Guinevere fled down the aisle to Peleth and crouched by his head, pulling the borrowed cloak around her and the hood over her head. She waited, barely breathing, for the guard's approach.
“Who's there? Declare yourself!”
His voice, coming suddenly out of the dark, was loud, nervous, and belligerent. The horses snorted again, and the young stallion's hooves drummed on the dirt as he danced at the end of his rope. All of the animals were wide awake now and looking warily about them. Some blew, some snorted, a few whinnied uneasily. Guinevere expected the guard to light a lantern from the torch and search the aisle, for he must have seen that someone had taken the bar from the back door. But no light came down the aisle, nor any footsteps. Tentatively, she rose and peered around Peleth's haunches.
The guard was standing just inside the doorway, sword raised. Light from the torch outside fell on his face, and she saw that he was young, beardless, and frightened. All his attention was on the young stallion who was misbehaving, but he did nothing to calm the animal. He just stood there, light winking off his sword as the blade trembled, and called out again, “Is anyone there? Come forth, in the king's name!”
Guinevere heard movement outside, footsteps in puddles of water. She waited with held breath for the reinforcements that were bound to appear, for surely Sir Darric had not left the stables in the hands of this one youth alone.
A voice called from the yard: “Ho, there, you! Who are you to use the king's name so freely?” Guinevere's heart leaped. It was Marcus's voice.
The guard whirled, and his grip on the sword tightened. “Stand back! Give the password, sir. No one may enter without it.”
“I'm Marcus, Regis's second-in-command. Put down the sword. I bring news from the castle.”
After a moment's hesitation, the young guard moved out into the rain and beyond Guinevere's sight. At the same time, the back door opened. The young stallion screamed again and then stopped in midwhinny. The drumming of his hooves ceased, and a general air of relief and calm swept down the horse lines. Guinevere smiled and stepped out into the aisle. “Over here, Stannic.”
A large, black shadow came toward her, resolving itself at last into the familiar, bearlike form of the stablemaster. For greeting, he took her in his arms and gave her a great hug. When he let her go, his voice was rough with anger.
“Well, princess, this is a fine state of affairs. Marcus says I'm to let you go with him, storm or no storm, and against the queen's orders.”
“Yes, please, Stannic. Has he told you why?”
“Oh aye. I might have guessed that young scalawag was up to something. But I didn't think he had treason in him.”
“None of us did,” Guinevere said. “But we may yet be able to stop him.”
From outside came the sudden clash of swords and then a sharp cry, broken off. Stannic turned on his heel and hurried back down the aisle, pulling a dagger from his belt. “Bring the horse,” he cried over his shoulder, and disappeared out the front door.
Guinevere untied Peleth's lead rope and led him down the aisle in Stannic's wake. They reached the door just as Marcus and Stannic dragged the inert form of the young guard inside. A bump was rising on his temple, and a cut on his sword arm bled sluggishly. Stannic grunted when he saw it and went to retrieve a horse bandage from the storeroom.
“Leave it,” Marcus said. “It's not a deep wound. He'll live. Just gag him and bind his hands behind him.”
“Can't have him bleeding all over my stable in the meantime,” Stannic replied easily. “Horses fear the smell of blood.”
Guinevere turned to Marcus. “Are you ready? What horse will you ride?”
By the light of the torch, she saw him flinch, which strenghtened her suspicion that perhaps he didn't ride at all. “It will be faster if you ride with me,” she said quickly, to save him the shame of admitting this dreadful shortcoming. “Peleth can carry us both, and he's ready now.”
Marcus stared at the unsaddled, unbridled horse and swallowed the protest that rose to his lips. “If you're sure . . .”
She led Peleth out into the cobbled yard and leaped onto his back. Stannic came out to give Marcus a leg up.
“Put your arm around her waist and hold on tight,” he said, with a twist of a smile at Marcus. “Don't think of her as a princess. She's your anchor in a storm, that's all. Now relax, and you'll balance better. That's right. You can trust her and the horse. They'll see you don't fall off.”
