At the foot of the boulders was a peculiar sight which made Cadoc halt.
Dilwyn worked there, moving from boulder to boulder. He wore only tunic and breaches. He had discarded his cloak and overtunic. The tunic he wore was grimy with black soot. So was his face. Elsewhere on his features, ash clung to sweat and had formed a paste.
At the foot of three of the great boulders at the bottom of the cascade, Dilwyn had set huge fires. He must have been at the work for days, for a heap of white-hot coals had built at the foot of the boulders. A pile of firewood sat to one side.
Dilwyn was carefully pushing the coals up against the boulders themselves, his back to Cadoc. The bottom of the three boulders glowed with the heat building inside them.
Cadoc frowned. He had seen Dilwyn earlier in the day. The glimpse had convinced him he was on the right path and kept him pursuing the man. How could Dilwyn have travelled about the countryside and still tended these fires? Had he help? But there was only one blanket spread upon the hard earth, over by the damp runnel where the stream had once run.
Cadoc followed the runnel with his gaze to where it emerged from between the boulders. Someone had dammed the stream with rocks and mud, all propped up with a plank wedged into place with a stout branch the thickness of a man’s wrist.
Water oozed around the edges of the plank and over the top, squeezing out between the rocks, to pool at the bottom of the runnel. There was not enough water escaping to turn the channel back into a stream.
Cadoc realized that Dilwyn must have dammed the stream, for the channel ran around the boulders he was heating and would have put out any fires he tried to build.
Dilwyn turned to look at Cadoc, as if he had known Cadoc was there all along. “Nearly done,” he said, in a jolly voice.
“What are you doing?” Cadoc demanded, his sword lowering, for he simply could not fathom what the man intended with all this industry. “It must have taken you days.”
“Three days.” Dilwyn nodded as he moved over to the boulder on the left, the smallest of the three, and pushed more coals beneath its curving base with a wide piece of stout bark. “She said you would come and she was right. That pleases me.”
“She?” Cadoc asked, easing closer. “Why are you heating the rocks?”
“I didn’t understand it at first.” Dilwyn moved back to the first fire and prodded the wood burning there, looking for more coals to shovel beneath. “She doesn’t explain everything. I thought that was because she wanted to be mysterious, but now I think it was because she thought I would understand. So I have been trying to understand. I have had a lot of time to think, these last few days.” He glanced at Cadoc.
For the first time, Cadoc noticed the light of madness in Dilwyn’s eyes. “Who is she?” He took another slow step toward Dilwyn.
“Lady Morgan.” Dilwyn’s tone said that should have been completely obvious to Cadoc.
In a way it was. Cadoc’s breath escaped him in a harsh, wheezing exhalation. “Morgan le Fey!” he said hoarsely. “She poisoned my stepmother!”
Dilwyn didn’t seem to hear Cadoc. “White. Must be white. Not orange or red. Yellow will do, too, but white is better.”
“Dilwyn!” Cadoc called.
The man jumped and blinked at Cadoc as if he was seeing him there for the first time. “What? Oh. Yes, yes. It was her potion. She said it was an accident. If Merlin had not interfered the woman would still live. But you know…” Dilwyn paused from his stirring of the embers and looked at Cadoc with the air of a man confiding to another. “I believe she meant for Merlin to interfere. She has the Sight. She must have known what would happen, yes?”
Cadoc didn’t move. Horror was building in him. Anger, too. He gripped his sword, absorbing the facts. “Why?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Why Elaine? She was good and kind, without a single enemy…”
“She was Lancelot’s mother.”
“Morgan killed her because of Lancelot?” Cadoc breathed, distress straining his throat.
“To bring him to her,” Dilwyn said, his tone absent as he fed more wood upon the fires. He glanced at Cadoc. Tears glittered in his eyes. “I did not understand that, either,” he added. “How much she wanted him. Him…not me.”
Cadoc’s jaw worked. He swallowed. “Come back to Camelot with me,” he said. “Tell this to Arthur. He will…will be lenient, if you do.”
