My Once & Future Love (Unsung Knights of the Round Table #1)

by Ruth Kaufman

  What could he say in front of so many eager ears to let her know how he felt?

  “I have something for you,” she said.

  A broad-shouldered man garbed in a leather apron handed her a tooled leather scabbard.

  “You said you didn’t like the sword you purchased in Llanarglyn. I thought you could use a better one, so I had Aldred, the blacksmith, forge this for you. He worked all day and night adapting a sword he’d already made. I hope you prefer it.”

  “I thought I smelled burning coal last night.” Morgan accepted the gift with both hands, then ran his fingers over the raised design on the scabbard. “Three red dragons. How did you know?”

  “The shirt you wore the day we met had three red dragons embroidered on the collar. I bought the scabbard at a market we visited, but didn’t want to give it to you until I had the sword.”

  Morgan pulled the sword free. A fair rendition of Excalibur as pictured on his shoulder, down to the unique curved crossguard. He tested the weight in his hand. Perfect. Never had a gift touched him more. Why did she notice every detail and go to so much trouble to please him? Because she loved him.

  “My thanks for your labors, Aldred,” he said. “This sword is magnificent. I’ll treasure it always.”

  ’Twas as valuable to him as the real Excalibur given to King Arthur by the Lady of the Lake along with its scabbard, which protected the wearer from harm. He didn’t need magic when he had Annora’s love to cloak him.

  Throat tightening, Morgan removed his old sword from the pack on Secret and secured the new one. He wished he’d thought to give something to her. The only thing he possessed of value was his necklace. He could never give her the amulet….

  “I want you to have this.” After removing the chalice amulet from the chain and stuffing it deep in his pocket, he placed the thick chain over her head.

  “I’ll wear it always,” she whispered, touching the gold with reverence.

  Always. Even for a mortal that could be a very long time.

  “Fare thee well,” he said.

  “Godspeed,” she replied.

  What an inadequate goodbye after all they’d shared. All they meant to each other. But he couldn’t take her into his arms and kiss her as he longed to do. Nor could he take her with him, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

  There was nothing more to say. Their time together, glorious as it was, had ended.

  Just another ending in a long life full of change.

  Morgan mounted Secret, loaded with supplies. Kerwyn, the cook, had managed to prepare enough to keep his belly filled for days. Annora had provided a pack horse, too.

  Amberton’s people cheered and waved. Only Annora stood silent, her eyes yet full of hope that he’d change his mind and stay. That he’d promise to come back to her.

  She refused to believe the truth: he’d never return. For if he did, he’d never be able to leave again, no matter the consequences. This took every ounce of strength he had.

  Morgan was almost glad Annora had so much work ahead of her putting Amberton to rights. If all was well, she might follow him, putting both of them at risk. The life of an immortal was often uncertain, because those who knew of their existence constantly sought to ferret them out. They wanted to harness and take advantage of each immortal’s unusual powers.

  He feared more than Annora’s exposure to physical dangers. He feared she might imprison his heart forever. Her powers of enchantment were that strong.

  * * *

  Annora fought tears as Morgan rode away, never looking back. Emma stood patiently beside her.

  She was glad her gift had pleased him greatly. He’d have something special to remember her by. Perhaps each time he used it, he’d think of her. Again she touched the chain around her neck. This small but important part of him would be with her always.

  After Morgan passed through the gate, another rider entered. Her steward.

  “Lady Annora, I’m so glad to see you returned in good health!” William Burneby dismounted. Emma’s son Albert took his horse. “I had an agreeable respite with my nephews and nieces, but we have much to attend to….”

  He listed the myriad tasks facing them, but Annora wasn’t listening. All that lay ahead of her was management of Amberton, from supervising cleaning and repairs after Roger’s brief reign to ordering foodstuffs to discussing menus. Endless duties, once fulfilling, now seemed only a means to fill many long hours. Would they distract her from missing Morgan? Hoping for what could never be?

  The gate squeaked as it closed. Another item to add to the ever-growing list.

