In the area beyond the wine, he found only clay amphorae, marked as carrying olive oil. He looked about. There were no baskets of apples. No fruit of any kind. He circled the area again, silently cursing. Finally, he located a root cellar. Similar enough, he supposed. He ducked into the empty room. A door in a far corner led to a tunnel. He followed it, not at all certain it led in the right direction.
The passage turned to the left. The floor was dirt, the odor musty. The dark all but swallowed his candle. He had definitely taken a wrong turn. He was sure the foundation of the tower lay farther to the east.
A deadening silence permeated the passage. With a sigh of frustration, Rhys turned back. A sudden noise drew him up short. The slap of a whip, followed by a grunt of pain.
The sound emerged from a side passage he hadn’t noticed on his initial approach. Gripping his taper, Rhys moved silently down the corridor. The passage turned sharply to the right. Ten paces on, a vertical shaft of flickering light limned the edge of a stout ironstrapped door.
Another blow sounded. A staccato cry followed. Rhys jabbed his taper into a crack in the stone wall. With a sick feeling in his gut, he advanced.
The hiss of a whip. A man’s sob. “Cleanse me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“The devil must be defeated, my son.”
Rhys dropped into a crouch beside the door, drew a breath, and peered around the jamb.
Bile rose in his throat. The room was lit by a single
blazing torch. The spitting flame cast Bishop Dafyd in harsh light. His raised arm held a Roman
flagellum.
Three leather straps hung from the wooden handle.
“For the glory of God!”
Dafyd’s arm slashed. The whip struck its target—the thin, naked back of a man. His black robes hung limply on his hips. Of all the monks Rhys had seen, only Dafyd’s hideous acolyte—the one who had requested Ceridwen’s ballad—wore black. Arms spread and wrists bound, he was bent nearly double over a low wooden frame.
“Cleanse me, Father.”
Thwack.
Dafyd plied the
flagellum.
His victim did not beg for mercy; he begged for more chastisement. His body jerked with each blow, but he did not twist in his bonds, nor seek to escape. That was when Rhys realized that though Dafyd’s victim’s back was a mass of welts, there was very little broken skin, and only a trickle of blood.
When Rhys had found himself on the receiving end of a
flagellum,
there had been broken skin. And quite a lot of blood. The straps of Dafyd’s whip were not tipped with bits of metal. Still, the bishop did not mute his blows. The monk’s pain was very real.
“Your soul is black,” Dafyd hissed. “Only Satan himself would take pleasure in a song of the demons of old.”
Gods. This beating was on account of Rhys’s song.
“I meant…”
Thwack!
“…no harm. I most humbly…”
Thwack!
“…beg mercy.”
Dafyd paused, his breath heaving like a bellows. He’d at last struck hard enough to break his victim’s skin; a stream of blood dribbled across the acolyte’s flank. Almost reverently, Dafyd bent his head, and drew his tongue across the crimson line.
Dark magic rose in a noxious rush. Rhys’s gorge
rose. He gripped the edge of the door, and fought a wave of pure revulsion. Blood magic was the darkest magic known to man.
So this was how Dafyd gained his vast power.
“Please, Father.” The acolyte twisted in his bonds, sobbing. “Allow me my penance, I beg you.”
Dafyd straightened. “You want it now?”
“Oh, yes. Now.
Please.
” The acolyte’s moan sounded more like pleasure than pain. Rhys’s stomach turned.
Dafyd’s whip thudded on the dirt floor. With a trembling hand, he reached out to stroke the welts on his victim’s back.
The acolyte arched, and hissed. “Hurry.”
Rhys sickened to the core, watched as Dafyd bent to kiss the flesh he’d abused. Then he straightened, and opened his robes. Rhys caught a glimpse of his engorged member before the bishop turned his back fully to the door. Grasping the monk’s drooping robes, he shoved them over his thin hips and onto the floor.
Rhys spun away. He pressed his back against the wall of the corridor, chest heaving, as Dafyd’s grunts of pleasure melded with his acolyte’s cries of pain. Or bliss. Rhys was not sure which.
Shaken to the core, he retrieved his candle and quickly retraced his steps to the wine cellar. The kitchen servants were gone. Sinking down on his haunches, he dropped his head back against an oaken cask and shuddered.
