Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  She turned, looking up into Owain’s lean, classically beautiful face, and said, “Lord Owain, I am to die in the morning. I have, at this moment, little patience for listening to ambition parading itself as loyalty and goodwill. If you have anything to say to me, say it.”

  She thought there was a flash of anger in Owain’s gaze, a brief tightening of the corners of his soft, finely molded mouth. He raised and lowered his shoulders, though, and said, “You do me an injustice, I think, Lady Isolde. But I will speak plainly, as you wish.” He paused, his hazel-green eyes half veiled, and fingered the hilt of his dagger again. Then: “The men on the king’s council condemned you to die, Lady Isolde, because they are afraid. Afraid of what a woman with the power of witchcraft might do. But I…”

  Owain raised his eyes to hers and smiled. He stood close to her, leaning slightly forward, and she noticed for the first time that his teeth were slightly pointed, and that his smile was predatory. “I would not be afraid, Lady Isolde.”

  He paused, as though waiting for a response. When Isolde said nothing, he went on. “A woman skilled in witchcraft might be of high value to a man. You could tell who among your followers were loyal and who were likely to betray. Know in advance every detail of what your enemy planned.” His jaw hardened. “Cut his throat and slaughter his men before ever he knew he was under attack.”

  Owain stopped again and seemed to come back to himself, his eyes losing their inward cast and focusing once more on Isolde. Then: “Especially if, as well as a wife, she was also High Queen.”

  Isolde looked up into the refined, almost delicate, face of the man beside her. He was smiling, but his features seemed all at once sharper, edged with something unpleasant and hard. I did, she thought, ask for plain speaking. Though I wonder whether he can genuinely expect me to be flattered or pleased.

  Owain had gone on, speaking more quickly now, his face eager, his hazel-green eyes alight. “What I propose, Lady Isolde, is a bargain—a bargain of advantage to us both. Help me to take Marche’s place as High King, and I will both save your life and allow you to resume your place as Britain’s High Queen.”

  Through the layers of numbness and fatigue, Isolde struggled to think. After all that had happened since she’d fled Tintagel—after being captured by Hereric and Bran, seeing Bran killed by Marche’s guardsman, sleeping on the moor with Trystan under the stars—the world of betrayal and jockeying for power that surrounded the High Kingship seemed strangely unreal. To buy herself time, she asked, “And if I refuse?”

  “Refuse?” Owain’s gaze narrowed slightly, and a hard edge crept into the light, pleasant tone. “Death by burning is an unpleasant end, Lady Isolde.” And then he stopped, and smiled again, showing the row of pointed teeth. He reached out a hand and ran his fingertips lightly down the length of her arm. “But I’m sure you’re not going to refuse. I credit you with more intelligence than that.”

  Isolde slowly inclined her head, resisting the urge to jerk away from his touch. She wasn’t afraid of Owain. He was weak—vicious—but she doubted he had the courage to do her bodily harm. This was her chance, though, if she chose to take it, to tell him what she knew of Marche’s treason. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.

  What made her hold her tongue she didn’t know, unless it was a slight uneasiness in Owain’s manner, a caution in the hazel-green eyes, as though there were something he was trying to conceal, even as he worked to win her sympathy and trust. He might be willing to persuade the other petty kings to condemn Marche as a traitor. Or he might, she thought, simply make his own arrangements with the Saxons in Marche’s place. His scruples—and his ambition—are about at the level of Marche’s own.

  Aloud, she said, “And how would you go about overthrowing Marche? Since you speak of wedding me, I assume you must intend to see him dead and not only dethroned.”

  She’d tried to make her voice neutral, but some slight edge must still have crept into her tone, for Owain’s eyes narrowed once again, the soft mouth thinning.

  “Don’t tell me, Lady Isolde, that you would not rejoice to see Marche dead at your feet.”

  Would I? Isolde thought. She shivered.

  Owain had gone on, speaking intently, his hands clasped behind his back. The hour could not be much past midday, but here in this underground corridor it might as well have been night. Torches burned at intervals along the walls, shadowing Owain’s chiseled face and hollowing his eyes.

