Guinevere's Gift

  This thought cheered her considerably, and she paused in her pacing to examine the antechamber for the twentieth time. The tables were laden with platters of roast fowl and lamb, fish grilled with pine nuts and wild onion, steamed apples swimming in cream, bowls of raisins, walnuts and honey, a clay pitcher of mead up from the cellars, and a basket of new-baked bread. She gazed at it all with approval but without much satisfaction. It was the best she could manage with the stores she had, so early in spring, but it would do. It was a feast put on for one man alone. He was no fool. He would get the message.

  She turned in the doorway and smiled at her women. “Come, Cissa, Leonora. It is time to dress.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Only an Earl's Son

  Elaine grabbed Guinevere's arm and dragged her into the bedchamber. The two girls were finally alone, Ailsa and Grannic having just returned to the kitchens to take their evening meal with the rest of the household. The food they had brought up for the girls and carefully set out in the antechamber had barely been touched. Guinevere had been too silent and withdrawn to eat, and Elaine had been too excited.

  “For heaven's sake, Gwen, forget about Mother's threat. I know what she said, I had my ear to the door, but she didn't mean it. She's had a rotten day.”

  Guinevere sat down glumly on the edge of the big bed they shared. She shivered, but not from cold. Ailsa had taken great pains to warm her and dry her when they had first come in, stripping off her damp clothes, rubbing her body with t o wels and then with balm, and putting hot bricks to her feet. She was warm enough now, and the shock of the queen's tongue-lashing was beginning to wear off, but still she could not control her trembling.

  She listened as Elaine rattled on about all she had missed while she was out. Maelgon and Peredur had had a fight. Maelgon began it when he stabbed Peredur with his wooden sword during a mock swordfight. Peredur had lunged for him and pulled out a fistful of Maelgon's hair. After that, it had taken Queen Alyse and two of the house guards to separate the boys. Later, during Maelgon's riding lesson, Peredur stole his brother's toy sword and threw it down the well. In revenge, Maelgon pushed Peredur down the kitchen stairs. With the household in an uproar and Queen Alyse in a panic, the senseless lad had been put to bed.

  “He's lucky he wasn't killed. Mother wept all afternoon, fearing he'd broken his wrist and would never wield a sword, but the physician eventually decided it was only a sprain and will mend in time. Maelgon's in disgrace, of course, the undeserving little brat, and not allowed to leave his chamber for a week. His nurse has been discharged. Poor Yvonet has to give up guard duty and tend him night and day until a replacement can be found.”

  “I'm sorry for the boys,” Guinevere said unhappily. “No one told me about the fight. But I saw your mother's face, Elaine. She always means what she says in that tone of voice.” Tears rose to her eyes, and she fought them back. “She has no right to take Ailsa from me. Ailsa's not one of her belongings, to be made use of and discarded on a whim. It isn't fair.”

  Elaine sat down beside her and patted Guinevere's hand. “I tell you, Gwen, she won't let Ailsa go. Think of the trouble it would cause her, the inconvenience. She'd have to find someone else to take her place, and now she's got Maelgon's nurse to worry about. She'd have to train her, too. And if the new nurse didn't do exactly as she said, she'd have no one to blame but herself. No, Gwen, Ailsa saves her time and annoyance, and she's an easy scapegoat. Mother would never let her go. It's an empty threat.”

  “I wouldn't let it happen. I'd run away first and take Ailsa with me.”

  Elaine's eyes widened. “Where would you go?”

  Guinevere shrugged. “Out of Wales. Beyond her reach.”

  Elaine shook her head. It was sheer lunacy to value the services of a nurse, who could be replaced, above the privileges of birth, which could not. She certainly felt no such attachment to Grannic.

  “Oh, I feel like running away all the time. But it would be suicidal to leave Gwynedd. Outside of Wales, you'd have no rank and no protection. Anything could happen. You're much better off here. Mother's temper will pass, and she'll be sorry she said such mean things to you. You might even get a guilt gift out of it.”

