Sir Bedwyr paused. “I most sincerely hope not, my lady.”
Her smile faded. “Why not?”
“Because I found it beneath a tree in the forest. Shallowly buried. Meant to be discovered.”
Morgan leaned against her cushions and reached for one of the silver goblets. Her hand was perfectly steady. Sir Bedwyr’s dark eyes watched her without expression.
“No thief buries a dagger so recklessly,” he said.
“Unless he’s in a hurry. He buried it too hastily, I presume.”
“I presume nothing. Not even the existence of a thief.”
She stared at him. “Be careful of your step, Sir Bedwyr. The thief was seen.”
He met her eyes, and Morgan recognized the look. It was an echo of Arthur’s direct and level gaze. How all her brother’s spaniels copied his every move! Still, in her experience spaniels were often moved by greed. “I hear you’ve found him and taken him into custody. Have you come to claim the reward for his capture?”
He ignored her question, but his face darkened. “I took Llyr into custody for his own protection. Whether he has taken anything from anyone is a matter yet to be determined.”
Her nostrils flared. “Protection from what?”
“From the men who want to kill him; the men whose greed you excited by the size of your reward; the men whose passions you deliberately aroused by your accusation against an Old One. The men who murdered the boy in their eagerness to kill Llyr, whom you accused by name.”
She sniffed and raised the goblet to her lips, saw that her hand was shaking, and lowered it again to her lap. “It’s not my fault the men were angry. Hillmen are a nasty breed. Skulking about in the woods and spying on us, the thieving devils. The men had every right to be annoyed.”
“But not to kill.”
She shrugged. It was a graceless gesture, and a drop of wine spilled from her goblet onto the crimson coverlet.
Sir Bedwyr drew a deep breath. “Princess Morgan, you laid a charge of theft against Llyr of the White Foot and offered a reward—far too large a reward—to the man who brought him in, alive or dead. As a result of that offer, an innocent boy was murdered.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Was this what he had come for? To accuse her of murder?
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Not directly, but you inspired the men who did. For that reason, I require your attendance at a hearing the day after tomorrow at midday. Perhaps we can get to the bottom of this tangle then.”
“You’ve found the thief!” she cried. “Everyone says so. Kill him and have done with it.”
“I don’t know that Llyr is the thief. He came to me of his own accord and his tale of these events differs substantially from yours. Even if he’d told me nothing, he deserves a hearing.”
“He’s a hillman. He deserves nothing but contempt.” Sir Bedwyr remained impassive. Morgan shrugged. “Have your hearing, if you must, but return my dagger to me.”
“Ah.” Sir Bedwyr paused. “The dagger. Are you ready to describe it now?”
Morgan hesitated. She was not ready. She could not yet discern his purpose in coming. She did not believe he really meant to accuse her of murder. He seemed to want her to admit to ownership of Lord Riall’s dagger and, for that reason alone, she was inclined to deny him. Yet she was loath to relinquish her claim to the dagger, even without the ruby. Of course, Sir Bedwyr had no way of knowing that the dagger he had found had once belonged to Lord Riall … or had he? She went cold at the thought. Was the little mouse a rat at heart? Had he lied to her? She needed to stall a little longer.
“You’ve already seen it. You know it’s the only dagger in camp worth a talent of silver.”
“As to that,” Sir Bedwyr said easily, “I’ve only seen one dagger in my life that valuable, and it belongs to Lord Riall.”
Morgan froze. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. Both hands clutched the goblet in her lap. “Lord Riall?” she whispered.
Sir Bedwyr nodded. “Yes. An antique weapon with a large blade in a golden sheath set with jewels. Perfectly stunning.”
That rat Riall! She cleared her throat to gain command of her voice. “I’d no idea a man like Lord Riall could possess such a weapon.”
“Didn’t you?”
She swallowed hard. Her throat was dry. She longed for a sip of wine but dared not raise the shaking goblet to her lips. “No. I did not.” She raised her chin defiantly and added, “Did you?”
Sir Bedwyr responded with a half smile. “Not until he came to my tent and showed it to me. It was an heirloom of his mother’s family. He brought it to Deva to give to Arthur.”
