Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 3

  “What would he be doing with a petty king from the south?”

  Vivian’s gaze met hers. “That is the question, is it not? Although that is not the primary concern.” Her gaze moved back to the king’s retinue, as their horses blew and worked to take the last of the incline up to the palace.

  Movement in the courtyard said their arrival had been noticed. Gwilym’s men moved out onto the road in front of the gates, their swords sheathed, yet to hand if needed.

  “Mabon’s seat is Caer Celemion,” Vivian said, using the local name for Calleva Atrebatum.

  “Right next to the Saxon Shore border,” Lynette added.

  Vivian nodded. “Vortigern needs strong leaders along the borders. Mabon is unknown, his strength untested. Perhaps that is why Vortigern’s dog is with him.”

  “To help?”

  “Or to test and report back to Vortigern.”

  As the company paused in front of the gates, to meet the challenge of the guards, the horses dropped their heads, blowing hard from the climb. Shields were lowered.

  “There is a woman among them,” Lynette said.

  Vivian leaned forward, as if the lean would allow her to see better. “Where?”

  “Just behind the king.” Lynette peered, too. She saw again what had caught her glance. The bare head, with no helmet to shield it, shone golden in the high sunlight. The woman’s veil had dropped across her shoulders, revealing the wheat-colored tresses.

  “Braids,” Lynette said, her distaste making her voice flat. “She’s Saxon!”

  Vivian made a hissing sound. “A slave, perhaps, although why would a slave be with a fighting company? We must find out. And we must find out why Mabon is here. Come!” She turned her horse and pushed it into a tired canter.

  Lynette followed. “If Cadfael the Black is with Mabon, that would mean Mabon is Vortigern’s man.” She lifted her voice above the thud of their horses’ hooves.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps Vortigern is unsure of his loyalties.”

  “Either way, Cadfael is a man of the high king’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “Emrys wants to avoid them. Taking medicines to him might expose him.”

  Vivian’s reply was airy. “I will find a way, with your help.”

  Chapter Two

  Cadfael stayed by the young king’s side, as the man looked about the big courtyard, at the industry and sturdy prosperity of the place.

  Mabon turned his black gaze up to Cadfael. “A well-founded establishment. ‘tis little wonder Gwilym prefers the isolation of his own walls. It appears he has no need of the High King’s support.”

  “Isolation is a weakness,” Cadfael said. “Saxons can still reach even this corner of the world.”

  “The power of alliances, right, Cadfael?” Mabon said with a boyish grin. He had teased Cadfael about his harping upon the theme of formal alliances for weeks now. “You must keep reminding me of their value, so I may pass them along to Gwilym. If I am to bring him into the High King’s fold, I will have need of the reminders.”

  Vortigern had asked the new king to coax Gwilym into a formal recognition of Vortigern as High King. The wily old king of the south had avoided a formal declaration for an entire generation.

  The High King had been far more frank with Cadfael about the assignment. “Mabon is unmeasured and unknown, Cadfael,” Vortigern growled, as he bent over the faded map of Britain that traveled everywhere with him. His wine cup held down one curling corner of the hide. “Yet he sits right next to the Saxons, down there. If those white-haired bastards get it into their heads to break the treaty—”

  “Again,” Cadfael interjected, earning Vortigern’s dark scowl.

  “Again,” Vortigern added heavily. “If they have another bad harvest, they will break it. I need my defenses set before the summer is over. Take Maela to him and linger there and measure the man. He tugs his forelock easily enough, but I need a genuine ally in the south.”

  Cadfael had obeyed even though he would prefer to stay and help Vortigern with the Pict skirmishes to the north. In the north, there was a guarantee of battle. Escorting a new bride to her whelp king was a guarantee of nothing but boredom.

  “Gwilym is a strong king,” Cadfael told Mabon now. “He will be a useful ally.”

  Mabon opened his mouth to speak, although Maela chose that moment to approach her husband, the ends of her white braids bouncing against her hips. Mabon remained silent.

