Mapon raised a hand in formal salute. “Light with thee walk.”
Llyr raised his own hand in response. “Dark from thee flee.” He reached for Guinevere's hand and led her out of the cave.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Traveling Companions
They rode downhill together, Llyr sitting light and wary behind her. He had a knife in his belt, a bow slung over one shoulder, a quiver of arrows over the other, and a spear in his hand. His eyes never left the forest shadows. Clouds had sunk lower over the mountains until they bathed the forest in heavy mist. Still, it did not rain. It was difficult to tell the hour of day, it was so dim, and Guinevere was oppressed by the need for hurry. So much had happened in the cave that it seemed like days since she had last been outside. She wondered if Sir Darric had returned from the Longmeadow Marshes with his men. She wondered how she was ever going to tell Queen Alyse the truth. The queen would certainly not want to believe that Sir Darric had fooled her. But King Pellinore was due home soon, and if a dispute arose with Sir Darric, Guinevere knew Queen Alyse would want to settle it herself.
They came to a fork in the path, which Guinevere recognized. “I know this place, Llyr. I can get home from here.”
But Llyr refused to go. He wanted to wait until they came to an intersection with one of the wider, more traveled paths through the forest. Guinevere thought she knew the place he meant. They had passed it on their way up into the foothills: a huge pine tree in a thin hardwood copse marking the crossing of two paths.
“But that's half a league from here,” she objected. “The light is failing, and you don't have a horse for the journey back.”
“Back? I am not going back,” Llyr said. They traveled on in silence as the mist grew heavier and the fitful breeze died away. Moment by moment, the forest grew dimmer, colder, and damper. Gradually, the hardwoods began to thin, until a hundred paces ahead, they could just make out the dark green skirts of a giant pine, its upper branches swallowed by the mist.
“There it is. I can do it from here, Llyr. I know what signs to look for.”
“Wait. Go slow.” He reached for the reins to pull the horse to a halt. “Listen.”
His arm around her waist tightened as Peleth's head whipped up. A moment later, they heard voices. Following the direction of Peleth's ears, Guinevere stared into the dim depths of the forest. She could see nothing. Behind her, Llyr's bow slipped from his shoulder into his hand. They waited in the misty shadows as the voices neared.
“This should do it. I think they've got a hideout somewhere hereabouts. Post three men here along this path.”
“Yes, my lord.” A bridle jingled, and a horse moved roughly through the underbrush.
Guinevere swallowed. She recognized the arrogant male voice that spoke with such assurance.
“Light with thee walk,” a whisper sounded in her ear. The pressure about her waist vanished as Llyr slid silently to the ground and disappeared into the trees.
“Dark from thee flee,” she whispered back, chin on shoulder to watch him go.
Peleth raised his head and whinnied.
“Ho!” a voice cried. Guinevere heard the slither of metal as swords left their scabbards. “Who goes there?”
For a moment she froze, too furious with herself to speak. It was too late now to keep her wits about her and avoid discovery. The horsemen were already coming down the path.
She cleared her throat and pushed Peleth forward. “O-only me, my lord.”
Two figures broke from the mist. Foremost rode Sir Darric's minion Jordan, and behind him the owner of the arrogant voice, Sir Darric himself.
“Well, well, what have we got here?” Jordan sheathed his sword and grinned.
Guinevere frowned at the insolent tone of his voice, but she did not reply. Silence was safest while she invented some tale to tell them.
“Here's a lass who's lost her way,” Jordan called to his leader.
“Bring her here and let's have a look.”
Guinevere rode up to Sir Darric, ignoring Jordan. She was glad for the thick soldier's cloak that encased her. Now it felt like a suit of mail. Sir Darric leaned across the curving neck of his chestnut stallion and pushed her hood back from her face.
“What are you doing here, all alone in this weather and unescorted?”
Jordan rode up on her other side and peered at her. “I remember this one. From the banquet.”
“Yes,” Darric mused, his eyes still on her bowed head with its halo of white-gold hair, bright as a beacon against the inner darkness of her hood. “It's Guinevere, isn't it? Alyse's niece?”
