teased her fingertips, but couldn’t disguise the muscle underneath. So much power, so much strength, and yet …

  She moved in front of him, seeking his gaze. “What is it you fear?”

  A slight widening of his eyes told him she’d hit her mark. He jerked free of her touch. “I fear nothing,” he said. “Save that ye’ll nay be gone soon enough.”

  “But—”

  “Ye demand the use of my gift,” he said roughly. “As if it were your right. It is not.”

  “Aiden thought it was.”

  “Aiden is a fool.”

  Clara was silent for a moment. Then, bending, she retrieved her satchel from the pallet and set it on the table.

  “I told ye, lass. I have no need of coin.”

  “It’s not coin I wish to show you.” Her fingers, still raw and painful, trembled as she worked the buckled strap securing the satchel’s flap. It refused to give way. The leather band had swollen with moisture during the storm, then tightened again as it dried. She tore at it, cursing under her breath.

  A callused hand covered hers. “Let me do it if ye are so intent upon having it open.”

  She hesitated, then nodded and stepped aside.

  His blunt fingers worked the buckle. The strap gave way. She thought he might examine the contents of the bag, but he did not. She upended it herself. A shower of coins and jewelry—all she could gather on short notice—spilled onto the scarred wood.

  “I have no use for bangles,” Owein muttered.

  “No,” Clara allowed. “But you may have something to say about this.” She fished a small scroll tube from the glittering heap and held it out to him. Another offering for the beast. Perhaps this one would bring him close enough for the taming.

  He took the tube. Frowning, he slid out the papyrus, spread it flat on the table.

  And stared at Clara’s secret.

  Chapter Four

  “Well met, Rhys,” Breena said, catching her breath with a laugh. She’d run down the road to greet them, her long russet braid unraveling about her shoulders. Her blue eyes darted to Rhys’s pack. Marcus could almost hear his half sister’s unspoken demand: What did you bring me?

  He suppressed a grin. Breena had begun to blossom into a woman, a process as bumpy as a cart ride over a rutted field. For the last sennight, she’d been so shrewish, Marcus had taken to eating his meals in the forge. But right now, the bright-eyed girl he loved had reasserted her
self.

  Rhys gave Breena a formal bow, as if he were about to partner her in a faire dance. “I greet ye, lady.”

  Marcus grinned. “Patience, Bree. At least allow poor Rhys to unshoulder his pack before you dive into it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Marcus laughed aloud. Breena put her hands on her hips and stuck her tongue out at him. He made a good-natured grab for her, but she danced just out of reach. Despite Breena’s newfound womanhood, there was still much of the child about her.

  Breena turned to Rhys, giving Marcus her back. “Is Hefin with you? I don’t see him overhead.”

  “He’ll be off seeking his midday meal, but he’ll soon return,” Rhys said, offering Breena his arm. She flipped Marcus a triumphant smile as she placed a hand in the crook of the musician’s elbow.

  Marcus trailed the pair up the road toward his father’s villa. A stone wall taller than a man enclosed the house and its generous yard, while the grain fields and workers’ cottages lay outside. Behind the iron gates, the villa was fronted by a formal garden. Stables were near the entry gate, but the sheep and pig barns lay out of sight to the rear of the house, beyond the orchard and kitchen garden.

  The main house was a rambling affair, with the stucco walls and tiled roof typical of Roman villas in Britannia. But Marcus’s father, Lucius, a retired Legionary, had departed from convention on one important feature. At his Celt wife’s insistence, he’d ordered the main receiving chamber enclosed with a graceful curved wall reminiscent of a Celt roundhouse. Despite the heated air circulating under the tiled floors, a hearth graced the center of the room. An odd marriage of elements, but such was the way of Marcus’s family.

  Rhiannon looked up from her cauldron as he entered. Gazing on his stepmother, Marcus saw a hint of the woman Breena would someday be. His half sister had inherited her mother’s fair skin and russet hair. Her long, straight nose, however, matched Marcus’s and her father’s, a fact she strongly lamented.

