Igraine brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Gerlois drove the Saxons off after Geraint fell. He became
my uncle’s new heir. When he asked Erbin for my hand, my uncle gave his blessing willingly.”
“But what of your promise to Uther?”
“It crumbled like dust. We never had Erbin’s consent; the betrothal was not legally biding.” Igraine lifted her gaze. “But how could you know of my childish promise to Uther, Antonia? Almost no one did. Your parents certainly did not.”
Breena could not think what to reply. She was supposed to be Antonia, but lying to Igraine felt very wrong.”
“Myrddin told me,” she said at last.
Igraine’s eyes went round. “Uther’s Druid counselor? But Antonia, how—?”
“I am not Antonia.”
The duchess drew a sharp breath. “But…of course you are! You survived the Saxon raid. One of Gerlois’s knights brought you to me.”
“No. I was nowhere near the massacre. I am not your cousin. Saxons killed the real Antonia. Myrddin arranged for me to come here, using her name as a ruse. So I could speak to you.”
“Antonia…is gone, truly? That poor, poor child…” Igraine shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the remnants of a dream. “If you are not she…then who are you?”
“My name is Breena. Myrddin—and Uther—sent me to you. I am here to help you flee.”
Igraine’s eyes flared with alarm. “Surely you are not serious. I cannot flee. It is impossible.”
Breena leaned across the table. “It is entirely possible. Myrddin is coming for you, on Uther’s order. Indeed, he may already be here.”
She hoped.
“He will take you to Uther.”
“But…Gerlois is my husband.”
“He struck you,” Breena said. “He rejected your
child. Under the old Celtic law, you have the right to put him aside.”
“How strangely you speak! What do the old laws matter? The church is the only authority now.”
“The church follows the teachings of the Christos. Is he not a god of love? I cannot believe he would smile on a husband who beats his wife. You loved Uther once. Do you love him still, as he loves you?”
“My feelings matter little,” Igraine said, clearly shaken. “What you propose is insanity. Gerlois will not give me up to the king. Not without a war.”
“If you do not leave him, it will mean your death.”
Igraine gripped the edge of the table and stood. “No. Gerlois may strike me, but he would never—” She broke off as Lady Bertrice’s plodding footsteps sounded on the stair.
“We will speak more of this later,” Breena whispered as the door swung open.
Igraine seemed to fade into herself. “Speak all you want,” she said. “It will make little difference.”
Bertrice bullied the duchess into eating, then took up a seat in a cushioned chair. “Fetch my embroidery,” she ordered Breena.
Breena was only too glad for the excuse to leave the solar. She hurried down the stair to Bertrice’s chamber, but she did not immediately disturb Bertrice’s needlework. Instead, she went to the sideboard, and poured a goblet of wine.
She hurried to her small room and shut the door. Setting the cup on the table, she lit the lamp that lay beside it. Bracing her hands on either side of the cup, Breena dropped her head forward and let her mind fall into a trance. The harvest feast, and the tournament for her hand, approached with frightening rapidity. She had to know if Myrddin was near.
Her magic gathered. Light and shadow emerged on the surface of the wine—shifting, breaking, re-forming. The world faded; the heavy quiet fell like a blanket around her. She whispered a Word, and then added Myrddin’s name to the silence.
A dimly lit room sprang into view. A sliver of sunlight shone through the shutters, which were not quite closed. Thorny rose canes arched over the sill. Her gaze fell on the figure of a man, sitting upright in a chair.
Myrddin.
The Druid’s posture was rigid, his hand on his staff, as if preparing to rise. But his body was utterly still. For a moment, she feared he might be dead. But no. If he’d died sitting upright, he’d have fallen to the ground.
His eyes were open, staring unblinkingly at some point in the distance. Or, more likely, at some world visible only to him.
Gods. This was not what she’d wanted to See. She’d wanted to find Myrddin inside Tintagel’s gates, or in the village—or at the very least, approaching at a quick pace! Not deep in a trance, sitting in a dark cottage that was gods knew where.
The scene was lightening now, as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness. Myrddin was not alone. He sat beside an iron-framed bed. An old woman lay upon it, her white hair spread out over her pillow. Her eyes were closed; her sleep restless. Her lips moved, as if she were mumbling something, but of course, Breena could not hear.
