The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Gesturing to the village barely visible below for the trees, the level playing field where lists had been erected, the Marshal added, “Your inheritance may have been bitterly bought, but you are already known as a just overlord to your tenants. Recompense for what they lost to Gareth of Glamorgan was a masterful stroke to gain their loyalty. It will keep you in good stead, for loyalty is protection as well as advantage.”

  “There is that side of it for a certainty, but I thought it only fair to restore their losses. My steward is wise and able. I have been fortunate.”

  Nodding, William Marshal surveyed the outer bailey from their vantage point, the neatly penned animals, the stables and soldiers’ quarters, the second gatehouse and barbican that led to the inner bailey, leats to provide water, and the keep built to withstand a siege. “I would be intrigued to learn how you were able to take Glynllew with only fifty men, when Raglan had to batter walls and negotiate to succeed.”

  “It is a tale best told over a cup of wine, my lord.” He would not tell all, of course. Most was known anyway, and he had ordered the entrance to the wine cellars sealed with some regret. The stonemasons had labored the past two days on it, so no one would be able to use it again.

  In the great hall, barons had gathered around a table, some well-known allies, and others more tenuous. The presence of William Marshal eased any contentious disparity; he greeted them all affably. Sir Nicolas Raglan was among them, for Rhys had extended the courtesy of an invitation, and he had accepted. It was best to know who would be his ally and who would be his enemy. The Prince of Deheubarth had abstained; it was not an act of enmity as much as he had his hands full dealing with rebellious sons and vassals. But he had not objected; it was a good beginning, although no guarantee could be made when tempers rose and barons quarreled.

  Rhys thought of his father and brothers and the alliances they had forged, the work they had done to make life better for the people of Glynllew and Cymllew as well as Wales. It cost their lives, for greedy men never had enough, whether it be coin or lands or admiration; men who sold their souls for profit deserved death, but he had given over custody of Gareth to William the Marshal, who would see to his trial and punishment. None could fairly accuse of him of acting out of vengeance, though God knew, he had the right to avenge his father. When the Marshal left Glynllew, Gareth would go with him as a prisoner in his charge.

  And now, he thought, while there would always be the chance of battles, he had done all he could to keep Glynllew safe. Remaining vigilant would be necessary, but he had good allies and should be able to weather the storms. For the first time, he had a future ahead that was more than wielding a sword and battle. He had Glynllew, but equally important to him, he had Sasha. Together they could face anything that came to them.

  He found her in the chamber he had first allotted to her, deep in conversation with the Italian whelp; the dog stood up when he entered, eying him as if not sure he could be trusted.

  A memory flashed through his mind: the dead man in the keep, the knife wound in his chest, and the chewed garments of his crutch. It had not meant anything to him then. Now he saw the dog and wondered.

  “My lord,” said Sasha, rising from beside her clothes chest, Biagio turning to look at him. “Are you prepared for the evening’s festivities?”

  “St. John’s Eve is much like the Beltane,” he replied, smiling a little at her flushed face. “I tolerate it but do not enjoy it. Sir Brian has draped himself in charms to ward off magic and will be impossible to stomach until it ends.”

  “There are rituals to be performed,” she said, smiling back at him. “One must know what to believe and what to reject.”

  “Aye. A word with you alone, fair flower.”

  His meaning was taken, and after a glance at Sasha, Biagio and his Alaunt departed. They were alone, Elspeth no doubt on an errand. He closed the chamber door, uncertain how to begin. It was unfamiliar, this uncertainty, for he had never imagined he would have this life, much less be able to choose someone to share it with him. Arranged marriages were the norm, and indeed, Collen ap Morgan had brought his daughter to present to him as a possibility. He had thus far been able to avoid any discussion of it, but before his vassal left, he would no doubt be put in the position of disappointing him.

  “The castle is overflowing with barons,” she said when he remained silent, searching for the right words, and he nodded.

  “Aye. Sir William is below with most of them now. They are exchanging tourney tales of prowess and mishaps.”

  “Will they all compete?”