  Rhys sniffed the air appreciably. “Mutton stew,” he declared. “And wheat bread.”

  Marcus grinned. Despite his lanky build, Rhys could consume enough food in one sitting to sustain a Roman plow horse.

  “Rhys is here, Mama,” Breena said.

  “Aye, I can see the lad with my own eyes,” Rhiannon said with true affection. She treated the Celt like a second son. “The Great Mother’s welcome to ye, Rhys.”

  “And to you, lady.”

  “Will ye stay long in Isca?”

  “Please say you will,” Breena said, forgetting her newfound maturity. Marcus only hoped her good mood would last. From the look Rhiannon sent her daughter, he guessed his stepmother shared his sentiments.

  “We’ll see,” Rhys said, setting his pack on the tiled floor. Untying the top flap, he drew out a small pouch. “I’ve brought ye a gift,” he said, his gray eyes suddenly serious.

  He set the pouch in Breena’s palm. She quickly loosed the knot. Rhys’s gift was a pendant crafted in silver. Marcus leaned forward, captivated by its intricate artistry.

  “Oh, Rhys!” Breena breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

  Beautiful didn’t begin to describe the piece. It was nothing short of miraculous, especially to the eye of a silversmith. Though practicality forced Marcus to work mainly with iron, he preferred silver. There was a delicacy and a challenge to the metal that absorbed him completely. But though Marcus could say without conceit that he was a fine silversmith, his skill was a mere child’s hammering compared to that of the artist who’d created this treasure.

  The pendant fit easily in Breena’s palm. Marcus recognized the pattern, for Rhys’s left breast was marked with the same sign. At its center, three silver spirals united as one, giving the impression of spinning movement. Encircling this pattern was a ring divided into quarters, entwined with two vines.

  Rhiannon drew a sharp breath.

  “Who smithed this piece?” Marcus asked. “I’ve never seen silvercraft so fine.”

  “Gwendolyn,” Rhys said, a troubled expression flitting across his face.

  “Your twin is a smith?” Marcus asked, raising his head. Rhys rarely spoke of his sister. He most certainly had never told Marcus she worked with silver.

  “What do ye mean by bringing such a gift?” Rhiannon said. Her voice had gone taut, as it did when she was angry or frightened.

  Marcus looked up in surprise.

  “The time draws near, lady,” Rhys said quietly.

  Rhiannon shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Have ye nay felt the truth of it?” Rhys’s gaze slid to Breena. “I would wager your daughter has.”

  “Nay,” Rhiannon said tightly. “She is not ready.”

  Breena scowled, but held her tongue, a most uncharacteristic occurrence. Marcus divided his attention between Rhys and Rhiannon. They faced each other like warriors girded for battle. What in Jupiter’s name was going on? Marcus had the distinct feeling he’d missed some vital fragment of their communication. He reviewed their words in his head, searching for some subtle nuance of the Celt tongue that might have eluded him. He came up empty.

  During the long, heavy silence that ensued, Marcus became painfully aware he was the only one present whose veins were filled with pure Roman blood. Even Breena, child that she was, seemed to understand more than he.

  “My grandfather senses Deep Magic abroad,” Rhys said.

  “As do I,” whispered Breena.

  Rhys watched Rhiannon. “ ’Tis the storm. Can ye nay feel it?”

  “Aye,” Rhiannon whispered, looking away. “I can.”

  Marcus’s brows drew together. Both Rhiannon and Breena had greeted the sudden snow with exceptional ill humor, as if the storm had blown in on some evil wind. He’d put it down to female tempers. He’d certainly felt nothing amiss.

  Rhys held Rhiannon’s gaze. “Then ye know as I do, lady, ’tis nay safe for Breena to dwell apart from her own kind. Even more because her blood cannot be denied. She’s of the line of queens.”

