Keeper of the Dream

by Penelope Williamson

  Hugh gave his sovereign a self-deprecating shrug. “Since everyone assumes I am going to lose, I’m beginning to wonder why I should bother competing at all. The only thing I’m likely to get out of it is a collection of bruises.”

  “Nonsense!” the king admonished in his gruff voice. “It will be good sport.”

  Hugh inclined his head. “Then by your leave, Your Grace …”

  He backed away and Arianna was left face-to-face with the king.

  She had met Henry of England once before, but it had been shortly after that episode in the tent, and she had been so distraught she scarcely noticed the man. He had barked at her, demanding to know if she was Gwynedd’s daughter, and she hadn’t even had the sense to try to deny it. The black knight had been standing next to him, looking right through her, and all she could do was stare at that hard, tight mouth and feel still the searing heat left by his brutal, punishing kiss. The King of England might as well have been invisible.

  “I had no idea you Welsh lasses were so comely,” the king was now saying. His eyes flashed over her and his grin had a touch of the leer in it. Though married to a woman who was considered to be one of the most beautiful in all Christendom, Henry had a reputation for straying from the queenly bedchamber.

  He threw himself down onto the faldstool. “Sit,” he commanded, seizing Arianna’s hand and dragging her down onto the bench beside him. He motioned to a hovering varlet, who handed him a jewel-encrusted chalice of wine.

  She studied the man from beneath downcast lashes. Though his clothes were rich, as befitted his royal status, he wore them carelessly. He had on a short tunic of blue samite trimmed with ermine. His tawny hair was cropped close to his head and covered with a chaplet of gold studded with rubies. There was the stamp of power on his square, freckled face. She suspected he was a man much like her father, confident in his ability to rule and conscious always of the motives and actions of those around him—from his fellow princes to the servant who emptied his chamber pot.

  The king fixed Arianna with his protruding eyes. “And who do you favor to win the joust?”

  “If you must know, Your Grace, I abhor the idea of wedding any Norman.”

  “Nevertheless, it is your father’s command that you marry the new Lord of Rhuddlan.”

  “I know my duty, Your Grace.”

  He stroked his beard, studying her a moment. Then he smiled and patted her hand. “I shall offer you some fatherly advice, my dear, and I suggest you heed it well. For the Black Dragon is likely to win this contest, and so he will take you to wive. Tread softly with him then, my girl. He is a man who has been tempered in hell and you challenge him at your peril.”

  Arianna’s hands clenched together in her lap, but she lifted her head. “I have been raised properly, Your Grace. I will serve and submit to my husband, whomever he’s to be.”

  Yet even as the words came out her mouth, Arianna wondered if she spoke the truth. She had been raised to please, to serve a husband’s needs, to be chatelaine of his castles and ultimately to submit to his will in all things. But a part of her must always have expected someday to have the same loving marriage her parents had, a marriage wherein the man would respect and cherish her, so she would be not so much his servant as his partner in life. Such a thing seemed impossible now, and she didn’t know how she could be obedient and submissive. Not when she wanted to rage and rebel against fate and the Norman knight who would own her.

  Just then the tournament marshal approached, wearing a scarlet bliaut and bearing a white baton. At a nod from the king he rose the baton high in the air and shouted, “Bring on the jousters!”

  Trumpets blared. Four heralds, arrayed in purple silk, led the procession on foot, followed by a jongleur on horseback who twirled a sword, tossing it high in the air to catch it by the hilt on its way down. Then up rode the knights, singing to the accompaniment of tabors and drums. Their burnished armor glittered in the sun, their gaudily painted shields and lances looking like a meadow of wildflowers dancing in the wind.

  Without conscious thought, Arianna searched for the black knight, and found him. He and the Earl of Chester rode side by side and last, for theirs would be the final contest.

  The knights paraded by the loges, their chargers prancing and sidestepping. Ribbons, sleeves, and garters rained down from the stands. Most were tossed the Black Dragon’s way. He managed to snag a green-and-yellow striped stocking out of the air, and its twittering owner let out a shriek of delight. Laughing, he spurred his horse into a fancy curvet and the crowd roared its approval.

