Castle of Dreams

by Speer, Flora

  Quickly, before he could turn from her, she raised one hand and touched his face, tracing the strong line of cheek and jaw, until her fingers reached the cold chain mail of his hood.

  “Come back safely,” she whispered.

  “How could I not, when you are here waiting for me?” He grinned, that bright, heart-stopping flash of white teeth and sparkling blue eyes, and then he was gone. She scarcely heard Geoffrey speak his hasty farewell to her before he followed his master out of the hall, carrying Guy’s shield.

  She had no idea how long she stood in the same spot, looking at the door through which Guy had left, as though looking and wishing could bring him back. She gradually became aware of a black-robed presence at her left elbow.

  “God is with him,” Reynaud said. “I am certain of that.”

  “So am I. Reynaud, have you been to see Thomas this morning?”

  “I have, and I do not like the look of him. Before he left, Sir Guy told Captain John to have four men ready to accompany you to get your medicines. I think the sooner you go, the sooner Thomas will begin to mend.”

  “Do you have so much faith in me?” she said, surprised.

  “I have faith in God and in the tools He uses to carry out His plans for us. You were His instrument when you brought Thomas safely out of Tÿnant.”

  “I had earthly help in that,” Meredith said. Then, because she had learned to respect and even to like this strange, quiet man with the intricate mind, she asked, “would you like to come with me to the cave, Reynaud?”

  “I admit to a good deal of curiosity about that place,” he replied, “but I think I may better serve Sir Guy, and Thomas, by remaining here. Almost all the building on the inner castle has stopped so the workmen could be used to strengthen the last of the outer defenses in case Walter attacks.”

  “I know that. It’s why I thought you would be free to go with me.”

  “You may remember my plans for the new keep included a stillroom. As you know, the keep is nearly completed. The stillroom needs only two or three men, closely supervised, to finish it quickly. I am certain Captain John will spare me those men for just one day. The room should be ready for your use by the time you return.”

  She could have hugged him. She did not, but her shining eyes and her smile clearly conveyed her pleasure.

  “Reynaud, you are without a doubt the best planner I have ever known. If, when your workmen are finished, you could ask Joan to send a woman to sweep out the stillroom?”

  “I’ll see that it’s done.”

  The cave was cold and empty, the heart gone out of it, now that Rhys and Branwen were dead. Meredith did not bother to light a fire in the ash-filled pit. She wanted only to be gone from that place and never return. The men-at-arms had brought torches, and these lit the inner chamber as Meredith worked rapidly, placing vials and jars into the baskets she and Branwen had formerly used to gather herbs.

  “You must be careful with these and not break them,” she cautioned her guards.

  “We will,” promised one man, who promptly broke his promise by dropping the basket he held when a tiny white form dashed across the cave floor.

  “Merciful God,” the man swore, crossing himself, “what kind of beast is that?”

  “It’s only a cat,” laughed another soldier, the leader of the men-at-arms. “Don’t you know white cats bring good luck with them?”

  “I don’t like cats,” the first man replied.

  “Her name is Gwyn,” Meredith said. She was on her knees, picking up the jars the man had spilled in his fright and piling them back into the basket. “Here you are, nothing is broken, but do be more careful. I think that’s all I will need from this chamber.”

  She picked up Gwyn, placed the loudly protesting cat into a basket with a lid, and fastened the lid securely with a leather thong. This basket she would carry herself. She took from the meager personal effects in the outer room only a shawl that had been Branwen’s, soft and fluffy and pale mauve as the misty summer hillsides. It had been made by a woman whose sick child Branwen had cured. Meredith also took a book that had belonged to Rhys. She could not read it, it was in a language she did not know, but Rhys had treasured it, and so, for his sake, would she.

  She looked around the cave one last time, resolutely pushing into the back of her mind peaceful memories that threatened to reduce her to tears. There was no time for crying, for she had to get back to Thomas. But first she had one last duty here. She spoke to the leader of the guards.

  “Seal up the cave,” she said, and stood very straight and still, watching dry-eyed as they did her bidding, and that part of her life ended.

