Pendragon Rises Page 3

  Cador frowned. “They hate him,” he added, with a candid air. “I’m not sure why.”

  “Steffan always puts a good face on things for Master Cador,” Daveth said. “Fact is, he’s an angry man. No one at Dimilioc meets his expectations. He’s too good for them. Unfortunately, he doesn’t stint himself letting them know that.”

  Cador glanced at Daveth, startled. “That might be true enough,” he told Igraine. “I’ve heard Steffan lecture many times about the discipline and morals and superior quality of the men my father keeps beside him at the High King’s court, while the men who are left behind are lacking in all matter of skills and qualities.”

  “Naturally, my husband would take the best with him. They are needed.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” Daveth replied. “Fact is, we can’t keep Steffan at Dimilioc and we don’t know what to do with him.”

  “Turn him out,” Igraine said. “You would be better off without the disruptions.”

  “That is why I seek your wisdom,” Cador said. “By rights, he should be tossed from the fort. Steffan wounded his fellow soldiers. Only, he served my father with the greatest loyalty and effectiveness and my father favors him still. He appointed him tutor and gave him a place at Dimilioc, teaching his own son. I cannot simply turn the man out. Father would be upset.”

  Anwen curled her hands into fists. Did no one care that Steffan had been provoked into fighting?

  Igraine looked thoughtful. “I understand the shape of your problem now,” she said, her tone one of agreement. “The Duke spoke to me about Steffan many times in the past, before Doward. He always spoke with admiration and respect. He would be disappointed indeed if we discard the man without careful thought.”

  She reached out her hand. One of the women pushed Igraine’s cup into her waiting hand and Igraine sipped thoughtfully.

  “We could find the man a monastery somewhere. The monks would care for him,” Daveth said.

  Cador shook his head. “As angry as the quality of the men and the life at Dimilioc makes him, how much angrier would Steffan be with the cloistered life at a monastery?”

  “Should we mind what he thinks?” Daveth asked bluntly.

  “In this case, I believe we must at least consider his thoughts,” Igraine said. “At least, insofar as my husband would expect us to.” She paused again. “He really taught you three languages, Cador? Including Saxon?”

  Cador grimaced. “I can make myself understood in all the tongues, only Steffan says my accent is horrible.”

  “I understand Saxon is a difficult language to master.”

  Cador grimaced again. “It is horrible to learn. It made my jaw ache. And the sound of it is an affront to the ears. Only, to know the language of the enemy is a huge advantage in war. It will make my service to my father and the High King more valuable and for that, I am glad Steffan insisted I persevere with the lessons.”

  Igraine nodded. “Then, perhaps we should not waste this man’s abilities.” She thrust the cup out once more and it was plucked from her hand. “Bring Steffan here to Tintagel. He can teach my children.”

  Anwen drew in a sharp breath, cold fingers running down her back. She could not protest aloud, not here, yet fear touched her.

  Morguase looked similarly horrified. “I don’t want to learn Saxon, mama!” She at least could get away with a public protest.

  “Latin, dear, will serve you well.”

  Morgan, Anwen saw, was smiling with delight.

  Daveth looked doubtful as he ran his gaze over the two girls. “Well now, the man is blind. He’d be useless teaching the little ladies to read and write, begging your pardon, my lady.”

  “That part of their education is already well in hand. My lady, Anwen, will continue their reading lessons. Steffan can expand their education in ways Anwen cannot. It is a suitable solution.”

  “And this anger Daveth says the man carries?” Cador asked Igraine.

  Igraine dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Anwen will be there to offset his brutish ways. If he is fit enough to teach Gorlois’ first born and heir, then he is more than qualified to teach the Duke’s other children. It is done. Have the man brought here.”

  Even as relief trickled through her at the reprieve, Anwen could feel fresh horror building in her chest.

  She must deal with this man? She had never been alone with a man in her life. How could she possibly protect the girls against a blind man who still had the strength and ability to bring a dozen men to their knees?