  The knights filed by, splitting in half and cantering to the end of the lists. Two trumpets challenged each other and the first contest was on.

  Arianna sat rigid beside the king, saying nothing, careful to show no emotion. Two knights were carried off the field on their shields, one with a broken leg, another with blood pouring from his nose and mouth. It occurred to Arianna that the black knight made his living in this way—when he wasn’t risking his life in a real war. Hurling his body and his horse at reckless speed, again and again, to shatter his lance against another’s shield, and with a jarring blow that must strain and tear at every muscle, pound and bruise every bone.

  It was long past noon before only two knights remained left to joust, and an expectant hush fell on the crowd. At that moment all eyes turned on Arianna. She kept her back stiff and her face impassive, but when she felt a cramping pain in her arms she realized she had her fists clenched so tightly she was cutting off the blood. From opposite ends of the lists Earl Hugh of Chester and the Black Dragon emerged on their huge war-horses, led by their squires. Unlike the other matches, this contest would not stop with three broken lances, but would go on until one man was defeated or cried out for mercy.

  The two men faced each other. They lowered their long and heavy lances and clasped their shields to their chests. The squires stepped aside and the marshal raised his white baton.

  “In the name of God and Saint Maurice, patron of knights, do your battle!”

  Simultaneously, the two chargers lunged forward. The ground trembled with their pounding hooves, clods of dirt and sod flew through the air. The black knight seemed a part of his enormous black charger, man and horse fused into one flying weapon. His lance struck Hugh’s shield dead center, shivering and splintering with a loud crashing sound that silenced the crowd. His blow struck with such force that the earl’s horse was thrown back on its haunches. Hugh’s lance had slid harmlessly off Raine’s shield, though it left a raw, jagged scar on the paint.

  “Fairly broken! Fairly broken!” the crowd roared, and Arianna sucked in air, realizing suddenly that she had been holding her breath. Raine wheeled his charger and cantered back to the end of the lists. He tossed the broken butt aside, and Taliesin ran up with a fresh lance.

  Again the two men charged each other, but this time Raine feinted with his body and the earl’s lance missed entirely, sailing out of his hands like a javelin and eliciting hoots from the stands. At the same time, Raine’s lance smacked hard in the center of the earl’s shield, flinging Hugh out the saddle with a ringing clatter of chain mail. A pair of heralds started to dash forward, but Hugh struggled to his feet, drawing his sword.

  Raine wheeled his rearing charger, vaulting from the saddle while its hooves still pawed the air. He whipped his sword from the scabbard and sunlight leapt along the blade like a stream of fire. He caught Hugh’s first cut with the brunt of his shield. Hide and wood split with a loud, ripping groan.

  Arianna leaned forward, her hands clenching the edge of the bench, her breath caught in her chest, her eyes riveted on Raine. She had never seen a man fight with such grace and power, with such controlled and flawlessly executed violence. The earl hacked with his sword, while Raine’s weapon seemed to dance through the air. He toyed with his brother but a moment, then with a blurring series of strokes and thrusts, Hugh was disarmed, lying on his back in the dirt with Raine’s blade pointed at his throat.

>   The roar of the crowd crashed against Arianna’s ears. Beside her the king leapt to his feet, bellowing his approval. Raine walked toward them, his sword curving from his fist like a natural extension of his arm.

  He stopped before his king. Arianna looked up into his face. The protective nasal of his helm emphasized the harsh handsomeness of his features by drawing attention to the angular bones of his cheeks and nose. The metal brim shielded his eyes, but she could feel their life and their fire.

  He sheathed his sword with a snap of his wrist and doffed his helm, tossing it onto the ground. He knelt and placed his hands between those of his liege lord’s, King Henry of England. His deep, strong voice spoke the oath of homage in return for the Lordship of Rhuddlan and all its dependencies, and for the Lady Arianna, daughter of Gwynedd of Wales, whom he would take as his wife.

  He rose to his feet and received the king’s kiss of peace. Then his eyes lifted to the bloodred walls of Rhuddlan Castle, and a faint smile touched his taut mouth. Arianna sat beside the king, her heart thundering heavily, her chest feeling as if it would crack in two. She waited for him to look at her.

  But he never did.

