Merlin stepped away from the desk. “Then take it to him.”
“Not until my crown has been restored!”
“It is not your crown. It never was.”
“It is,” the man insisted. “I’ve explained it all to Sir Bedwyr. My grandfather chose—”
“Your grandfather chose to gamble with his sons. Your father lost.”
Lord Riall began to tremble. He opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Your father was man enough to accept it,” Merlin said evenly. “Go home and persuade your lady mother to do the same.”
Lord Riall walked stiffly to the desk. Bedwyr watched with a pang of the heart as he rewrapped the dagger and tucked it securely under his arm. White-faced, Lord Riall bowed curtly to Merlin, brushed past Bedwyr, and stalked out of the tent.
Bedwyr had half a mind to stop him, but the enchanter shook his head.
“Let him go.”
Bedwyr swallowed. “What was that about a gamble? It stopped him in his tracks, all right. I was getting nowhere with him.”
Merlin smiled. “What reason did he give for his grandfather’s disinheriting his father?”
“An unfair preference for a second and younger wife.” “He said nothing about his father’s service in the wars?” “Only that Castellors fought for the High King.” “He did. When Vortigern the Wolf was High King.” “Vortigern! No wonder he kept that dark.” “Meleanor supported Vortigern for years, even after the murder of Prince Constans, because Vortigern was the only leader strong enough to stand against the Picts. But when Vortigern invited the Saxons in, gave them land, and sealed the bargain by taking a Saxon wife, Meleanor left his service and retreated to Gwynedd.” “And Castellors did not?”
Merlin shrugged and extinguished one of the lamp flames between his fingers. The room darkened a little. From the shadows, he told Bedwyr the story of Castellors.
“On his father’s orders, Castellors kept faith with the Wolf. His younger brother, Meregon, was growing up to be a likely warrior by that time, and their father, Meleanor, who feared being caught on the losing side, sent young Meregon south with a troop of men to join Ambrosius’s invasion from Less Britain. The brothers fought against each other in the war that followed. Whoever won, Meleanor stood to gain—at the cost of a son. Castellors was lucky enough to survive the massacre of Vortigern’s forces, and he went home, disgraced but alive. Meregon distinguished himself in the deciding battle against the Saxons and became an honored member of Ambrosius’s inner circle. Of course Meleanor made him his heir. He had no choice.”
Bedwyr shook his head. “I’d no idea. I don’t blame Lord Riall for his disappointment. Or Lady Gemina for hers. No doubt she expected to be queen of Gwynedd when she married Castellors. But it’s long in the past, all of it. They can’t seriously hope to reverse that turn of fortune.”
Merlin put out the second lamp flame. Now the tent was dark except for the dancing flicker of Bedwyr’s candle. Bedwyr watched in secret wonder. Merlin was the only good man he had ever known who felt more comfortable in shadow than in light.
“Lady Gemina’s dream is at the root of all this trouble,” said Merlin. “No doubt the dagger was her idea.”
“Then the dagger isn’t genuine after all?”
“The dagger is perfectly genuine. The sheath is not.”
Bedwyr wondered at his certainty. “It looked like first-rate Roman craftsmanship to me.”
“It is,” Merlin agreed. “But it was made for a shorter blade. Someone, probably Lady Gemina, had the sheath enlarged to fit that dagger. All that silver chasing hides the signs of recent work.”
“Lord Riall said she took it to a goldsmith for repairs.”
“Not only for repairs.”
“Is the dagger not Roman-made as well?”
“No,” Merlin said quietly. “The dagger is Briton work. Forged in the hills of Gwynedd and cooled in the swift-flowing streams of Y Wyddfa.” He paused and added, “Magnus Maximus had the dagger made as a wedding gift for his Welsh bride, Elen of Gwynedd. There are bards’ tales about that gift … but no one sings them now.”
“It was his dagger, then? The inscription is genuine?”
“It’s partly genuine. The dagger was a gift from Maximus, not to him. The wording has been changed to suit.”
“To my commander,” Bedwyr quoted. “That didn’t mean Maximus?”
