Guinevere drew away and pulled her mantle across her shoulders, eyes dancing. “He may be a little while. I came home along the lower ridge trail.”
Stannic hooted. “With your obstacles along the straight-aways? He'll never make all five, I'll wager a bronze coin on that.”
Guinevere grinned. “I bet he didn't make it past the first one.”
Stannic stood at the stable door and watched the girl dart between the outbuildings. She was headed, he saw, toward the queen's garden and the back stairs to the women's quarters. A smart little thing she was, and with a grace about her that reminded him forcibly of her mother. He remembered Lady Elen well. No one had been better loved in all Gwynedd. He had wept when he learned of her death. But he had not grieved once for her since Guinevere had come to Gwynedd. The child was so much like her mother it was almost like having Lady Elen back among them.
He sighed as he led Peleth to his place and tied his halter rope to an iron ring in the wall. God grant the girl a long life, an easy death, and a husband who cared for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By the Garden Door
Marcus huddled under the bower in the queen's garden as the rain slashed down. He was blue with cold. It had taken him half the day to make his way unseen from the outskirts of the forest to the grounds of Pellinore's castle. The place was crawling with troops. He'd been only thirty feet away, hiding in the branches of an oak, when Sir Darric and his men had ridden in. Half of them had gone on to the stables and the barracks, but the other half Sir Darric had stationed in the hills.
The presence of so many armed men had slowed his progress considerably—that and the weight of the canvas sack he carried slung over his shoulder. It grew heavier with each step, and it stank like a week-old corpse. He half expected to see a cloud of vultures trailing along behind him.
He had reached the castle outskirts at lamplighting but had not been able to find a way inside. As a lieutenant in the house guard, he was himself largely responsible for the vigilance of the sentries that now made his own entry so difficult. On the other hand, if anyone knew the castle's weaknesses, he did. So here he was at nightfall in the queen's garden, bedraggled with wet, sheltering under a bower, and waiting for the old porter inside the door to desert his post for his wineskin, as he usually did several times a night. It was a habit neither he nor Regis had been able to break. The old man could not be dismissed, for King Pellinore loved him, so he was put on the door to the women's quarters, where he would be least in the way.
Marcus could see the telltale flicker of candlelight through the narrow window beside the door and knew that Old Cam was still there. When the light disappeared, he would force the door and slip upstairs. He would have to leave his wretched bundle behind, but that was no hardship. He could hide it here in the garden until it was needed.
He had just finished burying it under a hedge when he heard footsteps, running footsteps, soft on the wet grass and coming closer. The torch by the door smoked and spat in the rain, shedding little light. Someone ran by him in the darkness. He had the impression of swift boots and a flowing mantle. He moved forward, dagger in hand. A shadow swept across the torchlight. A soft knock sounded on the door. Aghast, he watched the door swing open without a single password given and a slim figure dart inside to safety. He caught a fleeting glimpse of white-gold hair and soft doeskin boots.
The queen's ward! He had reached the door when recognition struck, and in his astonishment, he almost let it close in his face. Had the girl been out all this time? Doing what? He thrust his dagger blade across the threshold just in time.
“Saints be praised!” a woman's voice cried softly. “You're safe!”
“Not yet—where's Cam?”
“Taking his refreshment. I told him I'd stand his watch until you came in. The candle's burned almost to the hour mark. Oh, Gwen, where have you been?”
“Has anyone missed me? I mean, anyone but you?”
Marcus pried open the door a little farther as the nurse hurried to replace the candle on the table in the porter's cell. The girl went to the foot of the stairs and paused. She was a cool one, he thought, traipsing about outside in the dark without the queen's knowledge, yet calm enough to wait on the stairs for her nurse.
“If you mean the queen, yes,” came the nurse's voice. “But only just. Sir Darric returned with troops this afternoon, and that kept her busy. He went off again, but he'll be back tonight. She's planning another feast.”
