The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Vachel spoke first in French, then in English when the soldier was slow. “Do not tarry. I do not enjoy the stench of your domain.”

  The man muttered something incomprehensible but found the right key; he walked a few steps forward and stopped in front of a wooden door to slide the key into a metal lock and turn. Tumblers clicked in a loud, grating noise. Sasha’s stomach muscles tightened; her heart beat hard in her chest, and she tried to breathe through her mouth. Nothing but shadows on the other side of the door; she could not concentrate, could not discern thoughts or emotions, just her own fear and dread.

  It was not her first time to be kept in a cell. But she had not been alone then, where no one knew where she had been taken. Did Biagio and Elspeth know she was gone? Did Rhys search for her? She had thought she heard him calling her name as Vachel slung her atop a horse, but had not been certain. He may be angry enough not to care if she disappeared. Elspeth and Biagio would care, but they were captive too.

  The heavy wooden door studded with iron nails slowly swung open on squeaking protests, and a wave of foul air swept over her. Vachel coughed, muttered a French oath, and took a step backward. Sasha would have done the same, but the soldier put a hand in the middle of her back.

  “Mynd trwy,” he said shortly and gave her a push that sent her stumbling forward.

  Anger sparked as her bare toes slid on something slick, and she spun to look fiercely at him, startling him. “Abn jamal,” she spat, although she doubted he understood the insult. While she did not understand Welsh, she did understand fear of the faerie world, and the images flitting through his mind centered on dread of the unknown.

  She took immediate advantage.

  “Tollam te artemesia, ne lassus sim in via,” she crooned, randomly choosing the verse used for picking mugwort in the mornings. It did not matter what she said, as long as she made it sound mysterious and frightening. Holding his gaze, swaying slightly, she recited an Arabic menu of her father’s favorite meals, satisfied that she properly terrified him as he blanched and dropped the keys, stumbling back and away from her.

  “Tylwyth teg,” he mumbled, “rydych chi’n tylwyth teg . . .”

  She had heard Brian use that name when speaking of Welsh faeries, and smiled. It was the effect she hoped for, but Vachel interrupted.

  He thrust the torch between them, cursing, and shoved her into the cell, slamming the door. “Fool,” he snapped at the soldier. “She toys with you. If she were witch or faerie, she would not be caught.”

  The key grated in the lock, and Vachel peered in the small iron wicket set in the wooden door. “Conjure up a way to get out of here, Princess, and you will rule all of England.”

  Heavy darkness fell as the torch retreated. The only light came through the door grate. She listened to the guard fleeing down the corridor with heavy, booted steps. Then, slowly, she became aware of another presence. There was someone else in her cell.

  “Bore da,” came a pleasant voice in Welsh, and she turned slightly toward the sound. “Wyt ti’n siarad Cymraeg—”

  She interrupted in English, “I do not speak Welsh.”

  “Ah.” There was a scuffling sound, then the shifting of shadows in a dark corner. A man stepped into the faint torchlight threading through the bars. “Grant pardon.”

  “You speak English.”

  “And French,” he said in that language, and she felt rather than saw his smile in the shadows. “I’ve found knowing several languages to be a great help in these times.”

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw that her companion was of medium height and older, with gray streaking the temples of his unkempt brown hair. A kindly face lurked beneath a ragged beard; his clothes were of good quality, though soiled and torn in places. Because his inner thoughts were couched in Welsh, she had to draw on her intuition as to his character.

  “Welsh is an unfamiliar language,” she said. “I begin to feel my lack most sharply.”

  “Natural enough.” He indicated the upper heights of the keep with a tilt of his head. “How goes it above the bowels of hell?”

  Scrubbing her palms down her skirts, she smiled faintly. “As I have no former experience to draw upon, I’d hazard a guess that things are as usual. Lord Gareth is unpleasant, most of his soldiers sullen, a few frightening, and I sensed some who loathe him.”

