What now if she tests you?
30
Dismounting in the courtyard, the entire entourage approached the keep together.
No groomsmen came running, nor did any sign of life catch anyone’s eye, save for one lone cock pecking about a garner.
Cael commanded the wolfhound to stay, and the solemn beast lay down beside the horses to wait.
Inside the castle, it was equally as dismal.
Amdel’s hall was dark, its walls covered with smoke-stained, sagging tapestries. The sour scent of spoilt rushes made Cael’s nostrils flare as their boots clicked along rough stone tile. Following the light of a lone, flickering torch illuminating the recesses of the great hall, they entered to the resounding boom of a clap. Thunderous against the silence, it cut through the room, echoing harshly against bare stone walls.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
There, they discovered the brat prince seated atop the lord’s dais, hunkered down in his chair, drunk and belligerent, his eyes bloodshot and angry as he glared at both Warkworth brothers, leading the way into the hall. “Lauds!” he shouted. “Lauds!” And then he laughed maniacally. “Shall we toast to your perseverance, my lords?” He clapped again, and this time the sound was hysterical.
“Guards!” he called. “To me! To me!” But no one came.
No. One. Came.
The hall remained empty of footfalls, except for their own, until all who were present came to a wary halt before the littered dais.
The Warkworth brothers immediately moved to one side, Jack and Marcella to the other, just in case Eustace attempted to run, though he scarcely wiggled a toe. In fact, his gaze followed Giles and Wilhelm as he sank further into his chair, and said, wiggling a cup, “Drinks, anyone?”
“You’re a sot,” said Giles.
“And you, my lord de Vere! You’re but a lackey, though you believe you’re a very wise man. My auntie Matilda keeps you by the short hairs of your cock.”
Giles unsheathed his sword.
Cael knew the brothers longed to silence him forever for his sins against Warkworth, and, in truth, he would like to hand them both a torch. The King’s son was a waste of human flesh—a bag of bones with no redeeming qualities aside from the potential enrichment of good soil.
“You’re all so pathetic!” said Eustace. “Look at you!” He laughed, and then, his gaze fell upon Rhiannon, his eyes narrowing as he scoffed, “At long last! The proud, prodigal daughter emerges. Has anyone ever told you that you look precisely like your mother, dear? Alas, I warrant you’ve not half the wits she has. Too bad.”
Smiling thinly, he then turned to Cael, and said, “And you! Traitor! Your lips speak words—” He made a kneading motion with his hands to simulate froth at his mouth. “But ’tis little more than scum of the mouth. You are no better than Morwen’s ungrateful daughters. Oh, but I warrant she’ll see you pay for your faithlessness—every last one of you!”
He pointed to each of them in turn, stabbing at the air. “You. And you. And you. And you. You. And you!”
His gaze returned to Rhiannon then, and he said, “There’s nothing you can do to stop her, witchling!”
It was Marcella who spoke next, her voice resounding throughout the empty hall. “And yet, Prince Eustace, ’tis you who sits alone in the shadows of an abandoned castle, drowning your sorrows with sour vin! I warrant ’tis you who is the fool—you and those poor dafties who were stupid enough to follow a worthless, would-be king.”
Eustace’s gaze shot to Marcella, his gray eyes burning with loathing. “I may yet show you how ineffectual I am, you black-eyed cunt.” His hand moved to grasp the area of his genitals, and he squeezed furiously.
Marcella drew her sword and rushed the dais. Cael intercepted her, throwing an arm about her waist and drawing her back to a safer distance, even as the brothers advanced upon the dais.
“You’ll die poorly,” promised Marcella, even as she allowed herself to be restrained.
“Not yet,” said Cael. “As it stands, he’s one more bargaining chip in our favor. We’ll make good use of him. Seize him,” he said to the Warkworth brothers, and both men rushed the lord’s chair, dragging the prince up by his skinny arms.
