She pushed open a heavy oak door and slipped silently into the fragrant warmth of the stable. She loved the smell of horses, leather, and hay and did not much mind the heady stink of manure. Peleth stood where he always did, tied to a ring in the wall halfway down the aisle, his nose buried in hay. She slid in beside him and patted his neck, whispering words of comfort as she loosed his rope and began to nudge him away from his hay.
She had known from the beginning that the chances were slim she could get past Stannic unseen, so she was not surprised when she heard footsteps approaching and a large hand came down on Peleth's rump.
“And just where do you think you're going, Lady Guinevere?”
“ Goodafternoon, Stannic. I've got to go out.It's important.”
“In this weather? It'll storm soon.”
“I've got my mantle.”
He shook his head slowly from side to side. Guinevere's heart sank.
“It's more than my life is worth,” he said. “You'd get soaked to the skin and die of a coughing fit before the month is out. And where would I be then?” His dark gaze never left her face, and she bowed her head to escape it. “If the queen didn't have my hide, the king would, in no uncertain terms.”
Stannic guided the horse out into the aisle. “I've been in Pellinore's service since I was twelve years old. Don't you think I owe him all the loyalty that's in me?”
Miserably, Guinevere nodded. The pain in her head was becoming unbearable. “Yes. Of course.”
He handed her the halter rope. “Then stand there like a good girl. I'll be right back.”
He retreated quickly into the shadows at the rear of the stable. Guinevere could hear him moving about among the trunks and saddles. She pressed her fingers against her temples. It would take her a long time to get to the clearing on foot, even if she ran. She touched the carving of Rhiannon tucked inside her tunic and whispered a quick prayer for help. Then she touched the cross at her throat, as well. She could not believe in every god, as Ailsa did, but neither could she yet choose between them.
Her eyes opened wide when she saw Stannic returning. His right hand held Peleth's bridle, and over his left arm he carried a thick, gray cloak.
“It's a soldier's cloak,” he said gruffly, dropping it into her arms. “It's the smallest I've got, but it's plenty warm, and it'll keep the water out. Try it on.”
She obeyed while he bridled Peleth. The hem of the cloak dragged on the dirt floor. It was long enough to keep even her leggings dry. It was thick, heavy, and gloriously warm.
“Stannic,” she said, following him and Peleth to the stable door, “are you letting me go? You know about the queen's orders, don't you?”
“I do.” He gave her a leg up onto the horse's back. “There isn't anyone in Gwynedd who doesn't know. But King Pellinore is my master, not Queen Alyse.” He glanced quickly over his shoulder as he spoke, which made Guinevere smile.
“Ailsa came to see me yesterday,” he said, holding the gelding's rein. “Just you remember my neck is on the line as well as yours. Don't take chances. Do what you have to do and get back here fast.”
He slapped the horse hard on the rump and watched Guinevere and Peleth fly past the paddocks and into the safety of the woods beyond.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Trials of a Scribe
Marcus ducked behind a tree at the sound of hoofbeats and lowered the sack he carried to the ground. He did not want to be caught in the hills of Gwynedd weaponless and dressed in a peasant's tunic. He had no way to explain himself. He was supposed to be at home on his sickbed, and if he was found out of it, he would be instantly dismissed from the king's service. Regis would see to that. Queen Alyse would not be able to save him. She had already warned him he was on his own.
He peered out from behind the tree as the hoofbeats retreated. A bay rump, a black tail, and a gray cloak disappeared at a quick canter into the forest greenery. A young soldier on his way—where? No one lived in the direction the horse was headed. It could not be a messenger. Who else would be riding out with a storm coming on but the newest recruit on some whim of his commander? Yet, something familiar about that slender back produced a qualm of doubt.
He turned away and slung the heavy canvas sack over his shoulder. Queen Alyse was waiting for him. So might Regis be. After the long night's walk from the Longmeadow Marshes, he had neither the time nor the energy to follow the lad. With an effort, he pushed the young soldier from his mind and concentrated on the task before him.