  Chapter Three

  Once Cador left, the rest of the fort returned to their normal affairs, as if the interruption had not happened. It was not their lives which were about to change, Anwen thought with some resentment.

  She took Morguase and Morgan back to the room and put them at the table to complete the lessons she had set for them. Only, they were too full of questions to settle to the work.

  “Is Steffan a really fierce warrior?” Morguase asked. “Will he shout at me if I get things wrong?”

  “I’ve never met Steffan,” Anwen admitted. “I won’t let him shout at you,” she added, for her short answer did not make Morguase look any happier.

  Morguase’s mouth turned down. Her nose wrinkled. “If he’s such a great warrior, how will you stop him? You’re old.”

  Anwen held in her reaction. Morguase sometimes unintentionally said things which were cruel. It merely meant Anwen had more to teach her. “Even if I am old, Morguase, do you think it is something you must point out?”

  Morguase shrugged.

  “You will coax no one into doing your bidding if you point out their failings,” Anwen continued, ignoring the thudding of her heart. “Now, please, finish the line I asked you to write.”

  Morgan jumped down from the bench and went over to the stand where Anwen’s harp sat. She picked up the harp. It was a knee harp, which was an awkward and heavy load for a six-year-old. Morgan carried it with small steps over to where Anwen sat on the edge of her bed. “Please play for us,” she said, with an angelic smile.

  Anwen breathed out the last of her hurt and smiled at Morgan. “Only if you finish your lessons while I play.”

  Morguase turned back to her slate and Morgan went back to the table, as Anwen set the harp upon her knee and ran her hand over the strings, listening for jarring notes. It was still tuned properly, so she let it make a rippling arpeggio.

  “Something happy!” Morguase demanded.

  Anwen nodded and plucked out one of the simple, gay tunes which everyone always liked, while she contemplated the future with growing unease.

  * * *

  Long after the girls left to attend to their afternoon tasks—sewing and spinning and weaving lessons could be taught by any competent woman—Anwen remained in her room and read. She possessed few books, for they were difficult to find and expensive to acquire. The few she did have, she cherished. She read them often, only in the privacy of her room where no one would see her doing it. It was another reason she was grateful for the room and the door which kept out the rest of the world when she needed it to.

  She knew she was reading to stop herself from thinking. She didn’t want to deal with the wounded soldier, even in her thoughts. She had no experience dealing with men, especially not angry men. All her life had been spent among women.

  The alert of the sentry on the tower over the gate forced Anwen to put aside the book. She rose and moved to the window. It was a narrow aperture, yet low enough for her to see into the yard, to learn who was about to arrive.

  Three guards pulled open the heavy wood and iron gates, just in time to allow entry to five men on horses. They thundered into the yard, their cloaks flying and pennants flapping. More of the Duke’s men from Dimilioc, Anwen guessed. They were all large and strong.

  The horses halted, breathing hard. Slaves ran to gather their bridles and contain them as the men jumped to the ground.

  As the horses were led away, the men removed riding gauntlets, talking
among themselves. One gave a soft call, halting the slaves. He moved over to the horses and lifted a long wooden shaft strapped to the horse’s side.

  A staff.

  He carried the staff over to the group of soldiers and held it out.

  The man who took it was the tallest of the group. His hand thrust out, then moved sideways until his palm smacked against the staff and he gripped it. This, then, was Steffan.

  Anwen pressed her hand to her chest as her heart jumped. She had expected a blind man to look…well, blind. The only other blind person she had ever met was an old woman, whose eyes were milky and skinned with growth which blocked her vision. She was a wretched creature, shuffling about with her hands out, when she dared move off her stool at all.

  Steffan, though, was identical to the other men in dress and manner. He rode the horse as if he could see. Had he allowed the horse to find its own way, then? He had thick dark hair, as most Britons did. It was unruly, though, with waves and locks which did not lie against his head. His fair skin was tanned as men generally were. His nose was straight, his brows thick and his jaw square. The chin was strong, too. His neck was thick and strong.

