Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Read online

“A horseman escaped and would give warning. Lancelot went after him, to stop him.”

  “On foot?”

  Before Gawain could answer, the thud of a single horse’s gallop sounded. Tegan raised her sword. So did Gawain.

  Lancelot burst through the bushes into the body-filled clearing by the pit, astride a strange brown stallion. He saw the two of them and dropped from the horse and moved over to them. His sword was painted with blood and he rested the tip in the fresh soil, to let the excess drain. He gripped it with his left hand. “He will not be informing Melwaes of our approach.”

  Gawain nodded.

  “Melwaes in not in the fort,” Tegan said.

  Both men looked at her with expressions sharp with interest. Neither dismissed her. Gawain raised his brow.

  She understood that quirk of his brow. Explain yourself, he was saying.

  “I saw the fort from close by, on the north side, where the westering sun was not dazzling me. There was no smoke from any building on the hill. None. There is no one there.”

  Lancelot considered. “It is a warm day …”

  Tegan shook her head. “There are always fires burning. Hot water is needed for cooking, for washing, for scrubbing floors…I assure you, I have become well acquainted with the boiling of water lately. It is impossible for a place with people living in it to not have smoke rising from at least one fireplace or stove at any time of the day or night.”

  Gawain appeared to be trying to repress his smile, which was unusual for him. “Your acquaintance with boiling water is no greater than my friendship with the chopped wood required to boil it.” He looked at Lancelot. “These men were a decoy. Melwaes wanted us to think he is in Gorre.”

  Lancelot nodded. “A decoy to lead us away from where?”

  They glanced at each other, then with no words, the three of them turned to look at the spire and hill of Avalon. The spire looked red for the lowering sun painted it with the colors of heat. The great hill it sat upon was already shadowed on this side.

  “The lights…are those from the monastery?” Gawain asked.

  “Melwaes is Christian and Avalon lies within his lands,” Tegan murmured. “He is devout. He would toss all the pagans from the island, if he could. If he is there, he will be close to the Christian community.”

  “Druids and the powerful have been living upon Avalon for far longer than the new Christ followers,” Lancelot murmured. “Nimue often spoke of the place with great reverence. It has become a sanctuary for gods both old and new.”

  “Would he be where he thinks we might look for him?” Gawain asked. “Or would he be far from there? He had the sense to not linger upon Gorre.”

  Lancelot turned his chin to stare at the great red ball of the sun as it sunk toward the horizon. “We will find no answers tonight. I would not step upon that place when the night shadows bathe it. Nor will I return to Camelot.”

  “And we cannot linger here,” Gawain added, glancing at the defeated men lying around them.

  Tegan groaned. “I must build another fire?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rhiannon stepped out upon the narrow roof walk and looked around her with interest. It was the first time she had ventured upon the roof of the palace, although she had heard from Arthur’s officers that the view was stupendous and that on a good day, one could see the sea to both the south and the west.

  Arthur and Merlin were standing with their faces toward the last of the blood-red sunset. The sky behind them was purple with the coming of night. Both stood silently, intently watching.

  Rhiannon moved over to Arthur’s side. “What draws your gaze?” she murmured.

  Arthur glanced at her, startled. Then he pointed. “The footbridges, over there, where there is a trickle of water still moving across the soil. See?”

  She peered where he pointed and spotted a small group of people, some of them carrying burning lamps upon poles, all of them hooded, standing at the end of one of the long, low docks that striped this land, providing firm footing where none could be found. They were far from here, appearing as small stitches upon a great tapestry.

  From among them, a lone figure—a man, she judged by his height—stepped to the very end of the dock, a sword in his hand. With a mighty heave, he threw the sword high up into the air, where it flashed in the sunlight as it turned and tumbled. It fell into the still water with a soundless splash.

  The man bowed his head.

  “What are they doing?” Rhiannon breathed.

  “In this land, the gods are found in water,” Merlin said. “They are offering gifts and their gratitude.”

  “Merlin says they are praying for Guenivere,” Arthur added, with an odd note in his voice.

