He’d fallen in love with Nicole. Deeply. Futilely.
Her arms slid around his neck, her breath ragged, her mouth melding firm and perfect against his. She returned his kiss with all the passion of a woman in the arms of a cherished lover, sparking unwarranted hope.
Was his love for her truly hopeless? He might not be in line for a throne, but he was of good birth. He might be no more worthy of Nicole than any of the princes or their
edlings,
but at least he could assure her that he would love her until the end of their days.
He broke the kiss but didn’t let go, wrapping Nicole into a protective, possessive embrace, delighting in the sweet scent of her hair.
What would Connor say if approached with a marriage bargain? What could he offer for Nicole to compensate for his lack of land and wealth? He would have neither until he became a
pencerdd,
which made competing for the position in Arwystli all the more urgent.
What of Nicole? She was to have her wholehearted choice of husbands. Would she accept him if he offered for her? She’d eagerly given her body to him with nary a qualm. She certainly wasn’t struggling to get away from him now.
Whose consent did he need first, Connor’s or Nicole’s?
Connor’s, he decided. A matter of honor.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, a soft caress against his chest, then she slipped away.
The horse’s reins in one hand, Nicole’s hand tucked firmly in the other, Rhodri followed the path that led up the hill toward the manor.
The closer to the manor, the more distinct the stench of smoke. They crested the hill to look upon what remained of Glenvair.
The grain barn—gone. Several of the tenants’ cottages—gone, many others blackened. The manor house had suffered the ravages of fire, too, the north end of it burned off. His shock at the destruction was so great he could barely voice his dismay.
“Ye gods. I had so hoped for better. The raiders did a damn thorough job of it.”
Nary a soul was in sight, the place eerily devoid of movement or sound. Not even a goose waddled among the ruins or a chicken pecked in the dirt. Where had everyone gone? Why was no one dragging away the burned timbers and beginning to rebuild?
Nicole squeezed his hand and halted. “Abandoned?” she asked, her confusion mirroring his own.
He struggled to make sense of it. “With winter coming on, perhaps Connor thought it wise to take everyone to—somewhere.”
“Oh, Rhodri, look at the graveyard.”
Her distress turned his head toward the small church used only when a wandering priest happened by. The number of fresh graves clenched his jaw in rage.
This was no ordinary raid. The villains had been after a greater prize than a few cattle, bolstering his suspicion the raiders had come for Nicole. Not finding her, the raiders had spent their rage on innocents.
Nicole slipped her hand from his and placed her palms against her temples, as if to keep her head from splintering apart. Her eyes squeezed closed, her lips pressed tightly together.
Attack! Except this time he suspected the spirit who tormented Nicole wasn’t her brother, William.
“They suffered so!” she said, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.
“Shut them away, Nicole.” He again engulfed her in his embrace, never feeling more helpless in his life. “Shut them away. Heed them not.”
“They are too many, too angry. And the child, she screams and screams for her mother. I need to reach the child, but her elders—play your harp, Rhodri. Pray, a soothing song.”
He didn’t question her request. If she wanted music, she would have it. He untied the sack from the back of the horse, pulled out his harp, and strummed a melody warranted to put a babe to sleep.
Her face melted into its normal softness, her hands came away from her head, and Rhodri marveled when she opened her eyes and gave him one of her enchanting smiles.
“It worked. I swear, Rhodri, you have the power of the wizards of old.”
He could barely believe it. “You no longer hear them?”
“Oh, they are there, but I am better able to control them. In the inn, when I went up to try to sleep, you played your harp in the taproom the entire time, did you not? Nay, do not stop playing! Just tell me.”
He obeyed. “I did.”
“I thought so. Your music was the reason I was able to sleep. William battered at me until you started to play and did not try to rant at me again until you stopped. There is magic in your harp, Rhodri, and I thank you for it.”
He could silence spirits? Lord have mercy! Was the talent his alone, or could any bard do it, too? He didn’t have time to contemplate the amazing revelation.
Nicole grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and headed down the hill. He hurried to follow. ’Twasn’t easy to play a harp while walking down a hill, but he managed.
