by Anna Elliott
Isolde looked at him, feeling, even in the midst of all else, a stab of pity for his loss. He was left, now, to rule in his father’s place as king. And he must know well enough—as Con had known—that he’d not half the skills as leader to fill his father’s place.
She said, her voice quiet, her gaze locked on his, “Listen. And I’ll tell you.”
SHE TOLD THEM ALL. EVERYTHING OF what Coel had discovered. What Marche himself had admitted before her and Brychan. And she told them of Con’s murder, as well—though she said nothing of Seeing his death herself. Instead she steeled herself and gestured toward Hedda’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor behind her and told the men what the Saxon girl had done at Marche’s command.
When she had finished speaking, there was a long moment’s silence. A little of the anger had ebbed out of Huel’s face, though the disbelief remained, tinged now with something like bewilderment as he struggled to take in Isolde’s story.
“I knew,” he said at last. “I knew that my father mistrusted Marche. That he was worrying over something just before he died. That I knew. But…” He trailed off, gaze turning inward as though he sought to recall the details of that time.
For some time now, Isolde had sensed nothing from behind her, no movement from Trystan at all. She turned her head slightly, but could tell nothing in the shadows that flickered over that part of the room. Nothing except that he lay still, stretched out on the wooden bench.
Madoc was still watching her intently, and now he said, “It seems to me strange, Lady Isolde, that any witnesses you might call to lend credence to this story of yours are dead.” He gestured toward Hedda. “The girl can hardly get up and confess to having killed my lord King Constantine. And we’ve only your word for what she said—and how she met her end.”
Isolde looked down at Hedda’s pale face, then forced her gaze back to Madoc. “Brychan—” she began.
Madoc cut her off. “Brychan, too, is dead. Killed this morning. Executed on a charge of treason by the king.”
“Killed?” Huel’s head came up, his attention caught by the word. He shook his head. “Hanged in the courtyard—a traitor’s death. But we all saw the marks. His back had been flayed so that the skin was almost gone.” Huel stopped and swallowed convulsively. “A lesson, Marche said. In what he would do to anyone that betrayed him.”
Isolde stood frozen. She seemed to be separately aware of each part, each nerve of her body. The hiss of the blood through her veins. The harsh beat of her own heart. But there was after all, she discovered, a limit to how much horror you could feel. How much fear and how much sickness, as well.
But if she could feel nothing more of horror or fear, she could still feel rage.
“And this is the man,” she said, her voice biting, her hands tight at her sides, “that you have chosen High King?”
Madoc’s distorted mouth twisted still further at that, and he gestured toward the angry scars on his face. “If you remember, Lady Isolde, I had no wish to see Marche or anyone else crowned High King. Now, though…If what you say is true…” Isolde saw him struggling to make up his mind. To decide whether he believed her or no.
“And where is Marche now?” she asked.
Madoc and Huel exchanged a look. “Ridden out,” Madoc said at last. “With his own army of men. He said he would return once he’d learned what he could of the movement of Saxon troops.”
Isolde nodded. “Yes. I don’t doubt he will return. With Octa and the Kentish army at his back.”
Madoc gave her a sidelong glance. “So you say.”
But Isolde could see both men wavering, could read the doubts about Marche flickering in their eyes. She looked from one to the other. “If Marche has ridden out, Owain of Powys is here at Tintagel still. Charge him with what I’ve said. Then see whether or not I’ve spoken true.”
Madoc was silent a moment longer, watching her closely. Then, abruptly, he turned to the men at his back.
“Go,” he barked out. “Go find Owain. Then summon the rest of the king’s council to the council hall. This has gone too far to be settled here, among only ourselves.”
When the men had gone, Madoc’s eyes fastened on the bench behind Isolde, seeming to notice Trystan there for the first time.
“Who is this man?”
Isolde turned, dread rushing back in a wave. Trystan had not, after all, given her a promise that he’d not use the knife until all else failed. But to her astonishment, she saw that he’d fallen asleep, his hand still loosely curled about the hilt of the knife, his bruised face relaxed. At any rate, she thought, that makes this simpler.