“Ward,” Jordan corrected, his voice full of scorn. “The hard-luck orphan. No family. Lives by the queen's sufferance. My lord, she's unimportant.”
“How old are you?” Sir Darric asked softly, his wildcat eyes looking her over from hooded head to booted foot. “Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“Thirteen on Beltane, my lord.”
“Thirteen,” he breathed. “Amazing.”
A tingle of fear slid up Guinevere's spine. There was a casual menace in Sir Darric's eyes that struck cold inside her. Jordan, too, sensed something in the air. He pushed his horse closer and stared at her with chilling intensity. Peleth jibbed and danced at her grip on the reins, and Guinevere fought for calm. She knew with certainty that Llyr watched from behind the trees and even now had notched an arrow to his bow. She slid her hand behind her back and signaled him to wait, praying he could see that far in the misty dimness.
“My lord,” she said, dismayed to hear the tremor in her voice, “I am so glad I found you. I've been looking for you half the afternoon.”
Jordan grinned, and his stallion shuffled as the pressure on mouth and ribs increased.
Guinevere held Sir Darric's eyes and prayed that Llyr would not let his arrow fly. “I come on behalf of Princess Elaine, my lord. I have a message for you.”
A large raindrop splattered on her hand, another on her knee, then on her nose, her hood. At last, at long last, the skies opened, and a hard, soaking rain poured down through the new leaves overhead. Jordan swore aloud, and Sir Darric grinned, taking his eyes off the girl for the first time.
“The voice of heaven speaks,” he said dryly. “Jordan, wait here for Drako. Once he's got the men posted, you can follow us down together. I will escort Princess Guinevere back to the castle.”
Jordan scowled, and his stallion began to paw the ground. Sir Darric backed his own horse off the path and gestured to Guinevere. “After you.”
Halfway down the slope, as they neared the upper meadows and the jumping field, the path widened enough to allow Sir Darric to ride at her side. Even through the rain, she felt h i s eyes on her, and she kept her hood well forward to hide her face.
“What's your real reason for riding out alone?” Sir Darric asked, his voice light and casual. “It can't have been just to seek me out, not in this weather.”
“My cousin—Princess Elaine—sent me with a message for you, my lord.”
Sir Darric snorted. “A thin disguise. You would not have come alone and unescorted if you were bringing a message from your cousin. You'd have waited until I returned to the castle, where it's warm and dry.” His full lips twisted in a mocking smile. “Of course, the castle is a crowded place. It's so much easier to be alone and unobserved in a forest.”
“I bring you a message from my cousin Elaine,” Guinevere repeated firmly. “She asked me this morning to get a message to you. She wants a meeting with you. If you would only see her, my lord, you may verify it for yourself.”
For a moment, the smile vanished from Sir Darric's face. Then he broke into laughter. “I remember now. The little wench in the tight bodice? That's Alyse's daughter?”
Guinevere winced inwardly for Elaine. “Yes, my lord.”
“She's pretty enough, I suppose,” he mused. “But she'll never be a beauty. You, on the other hand, have the makings.”
Guinevere kept her gaze on the space between Peleth's ea
rs. At this pace, they would not reach the stables until lamplighting. She did not think her skill at conversation would last that long, and she certainly did not want to be found by Queen Alyse riding home with Sir Darric.
“Please, my lord, be good enough to acknowledge that the queen's daughter has asked a favor of you.”
“And you came out without an escort because the daughter's plans must be kept secret from the mother?”
She nodded, staring straight ahead. He wasn't unintelligent after all. But, then, he probably had experience with assignations. He could not be as uninterested as he seemed in this one. Elaine was the king's daughter, and Sir Darric was only the younger son of one of the king's men. The most he could ever hope for was sole possession of his father's lands—if his elder brother died—while everyone knew Queen Alyse was grooming her daughter for a position of power, wealth, and influence. If Sir Darric were at all ambitious, he would jump at the chance to win Elaine for himself.
Sir Darric's voice, stripped of its arrogance, interrupted her thoughts. “Is it true what Jordan said about you, Guinevere? Are you an orphan? Have you no family living?”
