The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  He gave a swift shake of his head. “Ye don’t know what ye are asking.”

  She lifted her chin. “I do, and I’m not afraid.”

  He regarded her with sober eyes. “Perhaps ye should be.”

  “ ’Tis an outrage! A disgrace.” Padrig’s strident voice sliced through the air. His long limbs jerked as he paced before the fire. The Druid elder looked like a toy Rhys had once seen in the hands of a Roman child—a jointed ivory man mounted on a stick.

  Mared lifted a hand. “Have a care what ye say in this place. The Great Mother listens.”

  “I’ll nay shrink before the Great Mother,” Padrig snapped. He came to a halt. “And I’ll nay accept the rantings of a possessed man as law. Of course Cyric would name Gwen as his successor. He is caught in her Dark enchantment.”

  “Ye canna know that,” Rhys said sharply.

  “We must discern the will of the Great Mother,” Mared said.

  “The Mother remains silent,” Padrig muttered.

  Rhys barely heard their bickering. Cyric had denied him his birthright! The shock of his grandfather’s pronouncement darted through his chest with every breath. His limbs felt almost detached from his body. He looked up at the sky and imagined lifting his arms and becoming lost in the clouds.

  Hefin’s silhouette swooped toward him, a black blur against the lightening sky. Rhys held a forearm aloft. The merlin settled on it, ruffling and folding its wings. Rhys took comfort in the bird’s familiar weight.

  Padrig’s dour gaze drew him back to the earth. “Ye must lead Avalon when Cyric passes, Rhys. ’Tis your right and your duty.”

  “Nay,” Rhys said quietly.

  “Ye canna accept an old man’s witless ramblings!”

  “There is nothing wrong with Cyric’s wits. I sensed no darkness in his words.” Rhys took a deep breath and ignored the ache in his heart. “If Cyric has declared my sister leader of Avalon, I must abide by his will.”

  “But ye are her elder,” Mared protested.

  “Gwen’s power is greater. It has always been so.”

  Mared frowned. “ ’Tis a power without discipline.”

  “Then my sister will learn patience.”

  “And what of the clan?” Padrig put in. “Our people want ye at their head, Rhys. Not Gwen. She’s angered many. Ye’ve nay been here to witness it.”

  “She shirks her duties,” Mared said. “She disappears into the swamps, sometimes for an entire moon.”

  “Avalon has seen even less of me,” Rhys said.

  “They see your obedience to Cyric’s will.” Mared advanced to lay one wrinkled hand on Rhys’s arm. “They see ye gathering the blessed from the Roman towns and bringing them to a new life. Most of them came to us through ye.”

  “ ’Twas Cyric’s vision that brought the Druids back to Avalon,” Rhys said. “Would ye have me defy his last command?”

  Padrig’s eyes were grave. “For the good of the clan.”

  Rhys shook his head. Hefin startled at the movement. “Cyric’s Sight is bound to the Great Mother. Perhaps the Goddess has shown him some truth the rest of us are blind to. Nay, I willna go against Cyric, no matter my own wishes. Gwen must lead Avalon.”

  “She must be present for that,” Padrig muttered. “And she is not.”

  “Surely she’s not far.”

  “Cormac searched the swamps and the surrounding hillsides. He found no sign of her.”

  “Cormac is nay of Avalon,” Rhys said sharply. “I dinna trust him.” He jerked his arm, sending Hefin skyward. “I will search for Gwen, as I promised Cyric. I will find my sister and bring her home to face her duty.”

  “Or her judgment,” Padrig said darkly.

  Rhys nodded. “Or her judgment.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The mansio smelled of rotten fish.

  The inn was a dingy two-story structure surrounded by a high wall. Clara hadn’t even reached the gates leading into the yard when the rank odor of decayed seafood—and worse—assaulted her. Apparently, the establishment’s isolated location was sufficient guarantee of prosperity. Its owner certainly didn’t aspire to cleanliness.

  She bent her head into the icy wind and forced her feet forward. If the place were warm, she could ignore all else. Sleet stung her face like a thousand needles. Worse, the storm’s vague, sparkling undercurrent set her senses on edge. Was this the Deep Magic? She frowned, trying to grasp what she didn’t understand.