  There was nothing wrong with his eyes as far as Anwen could tell. They looked perfectly normal, although she was too far away to determine their color. He was even turning his head as if he was looking about the yard. Was he listening, instead?

  He turned so his gaze—if he could see—was upon the tower itself. For a moment it seemed he was looking directly at Anwen where she stood behind the window.

  She stepped back, her heart leaping and her breath shortening. Fright tore through her.

  How was she to contain a powerful man like that, when a whole fort of soldiers could not?

  Anwen reached for her harp. It was an instinctive movement. Her harp brought her comfort and no one was here to demand a song or tune from her which she did not wish to play. She sank to the bench and put the harp upon her knee and without pausing to consider, she let her fingers move over the strings. The notes were random and jarred against each other. Then a run of notes sounded among them which reminded her of music she had created, long ago.

  Anwen recalled the older notes and the sounds they created and played the lilting, soaring melody.

  Her heart and her mind lifted with the music. She remembered the first time she had played the notes—they had come to her while she watched the sea rise and fall, and the sun sink into it. That had been when she was younger and had not fully accepted her place yet. She had stood at the big window in Igraine’s chamber—Mari’s chamber, it had been then—and watched the birds hover and soar, completely free to glide upon the wind, as the sun set behind them. How she had longed to be out there, a part of them, as free as them!

  Anwen yearned for that freedom now, too. She wanted to escape the coming days. She wanted to be rid of the fear which coiled in her.

  As she played the music, bit by bit the fear did ease and her heart with it.

  * * *

  It was cool inside. Steffan felt the touch of the milder air on his face and the whisper of echoes against the stone surrounding them.

  “The Duchess will see you,” the steward told Bryce and his men. “Go up to the top of the tower, where she waits.”

  Steffan hid his surprise. Bryce had not explained where they were going. His men hauled Steffan from the cellar where they had tossed him the previous evening, thrust his cloak at him and told him to put it on.

  Then they shoved him at his horse and ordered him to mount it, before slapping its haunches to get it to move with them.

  The sun on Steffan’s face and the growing scent of the sea told him they were riding west. The clatter of hooves inside a contained yard said they had arrived. Now, they were in a stone building and the steward spoke of the Duchess.

  This, then, must be Tintagel. Why were they here? It could only be because of last night. Had they brought him to face the Duchess for the dispensing of a higher justice?

  Surely, their feelings were not so injured?

  Glyn, the youngest of Bryce’s men and the most considerate, touched Steffan’s elbow. “Stairs just ahead,” he murmured. “Round and steep.”

  Steffan swept the end of the staff in an arc until he found the first and stepped onto it. Then the second. Two more, then he had the pattern in his mind and climbed as swiftly as the others.

  As they climbed, music sounded. The notes seemed to ooze from the stone walls themselves—a trick of the air and the corridors, most likely. The notes were soft and clear. They climbed and fell and lifted into the air like birds on the wing.

  Poignant feeling throbbed between the notes, weeping in loss.

  Steffan’s chest constricted. How could anyone listen to those notes and not want to beat their chest in anguish?

  “Who plays such beautiful music?” he demanded, his voice rough, betraying his response to it.

  “What music? Bryce growled.

  “Can’t you hear it?” Steffan said.

  “I can hear it,” Glyn said.

  The notes climbed and climbed, making Steffan’s throat ache. “The soul who shares such beauty must be just as fine.”

  Someone ahead of him snorted. “The lady Igraine is a beauty, although she doesn’t play the harp.” That would be the steward.

  “Then who is it?” Steffan asked.

  “Who cares? Shut up and climb,” Bryce snarled.

  “Who?” Steffan demanded. “Steward, you must know.”

  The steward didn’t answer at once. He needed his breath to climb, Steffan presumed. Then the steward said, “One of the Duchess’ women maybe, only I don’t know of any who plays.”

  Abruptly, the music stopped.

