The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  As Biagio set out on the road leading to Cymllew, Brian said, “He still jingles when he walks. Those bells will give him away.”

  “Or earn him a night’s keep,” said Sir Robert. “He’s a cheeky lad, but clever.”

  “We’ll see.” Brian shook his head. “If he’s not successful, we’re like to find his head on the castle walls.”

  It was a possibility, and Rhys nodded. “Aye, still wearing his fool’s cap, no doubt.”

  Elspeth laughed, and he turned to look at her. “I have said the same many a time, milord, but he always returns, boasting lies and no worse for the wear. He and Sasha have led a merry chase in the past five years, yet land on their feet like a cat. I pray to see them safe again.”

  “Yea, goodwife, as do we all.”

  NARROW TUNNEL walls and a low stone ceiling closed like a giant fist around the men. Rhys stooped, sword in one hand, his other hand holding a sputtering torch. Tiny sparks singed his hair and clothes with annoying frequency. It was just as he remembered it from boyhood, littered with fallen rocks and rubble, corbeled walls created by time and nature providing handholds. He moved deeper into the shadows. Armor and swords clanked against rock as knights and soldiers followed. Musty air was cool.

  It had been four days since Sasha was taken, three since he had sent Biagio to find her and dose the wine. The postern gate facing the Wye was well-guarded, the gatehouse fortified with men-at-arms. Even with a wine-befuddled garrison and additional soldiers, invasion would be near impossible by direct assault.

  A system of caves ran beneath Glynllew; Rhys and his brothers had explored when small lads, but he had not known if the entrance was still accessible. Time had changed landmarks, so it was not easily found, and now the mouth of the cave lay behind a wild tangle of brush, vines, and saplings. It had looked as if it had not been disturbed in decades, despite the new moat surrounding the keep above.

  “Does anyone else know of this?” Sir Robert asked as they paused in the gloom. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air, and his expression was strained.

  “My father, brothers, and Owain. It was kept secret to forestall invasion.” Rhys glanced at Brian, swaying just behind him. Torchlight flickered over his pale face. Sweat ran in rivulets over his forehead to wet his brow and drip from his beard. “Are you unwell, Sir Brian?”

  Gulping, he shook his head. “Nay. ‘Tis the closeness, as I told you.”

  “I offered to let you keep watch at the entrance.”

  Brian nodded. “Yea, but I would fain stay close to your side should I be needed.”

  He had been much the same two days before when Rhys had investigated the caves to ascertain their use. Brian had lingered in a rocky vault while he continued on to test the door that led to the old wine cellars. Though rusty with age and dampness, the hinge that opened it still worked. He had not tested it fully, for fear of discovery. Few could see from inside the cellar the irregularity in the rock that made the hidden door possible; it needed to remain secret.

  “Are the cellars still in use?” Sir Robert asked as they pushed on, going one-by-one when the walls narrowed, then unexpectedly widened into a vast vault as ribbed as a cathedral. One of the men exclaimed at its size, and Brian breathed more easily as they traversed the space. Water slid down the walls, forming a tiny waterfall into an underground pool as dark as night until the torchlight gleamed on the surface; then it appeared crystal clear. Layers of rock like a lady’s skirt dripped down one wall. Water wet their boots here, made sloshing sounds as they navigated the tunnel; the higher it rose, the dryer it became. Rhys counted the steps as he had two days before, until he reached what he hoped was the door.

  Behind him, Brian stumbled, fell to one knee, cursing, but hauled himself up to stand by as Rhys ran his bare hand over the rock. His wound had healed so no bandage was needed, and at last his fingertips grazed the iron clasp that he sought. Tension rode him hard. Sharp eyes might have seen the evidence of the door being recently opened in the cellar, or it could be that it was no longer in use. He had no way of knowing what lay beyond the door once he opened it. With all new stone instead of the timber he had known, they could be walking into a sealed chamber. It could be a cell now, with guards and prisoners. If there had been time, he would have let Biagio linger to learn these things, but he dared not risk Sasha any more than necessary. Gareth would expect an assault; she would be hostage to his whims, her danger greater the longer she had to remain in his custody. He unfastened the iron clasp.