  “My lord,” Maela said, her voice soft. She said nothing more and kept her eyes downcast.

  Her meekness was considered a virtue in a wife, which in Cadfael’s estimation was a good reason to never marry. Cadfael shifted on his feet, smothering the flare of hatred that speared him every time he saw the girl. It was not her fault her mother was Saxon, or that her servility irritated him. Mabon was the unfortunate man forced to live with her shortcomings.

  Mabon cleared his throat, his gaze skittering from his queen to the men around them stretching their legs and exchanging greetings with Gwilym’s. “I am sure the queen will find you suitable accommodations, if you wait but a moment,” he told Maela awkwardly.

  The man was just as uncomfortable with his wife as Cadfael. He had accepted the High King’s daughter for the political alliance, for he was not a stupid man. Now he must learn to live with the reality of that alliance. Maela was far too Saxon for a Celtic man’s tastes.

  Mabon straightened, relief showing in his face. “Ah! There we are. There is Mervyn now.”

  “Mabon!” The tall young man pushing his way through soldiers was richly dressed, befitting his princely status. Mervyn was Gwilym’s oldest son and an ardent supporter of Vortigern. He was known to Cadfael. Mervyn was a good fighter, though weak when cornered. Vortigern took care never to put Mervyn and his men on a flank where they might be caught in a pincer movement.

  Mervyn greeted Mabon with warm enthusiasm, babbling about rooms and food and wine.

  Cadfael let his attention wander, disinterested. The real welcome would be tonight, when the king sat at table and Mabon could press his case for supporting Vortigern.

  Two women rode into the courtyard. They wore neither veil nor mantle and no cloaks, even though the day was mild enough to warrant them. They were both dark haired Celtic maidens with clear, pale skin. The one on the left, in a white gown, was the more richly dressed of the two. Her belt was studded and thick, the buckle possibly made of gold, or a highly burnished bronze. She was a lovely woman, one of the glorious beauties that drove men to drink and duels and poetry. She left Cadfael unmoved.

  The other woman wore a deep blue gown with a plain girdle. Cadfael frowned, studying her.

  The blue was the color he had spotted, high on the hills over the town. It was not a color found in nature, which was why it had caught his eye.

  Seeing the color once more prodded him into moving toward them. He shoved his way through groups of soldiers and nudged a horse’s rump with his arm to move it out of the way.

  They saw him approach and cast their eyes to the ground with bashful grace.

  Cadfael stopped before them. “You were in the hills above the town as we rode in. What were you doing there?”

  The woman in the white gown lifted her eyes to meet his, before dropping them again. “Why, we were riding, my lord. It is a lovely day.”

  “It has become a lovely day. It did not start that way. You wear no cloaks. You left without them? In the rain?”

  The woman in blue raised her chin. “May we have the pleasure of your name, my lord, so we understand who demands we explain ourselves?”

  She had brown eyes, dark and lovely. There was nothing of the Celtic black in them. They were large and expressive. Her hair was brown, too. He could tell because no veil hid the gleaming waves and curls. A tendril the thickness of his wrist tumbled and coiled over her shoulder, brushing the corner of her jaw, to lie over her breast. Beneath, the plain girdle encompassed a narrow waist.

  “Cadfael,” he told her
with a touch of impatience. Why did she not just answer the question? “Late of Deva. Now, from Calleva.”

  “You are in the presence of Vivian, daughter of King Gwilym, Cadfael,” the woman in blue informed him, her voice firm. “The princess answers to no one but the king.”

  Vivian lifted her chin. This time she did not drop her gaze.

  Cadfael cleared his throat, aware of the treacherous ground he had stepped upon. Insulting the daughter of the king they wanted to woo would not further their cause. “My lady, I apologize for my enquiry.” He attempted to make his tone servile. Instead, it emerged wooden and insincere. “I only seek to identify threats to my king.”

  “From two women?” the woman in blue said. She smiled, the full bow of her lips curving at the ends.

  She had not declared herself a princess, yet everything about her said she was high born. Her speech was that of the court. Her appointments, though plain, were still expensive. And she dared meet his gaze.