  “Many will, but some attend to watch the lists and support their favorites. The Marshal’s wife desires that he not compete due to a recent injury, and he heeds her wishes.”

  Watching her lovely face, the huge dark eyes and brows that rose like graceful wings, her full lips that were soft and honeyed and oh so tempting, he sought the words that would say what he felt. Her head tilted to one side as she gazed at him curiously, lips parting, her breasts rising and falling as if agitated. Did she think he had come to scold?

  He held out his hand, and after a brief hesitation, she laid her fingers in his palm. Such a small hand, yet it held his heart though she did not yet believe it.

  “Our first meeting was memorable,” he began, feeling awkward and foolish. How did he broach this subject without sounding like a greenling?

  “It was,” she agreed, and her brow furrowed. “Do you have a complaint, my lord?”

  “A request, demoiselle.” That was too formal, as if he desired her to pass him the salt cellar at table. He swallowed a spurt of frustration. Here he was, a sworn knight who had faced Saladin’s screaming hordes with less trepidation, unable to form proper sentences.

  “Yea, beau sire. I am at your pleasure,” she said softly, and there was something wistful in her tone that he caught. He frowned.

  “Do you mislike it here, chérie?”

  “Mislike it? No, though it is different than what I am accustomed to, in many ways.”

  “How so?”

  Gesturing, she said, “All the walls. Doors. People rolled up in blankets and stacked like cordwood against the walls of the hall at night, slumbering next to the hearths, cooking, cleaning, chattering like magpies—but then, I have lived in the back of a cart most of my life. I have been one of those wrapped up in my cape in front of a stranger’s fire, cooking my meals beneath the alders and yews.” Her voice lowered. “Dancing with a handsome knight in a spring meadow.”

  He smiled. “So I was not the first knight to dance in a meadow with you?”

  “In a meadow, yes.”

  Thinking of what Elspeth had told him, the years of wandering, he wondered if she could be happy living in a stone keep. He looked down at her hand in his, marveling at the competence in such a fragile girl. And knew he had to ask. He drew in a deep breath.

  “Sasha, my love—”

  A banging on the chamber door halted his words, then the door opened, Brian framed in the opening. As usual, he did not look at Sasha, but kept his eyes on Rhys.

  “It begins, my lord. You are expected to oversee the festivities.”

  “Now?” He didn’t try to keep the irritation from his tone, but Brian did not retreat.

  “Yea, my lord. They await you below.”

  “Go,” said Sasha softly and squeezed his hand. “You are expected. It is your birthright, your destiny. You are lord here and must do your duty.”

  “We will speak later. There should be no interruptions in the solar after the night’s revels end.” He smiled, touched her cheek, bent to kiss her lips as she closed her eyes on a sigh, and he murmured, “We can go up on the ramparts where there are no walls and watch the stars.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered, and she kissed him back, hands moving to hold him tightly. Then she released him and stepped back. “
I shall always think of you under the stars.”

  It occurred to him as he left with Brian, that it was an odd thing for her to say.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SMOKE ROSE INTO the air from a huge bonfire lit in the village green. Flames flared, sent up showers of sparks like tiny red stars, disappearing on the wind. Villagers and castle folk alike danced around the blaze, as they had been since early afternoon. Evening shadows chased away the sun, routing it from corners and under eaves, settling over Cymllew at last on the longest day of the year.

  Lanterns blinked to life in vendors’ stalls and shops that stayed open to accommodate any who wished to buy a meat pie or fresh berries; scents of roast meat drifted on wind currents. Children laughed and shrieked, dogs barked, and an air of expectation hung in the air.

  A wooden dais had been erected to one side for barons to watch the festivities, up above the crowd, if they preferred not to mingle with millers and tanners. Rhys ignored it, greeting those he knew among the villagers, taking a cup of ale from the alewife whose daughter he’d freed from Gareth.

  Dropping a curtsey, the stout woman who wore a neat tunic covered over with an apron of unbleached linen around her waist and a cap atop her head, said, “God’s mercy on ye, my lord, for yer kindness. The cowyll you paid for my daughter’s loss was more than a husband would have done.”