  “They come to a place that is within sight of Camelot,” Merlin said. “And they send up their prayers as the night falls.”

  Rhiannon raised her brow. She remembered this lecturing tone of Merlin’s from her childhood. “They greet the night. Why?”

  “The night is when the white owl rises,” Merlin said, his own gaze lingering upon the supplicants on the dock.

  “White and fair,” Rhiannon breathed. “The moon is hers…but there is no moon right now, so they offer the night their prayers instead. But why not do so when night has fully arrived?”

  “Because there are bad tidings abroad this night,” Merlin intoned. “Now is the safest time. They will scurry back to their huts and their hearths and keep the shutters closed until dawn.”

  As he spoke, the group moved down the length of the dock to where it joined another long causeway of planks. They turned and followed the path until they reached solid earth where bushes hid their progress from view.

  “You spied all that simply from watching them?” Rhiannon asked Merlin, amazed.

  Merlin shrugged. “I spoke to the headman of the village earlier today. He told me what they intended. He thought Arthur might like to know.”

  Rhiannon’s laughter burst from her. Arthur chuckled, too, although his was a strained sound.

  “Have you always cheated like that?” Rhiannon demanded of the dear old druid. “Paraded knowledge you have acquired by ordinary means as divinely inspired?”

  “Not lately, although to keep the three of you cowed and obedient, I used any and all means necessary. You were far too independent in spirit and I needed you to listen to me and learn. A whip and a fire brand would have served me better, but I was forced to use what I had.”

  “Successfully,” Arthur said, his tone dry. “I was terrified of you for most of my childhood.”

  “Then my work is done,” Merlin said complacently, although his deep black eyes twinkled.

  Rhiannon looked at the sliver of water sliding through the dried land. “The local people adore Guenivere.”

  “She is one of them,” Merlin reminded her. “They fret while she is gone.”

  “They are not the only ones,” Arthur said, turning his gaze from both of them.

  Rhiannon glanced at Merlin, who grimaced.

  “It is true I have seldom seen Camelot in such…disorder,” she said. “I have spent more time in the kitchens, begging meals, than I ever did in Galleva. Idris says the horses in the palace stable have gone unattended for too long. He forked hay for them this morning.” She paused. “Can the absence of a single woman really throw an entire city into chaos, Merlin? Or is there something else at work here?”

  “There are no spells or curses, if that is what you ask,” Merlin said. “I believe we are all measuring the effect of Guenivere’s efforts to make Camelot meet Arthur’s vision.” He glanced at Arthur.

  Arthur curled his hands over the railing but remained silent.

  Rhiannon moved up to his side and rested her hand on his shoulder. She rarely allowed herself the indulgence of touching Arthur directly. They were two different people, now. “Emrys?” she prompted him softly.

  Arthur closed his eyes. “I…” He shook his head and took a great breath. “I picked up a cloak this morn
ing—one of mine, but Guenivere had been restitching the hem…and I caught her scent upon it. Lavender and the other one.”

  “Bergamot,” Merlin supplied

  Arthur swallowed. “For a moment it was as if she was standing right beside me.” He let out the breath. “Have I been utterly blind all these years?” His voice was strained.

  Rhiannon patted his shoulder. “You have been distracted all these years with the matter of Britain, that is all.”

  Arthur’s jaw worked. “Did I force her to flee, Merlin? Am I such an ogre she could not stay?”

  Rhiannon knew he was asking Merlin to consult his Sight and provide answers that could be learned no other way.

  “You have sent the very best of your men to find her,” Merlin said, his tone calm. “You have done all you can and now you must gather your energy and deal once more with the Romans. The supper hour grows near.”

  Arthur nodded. Rhiannon could see him put aside the worries of a man and husband and focus upon the greater issues that Britain faced. “Did you see the map Metella gave me, today?” he asked Merlin.

  “I did,” Merlin said.

  “A map?” Rhiannon asked. “Like the one you made for us out of river clay, Merlin?”