“A romantic reference to his wife. The feminine has been changed to the masculine. You can see the erasures if you look. It was very cleverly done. I bow to Lady Gemina’s ingenuity.” Merlin’s dark eyes met Bedwyr’s. “But the runes revealed the truth.”
“Runes?” Bedwyr breathed. He had seen no runes.
“Down the shaft of the blade, underneath the Latin letters. Put the blade to the flame and they appear, red as fire. It’s an old art, lost now except in a few dark mountain haunts. The man who made that blade was a master.”
Bedwyr cleared his throat nervously. “What, er, do the runes say?”
“That the blade was made for her who is first and best. Translated: for the Queen of the Britons.”
“But, my lord, in that case …”
“You think I should have sent it straight to Arthur.”
Bedwyr nodded. It was the obvious move. Arthur was King of the Britons, and now he had a wife.
Merlin shook his head. “Be easy, Bedwyr. It will go to Arthur. But not yet.” His voice sank. “Before we leave this camp, the dagger will be in our hands. You will take it to Arthur. Legitimately. Not as the result of any bribe.”
Bedwyr’s look lightened. “Then it is important, after all, that Arthur have it?”
“His having it is not important. His giving it away will be.”
Confused, Bedwyr opened his mouth to ask another question, but the enchanter cut him off.
“Don’t ask me for more. Further than that I have not seen. Arthur will possess it, and the woman he gives it to will come to glory with him. She will be Queen of all the Britons.”
“But,” Bedwyr breathed, “he is already wed. He has a wife. It has all taken place, and without the dagger.”
Merlin turned away, hunching his shoulders as against a cold breeze. “I have told you what I know. What must happen will not happen without the dagger. Good night, Sir Bedwyr. I can find my own way to Queen Esdora’s tent.”
It was not until the enchanter had gone out into the night that Bedwyr realized he had said nothing at all to Merlin about Queen Esdora.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Queen Esdora
Guinevere slipped silently out of the tent in the middle of the night. She had gone two days without news and could not bear the ignorance forced upon her any longer. She had to know how Trevor was doing. He might be dead; he might be alive but unable to wake or speak; he might be permanently maimed. She had seen such things four years ago when the wounded of Gwynedd came home after the battle at Caer Eden. Even those who recovered were not the same as they had been before. Long illness, like the loss of a limb, changed a person’s life forever. She could not sit passively by while Trevor lay facing such possible futures and do nothing to help. It was her fault that he lay there at all.
What would she do if Trevor died? She had been able to think of little else since Sir Bedwyr’s men had lifted Trevor’s inert body onto the litter and taken him away. Sir Bedwyr had been kindness itself, wrapping her in his own cloak, riding by her side all the way back to camp, and personally escorting her to Queen Alyse’s tent even before he went to prepare Queen Esdora for her son’s arrival. But nothing he said could assuage her remorse. Her responsibility was real and her guilt clear.
For the first time, she understood the burden borne by warriors and their commanders. A decision she had freely made might end in another’s death. That Trevor was her friend and not her enemy made her misery ten times worse. There was no way to repair the damage she had done, no apology she could make to Queen Esdora that would ease that lady’s pain.
Again
and again she had begged for an audience with Queen Alyse, just to ask permission to call on Queen Esdora. But her aunt, busy with other matters, had not had time to see her. Grannic and Ailsa claimed to have heard no news of Trevor, and Ailsa tried to reassure her that no news meant his condition had not worsened. But this was a guess, at best, and of little comfort. She had tried to ask Elaine, who always knew the latest gossip, but Elaine was sunk in a black mood and would not speak to her.
As the second dark day slid into night, Guinevere decided that she could not wait any longer. She would go straight to the source and ask Queen Esdora how Trevor fared.
With infinite care in the darkness of the tent, she tiptoed around Ailsa’s sleeping place, opened the traveling trunk, and drew out the topmost gown. She struggled into it, noting a new tightness across the shoulders, and laced it up. From the feel of the fabric, she guessed it must be her old gray gown, a plain and unflattering hand-me-down of Cissa’s that had been altered for her only last spring. She grimaced in the dark. Another growth spurt! At this rate, she would be as tall as Queen Alyse by Christmas, an affront her aunt was unlikely to overlook. She thrust her feet into the first shoes she came to, combed her fingers through her hair and braided it swiftly behind her back, grabbed her cloak, and slipped noiselessly out of the tent.