  “The matter could, as I say, be arranged,” he was saying. “The king’s council is already in conflict with Marche. As you know, it had been decided that in the face of the threatened Saxon invasion, our forces would be spread out along Cornwall’s border forts to meet the attack wherever it comes. But Marche is now urging that we mass our troops here, at Tintagel, and wait to move until we know more of where the Saxons plan to strike first. He’s ridden out now with a battalion of his men on a scouting expedition, seeking to gain intelligence of the movements of the Saxon troops. And that means that the rest of the king’s council and the troops still stationed here—”

  But the rest of what Owain said was lost on Isolde. A sudden, blinding light of understanding had broken on her. She was remembering Trystan’s disbelief in a united Saxon invasion force—how he had said that Octa would as soon ally with Cerdic as with a rabid dog. Of course, she thought. I should have seen it from the first. I doubted at the time the truth of the message Rhys brought the council, the night Marche was elected High King. I should have realized that no such united attack was planned. The story was a ruse to keep the king’s council and their fighting men here. Marche’s alliance must be with Octa and Octa alone.

  Owain was still speaking, and Isolde broke off in her thoughts abruptly, her attention caught when he said, “Marche has appointed me leader of the troops stationed here at Tintagel in place of the man King Constantine made his commander in chief. And I—”

  Isolde broke in. “You mean you’ve been appointed commander in Brychan’s place?”

  “Brychan?” A faint crease appeared between Owain’s brows. “Yes, I think that was the man’s name. Never mind him. He’s no longer of any importance.” He made a dismissive gesture. “What matters is that I now have control of the king’s force that remains here.”

  He stopped and drew a step nearer, his voice softening, his hazel-green eyes turning liquid and warm. “Marche knows nothing of how to keep a wife content. But I”—he raised a hand and lightly traced with one finger the line from Isolde’s cheekbone to her jaw—“I would serve you, Lady Isolde, and treasure you as my lord Constantine must have done.”

  It might have been the mention of Con—or the soft, insinuating touch—or the casual dismissal of Brychan. But all at once, Isolde’s temper snapped, and she pushed Owain’s hand violently away.

  “I thank you, Lord Owain, for your offer. But I doubt you could fill Con’s place—either on the throne or anywhere else you might try. And I’ve had enough of treason and betrayal and lies.”

  It was likely, she thought, that this was the first time he had ever been refused by a woman. The first time his easy charm had failed to gain him whatever he willed. For a moment, Owain’s face was blank. Then a tide of angry color swept up from the embroidered collar of his tunic, turning his face an ugly red.

  “You—” he began. His hands had balled themselves into fists, and for a moment Isolde thought she’d misjudged him and that he would strike her after all. But then he stopped, his eyes darting past Isolde and locking on something at the far end of the corridor. Isolde turned as well, then froze.

  Trystan. He was on his feet, but just barely. His head hung limply to his chest, and his arms were stretched painfully between the soldiers that held him on either side. His tunic had been half ripped open, and the wound on his shoulder must have opened up again, for the sleeve was wet and red. His chest and what Isolde could see of his face were mottled with bruises.

  Dragging Trystan between them, the two soldiers approached, a
nd Isolde saw with a chill, hollow feeling that they were not part of Marche’s guard, but instead two of Con’s men. They made brief gestures of obeisance to Owain, and then the older of them, a dark man with thinning hair and a spare, narrow build, said, “My lord. This is the Saxon—the prisoner who escaped four nights ago.”

  For a moment, Owain was silent, his face still flushed, his eyes dark with anger. Then, abruptly, he seized Isolde’s arm and gave her a sharp push that sent her through the doorway of the cell and nearly knocked her to the ground.

  “Lock him up with the Witch Queen,” he spat. “He can die with her tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ISOLDE STOOD STARING DOWN AT Trystan’s still form. The flickering saucer lamp cast only a dim light over the cell, but it was enough to show that his injuries were even worse than she’d thought. His mouth was swollen, bloodied, and torn, and one eye was puffed and black, the lid smeared with blood. The torn fabric of his tunic gaped open at the throat, showing patchwork of purpling bruises, each one the size of Isolde’s hand.