  “A threat is a threat. I make no presumptions,” he said. “Saxon women fight as fiercely as their lords.”

  “As you can see, we are no Saxons,” the lady in blue replied. “If you will make way for the princess?”

  Cadfael hesitated. Here was a mystery that itched to be uncovered. Why were two high born women riding about the hills with no escort, no cloaks and defensive attitudes? He had not forgotten that the sentries at last night’s campsite had reported the approach of someone who had later faded into the night without declaring themselves. From the gathering of small, inconsequential facts, dangerous truths became clear.

  He could not question the king’s daughter, though. Reluctantly, he stepped aside, so they could continue on their way.

  They picked up the hem of their gowns and moved toward the verandah, skirting men and horses and stuffed, heavy saddlebags piled in heaps for the servants to convey to quarters.

  As they stepped up onto the tiles of the verandah, the woman in blue looked back over her shoulder at him. Her gaze lingered, before the princess pulled her along the verandah.

  He could not question them. Instead, he would watch them and, in that way, learn their secret, for it was clear they had one.

  He would watch them very closely indeed.

  * * * * *

  Barely before they were out of the big man’s range of hearing, Vivian gripped Lynette’s wrist. “Damn. He is suspicious!” She kept her voice down.

  “I don’t think I’ve met anyone as tall, before,” Lynette admitted. “He felt big.” It was an inadequate expression of the way his presence had dominated the space it took up, demanding attention.

  “It helps make him a superior soldier. It gives him a longer reach. Big men are clumsy, though,” Vivian said dismissively. “We must deal with him. I cannot have him following me up to the cave.”

  “He is only doing his duty,” Lynette pointed out. “With luck, he’ll forget all about us leaving without our cloaks.”

  “If that is true, then look back at him. If he is only doing his duty, then he will not watch us leave. He will have dismissed us from his mind and turned to more important things.”

  Lynette took the moment they paused to step up onto the tiles to glance over her shoulder.

  He glared at them. No, he scowled at her. His blue eyes, that had reminded her of a cloudless sky, were fixed upon her. A heavy line wrinkled his brow.

  In this land of black-haired Celts, he was remarkable not just for his height, but the russet color of his hair. His face was weathered, rough with whiskers that could not yet be called a beard. There were lines of weariness at the corners of his eyes, as if he narrowed them often, in suspicion or pain or tiredness.

  It made her think that Cadfael the Black had endured more than most men yet lived to tell the tale. “He watches,” she breathed, her heart thudding.

  They moved down the long verandah to the women’s quarters and the door that was always guarded. As the guard snapped to attention, Lynette opened the door for Vivian and stepped back.

  Vivian glanced at her. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked sideways, toward the center of the courtyard, then back to Lynette. She smiled and moved inside.

  Lynette nodded at the guard and stepped in behind her.

  Vivian whirled as soon as the door shut. “I was wrong,” she said. “He watches you alone. We can use that against him.”

  Lynette shivered. She dismissed it as a reaction to the heat rising from the hypocaust vent she stood next to, bathing her flesh with warmth. It could be nothing else.

  * * * * *

  Lynette did not have to wait long to find out how Vivian planned to neutralize Cadfael, for the princess made her first move that night, during the evening meal.

  The hall was full to jostling, with Mabon’s senior officers seated at Gwilym’s table. Gwilym had wisely placed Mabon to his right. Gwilym’s queen, Ninian, sat farther down the table, with Mervyn and Padrig on either side of her, which was not a dishonorable position.

  Lynette and Vivian’s other ladies stood around Vivian’s small table, waiting for Gwilym and Mabon to seat themselves. Late arrivals scurried to find a seat at the big table, or one of the lesser tables at the end of the hall.

  Vivian leaned closer to Lynette. “The Saxon woman. See, she is seated next to Mabon!”

  Lynette looked. The blonde woman wore a gown of glowing red-brown that made the most of her hair. Her veil was a cream color. Mabon was not a tall man, yet standing next to him, the woman appeared even smaller. That surprised Lynette, for everything she had learned about Saxon women said they were tall, strong and crude.