  “How do you know that?” Marcus asked sharply. Rhiannon never spoke of her lineage, or of the throne she might have claimed if Britannia hadn’t come under Roman rule.

  “Breena’s but a lass,” Rhiannon said. “Surely—”

  “Her woman’s blood is upon her. She needs the protection of Avalon.”

  Avalon? Once again, Marcus had the frustrating sense he’d missed some important element of the conversation. He stepped forward, angling his body between Rhiannon and Rhys.

  “Speak plainly.” Marcus’s voice reverberated sharply, his tone much more like his father’s than his own. And just as if Lucius Aquila had spoken, all eyes turned to him.

  Rhys’s expression was grave. “Have ye never wondered, my friend, why I first came to this house?”

  “It was nine years ago,” Marcus said, bewildered. “You were fourteen, as I was. Barely more than a boy. You rang the gate bell and offered a song in exchange for lodging.”

  “ ’Twas nay an accident of fortune I sought shelter here. My grandfather bade me come to the queen’s daughter. Breena had touched Cyric with her dreams.”

  “Impossible. Breena’s dreams mean nothing.” Marcus’s stomach twisted. His sister had been plagued with night terrors since before she could walk—she’d wake sobbing, but rarely remembered what had distressed her. “She’ll outgrow them.”

  “Nay. As Breena becomes a woman, the dreams will only trouble her more. Her power is growing. She has the Sight, like Cyric. ’Tis nay an easy gift to bear.”

  Breena’s eyes widened, and Marcus stared, aghast. “You speak of magic.”

  “Aye. ’Tis my task to search for those Celts touched by the magic and bring them to Avalon. All who dwell on the sacred isle possess the powers of the Old Ones.”

  Marcus’s scalp crawled. “But that would mean …”

  “Aye. We are Druids.”

  If Rhys had swung a forge hammer against the side of Marcus’s skull, Marcus couldn�
��t have been any less stunned. But Rhiannon’s expression was merely resigned.

  Marcus turned on her. “You knew this?”

  “Aye, Marcus, but—”

  “And what of Father? Does he know his home has been defiled by a Druid? One who means to steal his daughter?”

  Rhiannon’s silence was answer enough. Marcus rounded on Rhys, his fingers curling into fists. With his smith’s strength, he could easily throw the Celt out into the snow. Unless …

  He forced a swallow down a throat dry as dust. Rhys was a Druid. The outlawed cult spilled the blood of men on their hidden altars, called ghosts and demons from the underworld, imprisoned enemy souls. Marcus’s uncle had met just such a gruesome fate. Marcus’s father, Lucius, had fought to free his brother’s spirit, barely escaping with his own life. If Marcus dared attack a Druid, who knew what foul magic he might be struck with?

  Marcus fingered the throwing knife at his belt, praying Rhys wouldn’t see through his bluff. “Leave this house.”

  “Nay, Marcus.” Breena’s hand gripped his arm.

  He threw her off. “No Druid is welcome here.”

  “Marcus, cease.” Rhiannon’s tone was pleading. “Rhys doesn’t deserve your anger.”

  “You jest, Mother. He deserves far worse. This man has given me nothing but lies. And you—” He swallowed hard. “How could you keep such a thing from Father? From me?”

  “Rhys is one of my own people. I didn’t abandon my blood when I chose to marry a Roman, and I’ll nay do so now.”

  “You know Father would never have allowed Rhys into his home had he known what he is.”

  Rarely had Marcus seen Rhiannon so distressed. “Aye. ’Tis why I did not tell him.”

  “And what now?” Marcus asked Rhiannon. Rhys made no move, nor did he speak. Could he cast a spell silently?

  Marcus fervently hoped not. “Will this man spin a curse and bind us to his will? As your clan’s Druid master once tried to bind Father?”

  “The Druids of Avalon do not embrace the Dark,” Rhiannon said.

  Marcus eyed Rhys. “You cannot be sure of that.”