  Pulling on his gauntlet, he grabbed the hilt of his sword and lent his weight against the door. At first it balked; the door opened no farther than the span of his thumb. Three burly men-at-arms came to add their weight and heaved the door open wide enough for a man to pass. Rhys stepped through the opening first, tension tightening his muscles in expectation of resistance or discovery. He saw the reason for the door’s slowness to open. A cask had been pushed against the door and now sat crosswise where their force had pushed it.

  Heavy silence filled the chamber; torchlight revealed rows of oak wine casks and barrels. The ceiling was low, when once it had been high; a change he marked. A single torch on the wall illuminated a broad wooden door. He crossed to test it, and oiled hinges made no sound.

  Returning to the tunnel, he beckoned Brian and Sir Robert through, bidding the others bide until called. He passed over the torch to Sir Peter, and with Brian and Robert to help, eased the cask that had been shifted out of place in front of the door, leaving enough space for men to slip through when time came to fight.

  It was chill and dark, much like the tunnel. The low ceiling had been whitewashed and reflected fitful spurts of torchlight from the wall holder. A lit torch meant someone had recently been in the chamber; he hoped Biagio had done his work well. In his father’s day, wine casks were tapped, pitchers filled, and servants bore them to the tables in the hall. It should have been easy enough to slip the necessary herbs into the wine and ale before it reached the table. A clever lad like Biagio would have no trouble at all.

  Brian leaned silently against a huge wooden cask, his drawn sword held at his side. Sir Robert watched the door. They waited. It should be near the evening meal. Kitchens adjacent to the wine cellar would be busy with cooks and scullery maids, pages running to and fro, a perfect time to slip unnoticed into the cellars.

  “Someone comes,” Sir Robert said finally, and they withdrew into the shadows behind a row of wine casks. Barrels of ale lined the wall across the chamber by the door.

  Bells heralded the approach and identity at the door. It swung open, and Biagio appeared as a colorful outline against the light behind him. He carried pitchers in both hands. He set them atop a barrel and opened the top of the barrel next to it; bells and pewter pitchers made loud, clanging noises. Rhys waited for a sign that it was safe, and it came quickly.

  “Signor?” The single word slipped into the chamber as Biagio kept his attention on the ale and pitchers. “Chi è qui?”

  It didn’t matter Rhys knew no Italian, just that Biagio had succeeded. “Is it done?”

  “Sí,” he answered without turning. “It is done. Some quelli folli prefer ale, so I added it to this barrel. Do not drink from it.”

  “I do not intend to linger in here, whelp.”

  “It is better you wait until the potion has them sleeping. Only a few yet feel the effects.” He glanced around, searching the shadows. “Your army is well-hidden. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Where is Sasha?”

  Biagio lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I have not seen her, but she is here. It is difficult to ask about someone I am not supposed to know, so I have had to spin a sad tale of a missing sister again. It has gained me much sympathy but not enough information.”

  “How do you know she is here?”

  “Ah, I was told an enchantress claiming to be a princ
ess frightened the lord’s dog into unmanning a foot soldier. Of course, the little pigeon might have gotten it wrong as I had my tongue in her mouth part of the time, but—”

  “Boast later, whelp. Find her before you come back. How many are in the garrison?”

  “A hundred in the bailey and likely a score in the hall.”

  “How many will be able to fight?”

  “Give me an hour, and you will be able to walk unimpeded by any but the dog in the hall. There will be a few archers and guards on the wall and in the gatehouse who have had no or few cups of wine or ale, so be’ware. Lord Gareth has already taken to his bedchamber.”

  That was good news. “You will direct me to his quarters when we are done in the hall.”

  Biagio hefted the pewter pitchers brimming with ale. “‘Twould seem to me you’d be able to find the lord’s chambers if this is your keep.”

  It was like stepping into a completely new keep, although he had grown up here. Nothing was familiar. Only the cellar and cave held vague memories. Once, the kitchen would be to the right when he went out the door, but it could be anywhere now. He felt out of place, caught between two worlds, expectation tensing his muscles, blood running high and hot as he prepared for a fight.