Without the candle, the entranceway was dim enough. Marcus slipped inside as the nurse followed Guinevere up the stairs, talking on without a pause.
“That's what made her search for you and Elaine. She wanted to talk about gowns and such. She found Elaine in bed, pretending to be sick. Elaine told her you'd gone off with your green gown to work in some quiet corner.” She paused. “It sounded almost like she was covering for you.”
A torch at the top of the stairs shed a flickering light down the stairwell. Marcus climbed up after the women, but slowly, making sure to keep in the shadows. The girl's voice floated down to him, hollow as an echo.
“Actually, she was. We have a—a sort of bargain. But couldn't she think of anything better than that? My needle-work basket's in the queen's workroom. She's sure to find it.”
“Not in her workroom, she won't. Elaine's got it under her bed.” Ailsa paused for breath. “Dear heaven. What is that awful smell?”
Marcus fell into a crouch and froze. In the last twelve hours, he had become so accustomed to the stench of putrefaction that he hardly noticed it anymore. It had not occurred to him, fool that he was, that others would smell it on him. He glanced up the curve of the stair where the women's shoes were disappearing. Even if he stayed hidden in the shadows, they would be able to find him by the stink alone.
The girl's clear voice replied. “It's probably just the evening dankness from the garden. It must have come in with me when you opened the door.”
The ward continued upward, but the nurse paused on the stair. He could see her still shadow against the curve of the wall. “Dank it is,” he heard her mutter. “But that's no garden scent. That's dead, that is.”
Her shadow moved, descended a step or two, and stopped again. Marcus stayed perfectly still and held his breath. For ten long heartbeats, the shadow stayed as still as he was, listening, watching, scenting.
“Oh, hurry, Ailsa, do! What does it matter? I've got to get back before I'm seen!” At last, the nurse's shadow moved away. Marcus exhaled slowly. He should get back outside before Cam returned, for clearly he could not see the queen until he had changed out of these filthy garments and washed the stink from his skin and hair. But there had been fear in the girl's voice, and he wondered why.
Very slowly, he climbed the stairs. He could not hear their voices now, but whether that was because they had gone down the corridor or because they were no longer talking, he could not tell. With held breath, he rounded the curve of the stair that brought him full into the torchlight. To his relief, the stairwell was empty. He crept up to the landing, his back against the wall, and peered cautiously around the corner.
An oil lamp burned bright in its bracket halfway down the corridor, and by its light, he could see the girl and her nurse hurrying away from him. The light by the door to Princess Elaine's chamber was out—had some fool forgotten to fill the lamp with oil before he lit it?—and the farther end of the passage was in shadow.
The girl glanced over her shoulder at the huffing nurse. “Come, Ailsa, quickly! Pick up your skirts and run! I've got to get out of these clothes before Aunt Alyse finds me.”
“My lady!” Ailsa gasped, and half stumbled into a curtsy.
Queen Alyse stepped out of the shadows, eyes blazing, with a candlesnuffer in her hand. For one long, paralyzing moment, all motion ceased. The three women stared at one another.
The queen's thin nostrils flared. “So. This is how you repay me.” She came forward, her body stiff with anger. “You have no
t been stitching in a corner. Your mantle's wet, and you stink of horses—and worse. You have been outside. Without permission and against orders. Haven't you?”
No one spoke. The girl stood stiffly; the nurse was on her knees. The queen approached.
“ You've been riding. After I expressly forbade you the stables.”
The ward's voice shook. “But I—”
Queen Alyse cut her off. “I will hear no excuses. What must I do to exact obedience from you? Have you horsewhipped like a common slave?”
“But—”
“Silence!” The queen breathed forcibly through a pinched nose. “I won't have it, Guinevere. I've told you so before. And you, Ailsa, what on earth do you think you're doing, trailing about after the girl and abetting her every whim? You're supposed to be a restraining hand. You're supposed to see to it that my orders are obeyed. If you won't act like a nurse to the child, I shall find someone who will.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” The nurse's voice shook worse than the ward's. Marcus didn't blame them. Queen Alyse's anger could strike fear into the breast of every soldier her husband employed, including himself.