  It did not take long. Rocks were plentiful, and the men piled them up in the narrow fold of rock just outside the main chamber until the opening was full. Meredith knew the birch and ash saplings that grew close by the entrance would soon become thick and cover the mouth of the cave so no one would find it.

  It began to rain as they trudged back to Afoncaer. They were a strange procession: four heavily armed men, each bearing two or three large baskets, most of those baskets topped by bunches of half-dried herbs, and a young woman in a loose grey robe, her scarf slipping off her bright red hair as she struggled to balance her own load of herb and medicine-filled baskets plus a bulkier basket from which came long, anguished meows.

  “Why don’t you just leave that thing behind?” asked the man who did not like cats.

  “I can’t. Gwyn is the best medicine of all.” Meredith replied, thereby convincing the man that she was quite mad, and causing him to mentally thank Heaven this woman was the problem of the Lord of Afoncaer and not his own.

  They straggled back into Afoncaer, the men-at-arms enduring bravely the joking comments of their comrades at both outer and inner gates. They deposited their treasures on the tables and shelves of the newly completed and well-scrubbed stillroom, and then Meredith, after sending one of the men to the kitchen to ask for a bowl of cream, took a vial of medicine and her last basket to the lord’s private chamber, where Thomas still lay in heavy, feverish sleep.

  “He is weaker,” said the serving woman who had been sitting with Thomas while Meredith was gone. She eyed the basket Meredith held, which shook as its occupant scratched at the lid. An angry howl came from the basket and the woman jumped back. “What’s in there, Meredith?”

  “Something I think will help Thomas. Pour out a half-cup of wine. I’ll put this vial of medicine in it and we’ll spoon it into him. Meanwhile, I’d better set Gwyn free.” She knelt by the fire and opened the basket. Gwyn, suddenly quiet, sat looking about in a dazed way, then jumped out and began prowling about the room. Meredith laughed at the serving woman’s expression.

  “Thomas is fond of the cat,” she explained. “I thought it might help his recovery to have it nearby.”

  “Aye,” the woman agreed, understanding. “When I was young, my brother had a puppy. It slept beside him every night.”

  Meredith now turned her entire attention to Thomas. He did seem weaker. His breathing was more difficult and his skin was hot and dry. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to feed him the potion of wine and medicine she had mixed. He choked on the first spoonful, but then began to swallow, though his eyes remained closed. She kept at it, spoonful after spoonful. There was fennel in it, and mint, and other herbs to soothe him and to lower his fever. She asked the serving woman to lay hot stones at Thomas’s feet and bring more blankets to pile atop his small body.

  “He’ll be too warm. He looks half smothered already,” her assistant objected.

  “We must keep him warm. If he suffers a chill now he will surely die,” Meredith replied. On either side of the bed stood a brazier on a tall tripod. Meredith added extra charcoal to each, hoping to warm the room even more.

  As she worked, she was dimly aware of Gwyn investigating every corner of the room, until the bowl of cream she had ordered arrived, whereupon the cat lapped at the bowl’s contents as though starving, and t
hen, having finished the cream, established herself squarely in front of the fire and began to wash her ears.

  Meredith wiped charcoal dust off her hands and sat on the edge of the bed again. She brushed the golden hair back off Thomas’s flushed forehead, and he moaned.

  “Meredith?” She had to bend close to hear the fragile thread of sound. “Uncle Guy?”

  “You are safe at Afoncaer,” she assured him.

  “Brian?” The voice was weaker now.

  “All is well, my dear, except you are ill. Put all your thoughts toward getting better.”

  He lapsed back into a half-conscious state, and Meredith stayed with him until Reynaud appeared.

  “Is there any news of Sir Guy?” she asked. The cleric shook his head.

  “Not yet. Will you go to the hall to eat? I will gladly stay here while you do.”

  “No, thank you, Reynaud. I don’t want to leave Thomas. You could bring me a few things from the stillroom, if you will.” She told him what she wanted and thanked him for preparing the stillroom for her use. When he had brought her supplies, and she had mixed another dose of medicine in wine and fed it to Thomas, she sat on a stool, leaning against the bed, holding his small, hot hand in hers. Her head drooped against the covers. Her thoughts began to drift, and after a while she slept.