  A moment of silence followed her assessment; she curled her bare toes up from the cold, wet stones, wishing she had not lost her shoe. Something rustled in the straw, but she could not detect another presence. The cell was not large, perhaps six by six, with no accommodation for privacy.

  “Gareth is not lord here,” the Welshman said tersely. “Do not be fooled.”

  She waited. It had been her experience that she learned more from letting others talk than to tell what she knew. He would speak when he was ready.

  “Come,” he said after a moment. “It is dry over here in the straw. You have lost a shoe.”

  He had sharp eyes in the gloom, while hers still adjusted. She tried to sense his thoughts, but they were mostly in Welsh. A brief image of a tall, white-haired man lingered in his mind as he plumped up the straw into a cushion, and she wondered who it was.

  He put out his hand to her as if they were in court, and she smiled as she took it and settled onto the straw, spreading her skirts over her bare foot to warm it.

  “You are a princess?” he asked, startling her, then she recalled Vachel’s mocking taunt.

  “Compared to those oafs, I am an empress,” she said lightly, and he chuckled.

  “Aye, Gareth has always thought well of himself. He was Lord Griffyn’s nephew, but not the heir. Never the heir.”

  “And yet he claims the title and lands?” she murmured when he didn’t elaborate.

  A brief silence fell before he replied, “For now, at least. Tell me, where is your other shoe?”

  Caution held his tongue; she felt his turmoil and doubt, the tricks that had trapped him before, and understood.

  “Still in a rowan grove, I suspect. It is where I was captured.”

  “By Gareth’s soldiers?”

  “Yea, though I knew not who they were when they first came upon me. I was far from camp, you see. I should have listened, but I did not. I was—angry.”

  “Ah. A lover’s quarrel?”

  “And now I shall be mysterious. A lady likes to keep her secrets.”

  “Ah. I am glad of company,” he said. “Months down here alone can be unpleasant. What earned you Gareth’s wrath?”

  “I teased his dog,” she said primly and made him laugh.

  “I sense there is more to it than you have said, but I shall not pry.” He shifted position on his cushion of straw, then hissed an oath and kicked out. “Rats,” he said when she leaned away from him. “They creep in through drains.”

  “They find poor fare here,” she observed.

  “Aye. That is true enough.”

  A noise in the corridor beyond the cell gained her attention, but her companion sat quietly and waited. Torchlight wavered, grew dim, then bright again, shining through the barred grate. A soldier appeared, looked into the cell, then directed a comment to another man. A brief debate ensued in Welsh, then he withdrew. All she was able to sense was curiosity before they left, taking the light with them. She was alone again with her companion. Thick shadows lightened as her eyes adjusted to the dark, so she was able to see outlines of the door and walls. A faint glow beyond the wicket shed sparse illumination to lighten the occupants.

  After a few moments of silence, the Welshman fumbled beneath his cloak, then held out his hand. “If we break bread together, we can endure.”

  She took his offering: brown bread. Her stomach growled, a reminder she had not eaten since the day before.

  “Grace be upon you,” s
he murmured gratefully, and they ate quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. The enormity of her situation weighed on her. He had said he’d been here for months. Was that to be her fate, too? It was likely this man supported the old lord, which meant he would prefer Rhys to be lord, but she could not be certain. She dared not speak unwisely and risk lives again.

  A rustling in the straw warned of more rats, come for the bread they smelled, no doubt. She sat still, tried to sense the creatures, but found it difficult. Rats were smart, wily beasts, and she had once kept one as a pet. But she could not seem to connect with these rats. Perhaps it was because she was so tired.

  “Is it true?” her companion asked. “Are you an enchantress?”

  She rested her head back against the wall. “Is that why they argued?”

  “Davvyd is thick-headed and full of superstition. He believes you will drag him off to the faerie world, never to be seen again.”

  “Had I that power, he would not be one I would choose,” she said.

  “Nor would I. So, you were found near the camp of Rhys ap Griffyn. He is in Wales.”

