“One guard. Just in case.” Sir Bedwyr smiled and bent his head. “Thank you, Lady Guinevere.”
She noted the formal address with regret and made him a reverence. “Not at all, my lord. You have made it clear that it’s my duty to the High King.”
She went through the door before him, and so missed the delight in his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Secrets of the Beech Tree
A hush had descended on the camp when Guinevere stepped outside. Few people were about, and most of the tents were closed up tight against the rising wind. Gray clouds scudded across a bright sky, trailing shadows over the meadow. Sir Bedwyr nodded to one of the guards at the entrance to the High King’s tent, and the man fell into step behind him. They followed Guinevere past the horse lines and into the surrounding wood.
She shifted her shoulders under her cloak. A feeling of unease pervaded the afternoon, making everything around her seem strange and unnatural. She began to have misgivings about leading Sir Bedwyr to the cairn. What if Llyr should be waiting in the beech tree? Her actions would look like betrayal. But it was too late now. She had given Sir Bedwyr her word.
She stopped beside the cairn and looked about her. Llyr was not in the beech tree. The wood was empty. The half-bare branches of the hardwoods fidgeted in the wind, and their discarded leaves rustled underfoot.
“Not here?” Sir Bedwyr came up beside her. Dillon, the guard, checked the other side of the tree as Sir Bedwyr scanned the woods.
“He hasn’t been here since I built the cairn. It’s still standing.”
A gust of wind whipped through the trees, scattering the leaves at their feet. “Is there a backup plan?” Sir Bedwyr asked. “Did you build another cairn somewhere else?”
Guinevere shook her head. “We’ve never needed a backup plan before. My lord, if you would allow me to ride out alone, I might be able to find him.”
She expected instant objections to this offer, but Sir Bedwyr was not Queen Alyse. He considered it. “Where would you go? Westward into the hills?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “That I can’t allow. You might run right into the hunters. It’s not worth the risk.”
“Sir!” The guard appeared from behind the tree. “There’s something buried over here.”
Sir Bedwyr and Guinevere hurried to join him. The wind had blown the leaves from the base of the tree and revealed a scar in the earth, a long mound of soil, loosely packed, where something had obviously been buried inexpertly and in haste.
Sir Bedwyr looked at Guinevere. “Was this here when you built the cairn?”
She gazed at the mound with deep misgiving. “No, I don’t think so. It was dark, but I walked all around the tree. I’d have noticed a mound like that. I’d have tripped over it.”
Sir Bedwyr nodded to the guard. “Dig it up, Dillon.”
Dillon removed his dagger from his belt and started digging. The loose dirt came up easily, and at the fourth stroke he struck something solid. Using his hands to clear away the soil, he reached down and withdrew a flattish package wrapped in canvas and bound with twine.
Sir Bedwyr stared at it, speechless, and Guinevere gasped.
He turned to her. “You know what it is? You’ve seen it?”
Too late, she covered her mouth with her hands.
“Princess.” Sir Bedwyr’s voice was hard, the voice of a commander. “You’ve dealt honorably with me thus far. Don’t now start telling me tales. Tell me what you know.”
But all she could think of was Llyr: Llyr following Lord Riall in the forest, Llyr climbing the old oak and drawing the treasure out of its hiding place, Llyr unwrapping it and laying it before her like a prize. If she told these things to Sir Bedwyr, he would not look twice for a different thief.
“Unwrap it, Dillon.” The command came coldly, sharp with disappointment.
She watched the guard remove the canvas wrapping, the leather wrapping, and finally, the oiled cloth. He lifted the jeweled sheath and held it across his palms with the warrior’s respect for a beautiful weapon. Then he drew breath sharply.
“What is it, Dillon?”
“It’s been defaced, sir. Someone has ripped out a gem. Recently. The marks are still fresh.”
A sound from Guinevere made Sir Bedwyr whip around. “You’ve seen this before.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Where? When?”
She bowed her head to avoid his eyes.
“Lady Guinevere. Please. You owe it to the King.” He waited, then said more gently, “There’s no need to shield him if he didn’t do it.”