Myrddin’s right hand gripped his staff; his left clasped the old woman’s hand as if anchoring her in this world. As Breena stared at her face, she was seized with sudden fear.
There was magic in that room. Deep magic. Magic beyond her understanding. Panic struck; she recoiled,
yanking her mind away. The vision shattered. A shudder ran through her body. Her arm jerked, the back of her hand hitting the goblet.
The goblet tipped, the rim smacking the table. Wine spilled across the scarred wood. Breena stared at what she had done, aghast.
Another premonition from her vision, come to pass.
The deep magic she’d disturbed vibrated around her. As her shaking hand righted the goblet, she became aware of yet another force, rising from the ground and seeping into the space around her. Dark magic.
Dafyd! It had to be. Her own magic was hidden by Myrddin’s spell. The sorcerer must have sensed the deep magic she’d touched in her vision. And now he was looking for its source.
Dear Goddess. What had she done?
“God’s teeth, tongue, and cock!” Trent exclaimed. “What a crowd!”
“Aye,” Howell said. “ ‘Tis much bigger than last year. They’ve all come for the tournament, I reckon.”
Trent clapped his hands briskly and rubbed. “There’s a sack of coin to be earned here, lads.”
Rhys rolled his shoulder, and winced. He was getting too old for sleeping on rocks. The troupe had bedded down in the open on the road from Glastonbury to Tintagel. The few inns they’d passed had been filled with paying guests. There was scarcely an empty stable loft to offer a group of scruffy minstrels. But at least they’d eaten well. A song and a bit of entertainment could always be trusted to earn a meal.
Their brisk pace had paid off. The troupe had arrived in Tintagel the day before the festival. The village was abuzz with last-minute preparations.
The merriment had already begun in the city of tents on the field north of town. Trent, Howell, and Floyd
were in their element, laughing and jesting with every soul they passed. Even Kane seemed less dour. Rhys trailed after them, but the commotion going on all around meant nothing to him.
His entire attention was focused on Tintagel castle.
It was the most impressive fortress Rhys had ever seen. And that was saying something, for Rhys was well acquainted with the Roman legionary fortresses in Londinium, Eburacum, and Isca Silurum. The sprawling structure, surrounded by high, thick walls, perched atop sheer rock. A dizzying drop ended in jagged rocks and turbulent sea. It might have been the stronghold of a god.
But the castle’s form, and its situation, was not the reason Rhys could not drag his eyes from it. When the troupe had first caught sight of the castle, at the top of the rise outside town, the atmosphere around it had been bright and clear. As Rhys entered the village, a dark glow streamed skyward, rising from the walls of the fortress. Magic. And not of the benign sort.
Before his eyes, the spell burgeoned into a blanket of darkness. It wrapped the structure with evil in much the same way Gwen’s mist protected Avalon with Light. Rhys did not mistake the crimson sparkle intertwining with the dark strands. This was surely Bishop Dafyd’s work.
Dafyd was not the sorcerer who had brought Breena through the standing stone—of that, Rhys was certain. But there seemed to be so few Druids in this Britain. In the past sennight, Rhys had encountered many people—monks, servants, villagers, farmers, innkeepers, travelers. And now, he was faced with the crowds assembled for the festival. Rhys could not detect even a wisp of minor Druid talent among all of them.
With so few rivals, the few Druids who did exist in this time had to be well aware of each other’s move
ments. Disputes were likely. Breena might have been brought from the past by one Druid, in order to provide an advantage over a rival. Or perhaps the two Druids Rhys knew of—Dafyd and Myrddin—were working together.
“My God, men!” Trent’s exclamation roused Rhys from his brooding. The little man had spun around to walk backward before the troupe, as was his habit. He spread his arms wide. “Will you but look at the people! I have never seen the like.”
To Rhys, the festival crowd did not seem exceptional. More people visited a regular market day in Aquae Sulis. A week of games in Londinium easily drew ten times the crowd. Apparently, the population of Britain was in decline.
He’d cobbled together a history of sorts from the troupe’s idle banter. The Roman Empire was on the brink of collapse. The legions had abandoned Britain and the other frontiers. Germania was overrun with barbarians, and even Rome’s forces in Gaul were in retreat. There was speculation that within a few years, the city of Rome itself would fall. In Rhys’s time, such a notion would have been unthinkable.