Guinevere slid to the floor and raised clasped hands in supplication. “But, Aunt Alyse, it's all my fault. Ailsa didn't know I was going out. I didn't tell her—I knew she'd try to stop me. Please, please don't punish Ailsa—”
“Punish you instead? But I have already tried that. You disregard my punishments. You disobey me consistently. You forced Elaine to lie for you, and you rode out alone into the hills. Can you deny it?”
The ward did not deny it. Marcus found himself admiring her straight back every bit as much as he condemned her behavior.
“I didn't mean to involve Elaine,” she said finally with lowered eyes. “But I did ride out. I went to find out who has been stealing your cattle.” Her eyes lifted briefly to the queen's. “And I did.”
Marcus started. He pressed himself flat against the wall and fought to still the racing of his heart. What could the child have learned? He had to know. Crouching low, he peered around the corner once more.
Queen Alyse's voice was cold. “Indeed? You ran across the villains themselves, I suppose? They confessed their sins and then let you get away? Foolish fellows.” Her lips curled into a scornful smile. “What oafs we were to patrol the hills when all we had to do was send one witless child out alone.”
The girl mumbled something indistinguishable. The nurse gasped and crossed herself.
The queen stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Sir Darric is the thief, Aunt Alyse. And his men, Jordan and Drako and the rest. They were seen.”
“By whom?”
The sharp words fell into utter silence. The ward was shaking badly now; he could see it from where he crouched at the top of the stair. She bowed her head in a submissive gesture, but she said nothing. Marcus watched, fascinated. One did not take such a tale to the queen without solid proof. One did not give her information from a source one had to protect. The child had courage; he had to give her that. He glanced at the queen's face and felt a twinge of pity for such wasted bravery.
“You can't answer, or you won't? . . . This is the last straw, Guinevere. How dare you come to me with unfounded insults and accusations? I won't have it. It's utter nonsense. Sir Darric is a nobleman's son and a guest in this house. To accuse him of such base behavior is offensive. Demeaning. Insufferable. I expected more intelligence from you, even in your lies.”
The queen approached the girl and lifted her head with a firm hand under her chin. “From now on, you will obey me in everything—in everything, do you hear me? Or I will send Ailsa back to Northgallis. You will not ride. You will not even walk out without my permission. You will not stir outside this castle without an escort. You will take off those ridiculous boy's clothes and leave them outside the door. I will see they are cleaned and given to the village poor. You will wear a gown from now on or nothing at all. I hope I make myself clear?”
The ward made no movement that Marcus could see, but apparently she assented, for the queen released her grip on the girl's chin and turned to the kneeling nurse.
“Get up,” she snapped. “Get her into her chamber and see that she stays there. Neither of you will attend the feast tonight. You will stay in your chamber, Guinevere, until I give you permission to leave it. And as for this ridiculous tale you've brought me—”
She stopped in midsentence and raised her head, sniffing the air. “What—is—that—smell?”
Marcus vanished silently down the stairs. He had heard enough. Queen Alyse was not in league with Sir Darric. She had been more incensed at the girl's disobedience than at the suggestion of Sir Darric's complicity, which she had manifestly disbelieved. And now that she'd been warned, she would be on her guard or she was not the queen he thought she was. He grinned to himself. That was a sight, that was, her standing there before the two transgressors, magnificent in her regal rage, clutching the candlesnuffer in her hand as if it were a dagger. He would not have missed that for anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Plans for a Princess
A shout in the courtyard brought Stannic hurrying to the doors. It was still raining hard, and the spitting torches shed little light, but he could see enough to know it was Sir Darric, wet to the skin and in an evil temper.
“Has that wretched girl come back?” the nobleman called down from the back of Jordan's roan.
“What girl is that, my lord?”
“You know which one. The one who rides. The ward.”