  “I’ll be in shortly,” she said.

  She couldn’t think of creaking gates or empty cupboards. Not just yet. She wanted to remember her night with Morgan a little longer, before the glow faded completely. As wonderful as memories were, she almost wished she didn’t love him. Then she wouldn’t have known what she was missing. Nor would she feel so incredibly bereft.

  For Morgan wasn’t coming back. Until the last second she’d prayed for one comment, one word letting her know he’d find a way to return. She’d have waited for years based on such a promise. But he hadn’t offered any encouragement.

  Tonight, alone in her room, Annora would cry for him and mourn the loss of their love. She’d never look into his fascinating, changeable eyes, never feel the comfort of his arms around her again, never feel whole when he filled her. Tomorrow, she’d try to put him behind her. But tonight was for remembering.

  How long had she remained there, staring wistfully into the bailey? She had to be careful, behave with utmost decorum. Even with Roger gone, she couldn’t risk her people wondering about her health.

  Resolute, she turned to go inside. Her time with Morgan already seemed but a dream. If she were fortunate, perhaps she could return to him when she slept.

  Behind her, the gate squeaked open. She whirled, heart pounding with hope. Had Morgan changed his mind?

  Instead of her dream come true, Annora found her worst nightmare. Roger. In the company of many mounted men, more than she could count in that instant, all wearing ap Lewis’s badge.

  Panic sliced her, sharp as Morgan’s new sword.

  “Hello, dearest niece,” Roger called out as he rode in. “I’m home. Did you miss me? Some of your men weren’t as happy to see me as I know you are. Sorry to say they’re no longer under your command. But I’ve brought some new friends to help take care of you. Now that you’re out of Morgan ap Myrddin’s greedy clutches, all will be well.”

  Her servants stood as if encapsulated in ice, unsure what to do. They’d do nothing, Annora knew, her heart plummeting. How could they go against Roger’s crowd of weapon bearing henchmen? Especially when he’d made it clear he’d captured or killed her armed, experienced guards? She whispered a brief prayer for their souls.

  Annora was doomed. She’d never see the light of day again except from the window in her room. How would she endure Roger’s regime and being locked away?

  Unless…the gate was still open. She pasted a smile on her face and started toward him as if she but welcomed her uncle.

  “Weren’t you in jail?” Perhaps not the best choice of subject to distract him.

  Roger flushed. “A grievous error, since righted. My friends know how much I’m needed here.”

  “What did you offer your friends in return for their aid?” Annora bit her tongue. She mustn’t antagonize him. Her punishment would be all the worse.

  She kept walking. A few more steps. The dangers of the road couldn’t be any worse than those lurking in her own castle. Maybe she could catch up with Morgan and he’d help her once again.

  This was her only chance. Annora grabbed her skirts and ran.

  “Stop her!” Roger yelled.

  Her feet flew over ground and clumps of yellowed grass. She sucked in huge gulps of air, sides heaving. Her chest ached, her legs were on fire. Breathe. Breathe.

  “Damn you, don’t let her get away!”

 
A few men attempted to grab her as she passed, but she dodged their outstretched arms with ease. The gate didn’t seem to be getting any closer. She was running out of breath. She wasn’t going to make it.

  Don’t give up, Annora. It was as if Morgan was beside her, urging her on. She pushed herself harder. A bit farther, a few more strides and she’d be free.

  Suddenly three guards appeared in the gateway. Annora came to an abrupt halt, gasping for air. She glanced behind her, to either side. No way out.

  Roger had defeated her again.

  Hopeless, powerless, isolated among many. But she wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t break her.

  “You see what a wild one your mistress is,” Roger cried to the crowd. “Be thankful I’ve returned to oversee her, and your, care.”

  Two guards each took an arm as the rest formed a phalanx around her. Annora cringed, feeling like a shameful criminal instead of the lady of the manor.

  “Please, you mustn’t believe him,” she begged everyone within hearing distance. “Remember when the sheriff took him away, the proof I brought that I’m not ill?”