She turned back to Madoc and Huel.
“A messenger,” she said calmly. “From my own lands—from Camelerd. Marche’s men took him on the road—tortured him, thinking he might know where I’d gone. But he must be released, whatever you decide about me. He was doing his duty, only. He has nothing to do with all that has happened here.”
Madoc looked down at Trystan’s sleeping face, a frown furrowing his brow. Then he shrugged.
“Well, whoever he is, he doesn’t look as though he could be much danger to anyone, the shape he’s in. I suppose he might as well stay here.” Then he turned back to Isolde and studied her a long moment, his eyes still hostile, though the anger was now mingled with a look of intent valuation.
“You might have come before the king’s council with what you’ve charged. Instead of fleeing—acting on your own. I fought beside your husband, as did my lord Huel. You might have trusted us with what you suspected or knew.”
Isolde looked from Huel’s narrow face to Madoc’s burned one. “Yes,” she said. “You did fight beside Constantine. And so did Marche and so did Owain. And would you call the climate of the king’s council—now or at any other time—one of mutual trust?”
Madoc regarded her steadily a long moment more. Then, abruptly, he turned for the door, his shoulders twitching in impatience. “They’ll be assembling in the council hall,” he said. “You’ll come?”
Isolde spared a final look at Trystan before turning to the door. That part, at least, of what she’d undertaken to accomplish was done, as far as she was able. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll come.”
Chapter Thirty
A HASTY FIRE HAD BEEN kindled in the council hall’s central hearth, but the room still felt damp and chill. Isolde shivered, and she saw more than a few of the men who were taking their places on the benches hunch their shoulders against the chill. Huel had taken his customary place, surrounded by a handful of his father’s nobles and fighting men, but Madoc stood at the room’s head. Above him was the ancient warrior’s skull, grinning ivory in the raftered shadows.
Isolde, too, had seated herself in her usual place, the seat that had once been Con’s. Madoc had ordered two of his own men to guard her, one on either side—which was lucky, perhaps. She saw several of those entering the hall go momentarily slack-faced with shock at the sight of her, then start toward her, stopping only when the guards, hands on their swords, motioned them back.
She was watching the door, and so saw when Owain came into the room. Madoc’s men must have roused him from sleep, for his sleek hair was slightly ruffled, and the heavy gold brooch on his cloak was fastened askew. Isolde thought he might have been drinking, as well, for his eyelids looked reddened and slightly puffy.
The men who’d summoned him must have said nothing of the purpose of the night’s gathering, for he appeared untroubled—faintly uneasy, maybe, as his hazel-green eyes swept the room, but nothing more. Seeing Isolde, he, too, started visibly, then, after a brief hesitation, moved to settle himself on the bench along the opposite wall.
Madoc waited until the benches were filled, the men all assembled, before he cleared his throat, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. His burned face looked ghastly, and Isolde saw more than one of those around her flinch at the sight and look quickly away.
“My lords,” he began. “When last we assembled here, it was to pas
s judgment on the lady Isolde.” He spoke in short bursts, and Isolde, watching, wondered how he managed to stand at all, let alone hold himself erect and address the hall. He must be in nearly agonizing pain, though save for a tightness about his twisted mouth, he gave no sign. “We were asked,” he went on, “to determine whether she was guilty of witchcraft or no.”
A murmur, half angry, half uneasy, went around the room at that, but Madoc held up a hand and the noise stilled.
“But the reason I have called you here tonight has nothing to do with that charge. I ask you to set all question of witchcraft and sorcery aside.” He stopped and directed a sharp glance at Isolde before adding, “As I do…for now.”
There was still hostility in his gaze, and, Isolde thought, suspicion as well. But he turned back to the room at large and continued.
“Owain of Powys.” His eyes found the other man. “This matter concerns you. I ask you to come forward before I go on.”
Isolde saw a momentary flash of alarm in Owain’s eyes, but it was quickly covered, and, with only a faint, puzzled smile, Owain rose smoothly and came to stand near Madoc at the head of the room.