No more than a lanky boy, he stumbled as they tossed him roughly toward the steps. However, emboldened by the realization that he would be spared—for the moment—the relief in his eyes was evident. His gaze narrowed malevolently. “You haven’t the first hope to defeat her!” he screamed. “Hail the Witch Goddess!”
And then he roared, “England will fall, and then rise again from its ashes! ’Tis I who will rule in the end! Damned be my father and to hell with Duke Henry!”
“You’re a fool,” said Rhiannon. “My mother will give you nothing. She’ll take whatsoever she pleases, including your seat on the throne, and in the end, no one will remember your name.”
Cael frowned at the disheveled prince being led off the dais, feeling a twinge of regret for what they were forced to do, if only in part because the lad was the same age his own son had been when Uther murdered him. “I’m certain Beauchamp kept an oubliette,” he suggested. “Find it and put the prince there.”
“Gladly!” said Wilhelm.
“He’s all yours when the time is right,” said Giles. “Don’t harm him yet.”
“Guard him as though your life depends upon it,” added Marcella.
“Because it does,” agreed Cael.
Once the prince was led from the hall, the remainder of the party dispersed, Giles to search for supplies and Cael to look for signs of life.
Rhiannon and Marcella worked together to safeguard the castle with warding spells and the remainder of Marcella’s philters. But the castle was a poor refuge as it stood.
The outer gate was destroyed.
The ramparts were still smoldering.
Whatever protection the outer bailey had afforded them, it was gone.
Alas, there wasn’t time to rebuild. Between now and such time as Morwen descended upon them—whenever that might be—they must find some way to secure the stronghold as best they could. Unfortunately, the prospects were grim—two women, one dog and four men against whatever army Morwen was rousing. Consequently, before setting out to inspect the grounds, Cael did something he hadn’t done since his time in the monastery. He searched for and found Amdel’s chapel—hidden as it was at the back of the bailey behind a savage little garden. He shoved open the door, revealing a dusty and cobwebbed interior, and made his way down the aisle toward the nave. Then, he knelt before the altar and prayed.
“Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Our reunion is bittersweet. In your belly, swollen with promise, I made the tricksy fae. Within your bowels I wrought the future. With your brew I’ll change the fates.
Very soon, when the light of this world has been doused like the flames of a hundred thousand dying stars… here, I’ll remain. “With you, my sweet…”
D’Lucy will pay.
Rhiannon will pay.
Stephen will pay.
The years have been long, and my body left wanting—too long without a lover’s touch.
The last I had in my bed was no more than a selfish little twat with dreams of wearing his father’s crown.
“Marcella,” I hiss. You’ll pay most of all, because you knew me when my heart was tender with pain… because when I revealed unto you the deepest, darkest place in my soul, still you held me and sang to me in the crook of your arm. “Deceiving little witch.”
How easily you plotted and schemed to steal away my daughter. How easily you betray me.
“Fire burn and caldron bubble,” I say, coaxing a flame about the fertile belly of my grail. And then, for a moment, I watch, fiddling with my ring. After a moment, I open the hidden compartment, then turn the contents into the kettle: Newts. Moon snails. A touch of human remnants. A pinch of bloodroot and hemlock, only for good measure.
Stirring the pot
with the tempest of my thoughts, I stand and stare into the silvery solution, once again mourning the loss of my scrying stone—that heirloom of my destruction that was stolen from me, along with my cauldron and my children. I suffered Taliesin to live and he repaid me by conspiring with my enemies.
Creirwy, you fool. Did you believe there would be no reckoning? Did you not know I’d suck the breath from your lungs? Did you think I would allow you to grow old and die here in this wretched pile of stones, keeping from me my grimoire and my grail? Nay.
Arrogant, faithless, ungrateful daughters.
Every one of you—Creirwy, Elspeth, Rhiannon, Seren, Arwyn and Rosalynde.
I brush a finger across the lip of my cauldron as Mordecai appears before me in the courtyard, his dark form silhouetted by the shifting dawn.