“Nicole, where are you going?” he asked, though he feared he knew.
“To the graveyard. You continue to play—”
“Better we leave and go far enough away so the spirits cannot reach you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The spirits suffer and will continue to suffer unless someone convinces them to move on to the afterlife.”
Nicole was intent in her purpose, and he didn’t dare cease playing long enough to give good argument or the spirits would batter her again. But he saw a flaw in her plan.
“You cannot hear a spirit if I continue to play.” And he still thought it an amazing feat. “If you cannot hear them, how do you intend to give aid?”
She tied the horse to a post in front of the church. “I am not sure if my plan will work, but if it does, I shall hear them one at a time.”
By some as yet untried method, she was resolved to do whatever good she could do, and ’twas hard to find fault with her for embarking on a noble, merciful quest. He glanced over the dozen or so graves, aware that each marked the resting place of someone he knew and would mourn.
They all, every one of them, deserved mercy.
“Will you know the names of all you speak with?”
“They all want me to know who they are, how they died, and what can be done to give them peace.”
As in Oxford, when Thomas had informed Nicole he required forgiveness from the cobbler’s family. As William forcefully demanded that Nicole murder Alberic. Spirits were a selfish lot. Some unmercifully so. And the only human who could help them move on to the afterlife was running toward the smallest of the fresh graves.
Nicole placed her hand on the mound of fleshly turned dirt. Tears welled in her eyes. She swallowed hard, then bent her head, no doubt striving to calm a child’s terrified screams.
Rhodri’s gut clenched with agony, both for Nicole’s distress and for the dead child.
“Mererid, Beven and Winnifred’s youngest,” Nicole announced, stabbing Rhodri in the heart. “The raiders did not mean to kill her, I think. The last thing she remembers is being in the path of a horse when the raiders entered the yard and screaming for her mother. Mererid has gone on now. She recognized the tune you play and asked me to thank you.”
He almost choked on the lump that swelled in his throat, so he merely nodded and continued to play.
Nicole rose from Mererid’s grave and came toward him. “She did not know who the men were or why they were here. I would be willing to wager one of the men might know.”
“I saw your anguish when you spoke to the girl. I hesitate to allow you to go through that again.”
Her smile was a blessing. “I have never spoken to a child’s spirit before. I admit it distressed me, but I was able to talk her into passing on, and for that I am glad.”
“The others might not be so easily convinced.”
“Likely not. But I have discovered that as long as you play your harp, I can call to each spirit, one at a time. There are four more, all men. Their deaths were recent, violent, and they are not yet willing to let go of their anger. I am hoping to convince them that they do the living no good by remaining in the earthly realm. Perhaps while I urge them to move on to their reward, I can also learn what happened here, and where Connor is.”
She made sense, and still he was reluctant. But he also admired her courage, respected her determination to see this grisly task through. And, heaven help him, he
did
want to know more about the attack and of Connor’s whereabouts.
Still, he should be doing more. “So I am supposed to stand here and play the harp while you do the difficult work.”
“’Tis because you play the harp I am able to deal with the spirits one at a time. Without your music, they would overwhelm me and I would be forced to leave them to their misery. That would be cruel.”
And these were all men who’d died defending Glenvair. To leave them in misery would be inhuman.
“All right, then, but perhaps I can be of greater help. Should any man refuse to move on, tell him Rhodri ap Dafydd,
bardd teulu
of Glenvair, commands him to go to his rest.”
With a smile of approval, Nicole moved on to kneel beside a grave and place her hand on the dirt.
“Cyan ap Llewellyn,” she said.
Again Rhodri grieved, this time for Glenvair’s blacksmith. With his bulk and brawn, Cyan would have been a hard man to bring down. He would have died fighting to his last breath.
Nicole spoke to Cyan for but a short time before she rose. “He believes the men were of Gwynedd but knows not why they raided. Since he died without issue, his greatest fear is that his name will be forgotten, his life lived without his putting a mark on this earth. I promised him that one day, a lovely marker will stand at his head.”