Rhys had done much, seen much, in his life. Some of it had been very dark, some of it had shamed him greatly. Never had he witnessed anything half so revolting as what he’d just seen.
The taint of perversion clung to his skin like a dark stain. He suspected he could rub his flesh raw and still not feel clean. At the same time, he was aware of a dark
excitement, an unbearable restlessness. Despite the chill of the cellars, his face was flushed, and sweat heated his brow.
The pall that hung over Tintagel castle was seeping into his own soul. But he, at least, was no innocent. He’d known darkness, both in the outside world and inside his own soul. He would survive. What he could not bear was the thought of that same darkness touching Breena.
He had to get her out of this foul place.
“You came,” Breena said.
Rhys slipped into the room and shut the door. “I said that I would.”
“But Lady Bertrice—”
“Is a very heavy sleeper.”
Breena knew Rhys could move like a wraith, even without magic. Still, she could not believe he’d actually gotten into the tower.
She drew up her legs as he sank down on the end of the bed. His long legs stretched almost to the wall. The flame of the hand lamp on the table by the door leaped erratically, releasing a curl of black smoke. She’d trimmed the wick, but the inferior oil did not allow it to burn cleanly.
“How did you get past the guards?”
“There’s a hidden door under the tower stair. An escape built by the Roman soldiers who once manned the outpost.” He hesitated. “Lady Igraine’s maid told me about it.”
“Nesta!” Her eyes narrowed. “You planned a tryst with her, didn’t you? Why else would she tell you how to get in?”
“She planned a tryst with me. I made no promises.”
Breena gave a tight smile. “Still, I imagine she was not pleased when you did not turn up.”
“She’ll find another man. Women like her always do.”
Silence fell between them. Rhys did not look at her; he stared at the blank stone wall. He seemed restive, his dark energy coiled and ready to spring. He shifted one knee, then dragged a hand down his face.
“Rhys—”
“I hate that you are here, Bug, ensnared in Dafyd’s darkness. The man is evil. More than you know.”
His voice was so gentle, so filled with concern, her heart tripped. For once, the use of her childhood name brought no anger.
“In less than a day, we’ll be gone,” she said.
“We will,” he agreed. “But we will not follow your knight’s plan. It has more holes than a broken sieve.”
“Gareth is not my knight.”
Rhys shrugged.
Breena hugged her knees tighter against her chest. “What is wrong with Gareth’s plan?”
“He wishes you to gain permission to walk in the gardens behind the castle. I was given to understand Lady Igraine’s movements are restricted to the tower.”
“That is true. But I will just have to find a way around it.”
“Even if Gerlois was inclined to give his permission, he might very well insist on accompanying you and Igraine.”
Breena frowned. “I had not thought of that.”
“Neither, apparently, has the noble Sir Gareth. He has also not considered what would happen were he to fail in his quest to become your betrothed. If that happens, there will be no opportunity for escape.”
“That is my fear as well,” Breena confessed. “Gareth insists he will win, but…”
“I saw him during the exhibition. And in the feasting hall. He rides well, but he is very young. Some of
his opponents will be far more battle hardened.” He gave his head a shake. “Nay. We cannot risk waiting for the end of the contest. We had best make our move earlier. We will steal Igraine away during the tournament.”
Breena’s brows shot up. “You cannot be serious!”
He met her gaze and held it. “I assure you, I am.”
“But…how?”
“I will weave an illusion around the duke’s box. You and Igraine will simply slip away. Gerlois will not notice.”
“Perhaps Gerlois will not, but Dafyd certainly will! He felt my magic, Rhys, when I scried for Myrddin. He will certainly feel yours.”
Rhys rubbed his chin. “He felt the deep magic you touched. There is no sign that he is aware of my presence. I believe I can cast Light magic, at least, without his knowledge. Tomorrow, at the tournament, when I cast my illusion on the duke’s booth, you and Igraine flee. The duke and his party will not discover the deception until the end of the contest. By that time, we will be well gone.”
“Where?”
“We will ride to intercept the high king’s army. Your knight can ride ahead, and inform Uther of our approach.”
Breena turned Rhys’s plan over in her mind. “It could work,” she said slowly. “You will have to talk to Gareth, of course, and tell him to withdraw from the contest. Thank the gods he will not have to fight on my behalf. I’ve been sick with worry.”