  Guinevere did not want any more gifts from Queen Alyse. Ailsa was deeply frightened. Her dear nurse, normally chatty and voluble, had hardly spoken a word all evening, undressing and redressing her charge in a meek silence so unlike her that Guinevere had known at once the depth of her distress. She had not chided Guinevere for her tardiness or demanded to know where she had been. She had asked no questions at all. Her outgoing nature had retreated to some inner fastness, where she waited, helpless and accepting, for whatever was coming next. The knowledge that she, Guinevere, was responsible for this suffering filled her with remorse. She had no idea how to alleviate it except by granting the queen what she asked for: perfect obedience to her commands.

  Elaine jumped up from the bed and threw open the lid of her clothes chest. To Guinevere's astonishment, she lifted out a fresh gown, eyed it carefully at arm's length, and flung it on the bed.

  “Come and help me change now, Gwen, and then I'll help you. We haven't much time. Grannic and Ailsa will be back soon, and we've got to be safely in bed when they come.”

  Guinevere blinked. “What?”

  Elaine put her hands on her hips and frowned. “You can't have forgotten. It's why you went into the forest in the first place. We're going to meet Sir Darric, of course, while Ailsa and Grannic are asleep. He did agree to it, didn't he?”

  With a monumental effort, Guinevere dragged her mind back to earlier in the day when she had raced out of the castle to meet Llyr, and when Elaine had thought she was racing out to intercept Sir Darric. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “He . . . was open to suggestions,” she managed.

  Elaine grinned. “Of course he was. But I've no way to get a message to him without Grannic and Ailsa knowing. We'll have to go ourselves. We'll dress now and slip our night-robes over our gowns and be under the covers, innocent as babes, when they come to check on us. Once they're asleep, we'll sneak out. Why do you look like that? We've done it a thousand times.”

  Guinevere found herself on her feet without willing the movement. “Not tonight! No, Elaine, you're mad even to think it! No power on earth could persuade me to disobey your mother thrice.”

  “You can't go back on your word, Gwen!” Elaine cried. “You promised to go with me. We won't get caught—we never have.”

  “It's as much as my life is worth to try it! Your mother is already furious with me. Just imagine what she'll do if she finds me sneaking about the castle in search of . . . of him. It's not like going out on the battlement to eavesdrop on the king's councils. This is different. It's personal. Sir Darric is out of bounds.”

  “But I've told you already that Mother didn't mean it. She's frightened you, which is just what she wants. She's good at cowing people. You can't let it stand in the way of your promise, Gwen, you can't.”

  “Elaine, I'm not allowed outside this chamber without your mother's permission. You heard her say so. Besides, Sir Darric can mean nothing to you, he's—”

  “You promised!” shrieked Elaine. “We made a bargain, and you agreed! Forget about Mother—I told you already she didn't mean it. You promised you'd come with me, and you will. Because if you don't,” she added, her voice hard and furious, “I'll tell Mother everything I know about your riding out, and some besides. I'll say you rode up into the hills after Sir Darric because you fancied him yourself. I'll say you made me cover for you. I'll say that Ailsa encouraged you, that it was her idea in the first place.”

  Guinevere gripped the bedpost. “That's not fair!”

  “Neither is breaking your promise.”

  Guinevere shut her eyes to focus her whirling thoughts. If she disobeyed Alyse again, the queen might carry out her threat to send Ailsa to Northgallis. On the other hand, if Elaine even hinted to her mother that Guinevere had been out in the
woods with Sir Darric, unescorted, Ailsa would be lucky to escape Gwynedd without a whipping. And if Queen Alyse thought Guinevere had gone to meet him intentionally . . .

  She fought down rising panic and faced Elaine. “Why do you want to see him? Do you really think he's interested in you after three days of paying court to your mother?”

  Elaine snorted. “For God's sake, Gwen, he's flattering her, that's all. He's not in love with her. I don't think he even likes her. He's got to be nice to her or she won't let him stay. The one he's been looking at is me.”

  “But, Laine, you're not interested in Sir Darric, are you? As a husband?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why must you see him? And why tonight?”

  “Because I want to. He's the handsomest man in Wales and he likes me. I want to see him alone, just for a few moments of private speech.”