That demented fool! He had shown it to Sir Bedwyr before he showed it to her! And he hadn’t told her! She fought for control of her voice. “Poor man,” she said at last, with a chilly smile. “I suppose he wouldn’t give it to you, instead?”
“He offered it to me. As a bribe for influence. I turned him down.”
Morgan thought furiously. The dagger was lost to her, but now something greater was at stake. Did he know that Lord Riall had offered it to her on the same terms? Of course not. He couldn’t know. No one knew but Riall, Morgan herself, and Marcia. And Riall was gone. She glanced quickly at Marcia and saw only concern on her face. No, Marcia hadn’t told. She was safe, then. Safe. Yet her hands would not cease their trembling.
Sir Bedwyr was still speaking. “It’s odd that Lord Riall never claimed his dagger was stolen or even missing. And yet I found it beneath a tree in the forest.”
“Perhaps he feared to tell you. Perhaps he was afraid you had taken it yourself.” Something flickered behind Sir Bedwyr’s eyes and Morgan smiled to herself. Her blow had struck home. Theft was a thing he had considered. “Or perhaps he’s lying low. Ask him. Force it out of him.”
Sir Bedwyr shook his head slowly. “He left camp at noon today.”
“Indeed?”
“But before he left, Lord Riall and I had a little conference in my tent.”
Icy fingers closed around Morgan’s heart.
“He admitted to me that he gave his dagger to you. As a bribe for your influence with Arthur in his mother’s cause.”
Her breathing stopped, and her amber eyes hardened to glossy points. “And you believed him.”
“Not him alone. You were seen.”
“Impossible!” She blanched and her face went rigid. “You believe these lies because you wish to!”
“No, princess, I don’t wish to. But I want the truth.”
“The dagger that savage stole from me was a small woman’s dagger, Gaelic in design, with a handle of twisted snakes and a pretty enameled sheath. A gift from Alyse of Gwynedd. You saw it yourself at their presentation.” The words came out in a rush and left her breathless.
Sir Bedwyr’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t expect me to believe that. That dagger’s worth nowhere near a talent of silver.”
“Not to you, perhaps. For me, it has sentimental value.”
“Princess.” His voice was openly skeptical.
“What would I care for a dagger belonging to Lord Riall or his mother? Queen Alyse is someone of importance.”
Sir Bedwyr sighed. “When Lord Riall brought his dagger to us—”
“Us?” she cried, her voice shrill. “There was someone with you?”
She sensed the blow before it fell; shadows loomed and the light dimmed.
“Merlin was with me. He read the runes on the blade.”
Merlin! She shut her eyes. Merlin the Enchanter! The chamber was spinning about her. She swayed and found no balance.
“My lady!” It was Marcia, close by, clutching her shoulder and pulling at the bedclothes. The goblet was no longer between her shaking hands. The coverlet was wet and reeked of wine.
“Princess,” Sir Bedwyr said gently. “I wish no ill to anyone of Arthur’s blood, but I—”
Her eyes flew open. “Serpent! Snake!” she hissed at him. “How do you dare?” She leaned forward as if poised to strike.
“Did you imagine I would agree to plead his miserable suit before the King? I’m not a half-wit. And I could care less who rules in Gwynedd!”
Sir Bedwyr looked at her in silence. She caught her breath as she realized what she had revealed. Sir Bedwyr had said nothing about Lady Gemina’s desire to be queen of Gwynedd.
“Who told you Lord Riall gave his dagger to me?” she croaked. “I have a right to know the name of my accuser—it’s Arthur’s law!”
“Llyr saw him take the dagger to your tent and leave without it.”
She threw up her hands. “Llyr! The spy from the woods! You’ll believe that filthy savage over me? No one has ever dared insult me so! You’ll give him a hearing and allow him to spread his vicious lies among Arthur’s allies? He’s a thieving, lying, primitive savage—he does not deserve a hearing—he stole my dagger; he stole Lord Riall’s dagger; he buried them until it was safe to dig them up—the truth is as clear as the nose on your face! Everyone sees it but you. And you are supposed to be in Arthur’s service? How does this serve him? A public hearing? You must be mad!”
“Nevertheless, well or ill, I expect you to be present.”