  “That was a map of a tiny portion of the north,” Merlin said. “This map was drawn upon the page with ink, and in far greater detail.”

  “It included all of Britain,” Arthur told her, his tone thoughtful.

  “Oh, I should like to see all of Britain right there for me to study in one glance,” Rhiannon said. “What a thoughtful gift!”

  “Was it?” Arthur asked her. “For it was not just Britain drawn upon the page. Lesser Britain, Saxony, Ireland, the great northern lands of the Vikings, the Bulgars, and Rome itself—old Rome. And still further, to Constantinople.”

  “Which was in the middle of the page, I noticed,” Merlin murmured.

  “It was a map of all the lands known to the Emperor,” Arthur added. He shook his head. “Britain is but a crumb beside an entire loaf of bread, Rhiannon.”

  “I believe that was the point the gift was intended to make,” Merlin said dryly.

  “Yes, I know,” Arthur replied, making Merlin’s brow lift. “Which is why I am beginning to wonder what Metella really wants.”

  “It is not to forge an alliance between Britain and the Roman Empire?” Rhiannon asked, startled.

  Arthur shook his head. “Rome does not need Britain. We are insignificant, compared to the rich silk lands to the east of Constantinople. Even old Rome itself is mightier than we in military terms.”

  “Good. You see it then,” Merlin said, sounding relieved.

  “I see that there is more to this than a simple alliance,” Arthur replied. “Although the truth beneath the surface is still hidden to me. Therefore, until I know what that truth is, I will continue to play the role Metella expects, even though I would much rather be out there with Lancelot and Gawain.” He glanced at the land beyond Camelot, which was clothed in the full darkness of night, now. Then he straightened and tugged his cloaked back into place.

  “No, no, you’re making a mess of it,” Rhiannon said. She plucked the fibula from the cloth and unwound it. “Here…” Quickly, she refurled the width of the cloak around his shoulders, so that a graceful fold hung from the back of his shoulders, and the good, thick cloak made the most of his fighter’s shoulders. “There,” she added, and patted the repinned fibula.

  Arthur nodded his thanks and whirled away. “Back to work,” he declared and pounded down the stairs to the lower floors.

  Merlin offered Rhiannon his arm. She glanced out at the black night once more and offered up an inadequate prayer to whoever was listening that Guenivere be found safe and whole.

  Then they followed Arthur down to the great hall, and another night of strained diplomacy.

  The night was warm enough that a small fire and their cloaks were sufficient to keep them warm.

  All of them were trained and prepared fighters. They carried with them enough food that it wasn’t necessary to hunt for meat. Even with Lancelot’s supplies lost, there was enough.

  As soon as her belly was full, Tegan composed herself for sleep, her head upon her folded saddle cloth, leaving the two men to stare at the low flames. She fell asleep quickly. She always did when she slept out under the stars.

  She stirred during the night and grew still when she detected the heat of a body against hers. Gawain’s arm was heavy over her middle. He breathed deep and slow, completely relaxed. Even so, Tegan knew he would wake and be instantly alert if anything or anyone should approach the camp. He slept as he did to guard her back, not for any intimacy the position might provide.

  Even so, it was hard to ignore his proximity. She found herself stirring to full wakefulness and blinked the sleep from her eyes.

  The fire was still burning, higher than before, now. And Lancelot still sat peering into the dancing flames. Only, he had let down his guard, for he thought there was no one to witness the raw emotion in his face. Grief. Fear. And something else that Tegan could not guess at. Was it…guilt?

  Lancelot was a complicated man. Everyone said he had simple tastes and demands, but she knew that was not true. He merely kept most of the layers hidden from everyone, for he trusted few people enough to reveal them. It was why most people misunderstood him and therefore disliked him. He did not act as they thought he should, for he was following his own dictates.

  It might well be guilt pulling at him now, but she could not fathom why…unless he regretted staying away from Camelot for so long?

  Lancelot’s gaze lifted from the flames and met hers. He’d known she had woken, after all. The misery remained in his eyes and pulled at his mouth.