  Guinevere drew a deep and patient breath. “He'll tell you lies. He's not an honest man, he's a thief. He's been stealing your father's cattle from under your mother's nose.”

  Elaine lifted her chin. “I heard you say that but I don't believe it. He wouldn't dare come here if that were so.”

  “But it is so. I've talked to people who've seen him at it.”

  “Who?”

  Guinevere hesitated. If Elaine learned about Llyr and the Old Ones, she would not keep the knowledge to herself for long.

  “ You won't tell me, either? Then how do I know you didn't just make it up to rile Mother?”

  “As if I would! Just take my word for it.”

  Elaine shook her head stubbornly. “Whoever told you that could have been lying. You didn't see anything yourself, did you? No, of course not. Because it didn't happen. The very idea, a man as handsome as that resorting to thievery . . . it's madness.”

  Guinevere sank down on the bed. “What has beauty got to do with it? He's a villain, Elaine. He's planning evil things and he won't thank you for interfering. He may even refuse to see you.”

  “He won't refuse me,” Elaine snapped. “I'm the king's daughter and he's a guest in my father's house.”

  “But—”

  “I'm going, Gwen. I've made up my mind, and if you want to save Ailsa, you'll go with me.”

  Guinevere stared down at her trembling hands. She wasn't going to be able to talk Elaine out of this one. Of all the e scapades Elaine had dreamed up over the years, this was the worst. It was the most dangerous, had the most at stake, and was by far the least likely to succeed. She reached for the carving of Rhiannon in her pouch and fingered its smooth surface. What would her mother have done in her place, she wondered. She knew the answer at once. She would have done what honor required and faced the consequences as they arose. Even if it meant escaping with Ailsa across the mountains to Northgallis.

  “All right, Elaine. I'll keep my promise and come with you.”

  Elaine tossed her the gray gown. “I knew you would. But it always takes so much persuasion. I wish you weren't such a mouse, Gwen.”

  “I have more to lose than you do. And nothing at all to gain.”

  “Nothing to gain?” Elaine laughed, pulling the yellow gown on over her head. “Why, you'll be spending the midnight hour with the handsomest man in the kingdoms—even if he is only an earl's son.”

  Guinevere slipped into her gray gown, which fit her straight frame like a second skin. “He may be only an earl's son,” she said, “but he's not without weapons. See you remember it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Orders from Regis Himself

  Marcus hurried down the path to the village as fast as he dared in the dark. He cursed himself roundly as he stumbled over unseen rocks and into unseen branches. How stupid he had been! He had got out of the castle all right, thanks to Old Cam's sleeping at his post. But dodging past the outbuildings on his way out of the grounds, he had been spotted by a guard—by Brychan of all people, Regis's tame, servile thug. He was sure that Brychan had raced to take his commander the news. Whether Regis would be surprised, Marcus did not know, but that he would be furious he had no doubt. Most likely, he would send Brychan or Clevis, or both, to Old Argus's cottage to catch Marcus out. It was essential to get home first, bury his clothes, wash the stink off, and warn Old Argus.

  He slithered down the last descent of the muddy path and dodged behind the scattered cottages at the edge of the village. The rain was a blessing. Even if they came on horseback, they could not go much faster than he could on foot. What with the mist, the steady rain, the mud, and the general gloom of a starless night, he might just have time. He hoped Old Argus had followed his instructions. Lately, the old man had begun to forget things. If Marcus did not have a sickroom to return to, all this hurry was pointless.

  Light-footed in spite of his fatigue, he leaped over a ditch, negotiated the barrier of brambles, ran up the path between the gardens, and jumped the rail fence into the sties. Within seconds, he had stripped off his clothes and buried them in the churned mud around the trough. Fat Fiona, the great sow, watched him with uncurious eyes from the shelter of her shed. Thanks to her pregnancy, she lay placid and comfortable on her thick bed of straw. Once she had piglets to protect, she'd turn as ferocious as a she-boar, and Marcus regarded her unnatural calm as his second piece of luck.