“No?” She darted him a fierce glance.
“Not from me!” he cried. “Don’t class me with those half-witted villains, I pray you. I wish Llyr no harm. I’m trying to help him.”
Still she said nothing. Sir Bedwyr took the weapon from Dillon and held it before her face. “Did Lord Riall show this to you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you come to see it?”
He waited. The wind blew cold around his feet.
“I showed it to her.”
Three heads turned toward the new voice. There, in the shadow cast by the beech tree, stood an Old One. No one had heard his approach.
Guinevere sagged against the tree. Sir Bedwyr hesitated. It took him a moment to recognize Llyr in the man he saw before him, a man clad in wolfskins, carrying a spear, with the light of battle in his angry eyes. Dillon’s sword slithered from its scabbard.
“Put up, man. Put up!” Sir Bedwyr said roughly. Reluctantly, Dillon obeyed. The Old One had already hefted his spear into throwing position.
“Let the princess go.”
Sir Bedwyr displayed his empty hands. “She is free to do as she wills.”
“Move away from her.”
Sir Bedwyr signaled Dillon and they both backed five paces into the woods. Llyr lowered his spear and approached the tree.
“Gwenhwyfar?”
“Oh, Llyr, where have you been?” She ran to him and hugged him. “Did you know they were hunting for you? Did you come back because of the boy?”
His eyes were cold pits of anger. “His name is Luath Strong-Heart. I promised his father to bury him in sacred ground.”
“That can be done,” she said. “I’m sure Sir Bedwyr will allow it. But it’s not safe for you here.” She looked at his stony face and knew at once that there was no point in speaking to him of safety. He had the look of a man determined to prevail at any cost.
Trevor had foreseen this, she realized, when he asked her if there was no person or circumstance for which Llyr would sacrifice himself. Trevor seemed to know a good bit about the Old Ones. It was clear to her now that Llyr was prepared to die for his people. He had come out of the woods to protect the Old Ones from more killing.
She took his hand between her own and squeezed it hard. Don’t do this, Llyr, she wanted to beseech him. But she could not. He was doing the right thing, the honorable thing, and next to that, her fear of losing him seemed selfish and mean-spirited.
“Come with me,” she said. “Sir Bedwyr has a place prepared.”
His gaze softened, and he almost smiled. “I knew you would understand. You have the courage of a man, Gwenhwyfar.”
Guinevere shook her head as she led him forward. It was Llyr who had courage, the kind of courage few men possessed. She wanted to reassure him that once the hunt for him was over, he would be safe from her race of men, and that under Sir Bedwyr’s protection he would have no need to sacrifice himself. But she could not speak the words. They felt too much like betrayal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Foreign Soil
By dusk, Sir Bedwyr had installed Llyr in his own sleeping quarters and posted a heavy guard outside. He arranged for food, water, and clothes to be brought to him, but ordered that no one be allowed to see him. He had his men construct another workspace within the great tent for his private use and saw that his writing desk and his scribe
were settled there. Knowing that rumors of the capture and killing of an Old One were flying around camp with abandon, growing wilder and more malicious with every retelling, Sir Bedwyr paid a formal visit to each kingdom’s camp to tell them the truth of what had happened, beginning with Gwynedd and ending, shortly before the evening meal, with Powys.
Queen Esdora received him cordially, but he could tell from her grave expression that she had already heard his news. He was thus unsurprised to find Guinevere there before him when he was shown into Trevor’s chamber. She made him a pretty reverence but did not meet his eyes. He knew she was angry that he would not allow her to visit Llyr, but he could not risk it. To dispense the High King’s justice, he had to remain impartial. He could not allow her to influence Llyr, at least not until he had the truth from him.
Sir Bedwyr endeavored to explain all this as he took his seat by Trevor’s pallet. He told them what he had already said to everyone else: He was there by King Arthur’s order as his proxy and was sworn to administer the King’s justice in disputes. A dispute had now arisen that must be settled before the council of kings could be concluded. He had in custody the two men who had murdered the Old One. Their ultimate disposition depended in part upon the kings they served.