“Where are they?”
“Amdel.”
“Not so far,” I say.
And yet, not close enough.
“How many travel with them?”
“Six, including Marcella and Lord Blackwood.”
Cael, you fool! I told you not to lose your heart to my daughter, and what did you go and do?
My gaze moves slowly to Mordecai. “Do not call him thus in my presence ever again. Blackwood is mine. I am done with pretense.”
“As you wish, meistres.”
“What of the lords you roused from slumber? How many will pledge their armies?”
“All are persuaded.”
“Good,” I say. “Send my ravens. You and I will await our travel companions.”
“Aye, meistres.”
“Go now,” I say, anger darkening my tone—a fury not unlike that day so many ages thence when I last faced my makers, and they exiled me for my “tantrum.” And yet, they did send me to rule the realms of men, and this I will do.
Damned be their prophecy!
Damn be the words written in the grimoire!
I will not return to a watery grave!
Ego Draconis,
Natus Sylph
A capite ad calcem, igneus et fortes.
I am the dragon.
Born Sylph,
From head to toe, fiery and strong.
31
They found the oubliette in, of all places, the evening shadow of the church, constructed so that the spire, with its swordlike crucifix, might cast its long, punitive shadow into the rat-infested pit—a daily reminder to repent.
Clearly, the Prince hadn’t any compunction over his sins. He spat at Wilhelm before entering the pit. “My only regret was that you were not there when Warkworth burned,” he said, and Wilhelm reared back, and punched the man, breaking his nose, drawing blood. The Prince squealed indignantly, bringing a hand to his face to catch the blood. “Do you know who I am!” he railed. “Do you know who I am?”
With something like a snarl, Wilhelm pushed the man backward, not bothering to afford him a ladder or rope. He plummeted downward, landing with a thud and a crack.
Rhiannon was close enough to hear the exchange, but not close enough to know whether he was injured—clearly, not badly, because she could still sense his heart flame strong, and he continued to shout so loudly that his voice carried all throughout the bailey.
She could still hear him, even as she searched the garden, hoping to find ingredients for a good meal.
Although there was little to celebrate, they would need their strength over these coming days, and Rhiannon hoped there might be enough vittles to provide them all sustenance after a sennight of travel.
Unfortunately, magik could not produce food from thin air. That’s simply not the way it worked. It was only possible to manipulate the aether in ways that did not violate the laws of nature.
Fortunately, there were still a number of chickens living and thriving, nourished by the remnants in the garner. She counted more than a dozen hens and two healthy cocks pecking around the yard. Without delay, she and Marcella collected two of those hens, then found the kitchen to clean and prepare their prizes, then Rhiannon returned to the garden to see what else she could find.
At one time, these raised beds must have been well-cared-for. But they had gone wild during these past few months while the castle sat empty—not more than two or three, she thought. She was heartened to find radishes, peas, parsnips and leeks, as well as carrots.
However, whilst she was exploring, she caught an image as she passed… It was her sister Elspeth, kneeling with a lovely young woman next to a bit of bedstraw, both of them tugging at weeds. It was no more than a glimpse, but she knew intuitively it was a look into the past, and she fell to her knees where her sister had once knelt, missing Elspeth so dearly that she feared she might weep.
Five years.
Five long years since she’d last seen any of her sisters, except through visions and dreams…
“Soon,” she whispered. “Soon.”
For better or worse.
She thrust a hand into the cool, damp earth, and just as surely as she could feel it fill the palm of her hand, she knew she would see her sisters again…
It was a feeling she couldn’t explain, but it was strong now… strong enough to squeeze her heart.
Ellie had been here… right here, in this very garden… perhaps en route to Aldergh…
Perhaps, in truth, this was where Malcom had left her that day when he’d returned to Wales to find Rhiannon.
Smiling over the memory of Malcom Scott approaching her tumbril, she sprinkled the soil back into the bed.