  Steffan drew in a deep breath, regret touching him. Now, all he could hear was the sea against the rocks and the unmusical caw of gulls.

  From behind Steffan, someone said, “I think the older woman plays.”

  “Older…?” the steward said. “Oh, that one!”

  “Ann,” the man at the rear supplied.

  “No, Anwen,” the steward corrected. He snorted. “She is no beauty, or she wouldn’t be companion to the Duchess all these years. No man wants her, or the Duchess would have lost her long ago.”

  Bryce’s laugh was just as derisive. His hand slapped against Steffan’s shoulder, startling him. “You lost more than your sight with that blow to your head, eunuch.”

  Steffan held his tongue. Let them laugh. To not hear the music properly was their loss.

  * * *

  The summons to Igraine’s chamber was urgent, forcing Anwen to thrust the harp aside and not linger in her room. She slipped into the antechamber just as the visitors arrived at the top of the stairs.

  Her heart back to jumping around like a moth caught in a downturned glass, Anwen moved to the dark corner where the wall hangings kept her back warm, behind the women already gathered there.

  She threaded her fingers together, her gaze drawn to the taller of the men clustered in front of Igraine’s chair. All the other men were staring at Igraine, as men usually did. Steffan did not. He stood facing the high chair, while his sightless gaze was to one side. He gripped the staff up by the top end, his elbow raised, which made the cloak fall back and reveal his bare arm, rounded with muscles. He wore a leather jerkin, buckled across the front, and no shirt.

  Now he was closer, Anwen could pick out details she had not seen before. His skin was smooth with the fairness of youth, yet the contained way he held himself made him seem older. Wisdom and experience imparted the stoic patience he wore. He looked to be ten years younger than Anwen. When had he the time to build such experience?

  This was the man who tutored Cador? It did not seem possible. He looked every inch the warrior he had been. He turned his head as a normal person did. It really did seem as though he was observing everything.

  One of the other soldiers with Steffan bowed toward Igraine. “My lady, this is the tutor, Steffan. We was told to bring hi
m to you.”

  “Thank you…Bryce, is it not?”

  “Captain Bryce, yes, my lady.”

  “I requested Maurgh bring him to me,” Igraine said. “I wished to speak to Maurgh, too.”

  Bryce hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Maurgh was beaten enough to keep him abed this day, my lady.”

  “I see.” Igraine studied Steffan. “Your name and reputation are known to me, Steffan of Durnovaria.”

  Steffan turned toward her and bowed. “Your husband has been generous and kind, my lady.”

  “Not without reason,” Igraine said. “Although, you have tested that generosity of late.”

  Steffan’s jaw rippled. “The Duke appreciates what others discard through their ignorance. I am a sharp tool, my lady, yet even my edges can be dulled if rubbed against stone long enough.”

  Anwen smiled. The soldiers around Steffan merely looked puzzled by his response. They had no idea Steffan had just called them stupid.

  “Dull blades, rubbed hard enough, create sparks,” Steffan added.

  Igraine nodded. “Such was my suspicion. We would be wise not to waste your talents, Steffan. My husband would wish it so. There will be no further consequences for your actions last night if you agree to remain here at Tintagel and teach my children the languages you know—but not Saxon,” she added, as Morguase sucked in a loud breath and opened her mouth to protest.

  Steffan’s face grew still. His throat worked. “Your children, my lady?” His voice was strained.

  “My daughters,” Igraine said. She tilted her head, which he would not see. “Do you object to tutoring women?” Her voice was soft. Dangerously soft. Igraine was comfortable with the power at her command as wife to the Duke of Cornwall. When it came to her children, she used that power without hesitation. Anwen had seen her order men flogged for failing to properly protect her daughters, and women ejected from Tintagel for neglecting an aspect of their care.

  Igraine’s voice warned him. Steffan shook his head. “No, my lady. I would be honored.” Only, his voice was stiff and his knuckles about the staff paler than the rest of his hand. He was hiding his true feelings.