Madoc spoke slowly, his voice grating and dry, though that might only have been the effect of his injuries and the pain. He recounted the story Isolde had told, beginning with Con’s murder and ending with the bargain between Octa, Owain, and Marche. He was careful, Isolde noticed, to give no hint of his own opinions, make no attempt to sway the council in one direction or another. Evidently he believed in justice, as he’d said—or at least as much justice as might be found among his listeners here.
As he spoke, Isolde saw several of the men present turn to stare hard, first at her, then at Owain, and heard low-voiced mutterings here and there around the room, but she couldn’t tell whether they believed the tale or no. Owain himself, though, seemed to grow increasingly uneasy. He stood straight, head and shoulders thrown back in a stance of easy confidence, but as Madoc’s slow, inexorable voice went on, Isolde saw the pose become just a little forced, saw Owain begin to shift his weight, slightly, from foot to foot.
Then, when Madoc’s account had come to an end, Owain tipped back his head and gave an incredulous laugh. To Isolde, the laugh also seemed forced, a shrill note creeping in, but the frank, open look Owain gave the room was almost his own.
“And for this,” he said, turning to Madoc, “you’ve routed us all out in the middle of the night? If you’re so unlucky that you’ve no one to make staying in bed worthwhile, Madoc, you might at least have a care for those of us that have.”
That won a burst of laughter and a few hoots and raucous shouts of agreement from the rest of the men, and, drawing confidence from the response, Owain went on. “You actually thought it worth calling a council meeting over the…the ravings of a known sorceress?” He shook his head. “I might be angry, Madoc—but that the charge is so absurd. I’ll not trouble to deny it, that goes without saying. Still, I must object to the waste of my—of all of our—time. And to the insult of your making such a charge without a shred of proof.”
As Owain was speaking, Isolde caught several murmurs of agreement from around the hall, and saw even Huel turn an angry glance at Madoc. They’re going to side with Owain, she thought. Or at best, the council will be split again. Split and at odds, one with another, just when Marche’s attack comes. She wondered briefly whether she would do any good by speaking or only make matters worse, but before she could open her lips to try, Madoc had once more held up a hand.
She would have expected an outburst of anger from him at Owain’s words, but though his face darkened, he spoke still with judicial calm.
“I wouldn’t say there’s no proof. There are Marche’s own actions, since he was crowned High King. You know”—Madoc turned from Owain to include the rest of the king’s council in his glance—“we all know, that Marche insisted on our remaining here at Tintagel, and insisted on the majority of our forces remaining in the encampment here as well. And we all know, too, that at Tintagel we’re surrounded by the sea on three sides out of four. If a sizable force did attack us here, we’d be speared like fish in a barrel.”
Isolde saw Huel, and perhaps a few others, nod or at least seem to waver at that. But then Owain broke in, his voice low, almost gentle, his handsome face pitying as he turned toward Madoc.
“My lord of Gwynedd. None of us here would make light of the hurts you have suffered, and I doubt many of us could bear them as well as you have done. And I have no doubt that you’ve cause to feel a grievance against Marche, though you yourself joined in praying for a sign of guidance, and the answer we were given was no fault of the High King.”
Another murmur of agreement went round the room, one or two of the men-at-arms thumping on their shields with the hilts of swords. Isolde saw Madoc’s broad shoulders start to sag slightly with fatigue. He’d not be able to go on much longer. And it was more than possible that he’d not even have the wish to try. He’d called this meeting of the council so that Isolde’s claims might have fair trial. He’d never said he himself believed that any part of her accusations was true.
Isolde closed her eyes. It would be helpful, she thought, if another flash of Vision might come to her now, with a hint as to whether she’d guessed rightly or no. There was nothing, though. Not even a flicker to aid her in what she had to do. She opened her eyes, drew in her breath, and prepared to bluff as never before.
She rose in her place, facing Owain across the room. “And I suppose, my lord Owain, that you know nothing of offering me marriage yourself? Nothing of trying to usurp the High King’s place while Marche himself is gone?”
