She looked toward the door that led to the privies, hoping Gareth would understand. When he gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, she was sure that he had.
Dafyd’s prayer ended; the duke and duchess sat. Their guests took their seats as well. Breena perched on the edge of her chair. Once Lady Bertrice’s attention
was engaged elsewhere, she’d slip off to the privy alone.
The servants climbed the dais to serve the first course. Breena’s eyes roamed the hall. Three massive chandeliers, every lamp within them lit, hung from the arched ceiling. Banners rippled on all four walls.
She spied a flash of bright yellow at the opposite end of the long room. At the same time, she felt the weight of Rhys’s disapproving gaze.
Her spine stiffened. She flushed, feeling like a child caught with a stolen sweetmeat. He stood against the back wall of the hall, near the door leading to the kitchens. The colorful men she’d seen on the tournament field—dressed in red, green, blue, and purple—were seated nearby. The man in green held a flute. Rhys had joined a troupe of minstrels! She had to admit it was a clever ruse.
Their eyes met and held.
Breena’s heart thudded. With the lines of his face set in anger, and his chin covered with a fortnight’s worth of beard, he looked every bit the dangerous man she knew him to be. She suspected he wished to turn her over his knee and spank her like a defiant child. An odd twinge in her belly accompanied the thought. Her head lightened, and for a moment, she felt faint.
And overly warm. She fanned her face. Was it possible to feel the heat of a man’s anger from thirty paces away?
Rhys’s companions were occupied with bread and ale; he was not. He stood a bit apart, one shoulder propped against the wall, watching her. The expression in his eyes put her in mind of when she was nine years old, and he’d caught her plucking the strings of his harp. He’d hauled her to her feet, brought her to her father, and Breena had gone to bed with no dinner.
She inhaled sharply. He had no right to look at her
that way now. She was no child—she was a grown woman! A Druid following a path set by the Great Mother. She belonged in this place and time.
If Rhys disapproved, that was his problem. She would not allow him to impose his rules on her. He should not even have come after her! He was not her husband, nor her keeper…nor, for that matter, was he even her friend. For the last five years, he’d treated her as little more than an annoyance.
Irritated, she turned away.
“Something troubles you, my lady?”
It was Brother Morfen who spoke. The monk stood but a few feet behind her.
“Do you never sit?” she asked.
“Rarely.” His chin lifted, and he met her gaze. Lamplight from the chandeliers caught him in the face, exposing his scars.
This time, Breena managed not to flinch. Her heart twisted with pity. Morfen was truly hideous. What must it feel like to be so disfigured? Did anyone, apart from Bishop Dafyd, even talk to the poor monk? Or did Morfen experience only faces averted in horror?
She sent him a small smile. “The bishop has left a chair empty for you. You should take it, join in the feast.”
Morfen’s good eye widened. “I would not dare.” He paused. “But…thank you.”
Nodding, he stepped back into the shadows. Breena studied the oysters before her. She wasn’t at all hungry, but she supposed she should at least try to eat. She picked up her knife.
A trio of players took the stage, bowing low to the duke. They were not Rhys’s group. Thank the Goddess.
She wasn’t quite ready to have him so close.
“Come on now, men, look lively!” Trent paused to bat down the curling hem of Kane’s tunic. “We’re to take the stage once those three imbeciles drag their sorry white arses into the privy where they belong!”
Trent prowled back and forth before the table, his small body alight with energy. The rest of the Brothers Stupendous stood ready, awaiting their signal to advance.
Rhys, who had been glaring at Breena, shifted his gaze to Floyd, who was busy brushing crumbs from his chest and belly. Chuckling, Rhys bent to retrieve his harp.
“Dermot is beckoning,” Howell said suddenly.
Trent whirled around. “So he is. This is it, lads! Our first performance in Tintagel Castle! Can the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein be far behind?”
They gathered at the edge of the open area below the high table. On stage, the aforementioned trio, whose intelligence and posteriors Trent had maligned, concluded a play in which Humility, represented by a whey-faced young man, triumphed over two masked villains, Greed and Lust.
Bishop Dafyd leaned forward in his seat, his jowls quivering with approval, his crimson aura shimmering about his head and shoulders. Gerlois, by contrast, reclined almost lazily, sipping his wine. To the duke’s left, the beautiful Igraine sat like a statue, a slight, false smile on her face. There seemed to be an odd spell muting her magic, glinting around her like tarnished silver. Beneath it, her impotent Seer’s magic showed in flashes of white.