  They cast their eyes down as if the dirt beneath their feet held immense fascination. Even Emma avoided her. Annora prayed her maid hadn’t fallen victim to Roger’s schemes. Had Emma reached her limit, or did she want to blend in with everyone else for the nonce so that Roger wouldn’t single her out as the only person on Annora’s side?

  “Help me. Please.” She dawdled. These people represented her last hope.

  The guards tightened their grip and half carried her to the steps, gauntlets digging painfully into her skin.

  “I’ll be up to visit you soon, Annora. When you get settled,” Roger said.

  Flames of fear consumed her. She couldn’t let this happen. “No. Someone, help me. Send for the sheriff, John Twyn. He’ll know what to do.” Annora fought rising terror, fought to keep calm as the guards continued their relentless march toward the castle. But her voice rose of its own accord. “I have proof I’m well from the king’s own physician!”

  Not one of her people moved.

  She had one more option left. Never had she told anyone of Roger’s abuse out of fear for her reputation and worry no one would believe an outwardly outstanding citizen would do such horrible things. Back then she’d hoped to resume a normal life.

  Now she had nothing left to lose.

  “You don’t understand,” she cried. “Roger wants Amberton for himself. The only way he can keep it is to lock me away. He can’t kill me, for then the castle and everything in it goes to the king. But he can hit me and—”

  A burly hand slammed over her mouth, another grabbed her middle, squeezing air from her lungs. Annora kicked, twisted furiously, tried to bite, all to no avail.

  Suddenly the fight went out of her. The guard nearly dropped her, but caught her before she fell. Annora had realized her mistake. By yelling and fighting, unwittingly she’d made herself appear the lunatic. Dread and desperation drove her to most unladylike behavior.

  Roger put a hand to his chest. “I’m sorry you all had to see this unseemly display. I’d hoped, as we all had, that your lady was in truth getting better. Now ’tis clear she is not. She is most unwell. Go back to your work, good people. Your lady will be treated as she deserves.”

  Moments later Annora had been deposited in her room, the door duly locked from the outside. Her ribs ached from the guard’s grip. The sour taste of his grimy hand lingered on her tongue. After about an hour, a silent servant delivered a tray of meats and cheeses, while another brought a pitcher of wine and a stack of books.

  She’d returned to her living hell. ’Twas almost as if she’d never left, as if the adventures, the love she shared with Morgan had never been.

  Or had occurred only in the recesses of her mind.

  Was she a lunatic? Had she only imagined Morgan as her savior? Had she ever left this room, traveled to court and London? Made love with an amazing man, who claimed to be immortal?

  Annora slumped onto the bed. Self-doubt and niggling fears crept in, stealthy and clingy as fog. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t.

  Even if she was the only person at Amberton who believed it.

  Chapter 17

  “I can’t believe you’d go to such lengths to get me to do this,” Nimuë grumbled as they surmounted the hilly path leading toward Merlin’s cave in Dyfed in southwestern Wales. A stream wound through the valley. They’d passed the Talfarn y Bwlch standing stones, where Druids gathered centuries ago.

  Nimuë looked ethereal as ever, thin with nary a wrinkle marring her skin nor a hint of gray in her straight, reddish brown hair. A long, black hooded cloak parted with each step to reveal a blood red gown. If he didn’t know better, he’d think her a sweet, modest maiden. The witch must be using a potion to prevent aging. Her expression conveyed distaste at being forced to come here, to travel so far, but for the moment he had the advantage.

  Wind whipped their clothes and hair and made walking difficult, but Morgan didn’t stop it. He needed to preserve his powers. Who knew if Nimuë would attempt to betray him as she had his father?

  “What of the lengths to which you went to trap my father in the first place? Betraying his love. Stealing his powers after he took you under his wing,” Morgan said. “And to keep him imprisoned because he won’t give you what you want?”

  “Filching my son, using him as hostage is cruel and you know it.”