  8

  The golden mazer pulsed and glowed, beckoning….

  “God’s death!” Arianna swore at herself for being such a witless nit. Of course the bowl would glow, for bright morning sunlight streamed on it through the open window. The pulsing was only an illusion, too, caused by the floating clouds reflected in the mazer’s shiny surface. She had no need anyway of magic bowls to reveal her destiny. She knew her future—today was her wedding day.

  The mazer sat beneath the window, on the padded lid of a clothes chest. She hadn’t dared get close enough yet to see if it held water, but somehow she was sure it did. The thing had suddenly appeared in her bedchamber this morning. Either that God-cursed, traitorous squire had returned it while she slept, or it had magically appeared on its own. It was after all Myrddin’s bowl, she thought, at the same time sneering at herself for her susceptibility.

  Arianna fingered the torque at her neck, then resolutely she turned her back on the mazer. As she paced the floor, her feet crushed the sprigs of mint scattered through the rushes, releasing a sharp clean scent into the hot summer air. On the great canopied bed lay the clothes she was to wear for her wedding, a gift from her betrothed.

  She smoothed her palm over the chainse of filmy saffron-tinted linen. In spite of her fear and uncertainty, she smiled as she thought of how the soft undergarment would feel caressing her skin. The pelisse itself was of the sheerest sendal, the color of spring poppies, and trimmed at the wrists and hem with ermine. Over the pelisse would go an elegant sapphire silk bliaut embroidered with gold, and with sleeves so long they swept the ground. Any woman would feel beautiful gowned in such splendor, she thought. Any man’s eyes would glow with love at the sight of such a bride.

  But not the Norman’s eyes.

  A tightness squeezed her chest as she thought of the joy she should feel on this, her wedding day. Dreams from her girlhood … She would try to do her duty as her father would wish it, but the thought of marrying the Norman filled her with fear and despair. He was such a hard man, ruthless and cruel, and he despised her because she was Welsh. How could there ever grow between them the kind of love that she had dreamed of for so long?

  The cursed bowl …

  Arianna could feel its power drawing her, beckoning. Slowly, she turned her head … The mazer glowed red now, like a clot of fresh blood, and throbbed as if it breathed. The knowledge trapped within the ancient drinking cup both enticed and repelled her. Afraid … She was so afraid. Her palm drifted up, pressing against her thudding heart.

  She had no conscious memory of crossing from the bed to the chest, but suddenly she was before the window with the mazer in her hands. The smooth metal seared her palms and a torrent of heat, like the fire of a dragon’s breath, flooded through her body.

  “Please, no …” she whispered. But the power pulled, drew her. Down she looked, down into the bowl’s luminescent, whirling depths.

  The water, red as a bleeding wound, spun and swirled, sucking her in. Fingers of a silver mist spiraled upward, wrapping softly around her mind. A blue-white flame flared before her eyes, then faded to a gentle radiance. She floated, floated on a sea of light … smelled hyacinth and marigolds, and wet earth steaming under a summer sun. A hot, moist wind caressed her face….

  She stood on top a windswept hill, a bouquet of wild-flowers cradled in her arms. Above her a golden sun hung suspended in a sky of so vivid a blue it made her eyes ache. Yet within her there dwelled a choking grief suffocating her heart. She had lost him, lost him, oh God, she had lost him.

  In the distance, something moved … a knight on horseback, riding toward her. Hope flared within her, sharp and hot and brilliant, like a spark off flint.

  The fiery wind blew harder, searing the skin on her face. The perfume of the flowers tickled her nose. Closer he came, at a slow and easy canter. Tears blurred her eyes and she stretched out her arms. The wind snatched at the flowers, blowing them away in a swirl of purple and yellow petals.

  He reined in halfway up the hill, dismounting. He looked up at her, tense and hesitant as if afraid to come farther, as if unsure of her, of her love, and the thought made her smile, for he was her man and her love for him was indelible and eternal He took a step toward her. Sunlight flared off his golden head, like a beacon on a black and storm-tossed night.