Dilwyn straightened from his work and simply stood there. Tears slid down his grimy cheeks, leaving tracks of pale flesh. “I cannot.”
“Yes, you can,” Cadoc insisted. “I will guard you until we reach the fort. Then you can present yourself…” He paused, for Dilwyn shook his head.
The little man said, with a reasonable tone, “I have done so much for her. Do you see?” He moved over to the last fire, the one closest to the makeshift dam. “If I go with you, then all I have done, all that she promised me, will be for nothing. It will be meaningless.”
Cadoc wasn’t entirely sure what Dilwyn meant. “You don’t think you will leave this valley as a free man, do you?”
Dilwyn’s smile was bitter. “It took me two days to understand that she never intended for me to leave this valley at all.”
He kicked at the stout stump holding up the dammed water. It rolled away and the temporary dam groaned and fell apart. Water belched from the narrow crevice between the boulders, for pressure had built up behind the plank. It gushed and flowed along the old channel, filling rapidly.
When the water reached the first of the coals, Cadoc recognized the danger. He ran forward, his hand up. “No! Watch out! Run, Dilwyn! Run for your life!”
The water pooled around the base of the boulders, quenching the fires, and lapping up against the white-hot rock.
As Cadoc reached for the man’s arm, intending to drag him out of range, the boulder groaned.
It was the only warning. The rock exploded, tearing itself apart. A heartbeat later, the other two also shattered, sending sharp slivers of rock and molten stone through the air at speeds which sliced through flesh and bone.
Cadoc’s last sight was Dilwyn’s bittersweet smile. Then Cadoc knew no more.
Gawain ignored the far corner of the arena where Tegan and her Cohort women usually positioned themselves for the drills. Even recalling her name made his blood seethe and boil.
He instead focused upon calling the drills. Old Pellinore no longer had the wind to bellow the names of the positions out across the arena, although his sight was still sharp enough to spot bad postures or shoddy foot positions, so he circled through the lines and bawled at the fighters who were not maintaining proper form.
And today, just to add to Gawain’s general happiness, Lancelot was also in the arena.
Of course the man should be there, for this was his style of fighting, which had made such a difference to the effectiveness of each warrior that Arthur had won the Battle of Mount Badon despite being badly outnumbered by the combined might of the Saxon armies and leaders.
Only, Lancelot had stayed in Lesser Britain for five years and Gawain had become accustomed to leading the dawn drills and exercises. Bedivere, as Arthur’s war duke, sometimes took the lead, but he fought two-handed and did not have the strength in his right hand to properly demonstrate the forms, so Gawain had taken over the chore after Badon.
It was not a chore in his mind. Staying ready for battle was a fighter’s duty, especially in times of peace when it was natural to lower one’s guard.
This morning, Gawain had looked forward to the exertions of practice. He had woken with a thick head after the feast, despite drinking far less than usual, and his mood was foul. Swinging a sword would help ease both…only spotting Lancelot had added to his temper.
Lancelot moved through the lines the same way Pellinore did, watching for laxness, for shoddy form. He corrected an elbow here, a wrist there. He criticized.
Gawain held his teeth together, when he wasn’t calling the drills. The man had every right to critique the fighters. It d
idn’t bother Gawain when Pellinore did it. Why did Lancelot’s contributions sit beneath his skin and scratch like a bur?
When Lancelot stopped beside Tegan to study her high guard position, Gawain told himself that it was none of his business. Lancelot had trained Tegan himself, long before his way of fighting had become known among the other warriors.
Lancelot reached up and twisted the blade of Tegan’s sword, which was surprisingly large for a woman’s sword. The resetting of the angle of the blade did bring it to the correct position, but Gawain knew why Tegan held the blade at the angle she did, and it wasn’t laziness.
Tegan uttered a sharp yip of pain as Lancelot’s twist put pressure on her wrist. The sword wavered.
She brought it back up to the right position, her jaw hard.
In the back of his mind, where he did not have to acknowledge it even to himself, Gawain applauded her grit.