Guinevere heard these words and knew her guess had been correct. “Which way?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Uphill,” Marcus said gruffly. “Past the cattle meadows, there's a trail that heads northeast.”
“We'll canter, then. It's easy, really. Like sitting in a chair that rocks.”
She moved Peleth forward and then put her heels to his flanks. He picked up a canter at once. Stannic watched them fade into the gloom, torn between pride at her skill and fear for her safety, before he turned and went to wake his grooms.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Queen's Choice
Queen Alyse wasted no time. As soon as Marcus had delivered his report and left to raise a force of loyal men, she sent a guard to fetch her sons. Leonora was dispatched to fetch Elaine and Guinevere, and Cissa went to awaken the rest of the women, whose loyalty could not be in doubt.
“Gather everyone in the hall of meeting,” the queen instructed. “Bring spindles, awls, sewing needles, kitchen knives, jars of vinegar or acid—anything you can think of that might be useful as a weapon.”
She collared Bredon when he returned. “I cannot hold the castle against an organized force of men, not with so many loyal soldiers away at the wars. We will gather in the hall of meeting and hold it against the traitors. There are only two doors, and one of them opens onto the kitchen stairs. Marcus has gone to the barracks to muster the men who've gone off watch, but time is short. I don't know where Sir Darric is or his men—in the armory, most likely, handing out spears—but we can't give them time to organize. Until we are all safely gathered, there are only the two of us to distract them from whatever they have planned.”
“How distract them, my lady?” Bredon hurried to keep up with the queen's brisk stride.
“We shall set fire to Pellinore's rooms. After the throne itself, it's the trappings of wealth and power Sir Darric covets. We shall burn the royal apartments. That will bring him running.”
Bredon had no time to protest his astonishment. The queen was already five paces ahead and reeling off instructions. They robbed the stairwells of their torches and put out every lamp in the corridors they passed. If there should be pursuers, utter darkness would slow them down.
The doors to the king's rooms were guarded by two of Sir Darric's men, who drew their swords as soon as they heard footsteps approaching. “Halt and declare yourself!”
Bredon slipped his own blade from its scabbard.
“Wait,” Queen Alyse said softly. “Hold back.”
She watched the two guards' faces as she neared them. One was a man of middle age, a veteran, judging by his stance and the way he held his sword. From the flush on his face and the flaccid wineskin at his side, she judged him to be a drunkard. That was probably why Sir Gavin had left him home. The other guard was a mere boy of eleven or twelve with wide, frightened eyes and a sword that trembled visibly in the torchlight. When he saw it was the queen, he lowered the weapon and bent his knee.
“Get up, Ewen!” the veteran grumbled. “Remember why you're here.”
Queen Alyse smiled coldly. “You men are relieved. Bredon will stand your duty. Put up your swords.”
The boy began to obey, but the veteran stopped him.
“Begging your pardon, my lady. We answer only to Sir Darric. We've got orders to guard this door.”
“Against me?”
His face hardened. “Against all comers.”
“Sir Darric's attempt to take the castle has failed,” she said coolly. “I am afraid you are the last
ones to learn it.”
The boy Ewen gaped at her, but the veteran only grunted. “If that were true, you'd have brought more men with you.”
Queen Alyse smiled. “You don't think we two are enough?” She signaled to Bredon, who stepped forward and crossed the veteran's blade.
The veteran lunged, and the fight began. Queen Alyse stood before the boy. He had raised his weapon, but it shook wildly in his hand.
“Make your decision, Ewen,” she said softly. “Kill me and be dead yourself before morning, or put the weapon down and let me pass. Show yourself true of heart, and King Pellinore will reward you and your family. You can make your name bright, Ewen, by choosing loyalty over treason. Or you can die a shameful, traitor's death. Which shall it be?”
It was the gentleness of her voice that convinced him. He sank to one knee and offered up the sword. Queen Alyse took it from him, thanked him, turned, and stabbed the veteran in the back. As a stroke, it was inexpert, but it took the veteran by surprise. He staggered, giving Bredon a chance to move in close and knock the sword from his hand. Bredon bound him hand and foot while the queen led Ewen into the king's apartments and handed him a torch.