  As Biagio took his full pitchers toward the door, Rhys said tersely, “Find Sasha.”

  “I do not have to be reminded, grim knight.” He disappeared out the door, and it swung shut behind him, bells jingling.

  “I do not trust him,” Brian muttered, and Rhys nodded.

  “So you have said.”

  Leaning back against the wall, Rhys settled into the shadows. It promised to be a tense wait. It had gone as planned, but in his experience, even the best plans ofttimes went awry.

  “EVEN THE DOG sleeps,” Sir Robert said, amazement edging his voice as he looked around the hall. “Dwale worked better than sending them to the privies. I do not know how long it will last as I did not want to make it too strong, so we must make haste.”

  Sir Peter and Sir Clyde ranged around the hall removing weapons, stepping over prone figures, most of whom slept soundly. A few lay limply with eyes half-open, as if too weary to move but not yet sleeping. Men-at-arms stacked weapons against the wall; there had been a brief skirmish in the bailey, but with surprise on their side, they had easily overcome those soldiers not so affected by henbane and poppy.

  Yet Rhys saw no sign of Biagio or Sasha. It left him unsettled. He surveyed the hall; cups overturned, wine spilling across the table, half-eaten meats in trenchers, a snoring Alaunt on the dais. An upended pitcher of ale lay near the dog. Men slumped against the walls, others sprawled in chairs, women lay with heads on the table or supine on benches; a few servants lay amidst the ruins of serving trays, food scattered about as if caught unaware. Wide-eyed servants crouched in corridors and kitchen as he roamed, his sword in hand, searching for pockets of resistance. He halted by a terrified woman holding a long wooden spoon and asked in Welsh where the lord’s chamber lay.

  Shaking, she pointed with her spoon to a back staircase. He started toward it, and Brian caught up with him. “You seek Gareth, I take it.”

  “Aye. If he has not fled and still sleeps, it will ease our task.” It had all been too easy so far, and that set his teeth on edge. While he had expected a minimum of resistance, it had been as if they were handed the chamberlain’s keys at the gate.

  They passed through a series of chambers; each was furnished sparsely for specific use: a steward’s chest and table, then the usher’s quarters cluttered with clean linens waiting for the chambermaids. It looked as if work was done haphazardly and sloppily. Another staircase led up a short flight of steps, and into the lord’s chambers. A small antechamber door was open.

  Stepping through the door, Rhys saw his cousin sprawled upon a high bed; red and gold bed-hangings were askew, as if being used for support. Face down, Gareth of Glamorgan snored. On the floor next to the bed, a frightened girl with tousled blond hair and ripped tunic cowered; her eyes were huge as she curled her fingers into the bed coverings.

  “Rest easy,” Rhys said in Welsh, and the girl jerked her chin, obviously disbelieving. It appeared she had been badly used, and that made him angry. He turned to Brian. “Fetch Sir Peter and have him bring irons for our prisoner. He can reside below until I decide his fate.”

  “I shall have him taken to a cell, my lord.”

  “Chain him well.” He turned back to the girl and asked in Welsh about her family; a sob emerged from trembling lips before she said her father had been killed, her mother was alewife in the village. After learning her name and the ale house, he sent her home. She crept past him, tugging at the ripped neck of her tunic, then sped out the room once she realized she would not be stopped. When Sir Peter arrived with shackles, he directed him to get a scribe to take the names of those who had been mistreated, so they could gain recompense. He gave a last glance at his still-snoring cousin as he was shackled, and left the chamber. A sense of urgency drove him to search for the maid; Biagio had disappeared immediately after returning to the cellars to report most soldiers disabled. It would not surprise him to find they had both fled the keep.

  Unfamiliar staircases wound downward, and he followed until he reached the lowest level. Shouting echoed in dark corridors; his pace quickened as he sought the source of conflict. A guard lay still on the stone floor when he rounded a corner; his naked sword lay loosely in his fist; a dagger protruded from his chest. Slender, lethal, the gleaming hilt studded with brass and jeweled chips was familiar. He had seen Biagio juggling three of them not long ago. Torchlight wavered, revealing an overturned pewter pitcher. Another loud voice urged him swiftly past the fallen guard. Shadows swallowed light at the end of the short corridor. What lay beyond held peril, so he didn’t hesitate. The corridor turned sharply, descended two steps; a sputtering torch in a high wall holder showered sparks on the scene below, and he came to an abrupt halt.