“Or else what?”
“Or I shall have to pass judgment without the benefit of your advice.”
She laughed. It was a hard, joyless sound. “You daren’t let him go. And you have no evidence against me.” Merlin. What had Merlin seen? Where was he now? Was it true that he had left camp yesterday? “Even if you did, you wouldn’t implicate me. Not your beloved Arthur’s sister.”
“I sincerely hope I shall not have to,” Sir Bedwyr said wearily. He bowed again and headed for the door.
Morgan rose to her knees in her scarlet robe, stained with wine. “Arthur needs Urien of Rheged!” she shouted after him. “If you attempt to cross me, spaniel, I shall refuse to marry him!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Striking the Head of the Snake
In the morning, Princess Morgan paid a visit to Queen Alyse. It was a damp, cold late October day, just too warm for frost. A thin mist hanging in the air carried the sound of voices easily from tent to tent. Grannic had come running in just after breakfast with news of the impending visit, and both nurses and girls huddled against the wall of their tent nearest the queen’s to hear what the princess had come to say.
It started well enough, Guinevere thought, but then, like a boulder poised on the edge of a landslide, it teetered, tipped, and rolled toward disaster with ever-increasing speed. Princess Morgan wasted no time in small talk but came straight to the point. She wanted Alyse’s cooperation at the hearing tomorrow. She feared that Sir Bedwyr might be reluctant to punish the thief he had caught because of the known association between this particular hillman and the House of Gwynedd. Friends of the House of Gwynedd were everywhere respected. Everyone knew of the close relationship King Pellinore enjoyed with the High King, a position he had earned for his unstinting service in the Saxon wars. It was perfectly understandable that Sir Bedwyr would shy from taking any action that might offend such a loyal ally. But was it fair to rap the thief on the knuckles and let him go, just to please a friend? This was not justice, and she, like her brother, was committed to seeing justice done. She was certain that once Queen Alyse had had a chance to think it over, she would acknowledge her duty to urge Sir Bedwyr toward the right course.
Morgan paused for a response from Queen Alyse, but none came. She continued in a harder voice: What kind of precedent would it set to release the thief who stole a precious and valuable object—a weapon, no less—from the sister of the High King? What message would that send to the other savage tribes? And to lowborn folk everywhere? If Sir Bedwyr did not make an example of Llyr, what license might be taken, what chaos might arise, when people of every station found they could disregard the law with impunity? It did not bear consideration.
Another pause followed. This time, Queen Alyse replied. She knew nothing about the theft or the capture of a suspect beyond what Sir Bedwyr had told the entire camp. She would wait until after the hearing to form an opinion. She was sure that Sir Bedwyr honored justice as much as the High King did, and that his judgment would be fair. For Princess Morgan’s sake, she hoped that the suspect was not the same young man who had saved her daughter’s life six months ago, for if he was, she would be absolutely unable to ally herself to Morgan’s cause. He had saved Elaine; for that, she would forgive him anything. Even the theft of a royal dagger. The words went unspoken, but not unheard, in the chilly silence.
Guinevere squeezed Elaine’s arm. Queen Alyse was a woman of strong opinions and difficult to intimidate. Guinevere, who had often been on the wrong side of her wrath, had never been so thankful for it.
“I advise you to reconsider, Alyse. I would hate to see your reputation damaged and your husband’s friendship with my brother placed in jeopardy. Especially as the building on Caer Camel has begun and Arthur is gathering about him the makings of a most illustrious court.”
A chill ran up Guinevere’s spine. This was a threat with teeth. Little was dearer to her aunt than Pellinore’s friendship with King Arthur.
“Do you imply,” Queen Alyse retorted, in a voice every bit as cold as Morgan’s, “that you have the power to damage us? King Arthur is known for not believing lies.”
“I will tell him none,” Morgan snapped. “I will tell him the plain truth.”
“As will Sir Bedwyr.”
“I am his flesh and blood. He will believe me.”
“You seem certain that your truth and Sir Bedwyr’s differ.” Fabric rustled as someone rose. “I do not yield to threats,” said Queen Alyse. “Not even from the High King’s flesh and blood. Go pour your poison into other ears, Lady Morgan. I will listen to no more.”
