Niall would hold back his men, as well. To defend Oengus, he would tell Angus. What a stroke of luck that the Saxons would be engaging both Angus and the overbearing Briton king with his calculating mind. It would make it easier for him and Fergus.
With a self-satisfied smirk, he quickly penned another letter to Fergus and dispatched it with one of his most loyal retainers. As loyal as silver could buy, anyway. And his messengers knew that, if they returned with no reply, he’d murder either their wives or children. In this case, the man was newly married and quite besotted with the young girl. A pretty thing with hair the color of a copper pence. Hmmm.
Niall uncapped a wineskin and took a deep drag. For everyone’s sake, the man had better bring a response. Niall would enjoy using the sweet matron if he didn’t.
◊♦◊
By the time they returned, less than a sennight from when they’d left, Elen was looking better and feeling stronger. Deidre was glad to see that she even managed to engage her husband in conversation at dinner that night, though Formorian was sitting on his other side.
“What did ye do while we were gone?” Gilead asked in surprise as he slipped into the chair beside Deidre. “My mother has some of her old energy back.”
She shrugged, pleased with the compliment. “Perhaps the right people know I’m tasting her food. She’s not been ill at all.”
Gilead smiled at her. “I wish ye could cure our troubles with Fergus Mor and the Saxons as well. ’Twould be nice to have peace in my lifetime.”
Turius leaned across the table to Gilead. “A lofty idea, to be sure, but peace is as elusive as that damn treasure cup that some of my best men have been hunting for nigh unto a year now, instead of soldiering.”
Gilead cast a wary eye at his mother’s priest sitting at a nearby table. “Mayhap, it would be best if ye not curse the cup in front of the holy man.”
Turius snorted. “Bishop Dubricius thinks the blasted relic to be one of King Solomon’s lost treasures. No doubt, he put out the rubbish that it belonged to the Christ to put fear into any man who finds it. It must be returned to the Church, he says.” Turius refilled his own goblet. “Any man who quests for the cup will find the journey a spiritual one as well, the good bishop says.” Turius allowed a small smile. “I suspect the reason he wants it is because it’s worth enough to make him a rich man. If it exists.”
Just then, Drustan strummed a series of notes that halted the conversation. The hauntingly beautiful melody hovered in the air, seeming to quiet even the most lively of conversations.
Turius turned back to Formorian and Elen reached for Gilead’s hand, a gentle smile on her face.
Deep in thought, Deidre hardly noticed. The lost cup again…one that had belonged to Jesus Christ. Could it be…no, of course not. So much else of what the unknown author had written in The Book hadn’t happened. She was letting her overactive imagination run amok again. But she felt her heart quicken and her blood started to race through her veins. But what if…just what if it were? What if the Holy Grail really did exist? And what if that path were to lead her to the Philospher’s Stone?
◊♦◊
The thought was still on her mind the next morning when she sought out Gilead. She found him grooming Malcolm.
“Tell me more about this treasure cup that King Turius mentioned.”
He looked up briefly and then continued brushing the stallion’s mane. “I don’t know much about it. ’Tis a Christian relic that has been lost. Some say it’s made of pure gold. No doubt, that’s why men chase after it.”
“Could it possibly be the cup that Christ drank out of at the Last Supper?”
Gilead straightened and looked at her. “I suppose that if He did own it, He used it. Why do ye ask?”
Deidre hesitated and then said, “There is a story in The Book I told you about of something called the Holy Grail. Have you ever heard of it?” When he shook his head, she continued. “Supposedly, Jesus did drink from it, and, after he was crucified, Joseph of Arimathea brought the cup with him when he sailed for Britain. He established a monastery at Ynys Gutrin, near Aguae Sulis, but the cup disappeared shortly after.”
Gilead frowned. “That be far in the south of Briton. How is it ye know so much about the lay of the land, Sassenach?”
“I’m not a spy,” Deidre said in exasperation. “I thought you believed me. I’m trying to tell you that the cup has healing powers. Certainly, those who drink from it could only feel goodwill toward others, even their enemies. Don’t you see? If the Grail were found, there would be no need for war. Peace could be established.”