  Owein surveyed the mansio with distaste. “I’d sooner sleep on the open moor than pass a night in this Roman privy.”

  If not for the frost on her nose and chin, Clara might have agreed with him. “It looked better from afar, didn’t it?”

  “Lass, a man couldna back up far enough to make this hovel look good.”

  A blast of frigid air flung the words from Owein’s mouth. Clara huddled in her cloak, trying to warm her fingers in the fur lining. She wore Owein’s cloak atop her own, though she’d protested when he’d settled it on her shoulders. He’d ignored her, pausing only long enough to don his hide shirt over his linen one, his one concession to the cold.

  She slid a glance toward him. He might hide it well, but she sensed he was suffering as much as she. Not from the cold—after all, he carried a furnace within. No, she suspected it was the storm’s magic that troubled him. His mouth had settled in a grim line that would not be broken.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  He rubbed his right temple. “Aye,” he said, casting a dark glance through the hostelry’s iron gate. The yard was barren save for clumps of garbage, a heap of empty wine amphorae, and a pile of broken furniture. White mist emanated from a ramshackle privy.

  A large rat scurried across the yard. Clara fought a surge of nausea. “Perhaps there’s a better place farther on.”

  “None we’ll reach before dark.”

  Clara curled her fingers, but her hands were so numb she couldn’t feel the press of her nails on her palms. “I hope the food is edible, at least.” She reached toward the gate bell.

  “Wait. Give me your satchel.”

  She paused. “Why?”

  “It contains your coin. The innkeeper will expect me to carry our purse.”

  “Best let me keep it. You’ll find it difficult to match the coins to the price.”

  He snorted. “I’m no idiot, lass.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you were. I only meant that you aren’t familiar with Roman coins. It will look odd if you hand over too little or too much.”

  “ ’Twill look odder still if I stand aside and let my wife do the counting. This is your world, nay mine. Give me your satchel.”

  To argue would only delay Clara’s entrance into a heated room. “All right.”

  The satchel’s strap was across her shoulders. She would have to remove both Owein’s cloak and her own in order to hand it to him. But her fingers were too stiff to do much more than fumble with the cloak pins.

  “Let me.”

  Owein’s hands were so hot that she hissed when they enveloped her fingers. She savored the warm abrasion of his calluses until they raised tendrils of pain on her skin.

  His gaze narrowed. “Ye should have told me ye suffered.”

  And have him comment again on her weakness? “I hadn’t noticed until now,” she lied. She tugged her hands from his grasp. “Please. Just ring the bell.”

  “I’ll have that satchel first.” He unfastened the cloak pins, his fingers brushing her throat. Darts of tingling warmth accompanied his touch. All too soon, the satchel was slung over his broad shoulders and the cloaks refastened.

  “One more bit of advice. Hard as it may be for ye, keep silent while we’re in this place.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I assure ye, I am.” He reached out and gave the rope a strong tug, setting the bell clanging.

  Clara jumped and covered her ears. Owein chuckled.

  The door to the inn swung open. A large man appeared in the doorway.
He peered across the yard, seeming reluctant to brave the driving sleet for even the brief journey to the gate.

  “Salve,” Owein called. “Have ye supper and a bed for my wife and me?” His Latin was rough, but serviceable. It was odd to hear him speak her language.

  “I take only coin,” the man shouted. “No barter.”

  “You’re in luck, friend. I have silver.”

  “Silver?” The man stepped into the yard. His large form plowed a path over the sleet-crusted ground.

  The innkeeper had the swagger of a military man, though his enormous belly indicated it had been some years since he’d left the Legions. His beard was short and scraggly, his neck thick. His round nose crooked to the left.

  His attention lingered on Clara a fraction longer than politeness allowed before shifting to Owein.

  “One room, you say, and supper?”

  “Aye. For my wife and me.”

  “Six denari. Not a sestertius less.”

  “Six denari?” Clara cried. “I could buy wine to last three months for that amount. You cannot be—”

  Owein placed a warning hand on her shoulder. “Remember what I told ye.”