Stannic said stiffly, “The princess Guinevere rode in at lamplighting, my lord.”
Sir Darric swore under his breath and slid off the horse. Stannic advanced into the downpour to catch the reins thrown at him.
“A daredevil, that one,” the young man muttered, striding into the light and warmth of the stable. “I was escorting her home when my horse stumbled and went lame—Jordan's walking him back—and I had to send her on alone. The little ninny took off like all the furies of hell were after her. I'm relieved to know she made it back in one piece.”
He glanced at Stannic, but the stablemaster was bent over the roan's feet, his face invisible. Sir Darric doffed his wet cloak and shook it out, spraying the swept floor with water. “Girl rides like the wind. She's got spirit, I'll give her that. . . . Any suitors yet, do you know?”
Stannic's head appeared over the horse's flank. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
Darric shot him a swift glance. “You heard me.”
“I wouldn't know, my lord.”
Sir Darric grunted. “Well, I'm glad she came to no harm. Although what she was doing riding about the woods without an escort and with a storm coming on, I'd like to know. I'm amazed the queen allows it. Unless she and Pellinore don't much care what happens to the child?”
Stannic lifted the saddle from the roan with a twisted smile. “I've reason to know, my lord, that King Pellinore and Queen Alyse care very much what happens to that girl.”
“Do they? Good. Good. I'm relieved to hear it.”
“She's the daughter of Queen Alyse's elder sister,” Stannic continued, handing the saddle to a groom. “Her parents may be dead, but she's not without family or protection. King Pellinore's especially fond of her.”
Sir Darric's petulant expression grew thoughtful. “That sister of Alyse's, the girl's mother, that was Elen of Gwynedd, wasn't it? The beauty?”
“Aye, my lord,” Stannic said, rubbing the roan with stolid concentration. “Queen Alyse had only one sister.” He glanced up, curious at the young man's sudden change in manner. Gone was the arrogance and bluster. Darric of Longmeadow stood under the oil lantern, damp and disheveled, with his sodden cloak over his arm and a wistful expression on his face.
“My father was besotted with Elen of Gwynedd.” Sir Darric spoke half to himself, staring at the roan's flank with unseeing eyes. “When he was my age. He tells the tale himself whenever he's in his cups. She was so beau
tiful she drove him wild. He nearly lost his wits when she married and went away, even though he had a wife of his own by then and two growing sons. I thought it might be a sort of justice if I could—” He broke off and sighed wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. “Well, never mind. Damn my luck, things never fall out my way.”
Stannic watched openmouthed as Sir Darric settled his wet cloak across his shoulders and strode out into the blowing night.
Queen Alyse paced furiously up and down her chamber. Cissa and Leonora flattened themselves against the wall and watched. They knew better than to attract the queen's notice when she was in a temper. She had already canceled the feast. They would have to scrounge for leftovers from the kitchens once they were dismissed. The lavish little supper laid out in the antechamber was not for them. In the meantime, they kept their eyes lowered, their mouths shut, and waited with grumbling stomachs for the queen's dinner guest to arrive.
Queen Alyse turned sharply at one end of the chamber and started back the other way. What was she to do about Guinevere? The girl's disobedience was infuriating. If it was the last thing she did, she would hammer sense into that obstinate golden head. Unlike Elaine, the child never stormed against the strictures laid upon her. She accepted them with deceptive meekness and then did exactly as she pleased. If that wasn't Elen all over again! It was astonishing, truly unbelievable, how much the girl reminded Alyse of Elen. Everything she did, she did well, from book learning and writing to stitching to riding horseback. If only she would obey, Alyse might make something of her, might find her a husband worthy of the family name. As it was, she would be lucky to marry her off at all.
She found herself standing before the wall, wringing her hands. She told herself not to be ridiculous as she whirled and started back. Of course she would find a husband for the child. Once Elaine's future was settled, once Arthur had a court, Pellinore's family would be counted among the first in Britain, and she could marry off Elen's daughter to any lord she chose.