  Isolde, staring at the bruises, thought, I’ve failed. Marche is still High King. There will still be an invasion. I will burn at the stake tomorrow. And now…Now Trystan will die, too.

  As though the thought had somehow reached him, unconscious as he was, Trystan stirred slightly, a grimace of pain momentarily twisting his face, though his eyes remained closed.

  Isolde felt guilt settle like a stone weight over her chest, and she thought, How could I have done it? How could I? I must have known what would happen, when I sent the guardsmen after him. Told them who he was.

  She remembered again the blinding rush of fury that had filled her, but the memory seemed now impossibly distant, and as frighteningly incomprehensible as though it belonged to another lifetime. She’d trusted Trystan—warily, but trusted him all the same. Felt a kind of strangely matched alliance between them, the night they camped on the open moor and Trystan had spoken of Cyn and Bran. But to do what she had…

  I might as well have gone mad, she thought. Whatever he did, however much he betrayed me, I wouldn’t choose to be the one to condemn him to die.

  That, though, was just what she had done.

  Trystan stirred again, this time letting out a faint groan, and Isolde dropped to her knees beside him, drew in her breath, and began to take stock of his injuries. It was easier than she’d expected—easier than when she’d probed his leg for broken bones back in the shoreline cave. And having her hands occupied helped—a little—to keep her from thinking.

  Though there was little she could do for him here—and without her store of medicines. And in any case, there was small point in dressing the wounds of a man sentenced to die at dawn. Still, she pressed lightly against Trystan’s ribs, then gently flexed his fingers and the joints of his arms. No bones broken that she could tell, though the rest of his body was a virtual map of pain. She moved on, running her fingers gently over his skull, searching for swellings or breaks.

  But even as she noted the hard knot of swollen flesh behind Trystan’s ear—caused, she judged, by a club or maybe the toe of a booted foot—she was replaying in her mind the scene with Owain and castigating herself for losing her temper with him, as well. She thought, I ought to have pretended at least to consider his offer. Found a way to use him to get free of this place.

  If what she suspected was true and the Saxon threat came from Octa alone, however much he was working in alliance with Marche…

  In that case, she thought, our forces might stand a chance of winning the battle. If only they had warning in advance.

  Isolde sat back on her heels, staring down at her clenched hands. Warned in advance, the army assembled here might be able to battle off another Saxon attack. But she could no more bring the king’s council word of Marche’s treason than she could heal Trystan’s hurts. Or turn back time and unspeak the words that had brought him here.

  Some slight sound or movement on Trystan’s part made her look up to find that the unblackened eyelid had flickered open. The bruised eye was swollen shut, but the visible one was staring unseeingly straight ahead with something of the stark, frightening look Isolde had seen before. Then, abruptly, the look was gone, and the blue gaze cleared, focusing on her face.

  For a long moment, Isolde’s gaze met his, and she wondered what they could say to each other now—and whether he knew that he had her to blame for his capture, and the beating he’d gotten from Marche’s guard.

  At last, when the silence seemed to stretch on and on, Isolde said, “You’re lucky. I don’t think your ribs are broken. Only badly bruised.”

  Trystan had lifted his head slightly, but at that he sank back onto the dirt-caked straw, his eye slipping once more closed. He was all but motionless, though Isolde could feel him fighting for control.

  “Lucky,” he repeated. His voice sounded slightly hoarse. “Yes, right. A broken rib or two and I’d start to feel really sorry for myself.”

  The unblackened eye opened, and his gaze swept the windowless room. “Christ,” he muttered. He shook his head. “The same bloody cell, even.”

  His gaze returned to Isolde and he watched her a moment in silence. Then he said, “That was quite a performance you gave Marche’s guard out on the moor. I thought the one that had to ride with you on his saddle would fall off the back of the horse trying to keep away.”

  Isolde had been brushing bits of straw from the skirt of her gown, but she stopped and looked up sharply. “You saw that?”