Rhys flexed his fist. His restless energy was back, in full force. Breena could almost see it, pouring off his body in waves.
He rose, and paced to the small window, as if seeking escape. “What is that knight to you, Breena?”
“Why, nothing! He is Myrddin’s assistant. A friend.”
“You allow his kiss. He speaks of marriage—real marriage, not a sham. Tell me, would you be willing? If you could not find your way home, would you take him as your husband?” He turned suddenly. Every muscle in his body was drawn taut. “Would you lie on your back for the noble Sir Gareth? Would you spread your legs for him?”
She gasped. “Rhys! That is crude.”
“Aye, perhaps, but your knight is a man, like any other. That is what he wants from you.” His voice pitched low. “That is what I want from you.”
He did?
She stared, stunned past words.
With two strides, he loomed over her. He placed one hand on the wall above her head and bent close, not touching, but filling her senses completely nonetheless. His scent—a heady mix of sweat, anger, and lust—stabbed at her nostrils.
The tips of her breasts tightened. Heat pulled at her belly. She became aware of slick moisture bathing her thighs. The sweet, twisting yearning of her girlish fantasies of Rhys sharpened on an edge that stole her breath.
She licked her lips. “Do you really want that from me, Rhys?”
Emotion stormed in his gray eyes. “That,” he said, “is only the beginning of what I want from you, Breena.”
Blood pounded in her ears. His hunger, stark in his expression, consumed her utterly. But what drove his passion? Breena wasn’t completely sure. Not love. At least, not love in the way she had always thought of it.
She sensed the emotion driving Rhys was far more primitive than love. And far more dangerous to her heart. It scared her. The girl she’d once been wanted
desperately to shrink back. But the woman she’d begun to be—the one who accepted the gravest risks, despite her fears—
she
would not turn away.
“Show me, Rhys. Show me what you want from me.”
His nostrils flared. His eyes were hard, and hungry. “Do not tempt me.”
She came up on her knees, facing him, so close that her breasts brushed his chest. He sucked in a harsh breath, and the arm he’d braced against the wall trembled. His free hand came up as if to embrace her. But he did not. It formed a fist instead, and dropped back to his side.
But he did not step away.
She met his gaze steadily as she unclasped the girdle about her waist. The bands of silver fell to the floor. Her silk
stola
loosened, her breasts no longer confined.
Rhys’s throat worked. “Breena—”
She unclasped the pins at her sleeves and shoulders, dropping them one by one. The
stola,
freed from its constraints, slithered down her torso to puddle on the bed. She knelt amid the rumple of silk, clad only in her fine linen tunic.
Some feminine instinct prompted her to raise her arms above her head and clasp her elbows, in the pose she’d taken in the steward’s office. The movement lifted her breasts. The tips were tight, and so sensitive that the slight friction of the cloth shot a flash of raw lust straight to her loins.
Her head tilted back; her eyes closed. She bit her lower lip to keep from moaning.
Rhys made a strangled sound. “Breena. Do not do this…”
She opened her eyes. “You want me to do it, Rhys. You do not have the courage to do it yourself.”
A tremor ran through his body.
“Gods help me,” he said.
Their gazes locked in the flickering lamplight. For a moment, neither of them moved. Breena’s arms remained crossed over her head; Rhys’s hands remained fisted at his sides.
And then, slowly, Breena uncrossed her arms, and began plucking the pins from her hair. The heavy braids unwound, falling almost to her waist. She went to work combing out the fiery plaits with her fingers. Rhys did not move, did not speak. But by the time she was done, his chest was heaving.
Her hands went next to the neckline of her tunic.
Rhys’s eyes followed the movement. His throat worked as he swallowed. There were three ties securing the linen; Breena’s trembling fingers went to work on the first one. He drew in a harsh breath as the tiny bow disintegrated.
“Breena—”
She plucked at the second tie.
He shot a glance at the door. “Breena, stop this. Lady Bertrice—”
“Is snoring,” she whispered. “You are right. She is a very heavy sleeper.”
The second knot opened. Her right sleeve slid off her shoulder. Her fingers slipped to the third tie.
Rhys shoved off the wall. “This is madness.”
“Then step back. Go to the other side of the room and turn your back. I will lie down on the bed and spread my legs. Then, if you wish, you may leave.”