  Naked, he pushed open the back door and slipped inside the cottage. He exhaled in relief. Opposite the stored jars of oil, wine, and vinegar; the stacked turfs; the pile of coal; and the sacks of wool and millet, he saw his pallet in the corner. The mussed bedding looked as if its occupant had risen in haste for a trip outside to the midden. There was a stub of burning candle beside it and a bucket for vomiting, foul with slime, near the dank pillow. A small bowl of medicinal gruel and a horn cup of water lay within easy reach of the makeshift bed. Marcus was pleased to see that the gruel was fresh and the cup half full. His sword hung from a nail in the wall above the bed. Even better, his boots stood in the corner, cleaned and polished to a dull shine. The old man had remembered everything.

  Marcus parted the curtain and peered into the main room. Old Argus sat in his chair by the brazier, fast asleep, his feet outstretched toward the heat. The room looked neat and orderly. Old Argus must have already had his supper and tidied up afterward. His wooden eating bowl was in its place on the shelf above the table, still damp from recent washing. On the table, a carved platter of polished elm wood, as fine as any in the king's house, held a handful of mealcakes. There was not a loose crumb anywhere. The hard-packed dirt floor had been recently swept of prints. Marcus gazed at his father with affection. He had not forgotten a single thing.

  “Father! Pssst! Argus!”

  The old man started awake, glancing first toward the door and then toward the curtain. “Son? Is that you?”

  “I'm sorry to wake you, Father. The king's guards are coming for me. Stall them as long as you can.”

  Old Argus rose from his chair, heavy-lidded with sleep. “And the queen? Have you seen the queen?”

  “Not yet. Where's my night-robe? You haven't washed it, have you?”

  “No. Look under the pallet. . . . I think I put it there, I can't remember. . . . What's that stink?”

  “I'll explain later. Look sharp, now. They're not far behind me.”

  Marcus darted back outside and made for the rain barrel to sluice himself down. Old Argus hobbled to the fire and lifted the wineskin from its sling above the flames. With a trembling hand, he poured himself a meager cup of thin wine.

  When the door burst open and two men strode into the room, swords raised, he was back in his chair again, eyes closed, head thrown back, and snoring gently.

  “This is the place,” said the larger of the men. He gestured toward the curtain. “Take a look back there.”

  Old Argus sat up and blinked. “Who's there? What's the meaning of this? Who are you?”

  The younger man paused on his way to the curtain. “Never you mind, old man. We're king's men, and we're after a fugitive.”

  Old Argus
pushed himself to his feet. “No one's been here except me and my son.”

  “Easy now, Grandfather,” the bigger man said with a grin. “Your son's the very one we've come to see. Go on, Clevis, see if he's back there.”

  “I'm here, Brychan.” Marcus pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the room. He wore a stained woolen night-robe, and his face was pale beneath damp, tangled hair. His legs and feet were bare. “Put up, man. Where do you think you are?”

  Brychan's mouth hardened at this reminder that Marcus outranked him. “I've got orders . . . sir. I've got to search this house.”

  “For what?”

  “A thief was seen running from the castle tonight. He came this way.” He shoved Clevis forward. “Go on. Search behind the curtain. Look for mud on his boots.”

  Marcus stood firmly in the way. “Put up your swords. We're not armed. I can assure you no thief came in here. We would have seen him.”

  Clevis sheathed his sword, but Brychan clutched the hilt of his until his knuckles whitened. “Nevertheless . . . sir . . . we've got orders from Regis himself to search this place.”

  Orders from Regis himself. Marcus hid a smile. That was certainly more than Regis would want revealed. “This place? No other?”

  “This place,” Brychan repeated firmly, and gave Clevis another shove.

  With a small smile, Marcus moved aside and swept back the curtain. “Go ahead. Look at anything you want.”

  He watched them take in the rumpled sickbed, the candle stub, the bucket, the spotless boots. Clevis glanced at Brychan nervously. “It looks all right to me.”

  “It stinks.” The big man sniffed the air in obvious disgust and pushed open the back door. He trod through the mud of the yard, peering into the gloom and sniffing. When he saw the sow, he grunted, swore under his breath, and sheathed his sword.