  She said nothing. Time passed. More rustlings in the straw earned a crust of bread flung at the rats; immediate squeaks and squabbles were quickly settled by the victor, noise fading away as the rats disappeared out a drain.

  “‘Tis the only way to get them out of here,” the older man grumbled. “They will return on the morrow, when I am brought more bread. Prisoners are not treated well now. Once, they were respected if not loved. I know Rhys ap Griffyn, though not as well as I knew his father.”

  She knew then, even before he said his name, who he was and why he knew Rhys.

  “You are Owain, the steward,” she said softly, and he acknowledged it.

  “Aye, but I do not know you.”

  She hesitated. This was always the difficult moment, the giving of a name. “I am called Sasha.”

  “I once knew a man called Sasha.”

  “Yea.” She nibbled on the crust of her bread. It had always been dangerous to give her true name, and she would not now. Yet this man inspired confidences, so she shared a small bit. “In my childhood, I traveled with a band of Kievan Rus wanderers in the guise of a youth. They called me Sasha. I’ve been called that since.”

  “Ah. I also have a wedge of cheese, if one doesn’t mind a bit of mold.” As he scraped away the growth with his thumbnail, Owain said, “You are not Kievan Rus, nor are you English. You continue the disguise to be safe, then.”

  She took the cheese he offered. “One can never be too careful. Enemies lie in wait in the guise of friend as well as foe.”

  “As I recently learned to my sorrow. You are wise for one so young.”

  Young? She had not felt young in a decade or more. Save for a brief span of time in an English meadow with a handsome knight . . . then she had felt young, carefree, hopeful. But that was gone now, the dream delayed if not dead. Rhys ap Griffyn had not believed her. Risking all, she had told the truth, and it gained her nothing but peril.

  “If I were truly wise, I would not now be here with you,” she said wryly, and Owain agreed with a chuckle.

  “Aye, trusting unwisely is a grievous fault, but the blame lies with those who cannot be trusted rather than those who trust.”

  “Perhaps. But I have found the consequences can be equally disastrous.”

  “Indeed. Now that we have shared bread and secrets, I’d be fascinated to learn what folly you committed to earn entrance to Glynllew’s cellar—and why you are feared as one of the faerie folk. It promises to be an interesting tale.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “WILL IT WORK?” Sir Brian glanced from the brightly-costumed youth to Rhys. “Even if he gets inside Glynllew, there is no assurance they won’t kill him.”

  Biagio made a familiar gesture. “Pah! I will entertain them so well they will reward me with good wine and loose women.”

  “Partake sparingly of the first, and leave the last alone,” Rhys said curtly. “Failure will be fatal for more than just you.”

  “An unnecessary reminder, grim knight,” Biagio muttered. He deftly tossed a dagger into the air, followed swiftly by two more, juggling them agilely before catching them one by one by jeweled hilts. Then with a flourish, he made them disappear in the blink of an eye. He smiled at the astounded Brian. “‘Tis magic.”

  “‘Tis foolery. Look in his sleeves,” Sir Robert suggested, but Brian refused.

  “Nay, ‘tis best not to get too close to evil,” said the Irish knight with a dark frown.

  Rhys ignored him. He turned to Elspeth, who perched on the cart tail and watched with an expression he could not interpret. “Will he succeed, goodwife?”

  “He is adept at trickery, so has more chance than most,” she replied, her English bearing traces of a Salfordshire accent. “But he is also adept at empty boasts.”

  Eying Biagio, Rhys wondered if he should reconsider. While word had come earlier that the soldiers he had hired weeks ago had finally reached Wales, their numbers were still unequal to the garrison inhabiting Glynllew. Trickery would earn them time to reconnoiter and concoct an effective assault plan. It would also lessen the danger to Sasha.

  “Can he find the maid?” Rhys asked abruptly.

  “Aye, if she is willing to be found, he will do so.”

  Rhys studied the older woman. Doubt lay in her words, but he could not place the cause. Gray-streaked brown hair tucked beneath her cap; blue eyes met his gaze calmly, forthright and unafraid. “You think she went willingly?” he asked.

