“You're not out of this yet,” he said, pushing past Marcus into the front room. “You're supposed to be sick with fever, and, by God, you're not.”
“The fever broke this morning,” Marcus said evenly. “I'm sorry you weren't here to see it. I've been getting myself ready to report back for duty.”
“I don't believe you. You're lying.”
“You will not call my son a liar in my house!” Old Argus barked.
Brychan whirled, his hand dropping to his sword hilt, but found the point of the old man's sword already at his throat. “I'm a king's man!” he gasped. “Put up!”
“All right, Father,” Marcus said coolly, and the sword point retreated a few inches. “You're Regis's man, not Pellinore's,” he said to Brychan. “There's a difference. Now get out, both of you. And tell Regis I want speech with him tonight.”
When they had gone, Marcus closed the door, leaned against it, and smiled at his father. “That was close. Thank you, Father. You did splendidly.”
The old man was leaning against the table. The sword in his hand shook violently. “I'm a king's man myself. I don't like telling lies to soldiers. Not even to the house guard.”
Gently, Marcus took the sword from his hand. “It was necessary. You know that. There is treachery in the house guard. It was necessary to deceive. But I won't ask it of you again.”
“Treachery in the house guard,” Old Argus whispered as Marcus settled him into his chair. “What is the world coming to?”
Marcus arranged a cushion behind his head, pulled his sheepskin blanket over his knees, and refilled his cup. The sword he replaced in its hanger on the wall behind the old man's chair. “I'm going to dress now, Father, and go up to the castle. Your sword is here within your reach.”
The old man looked up at him with pale, watery eyes. “Will you be back tonight?”
Marcus shrugged. “By dawn, surely. But don't wait up.”
Old Argus sighed and stretched out his legs toward the brazier. “Go with God, my son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Private Supper
The queen stood framed in the inner antechamber door-way, waiting for Sir Darric to arrive. Cissa and Leonora had gone to their dinners, and she was alone at last. The lamps were lit behind the Roman couches, an applewood fire blazed in the brazier, and flagons of warmed wine stood ready to hand.
She had taken particular care in her dressing. She wore an ice blue gown with silver lacings in the bodice and ice blue gems at throat and ears. A silver band encircled her brow, and a net of silver threads encased her hair. She had stood before her polished bronze and knew what she looked like: lovely, cold, and unapproachable.
She heard him coming, heard his boots on the stone, heard the low murmur of voices as he exchanged pleasantries with Bredon, the guard at her door, heard Bredon's quiet knock and Sir Darric's musical voice raised in greeting.
“My lady queen. A private supper. How gracious of you.”
He bowed low. He was simply dressed in a long green velvet robe. He wore no ornaments, no wristbands, no torques or rings, only a leather belt slung low on his hips to hold a jeweled dagger in its jeweled sheath. Loose though it was, the velvet robe did little to hide the suppleness of his body.
She was aware of his gaze, taking in her gown, her jewels, the neutrality of her expression, assembling their meaning, harvesting information for the swift calculations to come. She could see through him now, as clearly as through glass. His youth, his beauty, his physical appeal no longer masked his soul.
“It was good of you to come.”
“I am yours to command, my dear Alyse.”
She smiled and took her first step into the room. “Are you, my dear Darric?”
He took her proffered hand but, instead of kissing her fingers, turned her wrist and pressed her smooth palm to his lips. “Command me, then. I will prove it to you.”
Queen Alyse let heat rise to her face. She was the first to look away. “I look forward to it,” she said almost demurely. “But not on an empty stomach.”
Sir Darric's hand slid up her arm to cup her shoulder. She did not pull away from his touch but turned smoothly toward the supper board and reached for a flagon of warmed wine.
* * *
Queen Alyse reclined on the Roman couch and poured Sir Darric another cup of wine. She peered into the silver flagon and saw with some astonishment that it was empty again. That was the fifth he'd emptied, and still his speech was clear. He must be very used to such indulgence; Pellinore would have been fast asleep long ago. She wondered that Sir Gavin allowed such dissolute habits in his house. How could he afford it? His vineyards might be larger than Pellinore's, but this one son drank more in a day than Pellinore's entire house-hold.