  “But this man means to rob us blind! Six denari? Why—”

  His grip tightened. “Silence, woman. Or ye’ll feel my open palm on your arse.”

  Clara bristled. She opened her mouth, a hot retort burning her tongue.

  “Think hard before ye speak,” Owein warned in a low voice—but not low enough that the innkeeper couldn’t hear. “Remember how ye squealed at the last beating. And remember what happened when it was done, after your squirming turned my cock to stone.”

  Clara nearly choked.

  The innkeeper threw back his head and let out a bark of laughter. “Good going, friend,” he said, chuckling. He took a key ring from his belt and fitted it into the gate’s lock. “Though to my mind, it does no harm to let a shrew scold once in a while, for the joy of punishing her later.”

  “I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Owein said, propelling Clara through the open gate. His hand slipped down her back and gave her bottom a quick slap. The innkeeper chuckled.

  Clara’s face flared so hot she was sure if she laid her palms on her cheeks her skin would be seared. She stepped close to Owein and landed a sharp, discreet jab in his ribs. His brisk intake of air provided a small satisfaction.

  He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “Dinna think I wouldn’t enjoy spanking your arse,” he whispered. “Speak again, and I might try it.” She could hear the laughter in his voice.

  She pursed her lips and held her tongue.

  The wind shifted, the sleet abruptly becoming enormous white flakes. They followed the innkeeper across the yard, tracing the crusty path he’d made, which was already beginning to fill with snow.

  The hostelry was a medley of heat, sweat, and laughter underscored by the odor of cheap wine and cervesia. Fortunately, the aromas of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread were also present. Clara’s stomach rumbled. She would settle for any meal that didn’t consist of dry, stringy venison.

  Owein thrust Clara behind him as they entered the main room of the tavern. “Stay close,” he muttered. “And keep your hood up.”

  “I’ll take that payment now, if you please.” The innkeeper’s tone was pleasant but firm, accented by a hand on his dagger.

  “Of course,” Owein said, his fingertips brushing the hilt of his own weapon. He unbuckled the flap on Clara’s satchel. “For the price ye named, the bed linens must be clean and a pitcher of hot water provided.” He paused to consider. “And we must have a chamber pot.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to Owein’s dagger, then back to his face. “As you say.”

  Owein counted out the coin with the air of a man who completed such transactions often. Clara raised her brows—perhaps she’d been hasty in assuming his ignorance. She dared a glance around the tavern. The place was lit with cheap tallow tapers that left a haze of smoke in the air. The innkeeper’s patrons numbered about twenty men, a mix of lower-class Romans and free Celts, clustered around heavy plank tables. A pair of females circulated among them, laden with trays of food and drink.

  The younger barmaid was amply blessed by Venus. Her breasts were fully as large as wine jugs and her rounded hips swayed with every step. Men tossed lewd compliments and coin whenever she made a show of leaning across a table to deliver a mug.

  The buzz of conversation dipped a notch as Owein and Clara entered. Several men eyed Clara with undisguised interest. One man actually licked his chops. She eased close to Owein, glad that his bulk matched even the largest of the inn’s patrons.

  The innkeeper waved them to two empty seats at the end of a table. They were not too near the hearth, but Clara hardly minded. The atmosphere in the room was close; already she could feel her fingers and toes thawing. Owein removed his pack and dropped it on the floor near his feet, but kept Clara’s satchel on his body. He slid onto the bench, facing the door. Clara took the opposite seat, easing her hood back to allow a quick perusal of the room.

  Owein’s posture relaxed—deceptively, Clara thought. His gaze roamed, never settling for long. The buxom barmaid arrived. Owein ordered wine for Clara and cervesia for himself.

  A blond, bearded man with mottled skin was seated on the bench to Clara’s right. His small eyes flicked over her, then shifted to Owein, whose gaze was elsewhere. A leering grin spread over his face. His hand disappeared under the table. He gave Clara a wink as his arm began moving with a jerking motion.

  Clara’s jaw went slack. Was he milking his rod? Here, in the common room of the tavern? She ripped her eyes away, heart pounding. Suddenly, a bed in a snowbank seemed like a fine idea.