Queen Alyse was the first to set fire to Pellinore's belongings. She said a quick prayer for forgiveness under her breath and touched the flaming torch to the crimson hangings around the royal bed. She had made them herself fifteen years ago for her new husband. She watched with angry tears as Bredon and young Ewen set fire to the other chambers, the workrooms, the anterooms, to ancient furniture upholstered in silks and wool, to priceless tapestries handed down, generation to generation, from Roman times, and irreplaceable. The rooms were full of treasures, many of them gifts of kings over the years of Pellinore's reign and some inherited from Alyse's father: silver flagons, bowls, and dishes; imported mahogany boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl; fine carpets woven in a hundred colors and imported from the deserts of the East. She made no attempt to save anything. She wanted Sir Darric in a panic.
Smoke and heat drove them back at last, and they retreated swiftly down the back stairs, taking Ewen with them. Dimly, they heard shouts and cries of warning as they made their way to the hall of meeting. Once inside the great room, they removed the oil lamps from their sconces and replaced them with torches, which, as Queen Alyse pointed out, were weapons untrained women could handle. Men were stationed at the doors. The queen descended the kitchen stairs to wake the cook's boys and enlist them, and to bar the other entrances into the kitchens and pantries. She did not know how long they might be besieged and was determined that if anyone should go hungry, it would not be the loyal folk under her command.
Having made all the preparations she could until she had more help, Queen Alyse walked to the dais at one end of the hall and sat on her carved and gilded throne next to the king's great chair. From her pouch, she withdrew her crown, a band of beaten silver inlaid with gems, and set it on her head. The sphere of her government had shrunk to a single room, but as long as she sat on her throne, it was a government still. She knew that in times of crisis, people looked to a leader. Her sitting there, gowned, crowned, and composed, would impart strength and comfort to her people when they found themselves surrounded by a hostile force greater than their own.
Her instincts were proved right. As men and women began to filter in, bleary-eyed with sleep or wide-eyed with terror, they made obeisance before the dais and were openly relieved to find their queen so calm and so certain of success. Queen Alyse gave each of them a task to perform—stoking the kitchen hearth fire to a blaze; filling jugs with water; stacking stools, chairs, tables against the doors—and they went willingly to work.
Queen Alyse watched the door to the hall of meeting with anxious eyes, waiting for her children. At all costs, she must keep them out of Sir Darric's hands. At last, Yvonet appeared with Prince Maelgon, the heir. Maelgon had taken time to dress and buckle on his dagger in its little sheath. His eyes were bright with excitement. He ignored his mother's kiss of welcome and demanded to know when the fighting would begin. In his wake came little Peredur, still in his nightshirt and half led, half carried by his nurse, Julia. Queen Alyse made much of him. She instructed Yvonet and Julia to make a place for the boys at the back of the dais, where they could sleep, if they chose, and where they could best be protected. Yvonet and Bredon were to stand guard over them. Then she returned to her chair and waited with rising anxiety for her daughter.
More people filtered in, openly nervous now, and reported that parts of the castle smelled like smoke. The kitchen doors were secured, the fire stoked, and water put to boil. Men stood at the doors; women gathered in small groups and sat on the tiled flooring with oil lamps for light. No one dared more than whispers. They waited, watching the queen. And the queen waited, watching the doors. Still her daughter did not come.
Finally, Leonora burst into the room, gasping for breath, and threw herself at Alyse's feet. “My lady! They are gone! They are taken! Oh dear God, they are lost!”
Queen Alyse could only stare at the woman, whose face, hair, and clothing were in wild disarray, and who blubbered unintelligibly in her fear. All other sound in the great hall faded into silence.
The queen rose to her feet as Ailsa and Grannic hurried into the hall and fell on their knees before her. She looked from one of them to the other. She had to force the words out. “Where is my daughter?”