Rhodri nodded, already knowing that someday, when he knew more of the battle, those who’d died defending Glenvair would be immortalized in song.
Then she went to the next grave, and then the next, the burden of his grief becoming heavier with each fallen man she named. Even as he mourned, Rhodri noticed that Nicole’s task of sending men to claim their heavenly reward seemed to become less arduous. Both men confirmed the raiders were men of Gwynedd, but neither knew why they’d chosen to raid Glenvair.
At the last grave, Nicole closed her eyes for just a moment before opening them again.
“Morgan pen Carwn. He fought beside Connor.”
Where I would have fought had I been here!
He envisioned the gnarled elder as he stood side by side with his chieftain, loyal to the very end. Rhodri kept silent while Nicole spoke with Morgan. Dealing with the old man’s spirit wasn’t easy, judging from the variety of emotions flickering across Nicole’s face. Then she went so still and quiet that Rhodri began to wonder if he’d allowed her to speak to the spirits for too long.
“Shut him away, Nicole. Come back to yourself for a time.”
She shook her head. “Morgan requires an oath from you, Rhodri.”
That shook him. “From me?”
“He says you must swear on your harp that you will allow no man of Gwynedd to have me, so his death will not be in vain.”
Rhodri didn’t hesitate. “He has my oath.”
And his thanks. Now Rhodri knew for certain the raiders had come for Nicole. She wasn’t safe as yet. The refuge he’d promised her lay in ashes. The raiders could still be in the area.
Nicole rose and came toward him, exhausted from dealing with the spirits, and likely heartsore over the reason of the raid. For the first time ever, he was glad to set aside his harp.
She slipped into his open arms, in desperate need of whatever solace he could give her.
“All quiet now?” he asked.
She nodded, then gave him the names of the rest of those who’d died. By now he was so numb with grief he knew he’d have to mourn them all properly later. In song.
“Morgan lay wounded for a time before he died,” she said, “long enough for him to hear Connor give the order for everyone to gather up what they could and make ready to go to Mathrafal.”
Rhodri saw the sense in the order. “Mathrafal is the seat of the prince of Powys. Connor has gone to ask Prince Madog for aid for his people, and possibly to demand revenge against Gwynedd.”
He sighed inwardly, so weary he wanted nothing more than to rest. Nicole’s slumped against him in fatigue, barely able to stand. But they couldn’t stay here, may have lingered too long already. He wanted to be far and away before the raiders learned that the object of their quest had passed through Glenvair.
“If we hurry, we can be in Mathrafal by sunset. Within the prince’s castle, you will be safe.”
“Rhodri, the contest—”
“You are not to worry over it now. With haste, I yet have time to make Arwystli before the contest ends.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “This is my fault. A child and eleven good men died because of me.”
He grasped her shoulders. “Nay, Nicole. These people died because Owain Gwynedd is a greedy, selfish bastard.”
She nodded an acknowledgment, but Rhodri highly doubted she believed him. Well, he’d just have to make her see reason, but not until she was safely behind the thick, stone castle walls at Mathrafal.
T
hey arrived in Mathrafal just before the gates closed for the night, and Nicole was sorry for it.
Even as Rhodri tossed the horse’s reins to a stable lad and pulled down the harp’s sack, she wished the two of them could have one more night alone.
Her anger over his deception had fled somewhere on the road between Tintern Abbey and Glenvair. His kiss at the stream, beneath leaves of gold, had led her to hope Rhodri might feel more for her than she’d dared to believe.
Together, with his music and her words, they’d sped five spirits on the path to a glorious afterlife. A remarkable feat, to her way of thinking. But while the spirits were now at peace, she was not. She couldn’t hear the voices anymore, but the tale the spirits told of the fight where they’d lost their lives had left her stomach unsettled and her heart sore.
Rhodri’s intimate touch would help her forget the tales of bloodshed and smell of fear. His mind-numbing caresses would clear her mind of screams and death cries. Their shared bliss might bind him to her, make Rhodri realize he loved her. Forever and ever. ’Til death did them part.