  “I trust she is well, goodwife?”

  “Aye, m’lord. Ye will always have a cup of ale here, good sir.”

  As they moved along, Brian muttered, “If you pay for lost maidenheads of all the village lasses, your coffers will soon be empty.”

  “But I will have free ale,” he jested, and Brian managed a smile. Charms hung on a chain about his neck, and he had one tucked into the belt worn around his tunic. Rhys eyed the relics thoughtfully. “Are you expecting an invasion of witches or faeries?”

  “It repels them,” he said stubbornly, his jaw set against the teasing. He pointed to the half-timbered houses along the street. “Why else would green birch, long fennel, St. John’s wort, and lilies be made into garlands to hang over all the doors?”

  Indeed, he was right. The aromatic garlands festooned shop doors as well as homes, and Rhys shrugged.

  “Ah, I jest with you, good comrade. Come, there are honeyed cakes set out for villagers to enjoy and barrels of ale from Glynllew cellars. And tomorrow the tournament will begin after morning Mass is said. Have you drawn your first lot yet?”

  Talking about the tournament cheered Brian, as Rhys had known it would, and they made their way back toward the dais near the first of three bonfires. Across from the dais a small stage had been built for jugglers and tumblers to perform for coins and food or drink. Sir Robert sat on a bench atop the dais, cup in hand, smiling at the dancers around the fire.

  “Good eventide, my lord,” he said when Rhys reached the dais. “It seems there is new entertainment for us to enjoy. It looks intriguing.”

  Rhys turned to look where he pointed; little dogs hopped through barrel hoops on their back legs, wearing big lace collars and jaunty hats. He did not consider it intriguing or new, as trained dogs were common. About to quiz Sir Robert on how much wine he had drunk, he halted. A familiar gesture caught his eye. He looked more closely. As the dogs left the platform to loud applause from the children, coins clinked against the box put out for donations. But behind the flat platform, a slender young man in tunic, Scottish trews, and boots swaggered up the steps.

  He was quickly joined by a companion, both of them smiling, features accentuated by some kind of face paint so that exaggerated eyebrows and cheeks stood out. With hair hidden by hoods, they looked remarkably similar. To those who might not know either of them they could have been mirror images—their clothes identical, gestures coordinated.

  But Rhys knew them both. The paint did not mask their features well enough to hide their identity, and in a moment, Sir Robert said, “My lord, isn’t that—?”

  “Aye,” he interrupted. Next to him, Brian took up one of his charms, rubbing it as he muttered in Latin under his breath.

  Curiosity battled briefly with irritation and won. He would see what Sasha planned, for it would no doubt be something incredibly foolish and dangerous. He envisioned Biagio throwing knives at her or charming a deadly snake from a basket. At the first opportunity, he would get them both off the platform. Later, he would interview the guards who let them leave the castle.

  Without speaking, Sasha and Biagio brought out candles and a mirror and proceeded to light them instantaneously, blow them out, then snap their fingers, and candle flames reappeared. As the audience appreciation was noisy, it was as good they didn’t speak, but their broad smiles with garish mouths were enough to make spectators laugh as they grimaced, reacted in horror when the candles relit, then pretended to look behind the small, rectangular mirror. It was well-rehearsed, he could tell, but Rhys stood stonily silent as they moved on to produce a live rabbit from an empty sack, a chicken that turned into a duck, and then, as spectators shouted approval, Biagio ignited a bowl of water with flames. Greek fire. He had seen it used against English ships off Cyprus. Sasha feigned horror that seemed very real and stepped back.

  As it seemed their performance was about to end, he stepped down from the dais and pushed through the crowd in front of the platform, fully intending to take them both in hand. As he moved toward them, he saw two men approach from the rear, intent upon reaching them, their eyes never leaving the pair atop the platform. There was a grim air of purpose about them that set his teeth on edge, and he shoved rudely at a fat merchant barring his path. The man turned with a protest on his lips that died when he recognized Rhys; whether he knew him or just wanted to get out of his way, it was unclear.