  Trystan jerked his head in a brief nod. “From the copse of trees on the hill—just above where you were.”

  Isolde waited, but he said nothing more. No explanation, no excuse for what had happened. Though no angry recriminations, either, for her setting the guardsman on his trail—for all he must know, if he’d seen the whole of her confrontation with the guard.

  Finally Isolde asked, breaking the taut silence that had settled between them once again, “Is Hereric free?”

  Trystan’s shoulders moved slightly and he said, without looking at her, “So far as I know.”

  Isolde waited again, but once more he was silent, his gaze fixed on the stones above their heads. She felt a brief twist of the old anger. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “No. But anything else would be a waste of breath.”

  Isolde frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” Trystan lay still another moment, as though gathering strength, then with another half-suppressed groan pulled himself to a sitting position, knees raised. His one open eye, flat, now, and hard, met hers, and he said, “Besides, I’d say the score is about even, wouldn’t you?”

  Isolde felt hollow sickness curl through her once again. It would have been cowardly to look away—but there was nothing, either, that she could say to him. And so she kept silent, her eyes on his.

  After a long moment, Trystan nodded. “All right. We’d better think about how we’re going to get free.”

  Isolde stared at him blankly. “Get free?”

  “Yes, get free.” Trystan’s voice was edged with impatience. “I’ve no intention of sitting here with my hands folded, waiting to be killed. If I’m going to die I’d rather it was trying to escape.” His torn mouth stretched in a grim smile. “If nothing else, it will likely be a faster death than whatever they’d have otherwise planned.”

  That, Isolde thought, is true enough. “But how—?”

  Trystan shrugged again. “The same way I did before, I suppose. It will be easier with two of us. Though this time I’ll have to try it without the knife.”

  Isolde’s gaze moved from his bruised face to the sword cut on his arm and from there to the bruises on his chest and throat. She didn’t know how he could hope to overpower a guard—or go more than ten paces without falling down.

  It didn’t matter, though. She thought, It’s as he says. Better to die trying to get free than to wait here like sheep marked for slaughter. Slowly, she said, “I ha
ve a knife. The one you gave me.”

  ISOLDE STOOD STILL IN THE CENTER of the cell. They’d agreed to wait until nightfall, or as near as they could judge from the burning of the lamp, and the flame had flared and then died a few moments ago, just after she’d woken Trystan from a deep, exhausted sleep. Now the moist, chill darkness of the room seemed to clog Isolde’s throat and press against her eyes, and her final exchange with Trystan rang in her ears.

  “Scream,” he’d told her. “As loud as you can.”

  “Is that what you did before?”

  “Yelled, anyway. Loud enough that the guards opened the door to see what was wrong.”

  Now, staring unseeingly in the direction of the cell door, Isolde went over once more what—they had to hope—would happen. Hearing her scream, the guards would open the door, though probably one would remain stationed in the hall while his fellow stepped inside to investigate. And Trystan, standing to one side of the door, would jump the one that came through.

  “We’ll still have to face the other man,” Trystan had said. “But he’ll be expecting us to be unarmed. So we’ll stand a chance, at least, of getting out of here.”

  And then he’d stopped. The next words were spoken under his breath, but Isolde had heard them all the same.

  “Though if God knows what we’re going to do after, I wish He’d tell us down here.”

  He’d not needed to spell out all the ways in which the plan could go wrong. Isolde could see them plainly for herself. If the guards didn’t open the door. If one of them didn’t step far enough into the room. If Trystan couldn’t overpower him. And even if they managed to get free of the prison cell, they were still trapped within Tintagel’s walls.

  Isolde stopped herself and drew a long, slow breath.

  Her scream rent the night silence like a bird’s cry, high and wild. Nothing happened, and she screamed again—and again—before finally she heard the sound of the bar being lifted from the other side of the door. Isolde was momentarily dazzled by the sudden flare of light, and for what seemed an eternity she stood motionless, watching the guardsman who stood only a few paces away, peering this way and that into the darkness of the cell. Then, at long last, the guard took a cautious step forward into the room.