  For a moment it seemed as if time stopped; he saw it all clearly. Biagio against the wall, a dagger clenched in one fist, a tall, brawny soldier with drawn sword, the lethal edge of the blade pressed against Sasha’s throat. He absorbed it all in an instant, tightened his grip on his sword, and stepped into the pool of light.

  The soldier holding Sasha did not seem surprised at his arrival. “I told Gareth you would come to the bait, but he is foolish. Have you killed him yet?”

  “Not yet. Release the maid to me, and I will give you safe passage from the keep.”

  A bark of laughter greeted that suggestion. “I am not a fool to believe in the word of lords and princes. You will grant me safe passage with the maid, and I will release her once I am past the walls.”

  Rhys curled his lip. “I am not a fool to believe in the word of outlaws and dead men.”

  His meaning was well-taken. The man nodded. “Then I will kill her now, and we will end it.”

  Sasha remained still, her wide dark eyes soaking up light from the torch. Even though her cotte was soiled and torn, one foot bare and dirty, she did not seem harmed. Biagio had not fared as well. Blood soaked one sleeve of his garish tunic; he still held a dagger tightly, his eyes not leaving the maid or soldier.

  “Kill her,” Rhys said softly, “and it will be your undoing.”

  The soldier pressed his sword edge against Sasha’s throat, hard enough to draw blood but not to kill. She still made no sound. Biagio shifted slightly, and the soldier said, “Do not move, or it will be over. Both of you, throw down your weapons ere I slit her throat now and be done with it.”

  “Do you think you will leave Glynllew alive? One of my bowmen will put an arrow in your head.”

  “Perhaps, but ‘twould not take much to misjudge and hit the woman, so I doubt you will allow that. Your weapons. Now.”

  Blood dripped down Sasha’s neck to wet her cotte. There was nothing fo
r this soldier to lose by killing her, and they all knew it. He was trapped. Sasha was his only chance for escape. Yet Rhys knew the man would kill her the moment he got beyond the castle walls. Did he dare risk it? But the boy—he watched like a hawk, tense and poised. He had killed the guard with his dagger, if he yielded the other . . . it was too great a risk, too great . . .

  Agony beat fiercely through him, his belly muscles drawn tight with fear, not for himself but for Sasha. He had never willingly yielded his sword for any man. To do so was to be ready to die. He knew that. If he were in the soldier’s place, he would kill all but the maid before leaving the cellar; it would be the only chance to leave unchallenged.

  Yet to refuse was to watch her die, when if he yielded his weapons, there was the chance she might survive. Brian or Sir Robert, any of his men, would know at once that the soldier who wore Gareth’s colors was the enemy. He thought then of the hostages who had died at Richard’s command, slaughtered by his soldiers and left crumpled under the burning sun. It had sickened him then; now it haunted him. Sasha had been under his protection when taken; if she died, it was his fault. All this passed through his mind in what seemed the blink of an eye, and taking a deep breath, he tossed his sword to the stone floor. Metal rang loudly, bouncing off the close walls. Sasha made a small sound, and he met her gaze, smiled a little in recognition of her distress.

  “Pris ti yn dda, morwyn melys,” he said softly, wishing her a sweet farewell.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DESPAIR FILLED HER, for Sasha recognized the tone if not the words and knew Rhys had only yielded his sword to save her. Desperately, she searched Vachel’s mind, hoping for a sign of his next move, while Biagio’s dagger clattered on the stones next to the sword. Bright blood wet his sleeve, and he shifted position against the wall, staring at Vachel while bombarding her with silent commands.

  Do not move, bella. Just wait. It is not over. He will go for the Welshman first as he is the most dangerous . . . foolish, for I am not yet done . . . stay away from the blade, seek the moment and flee. Do not tarry.