  She was awakened by a soft and insistent sound in her ear, and by a movement. Thomas’s hand was sliding out of hers. She opened sleepy eyes to see white fur insinuating itself between her and the boy, stretching out gracefully along his side. Thomas’s hand dropped onto Gwyn’s sleek back. The cat continued purring, the monotonous vibrations lulling Meredith back into the warm, sweet oblivion of sleep.

  Sunlight was streaming in around the edges of the shutters when Meredith came fully awake. The first thing she saw was Reynaud, kneeling by the side of the bed with his head bowed. Meredith pushed herself onto her knees.

  “Thomas. Reynaud, he’s not—?” Terrified, she felt for Thomas’s hand.

  “See for yourself.” Reynaud raised his head. “I am giving thanks, Meredith.”

  Thomas’s eyes were closed but his breathing was normal, and in place of the previous day’s feverish flush there was now the faintest tinge of pink in his cheeks.

  “I think he is recovering,” Reynaud said cheerfully.

  “Yes, he is.” She assessed Thomas’s appearance with experienced eyes. “It will take time before he is completely well. The distress of spirit he has suffered has affected him as much as cold and imprisonment, perhaps more.”

  “We will keep him safe here, in this pleasant room, and by the time he is well enough to leave it, perhaps his uncle will have returned. You have done Sir Guy a great good, Meredith.”

  “I have done it for Thomas.”

  “Of course.” Reynaud smiled. “But I think the lord of Afoncaer was in your thoughts, too.”

  She met his pale blue eyes, weak, Guy had once teased him in her hearing, from too much poring over books and parchment building plans and long lines of numbers. Those eyes did not look weak now. They saw too much. She became aware that she and this odd clerical architect were kneeling side by side, both their elbows on Guy’s bed, almost touching.

  “I think,” Reynaud said softly, “you have found a worthy lord, and he a most remarkable lady.”

  Before she could find a suitable answer, there was a movement in the center of the bed.

  “Meredith?” Sky blue eyes peered at her beneath a tumble of golden hair. “Why are you praying over me? Am I dead?”

  “Thomas. Oh, Thomas, you are alive, not dead. You are going to live.” She threw her arms around him and hugged him as hard as she could.

  “He will soon be dead if you do not let him go,” came Reynaud’s dry voice at her shoulder. “If you smother him, Meredith, you will undo all your good work.”

  She laughed, releasing Thomas onto his pillows, and brushing away happy tears.

  “You rescued me,” Thomas said. “I remember. Where is Uncle Guy?”

  “You may as well know,” Reynaud told him when Meredith hesitated. “Your uncle has gone to Tÿnant to attack Sir Walter.”

  “To avenge Brian and Branwen? I remember that, too.”

  “And because Walter stole you away and would not let you come home to us,” Meredith added. “But you are safe now and we won’t let anyone harm you.”

  “Gwyn is here.” Thomas stretched out thin fingers toward the cat, who rubbed her head under his hand, purring. “You brought Gwyn to me, Meredith.”

  “I thought she would cheer you.”

  Thomas was basically a healthy youngster, and he recovered rapidly. By the next afternoon he was up and walking slowly about Guy’s bedchamber, though Meredith would not let him go out of the room.

  “It’s too cold and damp for you to walk to the great hall,” she said. She did not add that she and Reynaud and Captain John had all agreed, Thomas was safer in the easily defended keep should Walter mount a surprise attack on Afoncaer in hope of regaining his lost hostage. Meredith slept on a pallet by Thomas’s bed each night, secure in the knowledge that two guards stood just outside the door.

  She was pleased with Thomas’s progress, but as the hours and then the days passed she became more and more worried about the lack of news from Guy.

  “He should have sent a messenger by now,” she said to Reynaud.

  “We will hear when he has something to tell us,” Reynaud replied, and she marveled at his patience.

  Two more tense days went by. On the afternoon of the fifth day after Guy’s departure Meredith heard shouts and looked out the eastern windows.