  “What ails you?” she whispered.

  Pain etched itself between his brows. His jaw worked.

  Then Gawain coughed in his sleep and shifted. His arm tightened about her middle, pulling her against him.

  Lancelot’s face cleared. The friendly, open expression he generally wore settled back into place. “Sleep,” he murmured. “I am watching.”

  Tegan could feel sleep sliding over her once more. Was this why those Lancelot sat with began to heal? Because he imparted a sense of safety and comfort?

  It was the last thought she had, before dawn light woke her, for she had laid so the eastern sun would shine in her face. Gawain had already risen.

  Her back was cold.

  Three hours later, they reached the borders of Avalon. Tegan had never ventured this close to the mysterious isle, before.

  She shifted her gaze from the bone-white, dry and flat land they had been traversing, to the steep hillside covered in knee-high grasses and gorse, shaded by trees thick with summer foliage.

  “It is a completely different country…” she breathed. “How can one take a single step and move from parched earth to green lushness?” The white land they stood upon was scatted with detritus that was normally submerged beneath water. It lay scattered about now, and gave a forlorn air to the earth, especially compared to the vigorous growth and cool green foliage a few paces away.

  “Magic,” Lancelot said, as he scanned the slopes ahead of them.

  “Underground springs,” Gawain said, his tone flat. “Avalon has many of them. The sweetest water in this corner of Britain, they say—full of virtues to impart good health.”

  Lancelot grinned. “Or springs,” he admitted.

  “Although I’ve also heard that stepping onto Avalon is to enter a magic realm,” Gawain added.

  Tegan rolled her eyes. “I have no interest in magic or springs. Let’s move on. The day is broadening.” She moved back to Dewi and wound the reins around a rock on the ground and patted his nose. “You cannot come with me now,” she murmured. “Rest. I will be back.”

  Dewi snorted and nudged her side. Then he bent and nibbled at the oats she had put on the cloth by the rock.

  Gawain and Lancelot were also seeing to their horses.
/>   Tegan resettled her sword into place, studying the higher slopes of the carpeted hillside. “Do we start with the monastery?” She could glimpse white, square buildings at the western end of the island. Smoke rose from those.

  Lancelot studied the white buildings himself. Then he deliberately turned in the opposite direction and pointed toward the eastern end. “That way,” he said.

  Tegan took the last few paces across the dirt and stepped onto the green grasses. She paused, her heart thudding, waiting for…

  A loud crack behind her made her jump and shriek. She slapped her hand over her mouth and whirled to face the two men, who remained where they were. Her heart hammered, drumming in her ears.

  Gawain laughed as he tossed aside the dried-out branch he had cracked over his knee.

  Lancelot was smiling, too. “Now you’ve done it,” he told her, with a doom-ladened voice and laughed too.

  “No interest in magic, hmm?” Gawain said, moving to where she stood one pace beyond the distinct edge of Avalon.

  She struck her fist against his arm. “That was mean.”

  “It was worth it to see you jump as you did.”

  Lancelot stepped onto the grass beside them. “Come along. Time is passing, as Tegan pointed out.” He moved on, his long legs moving across the land in great strides.

  The sharpening slope and rocky ground beneath the grasses and weeds did not seem to slow Lancelot down, once they had started.

  “There is a crest just ahead,” Gawain said, his breath easy. “Then the land will even out and you can catch your breath.” For Tegan breathed heavily as she fought her way up the hill.

  “I begin to understand why enemies do not take the island despite a lack of defenses,” she said, taking four breaths to speak all the words. “Why are you not bellowing like me?” she demanded of Gawain.

  “This slope is nothing, compared to the glens and highlands of Lothian.”

  They fell silent and worked to keep up with Lancelot. The higher they climbed, the more it felt to Tegan as though a dark mood descended upon them. Higher up, she could see where the trees ended and smooth, grass-covered, steep slopes ran up to the very peak, where the square tower was located. At this elongated end of the island, though, the land folded and dipped, creating hidden valleys and pockets.