  She scooted as far to the end of the bench as she could without tumbling onto the ground. “Owein,” she said in a strangled whisper. He sent her a questioning glance. “This was a mistake. Perhaps we should move on.”

  Owein glanced at the pock-faced man. Despite the taut weariness about his eyes, he seemed more amused than disgusted. “Fainthearted?”

  The pock-faced man stiffened. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave a low moan. An instant later he relaxed, caught Clara’s eye, and winked.

  Clara half-rose from the table, her gut twisting with revulsion. The air in the room was too thick. She couldn’t get it into her lungs. “I cannot stay in this place.”

  Owein’s hand closed on her wrist. “Lass. I gave nearly all your coin to that brigand of an innkeeper. Now ye wish to leave? Ye’d freeze yourself to death over a man polishing his sword? And what of our meal?”

  “But—”

  “Sit.”

  Reluctantly, she let him pull her back into her seat. He was right. “I’m sorry. Of course we must stay.”

  His gaze softened. “None will harm ye. Not with me here.”

  The buxom barmaid brought their drink, bending low in front of Owein. It seemed to Clara she took far longer to deliver his mug than was necessary. Owein’s gaze lingered on the girl’s generous globes. When he pressed the last of Clara’s coins into her palm, he was rewarded with a wide smile.

  Clara scowled and looked down into her wine. Owein tipped his mug to his lips. Clara took a sip from her cup, then immediately regretted it. The wine was little better than vinegar.

  “Not fine enough for ye, lass?”

  She forced another gulp. “It will do.”

  He regarded her in silence for a moment, then hailed the barmaid. She appeared at his side within a heartbeat. “Two more mugs of cervesia,” he said, offering up his empty cup.

  “As you wish, sir,” the girl purred. She brushed her breasts against his upper arm as she turned away.

  “Perhaps we should take two rooms for the night,” Clara said darkly.

  Owein lifted a brow. “Why would that be?”

  “So you can be alone with that … that whore.”

  He grinned and tapped Clara’s satchel. “The coin is gone. Do ye think she’d accept one of y
our necklaces as payment?”

  Clara’s retort was interrupted by the girl’s return. Two new mugs, two bowls of stew, and a generous hunk of bread appeared before them. The barmaid lingered, her hand on Owein’s arm.

  “My wife and I thank ye,” Owein said with a meaningful glance at Clara.

  The girl’s gaze flicked to Clara’s face, then her bosom. With a huff and a roll of her eyes, she flounced off. Owein chuckled. Clara didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged.

  The tavern might be plebian and the wine sour, but the fare the girl had brought looked edible enough—in fact, it looked far more palatable than the pock-faced man’s meal. The stew was thick with beef and the bread recently baked. Perhaps the extra coin Owein had pressed on the barmaid had not been money ill spent.

  She broke off a piece of bread and fished a large chunk of meat from the bowl. Owein made short work of his own portion. He ate with a deftness of movement, his head down, but even so, Clara could tell he kept watch on the room. Whatever curiosity their presence had attracted had waned, however. Only the pock-faced man seemed to pay them any attention.

  “We’ll retire soon,” Owein said after a time.

  To one bed, Clara thought abruptly. She watched as Owein signaled the barmaid for yet another mug of cervesia. Was that his fourth? His fifth?

  “Do you mean to render yourself insensible?”

  Owein snorted. “Have ye nay seen a man take refreshment?”

  “My father drank sparingly. He—” She broke off as Owein’s face contorted. His skin had gone suddenly pallid. “Owein, what is it?”

  He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Owein,” she repeated urgently.

  He looked up. His left eye was unfocused, wandering to the left while his right eye stared straight ahead. A vein pulsed in his temple, bulging blue against the fairness of his skin. She grasped his arm across the table and felt a spark of energy. Oh gods. Not a vision. Not here, in this crowded room.

  “Owein. Can you hear me?”

  His hand tightened on his mug. The clay cracked and collapsed inward, spilling dark liquid across scarred wood. The pock-faced man looked toward them, his eyes narrowing.