She glanced down at Sir Darric, who sat on the floor at her feet, having slid off his seat on the couch some time ago. At least his amorous advances had come to an end. After the first flagon of wine, and during most of the second, he had cajoled her with whispered promises sweet enough to melt the coldest heart.
The third flagon had soothed his injured pride, or perhaps it had merely cooled his ardor, for his sweet talk had turned into a steady torrent of abuse against Mathowen. His elder brother was his father's favorite, God knew why; he could not do anything half so well as Darric could. Whenever Sir Gavin was summoned to fight, it was Mathowen he took with him. Darric was left behind to manage the house guard. Even though Mathowen had been badly marked by pox, his bride-to-be was the prettiest girl in the Marshes and loved him despite his looks.
This seemed to rankle Darric most, Queen Alyse observed. He must seldom have met a woman he could not have for the asking, and she wondered if his brother's bride had been one of few who had refused him. He was certainly deeply jealous of Mathowen—she understood that part of it perfectly—but she sensed that there was more behind it than a girl.
The fourth flagon proved her right. The floodgates of resentment opened wide, and a rush of venom spewed forth, all directed at Sir Gavin, at his meanness, his primness, his positively Spartan sense of discipline, his ridiculous scruples, and his unfair prejudice against his younger son. Queen Alyse listened with very little sympathy. Beauty, cleverness, and a liquid tongue were not enough for this bored and energetic young man. He wanted more. He thirsted for glory, for power, for recognition. Or perhaps he simply longed for love. He had learned, in his short and busy life, how to take. But he had never learned how to give. No wonder he could find no one to love him.
The queen looked askance at the empty fifth flagon and decided it was time to take control of the conversation.
“Darric, my pet, are you as sober as you sound?”
He leaned his head back against the edge of the couch and gazed up at her. “Alyse, my sweet,” he said, mimicking her voice, “are you deaf? I've been telling you my life story, and you haven't been listening.”
“I've heard every word, but I haven't an ounce of pity for you. No one pities a man as handsome as you are. For that, you should have been born with a different face.”
He flashed her a smile. “You've been remarkably unmoved. I must be losing my touch.” He reached for her hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. “Beautiful Alyse, tell me the secret. Give me the key.”
She did not think his ardor was feigned, which was flattering, but his nerve astonished her. “Perhaps I might, if you can tell me something I want very much to know.”
“Only ask,” he murmured. “I can deny you nothing.”
“You say your father left you to guard the Longmeadow Marshes. Why, then, my dear Darric, are you here?”
There was a fractional pause, only a heartbeat long. “Why, to spend a pleasant evening in your presence, possibly a splendid one.”
“Nonsense. For that, you'd hardly have brought thirty men.”
He straightened. The look in his eye was cold and clear and sober. “You invited them yourself, if you remember. To rid your hills of thieving vermin.”
“At your i
nstigation. If you remember.”
“Was it? I thought it was your idea.”
“It was your idea that the thieves were hillmen,” she said, toying with the hilt of the little jeweled dagger he had given her during his amorous stage. “I've been wondering if that is true. It has occurred to me that perhaps you came here to distract me with your attentions while your men stole my cattle behind my back. I heard a whisper somewhere that you had.”
She was watching his face as she spoke and saw the quick flinch of surprise, swiftly masked, and the briefest paling of the skin beneath his eyes. More telling than that was his sudden stillness. When he spoke again, all his ardor had vanished.
“These are lies—but you are quick to believe them. Who accused me?”
Queen Alyse shrugged gracefully and drew the little dagger from its sheath. “It would explain why you brought so many men, and half of them boys. Your trained troops have surely gone with your father and brother. But one doesn't need trained troops for cattle stealing.”