“Cadog, that mindless wretch, is in our service,” Trevor said glumly. “What would you have us do?”
“If you want him freed, pay a bloodprice to the dead boy’s clan and give Cadog a post that doesn’t require possession of a weapon. Otherwise, I must take him back to Caerleon with me and await the King’s return. Arthur will decide what to do with him.”
Trevor pushed himself to a sitting position. “Mother and I have already discussed this. We don’t want him back. He’s been a troublemaker all his life, as his father was before him. We will send a winter’s worth of wood and charcoal to the dead boy’s clan, but Cadog himself had better go to Arthur. Perhaps the High King can impress him into civility.”
“And Cadog’s family?” Sir Bedwyr asked. “What of them?”
“I will take his wife and children into my household,” said Queen Esdora. “They can earn their keep in the kitchen gardens. They’ll be decently housed and fed, my lord, and treated well, which is more than Cadog ever did for them.”
Satisfied, Sir Bedwyr moved on to Llyr. “He’s in my custody and safe for the time being. I am to be his judge in the High King’s place. But before I pass judgment, I will speak privately to each person who knows anything about the dagger or its theft. Afterward, I will hold council and try to achieve a consensus about what should be done. My judgment may depend on what the council recommends.”
Trevor snorted. “My lord is an optimist if he expects a consensus from Welshmen.”
Sir Bedwyr smiled. “A lesson already learned, I assure you. Nevertheless, we must try. Llyr will be present at this hearing. The High King requires that an accused man have the chance to face his accusers. I will consider all opinions, but my judgment is final.” He met Guinevere’s eyes. “Until his hearing, no one may visit Llyr. I want no ideas put into his head. I will question him myself tonight, while he is still in a mood to be forthcoming.”
“Tell me,” said Queen Esdora abruptly, “what King Mardoc has decided to do with Banin of Mab’s Bog.”
Sir Bedwyr frowned. “He hasn’t yet decided. Apparently, Banin is a kinsman, although a distant one, which complicates matters. Mardoc wants him returned to his service without having to pay a bloodprice, but that cannot be done. We can’t pretend that murder never happened.”
“No doubt he does not regard it as murder at all,” the queen said dryly. “He probably applauds the act. To his mind, the fewer greedy savages about, the better.”
Sir Bedwyr cast her a sharp glance. “You know your neighbor, my lady.”
“Indeed I do. He likes to make noise and throw his weight about. He’s also the stumbling block in council. Perhaps, now that you have something he wants, Trevor and I can persuade him to a bargain. We know his little weaknesses, you see.”
“If you can, I will be in your debt.” Sir Bedwyr rose. “Thank you for receiving me, my lady. I will see you, I hope, at Llyr’s hearing in three days’ time?”
“And me, too,” put in Trevor with a grin. “Merlin brought me a pair of walking sticks. I’ve already practiced with them.” He pointed to a pair of stout carved staffs at the foot of his bed. They had broad knobs at their tops for easy gripping and tripod feet of solid oak.
“You’ve seen Merlin?” Sir Bedwyr turned in surprise. “Where? When? I’ve been looking for him for days.”
“This afternoon. About the time, I guess, that you brought in Llyr.”
Sir Bedwyr grunted. “I swear, that man can disappear at will. If you see him before I do, tell him I beg a moment of his time.” He turned to go.
“Sir Bedwyr!” Guinevere jumped to her feet. She could hold back no longer.
Sir Bedwyr turned back politely. “Princess?”
“Are you going to interview Princess Morgan? I—I think you should, if you’re going to speak to everyone who knows about the dagger.”
Sir Bedwyr paused. “Do you have reason to believe she knows anything that will help?”
“Yes, my lord, I do.”
His eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“I saw your face when Dillon dug up the dagger. I saw your surprise. You’ve been hunting for a stolen dagger, yet you weren’t expecting to find that one, were you?”
“No,” he admitted cautiously. “I wasn’t. What of it?”