She knew who he was the instant she saw him. Tall, with a great bearing and a face that no doubt made women swoon, he’d approached her tumbril with a sense of purpose and she’d had little doubt he would draw his sword and fell every last guard assigned to her travels.
She wouldn’t allow it.
Affecting a pretense so that her guards wouldn’t realize she was mindspeaking with him, she’d shouted obscenities at Lord Aldergh and tossed a makeshift grimoire at his head. She felt badly about that now, but a sense of panic had come over her when she’d realized he meant to free her.
I go where I need to go, she’d said.
Straight to her destiny…
Straight to Cael.
During a thorough search of the premises, Giles and Wilhelm discovered a well-equipped armory. Unfortunately, most of the weapons had already been confiscated. Still, there remained an anvil and forge, and more than enough tools and scraps to effect repairs. Therefore, while Giles assisted, Wilhelm put to use his modest skills, honing all their weapons in preparation for the struggle to come.
Marcella made use of the kitchens to brew more philters, and meanwhile she cooked up a few hens.
Cael inventoried supplies, then devised a plan for defense.
It was to be expected, perhaps, that, after Beauchamp’s death, someone—likely the King’s men—would have swept through these grounds and seized most of the dead lord’s valuables. In fact, it could be that Beauchamp’s sister, now wed to Blaec d’Lucy, had appropriated what she could. But Cael suspected it was Eustace who’d laid the castle bare, stripping even the walls of its tapestries, if only to sell.
However, they found no evidence of plunder on the premises—not until they discovered a small room adjacent to the lord’s chamber, which, in fact, did contain some of the relics belonging to Bury St. Edmunds.
Here, the King’s son had evidently begun to store his treasures, perhaps having seized upon Amdel as a base from which he’d intended to mount a coup against his father.
In support of this conjecture, they found evidence to that effect within the lord’s chamber, including a list of barons who might be persuaded to rally to his cause.
They also discovered maps of Winchester and the treasury at Flint Tower. More documents like these were littered about the lord’s bower. Cael gathered them all together and took everything to Giles, leaving Rhiannon to further investigate the room. It was a mess, littered with sour-smelling cups, and items of note that probably belonged to Eustace—a
fine sword, a golden scabbard, a nice bow with fletching, a very nice set of ringmail armor, with all the necessary bits, all in very good shape. As it so happened, because Eustace was slight of figure, it also fit Rhiannon, so she put it aside.
The room itself smelt of spew and piss.
Evidently, Eustace had also discovered a store full of ale, and perhaps consumed every last drop, judging by the horrid state of his room. It was no wonder he did not join his men on the wall; his pores had also reeked of alcohol—easy to scent at twenty paces, and more.
Evidently, he was sulking, and furious over his dispossession—a manner of depression that manifested itself with a terrible stink that he never bothered to dispel, even despite having the use of a large, ornate tub.
In fact, no one had used that tub in quite some time, Rhiannon surmised, evident by a thick layer of dust inside. She longed to fill it and bathe, because, in truth, except for a few sponge baths, she’d not even done so on the night of her nuptials. She’d donned that beautiful wedding dress with a week’s worth of grime on her person. And so, it seemed, she might yet get the chance, because when everyone claimed a room, they conveniently left the lord’s chamber for the “newly wedded couple.”
Regardless, Rhiannon was quite sure it wasn’t entirely charitable; the stench of the room was difficult to bear. Therefore, after she finished placing a few more wards about the inner bailey, she mounted the stairs again to begin repairing the room as best she could.
Really, considering what they were about to face, it was perhaps of little consequence, but some small part of her longed to spend at least one night with her husband that was… special—not that she would live to remember it, mind you, but it was important to her that she at least have one moment of joy to cherish.
Indeed, she still had cause to be vexed with Cael, but the time for petty grievances was over. He was here, with her, and he had, indeed, confessed his love.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 25