  “Kings do so, why not I? ’Tis a most effective means of controlling powerful folk who’d otherwise refuse to do what they ought.” She stopped to sit on a small boulder and removed a pebble from her boot. “Geraint is well-tended. And learning a man’s arts instead of the womanly ones you’ve been forcing on him.” He studied her face. “Is your son my half-brother? Though he looks nothing like me, with his dark curls and lean build. Care to tell me who the father is?”

  “No. Do not press me.”

  “Do not press me,” Morgan said. “’Twas a stroke of good fortune that I found him. He’s safe for the nonce, where even you can’t reach him. Or you’d have already done so. If you want to see him again, you’ll release the spell you put on my father.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that your father might not want to be free? That he needs to, chooses to remain in the caves so his abilities will revive and thrive, awaiting Arthur’s return?”

  Morgan stopped. “Of course not. What man wants to be confined against his will?”

  “Ask your father.”

  “Were that true, he’d have told me to cease my efforts to rescue him. Besides, he can’t help restore Arthur if he’s trapped.”

  “We don’t know that Arthur will return. It’s been centuries.”

  “My father will know when the time is right.”

  “Will he? I don’t think so.”

  Morgan didn’t care what she thought. Nor did he trust this sly woman who’d conjured his shrewd father into revealing so much clandestine knowledge. He wished he knew the extent of her powers.

  Most people and some chroniclers believed Merlin was buried beneath a hill just east of Caerfyrddin, appropriately named Bryn Myrddin…Merlin’s Hill. In fact, he was in a cave twenty miles east, closer to Llandovery.

  When they reached the cave’s entrance, Morgan struck a flint and lit a torch from his pack. In silence they wove their way deep into the cool caverns, Nimuë holding up her skirts. The torch flickered violently in underground drafts. The air reeked of secrets, centuries old. At one point the tunnel narrowed so much they had to crawl. Grit scraped his hands. Nestled in the walls came the rush of an underground stream, perhaps mingled with the sibilant voices of the spirits who resided here.

  They were getting close. Merlin’s cave glowed bright enough to illuminate nearby passageways in shifting shades of pink and green. The tunnel opened into a small antechamber. At the far end was the slippery, clear staircase leading to Merlin’s lair. A thin waterfall ran down the wall beside the stairs.

  Nimuë stopp
ed so abruptly he bumped into her.

  “You,” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

  Jankyn ap Lewis stepped forward with a satisfied sneer, sword in hand. “Waiting for both of you. You may have powers, Nimuë, but I have my wits. I had you both followed. After he found you, staying one move ahead was pathetically easy. My sincere thanks for leading me here.”

  Morgan tensed. He should’ve been more careful. He’d been too focused on his goal and guarding himself against Nimuë’s insinuations to anticipate other dangers. And trying not to think about Annora. Now he had two unpredictable enemies to deal with.

  For the first time, Nimuë looked unsure of herself. “I didn’t see this.”

  “So your control over your visions has lessened? Ha. Morgan, I can’t allow you to set Merlin free, at least not before he serves my purposes. I could run you through right now, but that wouldn’t be polite,” ap Lewis said. “So fight me.”

  He’d turn a bad situation to his advantage. “I’ve been waiting for such an opportunity. You had your chance, now it’s my turn.” Morgan tossed his pack against the wall. As it landed with an echoing plop, he drew his sword, his version of Excalibur blessed by Annora. The blade glowed bright pink, then pale green.

  “How’s your lady friend, Annora? Are you sure she’s safe at Amberton while you’re pursuing this fool’s mission?” Ap Lewis’s taunting tone rankled.

  His gut clenched. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Simply because I knew ’twould irritate you, I loaned some of my best men to her uncle Roger. They’re sure to have reached Amberton by now.”

  Morgan couldn’t bear the thought of Annora forced back into Roger’s control. Had she meant what she said after Beauchamp’s examination, that she’d kill herself rather than subject herself to her uncle’s cruelty again?

  Ap Lewis had done this to bait him. To goad him into anger so strong it would unbalance him, allowing ap Lewis to win. He couldn’t let fear for her safety and her life rule in this moment.