She stiffened but could hear no threat in his voice. He made it sound like the least important question in the world. “Both my parents are dead, my lord. King Pellinore is my guardian.”
“But King Pellinore has a daughter of his own.”
“My half brother is the king of Northgallis. I still have family there.”
He considered this. “Do you have something coming to you, then? When you marry?”
Color rushed to Guinevere's face, which she kept hidden deep within her hood. “No, my lord. I have no rights in Northgallis. I do live on the queen's sufferance. And the king's.”
She heard him grunt and shift in the saddle. “That's a damned shame. Still, it's a great boon to those of us who'll never be kings.”
Guinevere's hands tightened on the reins, and her legs tensed against Peleth's sides. The horse immediately increased his pace.
Sir Darric laughed. “Come, now, princess, don't set your sights too high. You could do a lot worse than an earl's son.” He rode up beside her. “You'll have little choice, you know, unless you run away to someone. Alyse will arrange it all to her own satisfaction. What a shame it would be if she chose someone old, infirm, or ugly.”
She turned to stare at him. He was jesting with her, he must be, pretending to spurn Elaine and hinting at an interest in herself. Or he was completely mad. Or he was a cruel man who enjoyed making others squirm.
He did not look mad. He looked glossy with rain, strong, handsome, his white teeth gleaming in a wicked smile. If not mad, he was at the very least a cruel villain, a liar and a thief. She wanted nothing to do with him.
On the thought, he reached out an arm to grab her reins. Guinevere pressed her legs against Peleth's sides and gave him his head. The horse bolted.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Dangerous Ride
She heard a shout of laughter behind her and then the pounding of the stallion's hooves. Guinevere knew that if she stayed on the main ride, the quickest route back, Sir Darric was sure to catch her up. His stallion was younger, stronger, and faster than Peleth.
A short distance ahead, the way forked, the main ride descending around a hill in a long, gentle sweep to the stable courtyard, the other, narrower path heading in a series of steep zigzags and straightaways down the slope to the back paddocks. This was an old path that the newer, broader ride had been built to replace, and because no one used it anymore, she had made it her own. She had built obstacles along it, piling brush over downed trees that had fallen across it here and there. It gave her and Peleth a good long gallop and a series of jumps to negotiate on the way home. It was her favorite ride down to the castle, and she knew it like the back of her hand.
Peleth took the narrower path as a matter of course, ears pricked in anticipation. Guinevere hoped Sir Darric would opt for the easier route, but she did not expect it. Even if he could not see them in the misty gloom, he could easily follow their tracks.
Down they ran, flying around the first turn of the zigzag. She collected Peleth and steadied him, for the first hurdle lay close ahead. It was even darker under the crowding trees, and the way was difficult to see. She slowed the horse to a sharp canter and peered ahead through the gloom. For anyone who did not know where the obstacles were, this was a dangerous ride.
Peleth shortened his stride as the first barrier came in sight, a fallen pine tree whose sharp, broken branches stuck out from the trunk like spikes. Guinevere bent over his neck and squeezed his sides with her legs. Up he rose, up and over with room to spare. She praised him and patted him, and drew him into a slower canter as they neared the next turn of the zigzag.
Beneath a tangled canopy of oak, poplar, and pine, she pulled him up. They were all but invisible in the dimness, and she needed to learn whether Sir Darric or his stallion would see the obstacle in time. When she had bolted, her only thought had been to escape. She had not stopped to consider that, in these conditions, the trap she had set them might be fatal to Sir Darric or his horse. She shivered at the thought and reminded herself that Sir Darric was a skilled rider and his horse a trained war stallion. If they could not take a fallen tree in their stride . . .
Rain fell in a noisy splatter on the canopy above, but little of it reached her and Peleth. The footing so far had been firm and dry. If Sir Darric were going carefully, he would see the fallen tree in time. He would either pull up and go back the way he had come, or get his horse over it. Once over, he was committed to all five of the obstacles she had built across the ride, for there was no way around them except on foot through the impassable forest undergrowth.