  She was laughing, hysterical with joy, running down the hill, running to her one true love. His arms wrapped around her, hard and strong, and she settled into his embrace as if coming home after a long, long time away. His voice flowed over her, warm like the wind. I love you, Arianna, love you, love you …

  She tilted back her head to see his face, the face of her beloved, but the hot ball of the sun blazed behind his golden head, setting it afire … melting the vision into red mist and swirling water and nothingness….

  “No …” Arianna clutched at the mazer, trying to will the vision back into life. But the water within the bowl was flat, motionless. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she swayed on her feet. A bout of nausea cramped her stomach, but quickly passed.

  She rubbed at her cheeks, surprised somehow to find them wet, though tears still streamed from her burning eyes. She felt a tightness in her chest, a sweet ache. Love … she hadn’t known what the emotion truly meant until now. Oh, she loved her parents and her brothers, loved them deeply. But not with the fierce possessiveness, the consuming hunger, that she had felt for the man in the vision. Her lips lifted in a trembling smile … My golden knight.

  Laughing out loud, she hugged herself and twirled around on her toes. Love. There was love in her future. Love and a golden-haired knight …

  And marriage to a man with raven-black hair and hard, gray eyes, a man who despised and rejected her. A man who had said, I’d rather take the castle without the bride.

  Disappointment, like the sudden swift thrust of a sword, stabbed at her chest. For a single, panicked moment she thought of running away; she even half-turned toward the door. But duty was as much a part of Arianna as her dark hair and green eyes. Her father had pledged her for Gwynedd’s honor. If the marriage failed to take place the truce would end, King Henry would invade Wales again, and this time he might succeed. Her land would be lost to the greedy Norman conquerors; her people enslaved. Weighed against that, her own happiness was worth nothing.

  But still, still … the fierce, incredible love she had felt while held fast within her golden knight’s embrace, as his voice washed over her, saying the words, those wondrous words. I love you. … It would be worth almost anything to live that single moment out of time, that moment when she ran down a windswept hill and into the arms of the man she loved.

  The door swung open with a creak of its hide hinges. Edith marched in bearing an armful of towels, followed by a pair of varlets struggling under the weight of a tub filled with steaming, lemon-
scented water.

  “Milady, there is much to do, much to do, indeed,” the maidservant said. “Here ’Tis almost terce. We’ve only a little over an hour left to prepare you for your wedding.”

  Arianna turned her head aside, blinking hard, as she fought back tears, for she would not disgrace herself by weeping in front of a servant. She looked out the window. The bailey below was already filling with cotters and villeins, herdsmen and burgesses—all the people of Rhuddlan and the cantref of Tegeingl who had come to witness their new lord’s wedding.

  It occurred to her that the people within the bailey had divided themselves according to how they lived. The Welshery—sheep tenders and herdsmen who dwelled up in the hills—had grouped together on one side of the yard. On the other congregated the Englishry, who lived in the towns and farmed the fertile lowlands. By law, all these people owed their allegiance and their service to the Lord of Rhuddlan, whoever he might be. But from the Welsh side of the bailey animosity, suspicion, and hatred crackled in the air like summer lightning.

  The Welsh were a poor people, as evidenced by their dress—drab-colored tow-cloth leggings and tunics of coarse wool. So it was not surprising that the two men in gem-bright samite bliauts would catch Arianna’s eye. They stood apart within the shadow cast by the malting house, talking together, but with their eyes constantly shifting, their hands on their sword hilts. One was tall and whip lean, with skin bronzed by the sun and tawny hair docked in the front like a priest’s. The other was much older, middle-aged, with meaty shoulders and thick thighs corded like barrels, and long metal-gray hair that hung lankly about his shoulders.

  Arianna knew these men. They were her cousins Kilydd ap Dafydd and Ivor ap Gruffydd, castellans of the neighboring cantrefi of Rhos and Rhufoniog. These cantrefi were part of the dower lands Arianna would bring with her upon her marriage. Her cousins would be allowed to remain as castellans of her lands, but only if they swore allegiance to her husband as their liege lord. Thus, they were here today not only to witness her wedding but to offer homage to the new Lord of Rhuddlan. But Arianna could tell by the way they held themselves stiff and aloof, dark scowls marring their faces, that to them a session on the rack would be preferable to giving homage to a Norman.