Gilead smiled. “That would be worth questing for, indeed, lass, but probably more elusive than the Stone ye seek. At least ye know that it exists.”
“Hear me out, please. The legend says that only a man pure of heart may find the Grail. Percival, who many thought to be a fool, was one. Galahad, Lancelot’s son, was another. Lancelot was allowed to see it, but of course, he wasn’t—”
“Stop! Who are these people? I’ve ne’r heard of them.”
“Lancelot was King Arthur’s best warrior and most trusted friend,” Deidre began and was interrupted by Gilead once more.
“King Arthur? The only Arthur I know is the prince of Dyfed. Are ye speaking of him?”
Deidre stared at Gilead, excitement building inside her. Were the stories in The Book true, after all? Mayhap she just had the wrong area. “Possibly,” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. “Does he live at a place called Camelot?”
Gilead looked confused. “Do ye mean Camulodunum?”
The Latin name of the place from The Book’s title! She felt her chest tighten and her breath came in shallow gasps. The place existed! “Yes!”
He furrowed his brows. “Camulodunum is an old Roman town, now well within Saxon territory in the southeast of Britain. Across the country from Dyfed, lass.”
She frowned. Not the same, then, but she would not let Gilead burst her bubble. “Maybe it isn’t the same name. Tell me about Arthur.”
“He regularly led raids into Gwynedd and Powys,” Gilead answered. “Amassed a bit of land in the doing.”
That could be it. “Can I meet him, do you think?”
Gilead shook his head and smiled. “Not unless ye plan to answer Janus’s call to the Otherworld. The man was killed south of Dinas Mawddwy more than five years ago.”
King Arthur was dead? And not at Camlann either. Deidre felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. Did Gwenhwyfar live? She had to ask. “Did King Arthur have a wife?”
“Prince, not king.” He thought a moment and then shook his head. “If he did, I pity the woman. He was a tyrant and more troublesome than anything.”
Deidre’s crystalline image of the myths was shattering like delicate, imported Phocaean slipware hitting Roman tiles. Shards of the romantic pictures she had held in her mind for years were flying everywhere. She was surprised she wasn’t actually bleeding from the tiny slivers of imaginary glass. No Camelot. No knights. A ruthless Arthur and no Lancelot or Gwenhwyfar to keep her hopes up that true love would win one day. How her foolish heart had wanted to believe in that dream. The Book was nothing but falsehoods, just a cruel trick played by a deranged magician.
She had to get away from Gilead before he saw her cry. He would never understand. “Just as well that he’s dead, then,” she said and tried to keep the quiver out of her voice. “I’d better be getting back to your mother.” She turned and stumbled from the stall.
How stupid and silly she had been. In spite of the stark reality of life in Gaul and the same ruthless, scheming, greedy men she had encountered here, she had hoped to find her noble knight. War and bloodshed were real, yet she had clung to the wisps of hopeless fantasy, which were now dissolving like tendrils of fog in bursting sunshine.
But there was no sunshine in her life. Only the bleak prospect of a forced marriage to another tyrant. Lugnasad was just over a fortnight away and the Stone remained as elusive as ever.
Chapter Twelve
SAXONS
Deidre had taken care to seat herself between Gilead and Elen as Angus and Niall joined them, along with the Briton king and queen, for the midday meal. She was getting mightily sick of seeing Niall day and night and wished he’d go attend to his own lands. But no, since their return from the meeting with Gunpar, he’d stuck around like a fly to manure.
They had just begun eating when a messenger was shown into the Hall. He looked dusty, as though he’d ridden hard, but his face burst into a big smile as he approached.
“Fergus has retreated!” Angus read the note that Broderick had sent. “I guess the sight of painted Picts not willing to treaty persuaded him.”
Deidre thought Niall looked almost angry, but he quickly masked it by draining his wine and pouring more. She shook her head. Sot.
Gilead looked at Turius. “If Fergus isn’t likely to attack, ye’ll be able to return to Britain, I suppose.”
Formorian arched an eyebrow. “Ye’d be happy to see us go?”