Sir Darric shot to his feet. His eyes blazed. “I came for you. Alyse of Gwynedd, the ice queen. As beautiful as a winter dawning and with a heart as cold. That's your reputation—did you know it?—all over Wales. I came to melt you down, layer by layer—” He stopped and shrugged. “I should have known better.”
Trembling, Queen Alyse rose and faced him. “I'm not a fool, Darric. And I will not be used. Tomorrow you will take your men back to the Longmeadow Marshes and stay there until you are sent for.”
His lip lifted in a sneer. “You had the chance to command me. You passed it by. I will give no such order.”
“Then I will.”
He shook his head very slowly and held her eyes. “You can't make them leave. They take orders only from me.”
“I am your queen.”
He laughed. “Are you? My men outnumber yours.” Then his insidious smile reappeared, and the smooth, seductive note returned to his voice. “Of course, there is a way out of this without violence.”
She waited, her fist clenched around the dagger's hilt. She wished fervently it were a bigger weapon that could inflict more than scratches. Then she might use it.
His eyes met hers. “Perhaps if you allowed me to marry into your family . . .”
“Don't be ridiculous!” the queen gasped. “It's out of the question.”
“Is it? I suppose I'm not good enough, just as my father wasn't good enough for your sister. Is that it?”
She had forgotten that. Gavin of the Longmeadow Marshes used to wear a rut in the road to the castle gates to look at Elen. “Marriage is more a matter of land than of liking,” she said coldly. “Do you think my sister and I were free to marry any man we chose? Our choices were limited to men whose lands could be annexed to Gwynedd upon the death of their fathers. These things are political decisions.”
Sir Darric nodded easily. “Of course. But I'm not asking for your daughter, Alyse. I don't want to be outranked for the rest of my life. I'll take the ward. The stray lamb. She's a landless orphan, I've been told, with nothing to recommend her in the way of political attractions.”
Queen Alyse stiffened. The impudent scoundrel! How did he dare? “You must be jesting. She's still a child, all bone and sinew.”
“She'll be a beauty, though. You see it as clearly as I do. She'll be famous for it one day . . . like her mother.”
The queen's hands bunched into fists. “She's too young for marriage.”
“She's thirteen. Older than your daughter.”
“But not yet eligible.” Queen Alyse spoke firmly and saw Sir Darric's eyes widen in surprise.
He shrugged and smiled. “A late bloomer? Makes no difference to me. I don't want her for the sons she'll bear me. I want the girl for what she'll be herself, Alyse.”
“She has no patrimony,” the queen spluttered. “No dowry but what I give her.”
He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “So give her half your daughter's dowry. It would content me.”
Half! The notion nauseated her. This greedy upstart to take half Elaine's dowry? Guinevere's dowry to be equal to Elaine's? She and Pellinore to be permanently allied to Darric of the Longmeadow Marshes? She turned on her heel and strode across the chamber, trying to force her mind to think amid the tumult of her emotions.
“Come, Alyse, don't let your pride get in your way. I'm doing you a favor, taking the girl off your hands. She's nothing to you, just another mouth to feed, another dependent to marry off. Give her to me and I'll go home quietly.”
His tone was smooth and persuasive, but his words struck chill into Queen Alyse's heart. He had the nerve to try to blackmail her, his sovereign queen. As outraged as she was at such presumption, part of her nevertheless weighed the offer. Here was an easy way to bury Guinevere in obscurity and foil the dreadful prophecy. Here was an end to sleepless nights and arguments with Pellinore over the girl's future. She ought to rejoice at the chance to rid herself of all that fear and worry; instead, her blood ran cold at the thought.
Was it because the child carried the blood of the royal house of Gwynedd? Or was it because Queen Alyse had seen in her, from time to time, flashes of intelligence, courage, a patience she had often wished Elaine might learn, and a loyalty that, despite her repeated disobedience, inspired trust? For all these reasons, and perhaps also because she recognized in herself a burgeoning admiration for the girl, Queen Alyse knew that she could not do less than her best for Guinevere.
She turned and faced Sir Darric. “Why Guinevere? Tell me that.”