  “Do you?”

  “I vow, I do not know what to think. She confounds me,” he admitted.

  Elspeth shook her head. “Nay, my lord, it is doubtful Sasha went willingly to the men who hold her, but she may not be willing to endanger Biagio by letting him find her. It is not the first time the two of them worked at odds to escape consequences of their exploits.”

  “Elspeth frets too much,” Biagio interrupted. “Age addles her mind.”

  “Not as greatly as youth addles your judgment,” she retorted. “There is not time enough to recount your foolish schemes that near ended in disaster.”

  Sir Robert intervened. “Recount your plan, young master, so that we may be prepared for possible difficulties.”

  Shrugging, the youth flung a sulky glance at Elspeth. “‘Tis simple enough. I present my talents to the constable for the castle’s entertainment. Once I am inside, I determine the strength of the force and search for Sasha.”

  “Did you not forget an important part of the plan?” Sir Robert asked mildly.

  “Oh, aye. I am to poison the wine.” He smiled at Brian’s exasperated curse. “Not a fatal potion, alas, but one to render ineffective all those who drink. The halls will be crowded with sleeping soldiers and knights.”

  “Do not be over-generous with the dosage, young peacock,” Rhys warned.

  Biagio grinned. “I will endeavor to remember the proper amount. A pity I will be forced to drink ale instead of wine, but I shall manage.”

  Despite his impudent humor, Rhys detected a steely resolve in the young Italian; he bore great fondness for Sasha, and even if Biagio did not care who held Glynllew, he would find her and drug the garrison. That would be enough to gain entrance to the keep for an invasion.

  All else was up to chance and skill.

  “Your garments may mark you as a jester, but that does not mean you will be granted entrance,” Brian said, leaning against a tree, chewing a blade of grass as he watched Biagio. “A peacock, indeed.”

  It was true that the youth wore garish garments: a multicolored tunic and tight hosen of red on one side, blue on the other, trimmed in yellow and irritating little bells, topped with hood and cape of similar color, and the ears of an ass that flopped about as he pulled the hood ov
er his hair. He smoothed the cape across his shoulders, every movement serenaded by bells.

  “Even kings gladly greet jesters,” Biagio replied. “‘Tis said that Duke William’s jester, Gollet, warned of assassination, for had he not, the duke might never have conquered England.”

  “I would refrain from reminding Wales of that,” Rhys remarked. “It is still a sore point with some.”

  Biagio feigned surprise. “A hundred and score years later, and still they sulk? Ah well, it explains much. Rome is still annoyed with the Mongols. Now. I am ready, my lord.”

  “Sir Brian may have a point,” said Sir Robert. “It may be viewed suspicious by the constable to have a jongleur arrive at the gates so soon after the sortie on the drawbridge.”

  “Yon monks deliver wine and ale to Glynllew by boat and cart,” said Biagio. “I plan to go first to the abbey and from there go with them to the keep.”

  “You are like to be remembered searching for your sister,” Rhys said. “Cover yourself with a peasant’s tunic and cap, and mingle with village peddlers delivering wares. Not even Glynllew is self-sufficient. It must have food and goods transported to the storerooms.”

  In the end, it was decided that Biagio would linger in Cymllew to befriend villagers and insinuate himself into their midst to gain entry to the castle. The tiny village nestled below the keep was occupied mostly by tanners, farmers, and ale houses. A church and smithy had been added since last Rhys had known the village, but an old Roman bridge over the stream still stood. A miller’s cottage nudged close to the stream that fed the Wye, wheel grinding wheat into flour. It should be simple enough for Biagio to blend in if he kept his own counsel and made no public spectacle.

  Once Biagio had donned a rough wool cloak and cap that covered his costume, Rhys handed him a few coins. The youth scoffed. “‘Twill not be enough to buy even a pie, m’lord.”

  “It’s enough if you use your wits. Now go before I decide you too reckless to trust.”