“Well, my lord, I’ve been thinking. If you were surprised to find Lord Riall’s dagger, then it can’t have been Lord Riall who made the charge of theft. It must have been someone else.” She waited for a response and got none. “Someone else must have reported a stolen dagger and named Llyr as thief. And offered a talent of silver as a reward. I asked myself who among us could afford to make that offer.”
She glanced up at him almost shyly. His face remained impassive and she took a deep breath to gather her courage. “The only one I could think of was Princess Morgan. I’ve seen the inside of her tent, my lord. Her dowry must be worth at least triple the offer.”
Sir Bedwyr frowned. “Her dowry is not hers to give away.”
“I don’t think she ever intended to give it away. I don’t think she’s even risked it.”
Sir Bedwyr’s frown darkened. “Suppose you tell me exactly what you mean.”
“I don’t think any dagger was ever stolen. I think Princess Morgan made that part up. She could accuse Llyr of theft and bury someone else’s dagger as evidence against him. And,” she added fiercely as Sir Bedwyr opened his mouth to interrupt, “if it was Princess Morgan who accused Llyr and offered the reward, then she is just as responsible as Banin or Cadog for the murder of Luath Strong-Heart!”
“Keep your voice down,” Sir Bedwyr said sharply. “Tent walls are thin.” He paced the length of the chamber and back again, coming to a halt before the two standing women. “I tell you this in confidence. Yes, it was Princess Morgan who laid the charge against Llyr. One of her retainers saw an Old One near their tent on the night the dagger disappeared. And yes, I will speak with her since, as the accuser, she has a direct interest in the outcome of the hearing. But I warn you, Lady Guinevere, to be careful of your tongue. Loyalty to a friend is admirable, but you go too far. You are asking me to believe that Arthur’s sister deliberately lied to me about the theft in order to incriminate Llyr, a man she didn’t know existed.”
“But she did know!” Guinevere cried. “Elaine told her.”
Sir Bedwyr shook his head. “Why would Morgan do such a thing? What is Llyr to her? Even if Princess Elaine told her who he was, that doesn’t give her a reason to wish him harm.”
Guinevere lowered her eyes and twisted her hands together. How could she tell him what motivated Morgan? How could she tell him her suspicions without sounding petty and self-centered? “I know she doesn’t like me. I don’t know why.”
S
he waited for his ridicule, but it did not come. The tent was silent but for the soft lick of flames in the brazier. When at last she glanced up at him, she found him gazing at her thoughtfully. Was he recalling the night of the presentation and Princess Morgan’s rudeness to her, born of spontaneous dislike? Or had he seen Morgan’s cold disdain at the communal dinners: her refusal to acknowledge Guinevere by so much as a word or glance and her obvious shunning of her company? Or was he wondering if Guinevere really imagined that her personal doings could ever be of interest to the High King’s sister?
Sir Bedwyr drew a long breath and shook his head. “Your argument rests on Princess Morgan’s planting the dagger—not just anyone’s dagger, but Lord Riall’s—beneath Llyr’s tree. And you have no evidence at all that she did so. How did the dagger come into her hands? You don’t know that, either. If you speak of these suspicions to others, you will only add to the host of rumors flying about—rumors that have already caused the death of an innocent boy and that still threaten to subvert the High King’s justice.”
To his utter astonishment, Guinevere smiled. And with that smile a sudden flash of beauty, as dazzling as the first burst of sunlight from behind a passing storm cloud, struck him in the chest and stopped his breath. He looked again and saw only a slender girl in an outgrown gown gazing up at him with beseeching eyes.
“But, Sir Bedwyr, I do know how the dagger came into her hands. Or Llyr does. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. One night in the forest, Llyr saw Lord Riall take his dagger to Princess Morgan’s tent. He stayed there a long time, and when he came out again, he did not have the dagger with him. He left it with her—he gave it to her—he must have.”
Sir Bedwyr’s gut lurched. “Llyr told you this? When?”
“This afternoon on our way back to camp.”
He remembered hearing Llyr’s voice, but softly and in an unintelligible language. He had assumed that Llyr was muttering to himself.
“He spoke in Mountain Welsh.”
Sir Bedwyr’s face hardened. “Which you speak, too, of course?”