“He dinna mean that.” Angus glared at Gilead who simply stared back at him. “We still have the Saxon menace to contend with.”
“And that is Turius’s specialty,” Formorian said with a smile and turned to her husband. “Isna it, dear?”
Turius shrugged. “Dealing with Cerdic and Aelle has given me some insight into how their minds work. They crave land more than anything. This Ida is no different.”
“Ida?” Niall looked up from the piece of venison he’d pulled from the haunch. “That be the gob’s name?”
“That’s what the scout said before Gunpar killed him,” Angus replied.
“They’ll move soon,” Turius added, “for they’ll want to establish themselves and harvest what they can before the weather turns cold. Since they know the Picts await them, they’ll move farther south. My wager is the northern tip of Lothian.”
Gilead threw a startled look at Deidre and she gave a little shrug.
“That would make sense,” Angus agreed, “and King Loth will need our help covering the shoreline.”
Gilead gave a little groan that only Deidre heard. That meant King Turius and his queen would be staying on. She sighed a little and then realized that Niall had been unusually quiet. Briefly she wondered what his problem was and then shoved the thought aside. As long as he left her alone, she didn’t care.
◊♦◊
Niall took his leave the next morning and Deidre breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to go back in to see to Elen and nearly bumped into Formorian. Where had she come from? The woman could move with a cat’s stealthiness when she chose.
“It would seem that ye are less than impressed with yer intended,” Formorian said as she slanted a sideways look at Deidre.
Deidre gave an unladylike snort. “That’s somewhat of an understatement.” A thought occurred to her. If anyone could persuade Angus to break this handfast, it would be Formorian. Would she help? “There is no love lost between us; Niall sees me as a challenge…something he can bend to his will.”
Formorian’s green-eyed glance strayed to Deidre’s wrists and, reflexively, Deidre pulled the sleeves down.
“I’ve seen the swelling,” Formorian said softly. “It’s not good when a man treats a woman like that.”
Deidre looked at her hopefully. “Then will you help me? If you would talk to Angus—I mean the laird—surely he would listen and call off this atrocity.”
“Ye seem to think I have influence over the laird.”
“Certes, you do! It’s obvious,” Deidre said and then felt herself flush as Formorian raised an eyebrow. This was not going well. “I mean…well, he respects your opinion.”
Formorian seemed amused. “Aye. My opinion.” She paused. “I already mentioned to him that I dinna think ye’d fare well with this union.”
Deidre was touched. As much as she wanted to dislike the woman for the grief she caused Elen, Formorian could show surprising empathy. No doubt that charm was even more evident when it came to men.
“And?”
Formorian shrugged. “Some things are beyond my persuasive abilities.”
She doubted it. At least where Angus was concerned. “What did he say?”
“That he needed Niall as an ally, not a foe.”
Deidre groaned. “So he’ll throw me to that wolf because he’s scared of Niall’s retaliating against him?”
Formorian took a step closer, her voice low. “Angus is not scared of anything, least of all Niall.”
Deidre caught the warning note, but she was too angry to care. “Then why is he forcing me into a marriage that I do not want?”
For a moment a faraway look appeared in Formorian’s eyes. “Wanting has nothing to do with it. When Fergus Mor was ousted by Mac Erca, he swore he would make all the land north of the Wall his. The only thing holding him back is that all four cenels are united—three of them by intermarried blood—to stand against him. And Fergus wants Oengus most of all, for Elen is Mac Erca’s daughter. Niall’s is the only cenel not bound by blood. If he turns, we would have a traitor right in the midst of all our lands, and Fergus would have an easy invasion for Oengus. Ye doona understand the clans. They would all be at each other’s throats if it werna for the marriage bonds.”
“Is that why you married Turius?” The question was out before Deidre could stop herself.
The slightly glazed look returned and Formorian became so quiet Deidre was about to leave. Finally, she nodded. “Aye. Had I not been given to Turius, Ambrose would have laid claim to my father’s land. It would have been his right. I couldna let that happen.”