He smiled. “Let's say I have an old score to settle.” His voice softened to a purr as he came closer. “You know as well as I do that the girl will be someone someday. Her beauty, like her mother's, will melt my father's heart; he'll forgive me anything for her sake. I'll be the envy of Mathowen and every other man in Wales. She'll be my stepping-stone to power and influence. With a wife like that, I can go anywhere.” His hands clasped her shaking shoulders. “You know I'm right, don't you, Alyse? You know that girl has power—Lady Elen's power—although she doesn't yet guess at it herself.”
Queen Alyse shuddered and shrank from his touch. Next week, when Pellinore came home, she would see Sir Darric's handsome head impaled upon a spike above the entrance gates, if it was the last thing she did. . . .
“You're talking nonsense,” she said stiffly. “I refuse to consider it.”
Sir Darric backed away, the smile gone. “Have it your way, then. I'll take the castle and the girl with it. When I'm king of Gwynedd, there'll be no one to deny me.”
“Your arrogance is insulting. Thirty men are not enough. The house guard are loyal to a man.”
“Are they?”
It was the mischief in his eyes that frightened her most. He was enjoying himself too much, and he was not afraid. He must know something she didn't about the house guard. She wondered suddenly where Marcus was.
“It would take a battle. Men would die. You would cross the line into treason, Darric. With King Pellinore only days away, are you willing to risk the whole of your life on the chance?”
Something flickered behind his eyes, some flash of uncertainty, and Queen Alyse clutched at hope. “In any event, I can't respond to your threats tonight. There is too much to consider. I must think what Pellinore would say.”
Sir Darric raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Have to run it by the king, do you? Why? You're the daughter of the king of Gwynedd. Pellinore's only the man who had the largest patrimony fifteen years ago.”
Blood rushed to the queen's face, and Sir Darric laughed. “Give me the girl, Alyse.”
Queen Alyse walked to the door and pulled it open. “Bredon,” she said to the guard outside, “Sir Darric is ready to retire. Escort him to his chamber.”
Sir Darric made no move to leave. He watched her with narrowed eyes, as if weighing up her strength or her resolve. Finally, he shrugged and went to the door, his robe of green velvet sighing as he passed. “You have until dawn,” he s
aid. “I'll give you that long to decide. But what a shame to waste the night.”
She watched him out of sight, closed the door, and dropped the bar across it. Her heart was racing so fast she thought she might choke. She hurried into the inner chamber to find her women. Cissa and Leonora were both there, looking pale and frightened. And rising from a chair between them was, at long last, Marcus.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Discovery
It was not hard to fool Grannic and Ailsa. The two nurses slept so soundly that the girls had made it a regular practice to slip past them late at night and go where they pleased about the castle. They took great care to avoid the guards' notice. This required careful scouting of rooms and passageways and a thorough knowledge of the guard postings and the changes of watch. Consequently, there was not much about the nightly running of the castle that Elaine and Guinevere did not know. They were able to make their way out of the women's quarters, down a stair, through several passageways, up another stair, and into the men's quarters without once being seen.
Elaine came to a halt in the shadow of a window embrasure and clutched Guinevere's hand. “That door there, under the lamp ahead, that's where the best guests are housed. Lucius is standing guard. Let's wait until the watch changes. It's Darnal's night, and he's much more likely to be lenient. He owes a gambling debt to my uncle Melleas.”
They waited in the narrow window niche until they heard the scrape of boots on stone that signaled the approaching change of watch. They looked on as passwords were given and received, salutes were exchanged, and Darnal replaced Lucius outside Sir Darric's door.
Elaine drew a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “here we go.”
“Wait.” Guinevere touched her arm. “Someone else is coming.”
A moment later, two men rounded the far corner and came down the corridor toward them.
“ It's Sir Darric,” Elaine whispered. “With Bredon as escort. He must have been to see Mother.”
The men stopped before the door under the oil lamp. Bredon saluted and went back the way he had come. Sir Darric, a little unsteady on his feet, braced an arm against the wall and waited until Bredon had disappeared back around the corner.