  “What is it? Can you see anything?” Thomas had been sitting in Guy’s big chair by the fire, wrapped in furs with Gwyn on his lap.

  “Armed men on the castle road. A wine-colored banner. Thomas, it’s Sir Guy. He’s come home.”

  There was no controlling Thomas. She managed to keep him well wrapped and warm, but he insisted on joining her at the unshuttered window to watch his uncle ride into the inner bailey in triumph.

  They saw Guy at once, clearly unhurt, leading the procession. Directly behind him came Geoffrey, also unharmed. Walter fitz Alan was wrapped in chains, tied to his saddle, and surrounded by armed guards. A little behind Walter, Lady Isabel rode with her chin defiantly tilted at a proud angle. She was unbound but heavily guarded. At her side, Father Herbert was mounted upon a mule. Thomas, straining to see out the window, exclaimed at the sight.

  “Meredith, please tell the guard at the door to this room that I don’t want to see Father Herbert. He refused to help me when I was held prisoner, and now I know he will come in here and try to convince me to plead my mother’s case with Uncle Guy. I don’t want to see my mother, either.” Thomas’s young voice was choked with emotion.

  “In spite of everything. I think your mother does love you, Thomas.” Meredith said gently. “She allowed us to escape,” she reminded him.

  “And then set Walter’s men on us!”

  “We don’t know it was Lady Isabel who did that. It could have been the guard, Roger.”

  Thomas began to cough. Meredith insisted he leave the open window and return to bed. She covered him well and made him drink a cup of the hot herbal brew she kept simmering over the fire. Then she went back to the window to close the shutters. The late autumn afternoon was growing chilly and the wind through the unglazed window could only harm Thomas.

  “That’s odd,” she murmured.

  “What are they doing?” her charge asked.

  “They aren’t going into the great hall. They seem to be entering this building. Thomas, stay where you are. Promise me that, and I’ll go down and see what is happening, and soon as I can, I’ll come back and tell you everything.”

  Chapter 32

  Thomas had barely spoken his oath to remain in bed before Meredith was out the door and running down the circular stairs. She could hear voices below. She reached the first floor, and, following the voices, entered the wa
rdroom, where the men who guarded the keep were quartered. She found Guy there with Geoffrey and Reynaud, the three prisoners from Tÿnant, and a few guards. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into Guy’s arms, so happy was she to see him. She knew he would not welcome such a public demonstration of her feeling for him, so she stayed silently at the edge of the room, watching, contenting herself with the sight of him.

  Walter fitz Alan stood in the center of the room. His chain mail had been removed, leaving him in padded gambeson and hose. A guard was fastening iron chains between Walter’s wrists while Guy frowned at his former friend.

  “You,” Guy said, “will be the first guest in my new dungeon. You will remain there, in chains, until I receive instructions about your punishment from King Henry.”

  Meredith shuddered. She had once peered into the dungeon. It lay below the basement storerooms. It was nothing more than a dank pit carved out of the solid rock, with only a narrow slit high up in one wall for light and air. She could almost feel sorry for Sir Walter. Almost, until she recalled what he had done to those she loved, and then all pity left her.

  “Your first prisoner?” Walter, apparently fearless, sneered at Guy. “My dear host, what an honor. I only regret that our positions are not reversed. I cannot begin to describe the pleasure I would feel, could I but do the same for you.”

  “Take him below,” Guy ordered. “Give him a blanket, and see that he has adequate food. We’ll keep him alive. For now.”

  “Do ask your cook to send me a platter of venison braised with leeks,” Walter said, as the guards dragged him out, “it’s my favorite dish. And some Rhenish wine to go with it.”

  “Bread and water is what he deserves,” Geoffrey declared, “and that only every other day. What will be the king’s orders about his fate, my lord? Can you guess?”

  “No, I cannot,” Guy replied. “It may be that King Henry will leave the manner of Walter’s punishment up to me.” He sighed, and Meredith, watching him, sensed the pain he must be feeling at Walter’s unrepentant betrayal of their long friendship.