Upon the Roman army’s withdrawal from Britain, many nobles, and a good portion of its merchant class, had also fled. Britain had been quickly divided among the various Romano-British lords and chieftains who had remained. The Saxon barbarians, immediately recognizing a weakened enemy, had wasted no time in attacking.
The noble family of the present high king, Uther Pendragon, had been among those who fled, after the murder of Uther’s father, King Constans. Uther had spent most of his childhood in Brittany and in remote Dumnonia, far from the violence brought to the eastern shores by Saxon raiders. He’d been barely more than a boy when he joined Ambrosius, his older half
brother, in a quest to unite Britain’s fractious rulers under one high throne.
King Ambrosius had been a true diplomat. But diplomacy had eventually earned him a knife in the back, delivered by a treacherous Saxon during a sham peace treaty conference. Since that dark day, war in Britain had been constant.
“Aye, audiences aplenty we’ll have here,” Howell said to Trent. “As for earning coin, I’m not so hopeful. I wager few in this swarm have even seen an
as
this past year, let alone a
denarius!
More likely, we’ll be offered payment in skillets and brooms.”
It was true. The market was busy, but almost every transaction, from what Rhys could see, was bartered.
“Ah, well,” Floyd said, sniffing at the aroma of roasting mutton. “If sacks of bronze and copper are not forthcoming, at least we’ll be fed.”
They made their way through the village of tents. Some were elaborate structures, others little more than blankets tied to sapling frames. A pair of grubby children darted across the path. One clipped Floyd behind the knee—on purpose or not, Rhys could not tell.
Floyd went down hard, his arse hitting the ground with a solid thump. He spit curses at the urchins, who neatly vanished between the rows of tents. Laughing heartily, Howell and Kane gave their friend a hand up.
Floyd was soon grinning ruefully, rubbing his arse. “Ah, well, at least I missed the worst of the mud.”
Rhys smiled. Despite his fear for Breena’s safety, he could not help being amused by the antics of Trent’s troupe. The four men were like good-natured puppies, snarling and scratching, then just as quickly rolling and licking.
Floyd’s fall had attracted attention of the surrounding market-goers. Trent, ever quick to note an opportunity, elbowed Kane in the ribs.
“Quick, man! Your flute.”
The youth obliged. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Give us a song, minstrels!”
“Aye, do!”
The troupe suddenly found themselves in the center of a wide circle. “Ah, and so our dinner is cooked and served,” murmured Trent. “Good God, Rhys, what are you waiting for? Let’s see that harp!”
With wry amusement, Rhys slung his pack from his shoulder and obliged him. Trent flung his arms wide, pacing a wide circle around his companions. He bowed right, then left, then to the front and back.
“Gather ’round!” shouted Howell.
Kane began a lively tune. He’d played the same melody in a tavern two nights before. Rhys picked out a countermelody on his strings. Floyd’s tenor mingled with Howell’s deep bass.
Gather ’round, gather ’round, Journeymen and homeward bound! Feast your ears, feast your eyes, God hath made a man who flies!
On the final note, Howell dropped down on one knee. Using the big man’s thigh as a springboard, Trent launched himself skyward. He executed a midair flip before landing lightly on his feet.
Shocked exclamations arose. As it happened, Trent had landed not two steps before an elderly woman. He bowed low to the wizened crone.
“My beauty, I would fly to the moon for the merest chance to kiss your feet.”
The old woman laughed. “Cheeky lad.”
The crowd roared. The troupe sprang into action, taking new positions, and launching into a new song—a bawdy ditty that soon had the women shrieking and
the men laughing heartily. More acrobatics from Trent followed. Rhys joined the well-rehearsed show as best he could with his harp and voice.
The short exhibition drew to a close when Trent climbed onto Howell’s shoulders, balancing with ease. The giant sprang skyward, launching his friend into the air. Trent executed three complete flips before landing with a bounce and a flourish.
Much as Howell had predicted, the impromptu performance did not produce much in the way of coin. Trent added only two
quadrans
—half of an
as
—to the communal purse. But he gained a string of painted wooden beads, and a hat with a plume, which pleased him well. And of course, many offers of food and drink.