Lancelot shook his head and corrected the angle once more.
Tegan cried out. The sword dropped.
“That’s enough!” Gawain ground out. He realized he was striding through the drill lines, the drills themselves completely forgotten. The fighters turned to watch him pass as he moved swiftly to the corner where Lancelot stood over Tegan. “Lancelot, you’re upsetting the fighters.”
Lancelot turned to face Gawain, his expression polite. “Tegan understands how I train. Her positioning was not—”
“What do you know of it?” Gawain demanded. “You know nothing!”
There was a tiny intake of startled breaths.
The fighters were pulling in around them, now. Gawain realized—also far back in his mind where he could ignore it—that he and Lancelot were presenting very bad examples of the type of behavior they tried to inculcate in the fighters.
Lancelot seemed amused. His tone remained polite as he said, “You ask what I know of fighting?”
“No, I don’t bloody ask that at all!” Gawain raged, his temper spilling over. “Tegan broke her wrist two years ago. That angle is the only way she can hold the sword on high…but you haven’t been here for five years, so you know nothing.”
“Gawain, don’t,” Tegan said softly.
Lancelot’s brow lifted, as his gaze shifted from Gawain to Tegan.
She stood cradling her strained wrist. The little furrow of pain between her brows fueled Gawain’s ire. He spun to confront Lancelot, hot words bubbling up from the hot mass in his chest.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. The fingers dug in. “Hold, Gawain,” Pellinore said. His tone was soft. His grip was not.
Gawain tried to shrug off his grip, but Pellinore shook him. It was slight, just enough for Gawain to feel it, while the younger fighters would not see the senior officers physically pushing each other around.
Then Pellinore nodded. “Lancelot. Tegan. Look.” He nodded toward the arena entrance.
Everyone spun to look.
A narrow cart with high sides and open ends—a wood cutter’s cart—was making its way through the gates, the woodcutter himself leading the mule that pulled it. One of the gate guards walked beside him, showing him the way. There was no firewood in the cart. Its burden was what had made Pellinore interrupt.
“Cadoc!” Tegan cried, her voice filled with a different sort of pain.
“Gods, no!” Lancelot breathed. He wheeled and pushed his way through the fighters around them, heading for the cart, Tegan right behind him.
Gawain followed, his heart thudding. Her family had just endured one tragedy. Surely another would not be delivered so closely upon the first?
When he drew closer to where Tegan leaned over Cadoc’s body, her shoulders shaking, Gawain saw the wounds and knew they had not been spared at all.
Chapter Ten
Unlike the Christian ceremony which had been held three days ago, Elaine’s farewell was held in silence. When the moon was at its largest, a bright white disk in the inky black sky, they stole through the fens and by-ways, everyone hooded and cloaked and carrying torches, to the main tributary of the Camel River, which flowed swift and sure out to the sea.
There, Elaine’s body, adorned with rich clothing, was laid within a small boat, and surrounded by her most cherished possessions. While the host watched, friends stepped forward and placed gifts of their own beside her.
Tegan was too numb to weep, as she watched the gifts build around Elaine. Beside her, her father was as silent as she, but she could feel his trembling through the boards of the low dock they stood upon.
Guenivere remained by Tegan’s side, a true friend who cast aside her rank and any dignity and helped guide Tegan through the night-black pathways to the river. Guenivere even took Bricius’ hand and coaxed him along when Bricius stumbled blindly.
When the last friend had stepped forward to say farewell to Elaine and the last gift had been added to the boat, Tegan braced herself. She took her father’s arm and led him to the end of the dock. Together, they unwound the rope which held the boat to the dock.
Then, with a trembling sigh, Tegan dropped the rope into the boat, put her hand on the gunnel and gave the boat a gentle push out into the river.
There, the current caught the boat. It drifted slowly away from the dock and the people assembled on the banks behind it. The pale timbers of the little boat looked white in the moonlight.
When the boat had dwindled from their view and turned the bend in the river and disappeared, Guenivere came and put her hand under Tegan’s elbow. “I will walk you back,” she said, her tone gentle. “Come, Bricius. Take my hand, too.”