Again, Deidre was amazed at Formorian’s forthrightness. She hadn’t thought the woman had had a single altruistic thought in her entire life. Deidre ventured a bit further. “Is that why Angus—the laird, I mean—married Lady Elen?”
Formorian’s full mouth tightened into a thin line and then she forced a smile. “Mac Erca would make a formidable enemy, but he had no desire to invade this land, not after ousting Fergus onto it.”
“Then why did Angus marry?” Deidre pressed. For the life of her, she’d never seen two people so completely incompatible as he and Elen were.
But Formorian’s face became guarded. “Ye’ll have to ask Elen that.” She shook her head a little as though to clear it. “I came out here to offer my help.”
“Your help?”
“Aye. Ye may not be able to prevent the marriage, but ye can prevent the bruises and being beaten.”
Deidre had every intention of preventing the marriage, if she had to steal a horse to do it. Better to be hanged than raped by Niall. Still, she was curious. “How so?”
Formorian gave her a genuine smile. “A man develops a certain…uh, respect…for a woman who can yield a dirk well. If he knows yer aim is deadly, he’ll think twice about turning his back on ye when yer mad. And,” she added as her smile widened into a grin, “a sharp blade pressed to hot balls will cool any advances ye doona want.” She paused and studied Deidre. “As long as ye aren’t afraid to follow through with it. A man will know if ye aren’t.”
The thought of castrating Niall was definitely appealing, but Deidre didn’t want to get that close. A knife in his black heart would be fine. And she’d do it, too, if there was no other way out. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s get started.”
◊♦◊
“Your mother seems to be getting weaker again,” Deidre said to Gilead a couple of days later as they rode along a southerly route toward some ruins in the forest he was taking her to see.
He looked worried as he nodded. “Yes, I noticed. I think the stress of having Formorian around all the time takes its toll.”
“Mayhap,” Deidre answered doubtfully, “but they do try and stay away from each other. Formorian has even stopped the blatant flirting at dinnertime.”
Gilead raised an eyebrow. “Are ye defending her?”
“No. It’s just that…” She wasn’t sure how to put it into wo
rds. It was as though, since Angus and the queen were in each other’s company much of the day, they had fallen into a sort of comfortable routine. Or they had come to their senses with Turius always at hand. In either case, Elen seem resigned to the woman’s presence. She did what any lady of breeding would do. She ignored her opponent. Not that Formorian seemed to notice. “Well, how would she get any kind of poison to your mother? She knows we’re watching. Meara and Brena are the only two who serve her.” She didn’t want to add that Angus still brought the morning wine.
Gilead seemed to read her thoughts. “But since my father’s been back, she’s grown weaker again. Do ye taste the wine?”
Deidre nodded. The first time she’d done it in front of Angus, his eyes had turned stormy and if looks could bore holes, she’d have been pinned to the wall. Then, suddenly, he had smiled and told her it was good to know he would not be a suspect anymore since she was obviously still alive. But his voice had an ominous tone to it.
“What troubles me, though, is I have found empty wine goblets in her chambers in the morning. Lady Elen says it’s only something that helps her sleep.”
“I’m grateful for yer concern, Dee,” Gilead said as they entered a small clearing and stopped the horses. “We’ll have to keep vigilant.”
He dismounted and came around to help her off Winger. His strong hands around her waist sent a familiar spiral of warmth flooding her body and she longed to throw her arms around him and have him hold her close. She resisted the urge. Since their passionate kiss at the stone circle, he had kept himself at a proper distance. She knew if she tried to move closer, he would retreat behind the wall of formality. She sighed.
At least he wasn’t angry with her anymore. Although he was obviously skeptical about The Book, she thought he might believe that she really was searching for the Philosopher’s Stone. He had already taken her to a holy well and she had spoken to the doire who kept it, to no avail. They had ridden to a Druid’s grove that was no longer used, but the energy of that place was long gone, probably thanks to half of the oak trees having been hewn down. She had pointed out a faerie mound on one ride, marked by its singular hawthorn tree, and they had stopped, but no sidhe magic lingered there either. This was the last place Gilead could think of that might have ties to the ancient past where a mad magician may have hidden the Stone.
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