It would not be easy to sneak into the castle, meet with Queen Alyse, get out again, and return to his home unseen. There, he could at last change his clothes and collect his weapons. With luck, he'd be reporting to Regis for duty before the midnight change of watch.
As he made his way downhill, he considered again last night's encounter with Sir Darric of Longmeadow. Jacobus had insisted on making an occasion of it. He had not permitted Marcus to return to work when they were dismissed from the courtyard but had devoted himself to making Brynn the scribe presentable. He had borrowed a clean tunic, combed Brynn's hair, and even loaned him his own pair of polished boots. He had worked with speed but with an air of melancholy, as if he knew that a visit to Sir Darric spelled the end for his new apprentice. Marcus had begun to wonder if he was heading for his doom. But doom or no doom, there was no way out of that fortress without Sir Darric's permission, at least not until the gates opened in the morning.
He had followed Jacobus meekly through the villa. Each room he entered looked larger and finer than the one before, and there seemed an endless sequence of them. Finally, Jacobus stopped at a carved door and spoke nervously to the guard outside it.
“My lord has asked to see Brynn the scribe. Announce him, please.”
When the guard stepped inside, Jacobus whispered hurriedly to Marcus, “I will pray for you, Brynn. Do whatever he asks. Don't argue; don't refuse him; don't speak unless you are told to. Remember the boy who pulled the wings off flies.”
The steward was gone before the guard returned to usher Marcus inside the grandest chamber he had ever seen. No expense had been spared in its furnishings. Three Roman couches draped in silks and velvets and plump with cushions circled a low central table piled with bowls of fruit and a basket of fresh-baked bread. Even after the dinner Jacobus had provided, Marcus's mouth watered at the scent of new bread. Tapestries hung on the plastered walls to cover the cracks and keep out drafts. Two shining copper cauldrons filled with logs stood between the couches, but only one was lit. Gentle flames warmed the wine jar in its tripod stand. A double-flamed lamp stood in each corner of the room. By their light, Marcus could see into the bedchamber beyond, where skins and cushions in colorful profusion decked a huge carved bed.
Sir Darric rose from the central couch and smiled his dazzling smile. “How good of you to come—Brynn, is it? Please, have a seat.”
He gestured to one of the couches, and after a moment's hesitation, Marcus sat stiffly on its edge. Sir Darric, too, had changed his clothes. He wore a long, flowing robe of dark green velvet trimmed with fur. He had removed the heavy torque from about his neck, but gold still gleamed from wrists and fingers. He poured wine from the clay jar into a glazed ceramic bowl and handed it to Marcus. “Relax. Drink up. The night lies before us.”
Marcus sipped carefully. The wine was unwatered, warm, and sweetly spiced. He watched Sir Darric fill his own bowl and drink it down. He knew by the unconscious fluidity of the gesture that this was a habit of long standing.
Sir Darric draped himself on his couch with catlike grace. “You interest me, Brynn. I'm willing to wager you're the only one-armed scribe in all of Britain.” He smiled invitingly. “In truth, I'm willing to wager you're not a scribe at all, are you?”
It was a rhetorical question. Marcus quelled his impulse to answer attack with attack and tried to look cowed. “Yes and no, my lord. I was not born to it, if that is what you mean.”
The smile faded. “I mean that the scribal school a
t Glaston is select. They don't take cripples.” He filled his bowl again with a steady hand. “I think you're a fraud, Brynn, and unless you can convince me otherwise, you'll be dead before dawn.” He looked up to see how Brynn was taking this and smiled charmingly. “That gives you time to think up a tale I might believe.”
Marcus couldn't help himself. He rose and squared his shoulders. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I don't mean to give offense, but I was raised in a noble household and am not used to being called a scoundrel to my face.”
Sir Darric looked pleased. “Noblemen's sons do not become scribes,” he said smoothly. “Even ones with two hands. You're an escaped slave, most likely.”
“I am a scribe by choice, my lord. My father considered me unfit for warrior training because I could not wield both shield and sword. He wanted me to join the priesthood, but I chose the scribal school instead. My uncle Sir Lucius of Glaston made a large donation to the school, and the master took me on.” While these bold words left his lips, Marcus prayed inwardly that Sir Darric knew little of Glaston society and the school only by its reputation, for every word he spoke was fabrication.