The camp lay still as a deathwatch under a starless sky. The rain had stopped, but clouds still hugged the treetops. Torches shed small halos of light on the muddy ground, illuminating the night guards but little else. Keeping the hood of her cloak well forward and moving carefully over the trampled meadow grasses, Guinevere made her way to the Powys encampment unseen.
She paused outside the reach of the torchlight and gazed at the entrance to the royal tent. Two men armed with swords stood before the door, one young and the other old enough to be his father. She hadn’t expected a double guard, but it couldn’t be allowed to matter. A way must be found around them.
“Christ, I’m tired.” The young guard yawned.
Guinevere started at the nearness of his voice. Some trick of the dark or the damp made him sound as if he spoke at her shoulder.
“Serves you right,” the elder grunted. “Next time, drink less at dinner the night you’re standing watch.”
“It’s not that,” the young man protested. “It’s Cadog, the arrogant fool. While you were out hunting, he took us five leagues north on the Deva road. Following the tracks of a hillman he thought he’d seen around camp.” He flashed a grin at his companion. “Wild-goose chase, of course. Could have told him so. Everyone knows hillmen leave no tracks.”
Guinevere froze where she stood, half afraid that the night air, which carried their voices to her so clearly, might betray to them the pounding of her heart.
The veteran hawked and spat into the darkness. “Waste of time. Hillmen are best left alone.”
The young guard gaped at him. “They’re thieves, Derfel! They stole Cadog blind last winter. Took his stacks of peat and half his charcoal.”
“That may be Cadog’s story,” Derfel grumbled. “But a truth-teller Cadog’s not.”
“But his family nearly froze to death!”
“Cadog’s a reckless man. I heard he lost his stores in a wager and blamed hillmen to cover his folly.”
“But—but—”
“Be still, Briant. She’ll hear you. Ears like a fox, the queen has.”
Forewarned, Guinevere exhaled carefully, but still Derfel’s head came up. “Who goes there? Stand forth in the queen’s name.”
The moment to act had come. Guinevere ran into the arc of light and knelt at the veteran’s feet.
“Please, sir, I have a message for Queen Esdora. From—from Queen Alyse of Gwynedd.”
“At this hour?” The younger guard was openly skeptical. “Come back in the morning, maiden. The queen’s abed.”
Guinevere raised her eyes to the veteran’s lined face. “Please, sir, I know the hour is late. But my mistress cannot rest, and I know—I know Queen Esdora is not asleep.”
The veteran Derfel looked down at her upturned face. Briant continued to insist that the queen was not available, that she could not be waked or interrupted, and that the message must be left with them. Guinevere ignored him. She waited on her knees, her eyes pleading with Derfel, hoping he had a daughter, a sister, a niece whom he cherished, and that his affection might make him vulnerable to a girl’s distress.
“Listen,” said Briant, taking courage from the veteran’s silence. “Leave the message with us, and we’ll see the queen gets it as soon as she arises. I’ll escort you back to your tent, if you like. It’s not a fit night out for any maid alone.”
He had reached down an arm to pull her to her feet when at last Derfel spoke.
“Leave her be.” He turned to Guinevere and said, in a gentler voice, “Can’t the message wait, lass?”
Guinevere shook her head. “It has waited too long already.”
“For God’s sake—” Briant began.
“Silence.” Derfel made it a command. He sheathed his sword and nodded to Guinevere. “Come along.”
“Are you mad? She’ll skin you alive!” Briant’s protest was no less urgent for being whispered.
Derfel paid him no heed, but pulled back the tent flap and gestured Guinevere inside. It was very dark within. To the left, a dull glow outlined a curtain separating an ancillary chamber from the central one.