Disaster and disgrace were plainly writ across their faces, but Queen Alyse could not believe the tale they told. Both girls tucked safely in bed one moment and gone the next—it was impossible, unless both nurses were drunk and incompetent. A whisper snaked around the walls as the news traveled to the rest of the company. The princesses had disappeared, and no one had seen them go. That was the whole of it, the impossible, unbelievable whole of what they knew.
Having placed herself in public view before them all, Queen Alyse could not allow herself the luxury of collapse. She wanted to scream, to strike out, to flail against this unfair fate, but she could not. All these people she had gathered together for their joint defense depended on her strength and calm. This was what it meant to be a leader, always to put their good before her own. She could not fail them. They were Gwynedd. At that moment, she would have given years off her life to see Pellinore walk in the door.
Stannic walked in, instead. With him came twenty men armed with swords and daggers and a handful of grooms armed with clubs. Tears rose to the queen's eyes as she looked at their grave, determined faces. Kneeling, Stannic told her he had come at Marcus's request, as Marcus was busy on an errand of his own. These were the men he had roused from the barracks and the stables. There were others, he was certain, who were loyal, but they lived in the village, and it would be the work of hours to get them.
“He's taken the armory,” Stannic growled. “He's got weapons enough for a hundred. But not bodies enough, until his men come down from the hills. We'll hold him.”
Queen Alyse gathered her wits and forced her mind to work. “Where did Marcus go?”
Looking up, Stannic saw young Maelgon and little Peredur on the dais and knew that the queen must already have discovered the girls were missing. That explained her cold, bloodless face and the eyes wide with suffering.
“My lady, Marcus has gone with young Guinevere to rescue the princess Elaine, who was taken by Sir Darric's men.”
“Taken!” Queen Alyse staggered, felt behind her for the arm of her chair, and sank into it. She listened with growing consternation as Stannic related what little he knew about the abduction of her daughter, Guinevere's determination to thwart the plan, and Marcus's decision to help her. “Is it . . . is it known where he has taken her?”
“Not to me, my lady, but Marcus knows. That's why he went with Guinevere. He's the only one who does know.”
“How did it happen? How did Darric get hold of her? Did he—?”
Stannic shook his head. “I don't know any more than I've told you, my lady. You'll have to wait for Marcus t
o learn the rest. He'll find her, and he'll bring her back. He does what he sets out to do, does Marcus.”
Queen Alyse rested her head against the cushioned back of her chair and closed her eyes. Things were going from bad to worse very swiftly. Her daughter had been abducted by traitors, and her only hope of rescue depended entirely upon a one-armed man and a miscreant child. If Elaine could not be rescued . . . Shaking, Queen Alyse forced herself to face the worst. She might have to make the excruciating choice between Elaine's life and the future of the kingdom, the inheritance of her sons, the sovereignty of Gwynedd.
She opened her eyes to find Stannic on his feet, looking at her with genuine concern. On her cheeks, she could feel the cold tracks of silent tears. “How is rescue possible when the hills are full of his men?”
“I don't know, my lady. But Marcus has brains, and so does your niece. If the thing is possible, trust them to do it.”
“They will be taken themselves and add to the threat.” Queen Alyse clutched the cross at her throat. She looked at Stannic, at Ailsa and Grannic, at Cissa and Leonora and all the folk gathered in the hall behind them. She could bear no more of Stannic's empty reassurances. What she needed was a miracle.
She rose to her feet and faced the silent group of frightened people. “Men and women of Gwynedd, we face a great trial. Princess Elaine has been abducted by the traitor Darric of the Longmeadow Marshes. He seeks to force our hand by holding her hostage. We must be strong. We must stand together. We must not yield to weeping and lamentation. We must be united and strong of purpose. We will hold out until King Pellinore arrives. We will not surrender.”
They cheered her then, united in their admiration for her courage and her strength. Queen Alyse looked up at the narrow, unglazed windows set high in the eastern wall. Beyond them lay the pastures and the mountains of Gwynedd, the rest of Wales, the rest of Britain.
Guinevere's Gift Page 18