Elaine giggled and Guinevere clapped a hand over her cousin’s mouth.
“Your reputation for brittleness is well deserved,” Morgan shot back acidly. “And sentimentality is a mistake. When I am queen of Rheged, we shall speak of this again.”
“You may. I certainly will not.”
With a jingle of jewelry and a rustle of stiffened silk, Princess Morgan stalked out.
Elaine pushed away Guinevere’s hand. “Hurrah for Mother! That’s telling her!”
Grannic caught Elaine’s arm in an iron grip and held her still. “You two better get back to your chores. Ailsa and I have all this bedding to air, and we can’t do that with you about. And here’s the morning already half gone.”
Fetching water from the river and kindling from the woods took the girls the rest of the morning. When they returned to their tent at midday, Elaine collapsed on her pallet, tired and out of temper, but Guinevere threw open her trunk and began to change her clothes.
“Where are you going now?” Elaine complained. “Not out riding.”
“No, not out riding.” Guinevere slipped into a cleaner gown and rebraided her hair in a long plait down her back. She knew it was not as neat as Ailsa would have done it, but Ailsa was not there. Her slippers were lamentable, but that could not be helped. Her only other shoes were riding boots.
“Then where?”
“To see Sir Bedwyr. I’ve got to talk with Llyr.”
“But no one’s allowed to talk with Llyr.”
“He’s had time to question him; he shouldn’t mind.”
But Sir Bedwyr did mind. He was apologetic, but firm. She could not see Llyr. No one could.
“But you’ve had plenty of time to talk to him,” Guinevere pleaded. “You said you wanted to get the truth from him first, and you have. What’s the harm in my talking to him now?”
Bedwyr grunted. “I haven’t got anything from him. He refuses to answer questions.”
“He … what?”
“He’s said nothing. He’s safe, warm, and well fed, but he’s decided not to speak.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “Merlin talked him into it, I think. I can’t guess why.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Merlin the Enchanter spoke with Llyr?”
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br /> “Yes, and I’ve no idea what they said. I wasn’t there.”
“You allowed Merlin to see him but no one else?”
Bedwyr shook his head. “I didn’t allow it. I left the guards with standing orders to keep everyone out, and when I returned I found the enchanter in my chamber, talking to Llyr. It’s a trick of his, you know, invisibility. My guards saw nothing.”
“Oh, please, Sir Bedwyr, let me see Llyr. I can get him to talk. He might be afraid of you, but he’s not afraid of me.”
Bedwyr smiled gently. “No, princess, it’s not fear he feels for you. But it will be harder for him to see you than to be left alone.”
Guinevere colored brightly and Bedwyr sighed. “Don’t worry. He’s an Old One. He’ll endure. Everyone tells me that’s their greatest strength.”
She didn’t argue. She thanked Sir Bedwyr for his patience and sped away to see her brother Gwarth.
The king of Northgallis was just returning from a hunt among the marshes. “Why, Gwen!” he called, leaving his men and their nets of waterfowl. “A pleasure to see you. Did you come to visit?”
She hugged him and kissed his hairy cheek. “Yes, Gwarth, I did. I need your help.”
“Oh, aye, that’s likely,” he chuckled. “But I’m glad to be of service. Come along inside and share a skin of wine.”
She waited, masking her impatience, while he disappeared into his chamber to change out of his wet clothes. A servant brought her warmed wine, which she couldn’t drink, and a plate of mealcakes, which she didn’t eat. Waiting gave her time to think. Why had Princess Morgan come to see Queen Alyse that morning? Not for her support at the hearing, as she claimed. She must have known from the outset that Queen Alyse and King Pellinore were Llyr’s foremost allies, and therefore her chief opponents. Had she come to put Queen Alyse on notice that battle was joined? Or to deliver a blow that might make battle unnecessary? Guinevere remembered something her father used to say about going to war: Strike at the head of the snake or not at all.
Princess Morgan had struck at Queen Alyse and failed to intimidate her. What would she do next? A small sweat broke on Guinevere’s brow. If she were in Morgan’s place, she would gather her allies, like any good general, and prepare for the next attack.
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