  This one was almost delicate.

  Olwen, across the table, also leaned. “That is Maela, his new queen.”

  “She’s Saxon,” Lynette pointed out, disgust making her throat tight.

  Olwen shook her head. “She’s the High King’s daughter.”

  Vivian’s brow lifted. “That is a powerful match!”

  Iva, next to Olwen, frowned. “The High King’s witch queen is Saxon.”

  “Rowena,” Lynette supplied.

  “That makes Maela half-Saxon,” Vivian said. “Poor thing.”

  Lynette looked at her, startled. “Poor thing?”

  “To be an outcast among strangers is one thing. To be born one of them and still be outcast and have nowhere to truly call home?” Vivian shook her head.

  Gwilym settled in his big chair. He was a short man with iron gray hair and a pure white beard, with faded eyes that took in more than they appeared to.

  The room rustled as everyone else sat, too. Stools and benches scraped.

  Servants carried in trays to serve the meal and conversations buzzed as the meal began.

  The women at Vivian’s table discussed the merits and blights of Mabon’s queen. Her braids were disparaged and her mother’s vices discussed. Lynette held herself back from the discussion, turning over in her mind Vivian’s observations about outcasts and outsiders.

  Lynette had been an outsider when she first arrived in Maridunum. She had been accepted quickly. Still, there had been long days of wariness while Vivian’s ladies grew accustomed to her northern accent and she had grown used to the different customs of the south and of Gwilym’s court in particular.

  If she had looked different—if, say, she had blonde hair—would it have taken even longer for the women to accept her? Even though she was one of them?

  The two kings talked, their heads turned toward each other, which excluded everyone else at the big table. No one dared tried to inject themselves into their conversation. Instead, they chatted to others.

  The wine flowed, which loosened tongues and lubricated conversations.

  In honor of the guests, a final dish of peaches in stewed wine and herbs, the last of the previous year’s harvest, was served. It was a signal that the formal part of the meal was over, and many diners rose and left the room. Those who sought company for the evening, or wished for music or talk, lingered.

/>   Vivian did not like to stay once the meal was done. It exposed her to unwanted attention. Lynette glanced at her, waiting for her to rise, for no one else at the table could stand before she did.

  Vivian did not move from her small chair. She frowned, studying the top of the big table.

  Lynette glanced that way. The high table had less than half the people left, allowing her to see between shoulders and heads. It was the first time she noticed Cadfael at the far right end of the table, right next to Mabon’s queen, Maela.

  He wore a scowl, his gaze moving around the room as he gripped a cup in one big hand. The polished iron on his wrist guards flashed, reflecting the light of the sconce behind him. He spoke to no one. He was the only man at the table not talking.

  His gaze swung to Lynette and settled. The scowl deepened.

  “This is useless,” Vivian murmured. “While he watches you, I cannot leave.”

  Lynette pulled her gaze away from the head table. “Why can you not leave?”

  “I must go to the kitchen for supplies,” Vivian said, softly enough that none of the other women at the table could hear.

  For Emrys. Vivian was still determined to follow through on her mad plan, despite the new level of scrutiny.

  “You risk raising the suspicion of Vortigern’s man,” Lynette pointed out.

  “Not if you distract him. He watches you. Go to him.”

  “What?”

  “Go and speak with him.”

  “I cannot. He has not invited me.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes. “You know how to seduce a man. I have seen you do it.”

  Lynette’s cheeks burned. “You want me to seduce him?”

  “If you must. He stares like a man already besotted. It should take no effort on your part to capture his attention and keep it.” Vivian pushed at her knees, under the table. “Go.” She pushed again.

  Prodded by Vivian, Lynette rose and resettled her mantle. She was not the only person on their feet, although she felt as if she was. He was likely still monitoring her.

  Careful not to look toward the head of the table and signal her intention, Lynette drifted to the side of the room and the corridor of space between the benches and the walls, where she could walk to the other end.