Owain had been half turned away, but at that he swung round, meeting her gaze across the heads of the other councilmen. And then, quite suddenly, the memory of what Trystan had said of Cerdic and Octa returned. They’d as soon trust each other as walk onto the battlefield with a darning needle for a sword.
Isolde kept her eyes on Owain. “There never was an alliance among the Saxon kings,” she went on. “Cerdic of Wessex and Octa of Kent are enemies lifelong. They’d not trust each other—even to attack a common foe. The story was a lie. A ploy, only, to keep Britain’s forces here. Marche’s arrangement is with Octa alone.”
Watching Owain closely, Isolde saw a faint tightening of alarm about his mouth, but he recovered himself almost at once, turning to face the room.
“My lords, it’s plain she would say anything to escape the punishment her crimes deserve. But we needn’t sit here and listen to the poison tongue of a sorceress and witch. I propose we put an end—”
Isolde cut him off. “And do you also,” she said evenly, “know nothing of a planned invasion of Camelerd?”
She’d been holding her breath, still uncertain whether she’d guessed the truth or not from the fragments she’d glimpsed inside the circle of god-stones. And if she’d not spent the past seven years in taking just such gambles and watching faces for just such signs, she might have missed the shock that flashed like lightning across Owain’s handsome face.
“What? I don’t—”
But Isolde interrupted him again, pushing the brief flare of relief and triumph aside so that she could go on. She took a step forward, toward Owain.
“Do you know nothing of an agreement between Marche and Octa, granting Octa Camelerd—and without the loss of any of his own men? Nothing of Marche ordering you to win the allegiance of Constantine’s own army so that they might follow you to attack Camelerd? To defeat Drustan, who oversees the country in my place, so that the lands could be handed over to the Saxons—along with the lives of your fellow Britons here?”
She’d been moving slowly forward as she spoke, advancing until she and Owain were only a handsbreadth apart. From here, she could see the light sheen of sweat that had broken out on Owain’s upper lip, and the nervous twitch of muscle about his eyes. He seemed about to step back; then, with an effort, he stood his ground, shaking his head. His face seemed to have changed, sha
rpening somehow as it had once before, his eyes darting from side to side like those of a rat trapped in a cage. The hall was utterly silent now, the murmur of voices and rustle of movement entirely stilled. Isolde drew in another breath.
“Do you know nothing,” she went on, “of Marche accusing you of betraying him?” Isolde paused, then said, very quietly, “You asked Marche what kind of man he took you for. And Marche—Marche said, ‘I take you for a man who would cut off his own mother’s—’”
Owain broke. Abruptly and completely, though not in the way Isolde had anticipated he might. He made a quick, spasmodic movement of denial—and then he lunged for her, knife drawn. Isolde’s advance had brought her well within his reach. She jerked back, but not in time. In an instant, Owain had caught hold of her and had twisted her around, one arm holding her flat against his chest, the other pressing the blade of the knife to her throat.
“Don’t move!” Owain’s voice was a ragged hiss. He cleared his throat, then went on. “Don’t anyone move. One single twitch from anyone and she dies.”
Madoc, standing the closest of any, had taken a half step forward, but at that he froze, his burned face blank with shock. In the moment of silence that followed Owain’s command, Isolde saw identical looks of stunned disbelief on the faces of the men all along the benches. Time seemed to have slowed. The thud of her own heart seemed heavy and exaggerated, the pause between the beats unnaturally long.
Madoc was the first to recover himself. He took another step toward Owain. “Don’t be—” he began.
“I said don’t move! Don’t move unless you want her dead at your feet.”
Isolde had no doubt Owain was panicked enough to carry out the threat. He would cut her throat in a moment, whether it would aid in his escape or not.
Convince the enemy you’re not afraid, Kian had said, and you start to believe it yourself.
Isolde swallowed, feeling the muscles of her throat ripple against the knife blade. “This is madness, Owain,” she said. “You’ve no hope of getting away. Do you honestly think a single man here would let you go free for the sake of my life? Mine? You—”