“Wait here,” Derfel said softly. As he pushed past the curtain, a whiff of peat smoke and herbscent escaped, followed by the murmur of voices. Guinevere deduced the location of the sickroom. Derfel reappeared, carrying a lit candle that he placed on the table in the center of the room.
“I’ve done what you asked, lass. I hope you know what you’re about.” With that, he left her and went back to his post.
As no one followed him immediately through the curtain, Guinevere had time to look about her. The interior of the tent was sparsely furnished, and rushes lay thinly on the floor. A single lamp, unlit, a small bench, and two chairs flanked a square central table. The meager furnishings were old and unmatched, but well cared for and of excellent quality. The candlestand was made of silver, and by the candle’s light she could see the ivory inlay in the tabletop beneath it. There were no tapestries hung against the walls to keep out drafts; no gilded winestands, painted goblets, or cushions for the chairs. Not even a brazier to take the chill from the autumn air. Possibly the brazier in the sickroom was the only one they had brought with them. To the right, another curtain hid the entrance to a second ancillary chamber, but this was in darkness.
It seemed that the kingdom of Powys had once been wealthy but had since fallen on hard times. Guinevere wondered if that had anything to do with the illness of the present king, Trevor’s father. Still, despite its paucity of possessions, the royal chamber had an air of order and elegance that she admired.
She turned at the sound of rustling behind her. A woman had come through the curtain, an extraordinarily diminutive woman, tiny and upright, whose air of assurance clothed her as neatly as her nut-brown gown.
Guinevere made her reverence. “Queen Esdora.”
“That is my name.” The queen’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Hadn’t you better tell me yours?”
Color flooded Guinevere’s face and she bowed her head. “Guinevere … Guinevere of Northgallis, my lady.”
There was a short, potent silence. “Alyse would not have sent you as her messenger. Why are you here?”
“I—I—” Guinevere stammered, her face hot. “I came on my own, my lady. I said whatever I thought might get me past the guard.”
Queen Esdora’s hard expression softened, but her voice remained firm. “I expected you before this, Guinevere of Northgallis.”
Guinevere gulped. How could she explain without blaming Queen Alyse? She wished she had thought this out beforehand. She must do nothing to prejudice the queen of Powys against Queen Alyse or she might damage the prospect of Trevor’s marriage �
� if he lived.
Queen Esdora observed her struggle without compassion. “Did your aunt release you? Or did you sneak away?”
“I—I sneaked away.”
“Then you could have come yesterday, last night, this morning. Is that not so?”
Guinevere hesitated. This was not the interview she had intended.
“Have you no excuse?” Queen Esdora’s small brown slipper tapped impatiently among the rushes on the floor.
Guinevere sighed and shut her eyes. “No.”
“Well, that’s something. I despise excuses. You may rise.”
Standing, Guinevere was a full head taller than Queen Esdora. She felt like an ungainly scarecrow next to the queen’s petite, small-boned frame. Queen Esdora looked her up and down with an assessing gaze and smiled faintly.
Guinevere realized, flushing, that her cloak and gown were muddy from kneeling before Derfel. And her feet, she saw as she followed Queen Esdora’s glance, were not wearing slippers. Beneath the muddy hem of her too-tight gown poked the toes of her riding boots. The first shoes she had come to, fumbling in the dark … Another fountain of color splashed her face.
“You dressed in the dark, I see. At least it lends credence to your story.” Queen Esdora gestured to a chair. “Be seated.”
Knees trembling, Guinevere sank onto one of the carved chairs. Queen Esdora sat opposite, across the table. She was a neat, precise little person, as exact in her movements as in her speech. Her gown was expertly cut but devoid of trimming or ornament. The only jewel she wore was an amber brooch at her throat, an amber brooch with the Black Badger of Powys enameled in the center. Her sleek dark red hair was pulled back from her face and coiled in a careful knot at the base of her neck. She had elegant features that just missed beauty, and her fine skin, unassailable poise, and natural grace of bearing marked her as a lady of distinction.
Queen Esdora spoke briskly. “Derfel admitted you for one reason only: your certainty that I was not asleep. Explain how you knew that, please. Was it a guess?”
Guinevere looked down at her own hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “No, my lady.”
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