  The platform was set up on sturdy barrels for stability; it tilted precariously as the men leaped up to grab at the pair. Rhys bellowed at them to stop, startling the men, who hesitated, and Sasha threw a powder into their faces. It ignited immediately. People screamed and panicked, stampeding to get away, and in the chaos, lanterns fell, toppled by the crowd. Biagio dropped the bowl with the Greek fire. Flames spread, licking a path up a wooden support post to an awning on a vendor’s stall.

  Sasha and Biagio stood frozen in place, staring at the destruction, while the rabbit, duck, and chicken fled from the bags toward safety. The two men with their faces on fire screamed and slapped at their heads, and finally Sasha and Biagio moved. Fire burned behind the platform and they hesitated. Rhys tried to shove his way through the panicked crowd to reach them, when suddenly there was a loud whoosh, and the platform went up in a huge fireball.

  It knocked him back several feet, and he staggered upright. Horror struck him. The St. John’s Eve bonfire raged, the platform was in flames, and the barrels beneath began to smolder. The two men who had tried to grab Sasha and Biagio had somehow leaped or been thrown from the platform; their faces were no longer on fire, nor had it done any damage, but they looked dazed. There was no sign of Sasha or Biagio.

  Brian caught up with him. “My lord! Sir Robert is summoning men to draw water from the well, but it is burning so fast . . . what is it?”

  Thick dark smoke billowed up, filling the sky, and a thatched roof started blazing. He turned. “Take those two men into custody. I want to question them. Start a line of men with buckets to douse the bonfires, throw dirt on the platform to put out the Greek fire. Wet down the roofs if possible.”

  “Where are you going?” Brian asked, grabbing at him as he moved swiftly toward the blazing platform.

  “To see if there’s anything left of her.”

  CHOKING FROM THE thick smoke, Sasha coughed so hard her ribs hurt. Right ahead of her, Biagio did the same. Heat had scorched her clothes and back. Her hood had fallen back, and her hair had caught fire. Her nose ran, and the paint on her face dripped off her chin. She could barely see, stumbling, and half-fell.
A hand caught her.

  Keep up, bella. We are almost there.

  For the first time, she wished he could read her thoughts as well. Her throat hurt from the smoke and coughing, but she had several things she’d like to say that she probably should not. A step, then two more, then cool wind shredded the smoke and filled her nose and mouth. She gulped it as if drinking, grateful for the respite.

  The alley through which they escaped ran behind the butcher’s stall toward the river. As they stepped out from between the buildings, a brisk wind scoured the air clean of smoke in front of them. It would soon reach this area, but for now, she could breathe.

  Biagio turned to look at her, and she gasped. Black and red paint had mixed into a mess on his face so at first glance, he looked as if he’d been burned. But it was thick and oily, dripping off his jaw in rivulets, protecting his skin. Smoke soot covered the rest of his face.

  She found her voice. “Do I look as bad as you do?”

  “Worse. Your hair looks like rats chewed it. It stinks.”

  “We need make haste, for soon they will search for us. Later, we will discuss your use of Greek fire when I told you it was not needed.”

  Moving swiftly along with her, he said, “It was more dramatic. And the people loved it.”

  “Until it set their village on fire. Elspeth was right; we have yet to succeed at magic. Now she has gone ahead, and we must hurry. What is that?”

  They had reached a small copse of trees; Beyosha nickered softly. The Alaunt sat on his haunches, alert, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

  “It’s a dog.”

  “I can see that. Why is he here?”

  “He followed and wouldn’t go back. To return him would be noticed.”

  “If he can’t keep up, he must be abandoned.”

  When Biagio didn’t reply, she sighed. She reached into the pack tied to the saddle and pulled out two cloaks. She gave one to Biagio and pulled the other around her to hide her clothes, then pulled the hood up over her head. They mounted, both of them covered, and she nudged the horse forward. The Alaunt loped easily beside them as she took the river path toward Tintern.