The people of Camelot—everyone of the court, plus tradespeople, servants and city residents—all stirred and turned away from the river, which glittered brightly with moonlight. Hoods were lowered. Low conversations started. No one spoke loudly, for the mystic power of this place, the magic in running water, and the full moon, made them reverently quiet. They moved away in twos and threes.
Guenivere looked up at the full moon as they moved along with the quiet line of people.
“Are you all right, Jenny?” Tegan asked, for in the moonlight, Guenivere’s face looked more than pale. It was almost translucent, as if the flesh was too thin to hold color.
Guenivere smiled. “How could I not be?” She looked up at the moon again. “The moon goddess is mine. She is watching over me tonight.”
“Of course,” Tegan said. “Your name…”
“White, fair, in the old tongue,” Guenivere said. “As awful as this day has been for you, Tegan, seeing the moon fills me with hope, for both of us.”
Tegan knew what Guenivere would not speak of in front of her father. Guenivere was hoping for another child. A child that lived.
They walked along the wide path, one of the main paths through the fens, heading for Camelot. The torches flared and gave light, forming a long, snaking line through the bushes and stunted trees.
Tegan didn’t think it was possible to feel any hope, yet the sight of so many people moving together through the night, with the glowing light of the moon to guide them, did stir something in her breast.
Her father gave a sigh, on Guenivere’s other side. “I wonder, my lady, may I speak frankly?”
Guenivere smiled warmly at him. “Of course. I have learned the way of frank speech from your daughter.” Her smiled moved to Tegan.
“Actually, it is to Tegan I wished to speak, but as her Queen and her friend, it is right that you should hear this, too. Perhaps you can convince her of the sense of what I say.”
Horror stirred in Tegan’s chest. “No, Father. Let us not speak of this again.” Her father had been furious when she returned from the courtyard to tell him she had refused Gawain, last night…had it only been last night?
“Speak of what?” Guenivere’s tone was curious.
“See, he watches us even now,” Bricius added.
Tegan did not glance around. She didn’t want to sight the man. Not tonight. “I do not care if his eyes bleed from watching us. I will not chang
e my mind.”
“And he is…?” Guenivere asked, her tone light.
“Gawain,” her father supplied. “Gaheris and I have spoken. We both find the match a good one, for both houses.”
“Oh…” Guenivere breathed. “Now I understand.” Tegan had explained at length, in the past, her objections to Gawain and his ways. “But it is a good match,” she added. “Arthur would approve of it. It connects…oh, so many families, directly and indirectly.”
Tegan’s spirits sank even further. “And where in this do my own wishes count?” she demanded. “I cannot stand the man. He dislikes me. It doesn’t matter how politically advantageous the match is, if we cannot get along. Marrying a stranger would induce more pleasantness.”
“Of course the matter does rest with you,” her father said swiftly. “Only, Cadoc is dead now…” His voice tightened. He took several steps before he carried on. “Cadoc is gone, Tegan. Now, you are my heir…and that changes things.”
Tegan stumbled, her heart thudding. In the long hours since the cart with Cadoc’s body had appeared in the arena, this morning, the only thought to linger in her mind was a single question; What had happened to Cadoc, and why?
Her father’s hoarse reminder did change things.
Only, she wished it did not. She wanted only to learn the truth about Cadoc’s death and avenge him—even if vengeance was wrong, in the way Arthur and Merlin had begun to speak of such things, lately. How could she seek justice and learn the truth if she were another man’s wife?
Guenivere squeezed her arm gently. “Leave it for tonight,” she said. “We can talk tomorrow, you and I.”
Tegan nodded. She was tired and beginning to notice the weariness.
“Yes, talk to her, my lady,” Bricius added. “You married for duty. You understand.”
“I at least have experience,” Guenivere said tactfully.
They were in sight of Camelot and the broad causeway road which led to the gates, when someone muttered an oath. Others murmured, alarm in their voices.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 11