Sir Darric took another long swallow of wine. “What about your father, then? Why couldn't he pay the entrance price himself?”
Marcus almost swayed with relief. The man believed him. “My father had five sons, my lord, and four to equip for warrior training. My uncle Lucius, my mother's brother, was unwed. He was able to pay, and my father was not.” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “I worked on my uncle's estate when I left the school. When he died at midwinter, I had to look for another place. The school sent me here.”
Sir Darric watched the wine swirl around the bottom of his bowl. “And your father's name? . . . You knew it earlier.”
“Argus of Oak Hill,” Marcus said promptly. “He's an old man now, and ill. You'll not have heard of him, my lord.”
The savage eyes held his. “On the contrary. The name's familiar. He's one of Pellinore's men, isn't he?”
Marcus bowed politely even as his heart raced. This was a dangerous game when Sir Darric knew the ground. “He was, my lord.”
Sir Darric emptied his bowl, placed it on the table, and clapped his hands for a servant. “Well, well. As a story, it isn't bad. Let's put it to the test.”
A boy appeared at the door. Sir Darric sent him off to fetch pen, ink, parchment, and another wine jar. He gestured to Marcus's bowl, still full. “Drink up, my noble friend. If your story is true, you've nothing to fear.”
That was an old and hallowed lie, but Marcus could not say so. He sat down and took a decent swallow of the wine. His only hope lay in Sir Darric's education. If it had been a good one, Marcus was lost.
While they waited, Sir Darric regaled him with a tale of his recent visit to Pellinore's castle and his meetings with the lovely Queen Alyse. Marcus hid his surprise. The visit must have been a short one. To have returned already, Sir Darric must have arrived at the castle soon after he himself had left. The idea that the queen had befriended this man repulsed him. It couldn't be true.
“I've been getting the queen's advice,” Sir Darric said. “I've met with the captain of her house guard. What's his name? . . . Regis?” He waited for confirmation, but Marcus gave no indication that the name was familiar to him. “I'm grateful for all the help he's given me. We need a complete reorganization here. It's my father's job, but he's past it, frankly. Been getting old in the head, if you know what I mean.”
Marcus took another sip of wine. It gave him a chance, however brief, to hide behind the bowl and avoid the direct, assessing stare of those feral eyes.
“My aim is to get this place into proper order before the earl gets back from the wars. But I have so little time. I can't spend all my days in conference with Alyse and her house guard when I'm needed here.”
Marcus flushed. Alyse. By God, the arrogant rake bandied her name about as if she were a common wench. If the queen knew, she would cut his tongue out.
A scratch came at the door. Marcus almost jumped. The servant placed parchment, ink, and quill on the table; replaced the empty wine jar with a full one; and retired.
“Now,” said Sir Darric, pouring himself another bowl. “Your life is in your own hands, Brynn. Or should I say, hand?” Sir Darric grinned. “You're going to write a letter for me. To Regis, captain of the royal house guard. If you do well, you may have the honor of taking it to him yourself. If you fail, I shall have the pleasure of taking your life with my own hands. Very, very slowly.” Again, that terrifying smile. “Much more entertaining than a sword thrust to the heart. I've known men who could scream from daybreak to sunset without pausing for breath.”
The memory of those words still made Marcus queasy. He knew a bit about blades himself and, for an awful moment, had thought Sir Darric was onto him, was tailoring the torture to suit him. He remembered all too vividly the eager light in those unforgettable eyes. But his suspicion had been unfounded. Sir Darric knew nothing of his own skill with knives; he had simply enjoyed threatening a man completely in his power.
Now, safely back on King Pellinore's lands, Marcus found he resented this manipulation very deeply. Yet he was not in a position to take revenge. He was on a delicate mission whose outcome was still uncertain. The contempt he had felt for Sir Darric when the man accepted his careful scribbles as a good scribal hand had dissolved when he realized the nature of the trap the man had devised. “To Regis, son of Gaius Paulus,” said the letter he carried in his tunic, “I send you greetings by the single hand of Brynn, my scribe.” Those were the only words in the message. What followed were merely numbers: “III, V, VII.”