Rhys sensed the binding spell on Igraine was a very old one. It must have been cast when the duchess was a child. Who would do such a thing? And why?
His gaze continued down the table. Gerlois’s large, pinched-faced sister was a dark smudge on Igraine’s
left. The end seat belonged to Breena. Dressed in a
stola
of emerald over a long-sleeved tunic of lighter green, she put Rhys in mind of a lush fern. He did not want Breena anywhere near these people. He vowed to get her out of the castle, and headed toward home, as quickly as possible.
Breena kept her eyes on her plate. Rhys was aware of a confusing mix of anger and fear, and aye, of lust, when he looked at her. She’d always been the most troublesome female he’d ever encountered. As a girl, she’d wrapped him around her little finger. As a woman, she tied him in knots.
The players exited the stage amid a polite spatter of applause. Dafyd looked hugely gratified by their performance. Gerlois shifted in his seat, frowned, and drank deeply of his wine.
Trent rubbed his hands. “All the better to follow those fools.”
At Dermot’s signal, the little man stepped forward. Plumed hat in hand, he swept a low bow. Then, tossing his headwear to the floor, he took the stage at a run.
With a bounce on the balls of his feet, he launched himself into the air, turning heels over head. He landed just below the duke’s place at the high table, one knee bent, head bowed.
Duke Gerlois raised his brows and set down his wine. “What is this? Something new?”
Floyd stepped onto the stage, bowing low. “My lord duke! My lady duchess! I present to you the finest players and acrobats in Britain! The Brothers Stupendous!”
Rhys stepped forward with Kane and Howell, joining Trent and Floyd in the opening bow. As he straightened, his wry gaze met Breena’s astonished one.
He sent her a small shrug.
Her blue eyes laughed.
The Brothers Stupendous?
Breena covered her mouth, stifling a spurt of horrified laughter. Five less likely “brothers” could not possibly exist.
A giant, a midget, a horse-faced youth, and a fellow almost as wide as he was tall? Not one matched another in either features or coloring. She could hardly believe Rhys had consented to wear that blinding yellow tunic. His fellows were dressed just as garishly. Taken together, they formed an outlandish human rainbow.
Brothers Stupendous? More like Brothers Ridiculous.
Scant moments later, her mouth hung open in astonishment, and she was compelled to revise her hasty assessment. The small man in purple executed another amazing jump, flying through the air like a bird. The round man’s rich tenor, and the giant’s bone-rattling bass, blended with the flautist’s trilling melody.
Enthusiastic applause ensued. The small man bowed. Then the young flautist joined Rhys at the side of the stage. Harp and flute blended seamlessly. The giant crouched on one side of the stage, while the round man took a position directly opposite.
The small man scampered nimbly up the giant’s back. As he reached the man’s broad shoulders, the giant leaped out of his crouch, launching his “brother” high into the air. The audience gave a collective gasp. The acrobat, his body a purple blur, spun two complete turns through the air.
He landed neatly atop the round man’s shoulders.
The hall erupted in cheers. The smallest “brother” jumped to the ground, bowing to the front and back, right and left. Most of the hall was on its feet, shouting wildly. Gerlois himself stayed seated, but the duke
looked impressed. Lady Bertrice nodded and applauded. Even Bishop Dafyd’s permanent scowl relented.
The show of acrobatics continued, one marvelous feat after another, involving differing combinations of Rhys’s four companions. Through it all, Rhys stood to one side, his long fingers moving across his harp’s strings, his eyes on the action onstage. Breena watched him surreptitiously. She had never seen him like this, wearing the persona he adopted for the world outside Avalon. He was entirely natural as a performer. One might have thought he’d played with the Brothers Stupendous for years.
Rhys’s unusual life had taught him to blend with all types of people. For the first time, Breena realized what a useful skill that was. As valuable as his beautiful voice, and his talent with the harp.
His eyes met hers, briefly. She felt the jolt of sensation all the way to her toes. He’d chased her though the Lost Lands. At one level, the thought thrilled her, even though she knew it was duty, not love, that had compelled him to come after her. Then she remembered the anger in his eyes, and her excitement changed into something more unsettling.