Peleth's ears flicked forward, and a moment later, Guinevere, too, heard the eager thud of galloping hooves. Her hand crept to the crucifix at her throat. The stallion's scream rang out through the forest. She held her breath and waited for the sounds she dreaded, the crashing of broken branches, the wail of pain, the shout of anger. They did not come. The only sound was the steady drumming of the rain all about her. Even as she released her breath, her fear returned. If Sir Darric wasn't dead or injured, he would be after her again. His conceit would demand it. She spun Peleth on his haunches and put him into a hard gallop downhill.
In the stable courtyard, Guinevere slid from Peleth's back and ran for the side door between the paddocks. It opened in her face. Stannic stood there, torch in hand, frowning darkly.
“Oh, Stannic! How glad I am to see you!”
The stablemaster's face softened as he replaced the torch in its sconce and took the gelding's reins. “Where the devil have you been, m'lady? Ailsa's been down here thrice looking for you.”
“Why? Has the queen missed me?”
At the anxious look in her eyes, Stannic's disapproval melted. He smiled reassuringly as he tied the gelding to a post and picked up a straw twist to rub his streaming coat.
“Not so far as I know. Ailsa said something about trimming a gown for a feast tonight. I think it was just an excuse to see if you'd got safely back. You'd best make haste to the castle. If you've been out in the rain all day, you'll need a rubdown, too.”
Guinevere shrugged free of the soldier's cloak. “I'm pretty dry, really. The cloak was marvelous. Thank you, Stannic. I'd have been soaked without it.” She paused as he took it from her. “Why is there a feast tonight? Is King Pellinore home?”
“No, alas. Not yet. But Sir Darric is back from the Long-meadow Marshes with a troop of men, and they must be fed.” He gestured at the long row of rumps receding into the dimness of the stable. “And their horses, too.”
Guinevere saw the new horses and frowned. “How many men did he bring? He's posted a dozen or so in the heights already.”
Stannic paused. “Did you come across Sir Darric in the heights, princess?”
She nodded, shivering. “I threw him off my trail, I think, but I don't know for how long.”
Stannic
straightened from his task. “Was he chasing you?”
“Not exactly.” She avoided his eyes. “I didn't like being near him.”
“There's an easy way to avoid that,” Stannic said gently. “Take an escort with you whenever you ride out.”
Tears welled in the dark blue eyes, and Stannic sighed. “Listen, lass, no boon lasts forever. You will have to get used to escorts, and litters, too, in time. No highborn lady travels without an escort of armed men. It isn't safe. We've a good King now, and a bonny fine fighter he is, but he's young yet and concentrates his efforts on the Saxons. There are plenty of lawless men in the hills of Wales, aye, and in the valleys, too, who'd just as soon slit your throat as let you pass by unharmed. There, I've said my piece. Dry those pretty eyes and run off to Ailsa. You'll need a warm drink and a hot soak before the banquet.”
Guinevere wiped her eyes and shook her head vigorously. “I'm not going to the banquet. I'll take to bed with a chill if I have to. Oh, Stannic, I don't want to grow up if it means being looked after all the time, even when I'm riding. Is there no other choice? Will I always have to be under someone's thumb?”
Stannic smiled. “Under someone's protection, certainly. If he's a good man, it won't feel much like a thumb. You might even have a good deal of freedom. Look at Queen Alyse. She does what she wills, as anyone can see, but she doesn't travel about without an escort.”
Guinevere bowed her head. “But riding out is the only way I can be alone.”
No sooner had she spoken the words than she remembered the Old Ones and their patient guardianship of nearly thirteen years. Her privacy had always been illusion. All those times she had pounded through the hills on horseback, even in Northgallis, to release pent-up anger, frustration, disappointment, or to puzzle out the answer to a problem, she had never been alone.
Stannic smiled as if he read her thoughts. “Best get back to your chambers now. Here, take your mantle. Ailsa will be right frantic by this time, and you don't want to run into Sir Darric on his way back.” He tilted his head to see her better. “Come to think on it, he ought to be back by now. I wonder what's delayed him.”