“Don't worry,” Sir Darric had assured him with one of his awful smiles. “He'll know what the numbers mean. And who they come from. Just take it to him.”
Therein lay the problem, for Marcus could not take the message to Regis himself. If Regis and Sir Darric were really in communication, Marcus and his secret mission would be discovered, with only one result for Marcus. If they were not in communication, he still could not take Regis the message without revealing his presence in the Longmeadow Marshes while he was supposed to be sick in bed at home. If he did not take Regis the message, Sir Darric would surely discover it, for if he had visited Queen Alyse once he was very likely to do so again, if only to check up on Brynn, the suspect scribe. A one-armed man was easy to find when actually sought.
What interested Marcus most was the idea that Sir Darric was clever enough to communicate by code, for what else could the numbers be? If the code was really intended for Regis, it was something Queen Alyse should know. On the other hand, Sir Darric's evident familiarity with the queen suggested another possibility. Perhaps the coded part of the message was meant for her. If Regis received the letter and was confused by the code, his first step would be to show it to the queen. Marcus appreciated the subtlety of this indirect approach, and so, he was certain, would the queen. But coded communications between the queen of Gwynedd and Sir Darric of Longmeadow suggested only one thing to Marcus, and that was treason.
He slung down his sack and seated himself at the foot of a giant oak tree, head in hand. Any way he looked at it, he came to the same conclusion: he was being used as a tool by someone powerful for an evil purpose, and he was doing it willingly. Before he could go any farther, he must weigh his options and make a decision about whom to trust. He must prepare himself for the consequences of his choice if he was wrong. He did not want to believe Queen Alyse capable of treachery, but she was a mother, and mothers would do absolutely anything to protect their young. Could someone have threatened her sons? Or either of those girls? Was that why she wanted Sir Darric? For protection? Or was it merely for her own amusement?
Marcus started. Thinking about the girls had awakened a memory. That had been no soldier in the gray cloak—that was young Guinevere on Pellinore's old cavalry mount, riding into the woods without a saddle. He remembered now that he had seen the bay rump and the lith
e, gray back, but no cantle. No saddle. And after his express warning to the queen to keep her safe within the castle grounds . . .
He rose to his feet and took up his burden. His decision was made.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Warning
The sky was growing darker and the wind beginning to gust when Guinevere arrived at the clearing. She rode forward among wildflowers dancing madly in the wind and halted. The cairn she had built the day before was gone. No, not gone, but leveled neatly and precisely. She scanned the woods around her but saw no one. Peleth had already dropped his head to graze when a soft voice spoke behind her.
“Daughter of Rhiannon.”
Peleth's head jerked up. Llyr stood at the edge of the clearing, his dark eyes immense in a face grown taut and thin.
“Llyr!” Guinevere slid off the horse. “Whatever has happened to you?” He looked gaunt and uncared for, with circles under his eyes and hollows beneath his cheekbones. “Are you sick? Has there been trouble?”
He came forward and gestured to the place where the cairn had stood. “You called me. Here I am.”
Guinevere hesitated. His eyes had a glazed look. Something terrible had happened to him, but whatever it was, it must not interfere with the crisis at hand.
“I have grave news, Llyr. A man came to the castle, a visiting lord. He told Queen Alyse that it is the hillmen—the Old Ones—who are stealing her cattle and her sheep. He has gone home to get troops, and when he comes back, he is going to track down the Long Eyes and . . . and destroy you all.”
He stared at her unblinking.
“Llyr, do you understand? He will be back tonight. He wants to kill your people. He is coming to hunt you down.”
Still, Llyr did not respond.
Guinevere came closer. “Llyr, you must take this message to the leader of the Long Eyes. Now. There is no time to waste. I must get back at once—I am here without permission, and if the queen catches me, she will never let me ride out again.”
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