The little man in purple executed a handstand, flipping his body into the air. He landed on the dais, directly before the duke and duchess. Passing one hand behind his back, he conjured a perfect apple, as if from thin air. The audience murmured in amazement.
With a flourish and a grin, he offered the fruit to the duchess.
Igraine stiffened. She sent a glance toward her husband, and accepted the gift after receiving Gerlois’s nod. The acrobat bowed again. Then he flipped neatly off the dais. Someone tossed him his plumed hat. Catching it neatly, he made a sweeping bow.
The applause was generous. But the show was not yet over. Rhys strode to the center of the stage, his harp cradled in his bent arm. He bowed low before Gerlois, his fair head catching the light from the torches. His yellow tunic shone like gold. He spoke in perfectly accented Latin, his voice filling the hall.
“My lord duke. I am honored beyond words to stand before you. May I offer a humble song?”
Gerlois raised a hand. “You may, minstrel.”
Rhys bowed a second time, and began to play. Music rippled like water. A soft gasp arose from the audience. The melody was so beautiful, Breena’s heart squeezed.
Rhys added his voice. His song was a ballad. Breena had never heard it, but the audience seemed to know it well. The poem was an ode to Prince Geraint, Igraine’s dead cousin. The verses were long and complicated, and yet Rhys, who had certainly only just learned them, did not trip over a single syllable.
By the time the last lingering note of Rhys’s voice had faded, every woman in the room, Breena included, was in tears. Even Lady Bertrice’s expression had softened. Lady Igraine was particularly affected; so much so that Gerlois, in a rare show of care, took her hand.
Rhys made his bow. Gerlois eyed him with open curiosity. “Your tongue is pure silver, minstrel. How is it I have never seen you before, neither here at Tintagel, nor at the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein?”
“I am recently come from Gwynedd, my lord.”
“Gwynedd? I cannot believe they breed such fine minstrels in that wild land.”
“Did not God create both music and wilderness, my lord?”
Gerlois grunted. “Well said, minstrel. See that you and your companions return for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Rhys bowed again. “As you wish, my lord.” He turned to join the rest of his troupe.
“Wait,” a voice said.
Breena twisted in her seat, shocked. Brother Morfen had spoken. The acolyte had abandoned his silent post in the shadows. He advanced to the table. His cowl drooped low, shielding his disfigured face from the chandelier’s light.
Bishop Dafyd frowned. Morfen did not seem to notice his master’s displeasure. He spoke directly to Rhys.
“Gwynedd is my homeland as well, minstrel. Will you play a song from my youth?”
Rhys’s gray eyes flashed with curiosity. He looked from Morfen to Gerlois. “If I know it, brother. And if my lord duke allows it.”
Gerlois waved a hand. “I am not unwilling to hear another song. Pray, continue.”
Rhys bowed to the duke, then turned to Morfen. Breena wondered how much he could see of the acolyte’s face. If he was repulsed, his expression did not show it.
“What is your wish?”
“The ballad of Ceridwen. Do you know it?”
Rhys’s brows rose. “Aye, of course.”
Dafyd’s frown deepened; he leaned forward in his seat. For a moment, Breena thought the bishop would deny his acolyte’s request. But then he seemed to change his mind. He sank back in his chair.
Rhys’s gaze fell to his harp; he began to play. Breena knew the ballad; she’d heard Rhys sing it countless times. But a glance around the hall told her the song was not a familiar one for the people of this time.
She was not surprised. The ballad of Ceridwen was a song of the magic of the Old Ones. As the poem unfolded, Dafyd’s scowl deepened. His fingers tightened on his goblet. Breena half expected the bishop to leap to his feet and denounce the pagan song. But he did not.
Rhys’s voice rose, rich and full. The tale told of a goddess crone, Ceridwen, who was possessed of a magical cauldron. Her son, Afagduu, had been born with a dark and hideous face. Filled with love and pity for her child, Ceridwen brewed a potion with dangerous deep magic. She was determined that if her son could not have beauty, at least he might have wisdom.
Due to the difficulty of the spell, and the immense power of its magic, only the first three drops of the potion would hold boundless knowledge; the rest would be poison. The concoction required constant stirring for a year and a day. Afagduu refused to do the work, so Ceridwen charged a kitchen boy, Gwion, with the task.