Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  It would be a difficult task, though, without magic. The castle was filled to bursting with soldiers and servants. With Floyd at his left elbow and Howell on his right, Rhys could not simply disappear without explanation. He hitched his pack higher on his shoulder, tried to convince himself that Breena was not in immediate danger, and followed his stupendous brothers across the court.

  “God’s lungs,” Howell said with a whoop. “I have never seen so grand a place.”

  The castle was large. It was also square and hulking. To Rhys’s eye, it compared poorly to the grace and opulence of the Roman estates of his own time. The villas in the vicinity of Londinium had been especially extravagant. Tintagel looked more like an army fortress than a patrician’s home. Which, given the old Roman watchtower at its core, was an apt comparison.

  The forecourt was an irregularly shaped plaza, large enough for military training. To the west, the entrance to the castle’s great hall was festooned with flags. The remaining walls hugged the island’s cliffs. A collection of low outbuildings—gatehouse, stables, barracks, storehouses—abutted the gray stone. On the battlements above, soldiers paced, watching the crowds below.

  Something in the sky above caught Rhys’s attention. His eyes narrowed on the form of a small raptor, flying with wings outstretched. A merlin. For a moment, he’d thought it was Hefin. But nay, that could not be.

  “Water may be had at the cistern well,” Dermot was saying. “Minstrels are to bed down in the yard beyond the temporary stables. This area here is reserved for the visiting knights and their squires and pages. Dressed so prettily as you are,” he added with a snort, “I suggest you tred carefully around them. The tournament knights are a randy lot.”

  “Myself, I’ll take my chances with the serving wenches,” Trent said easily. “Where might I find their beds?”

  Dermot laughed, and pointed to a cluster of tents. “That’s where the villagers engaged as extra hands for the festival are housed. But if it’s a swiving you’re looking for, you’d have been better off in the village. The lasses here make eyes at the knights and squires. Not the minstrels.”

  Trent grinned. “Aye, well, we shall see, eh?”

  Dermot led them past the structure set up for the visiting knights’ horses. The minstrels’ tents were erected in a rough circle. Several musicians and actors were on their feet in the common area, running through various repertoires.

  Trent eyed a trio of lute, lyre, and timpani. “Amateurs,” he said after a moment. “Why, just listen to that pox-faced brute mangling his lyre! He might as well take a hammer to the strings. That melody sounds like dung.”

  Dermot barked a laugh. “Dung has a sound, does it?”

  “Most assuredly. ’Tis the buzzing of horseflies, which is precisely what that fellow’s music sounds like.”

  “Your tent,” Dermot said, still chuckling.

  “You cannot be serious!” protested Trent. “Why this is hardly more than a rag set on two sticks.” He sniffed, and grimaced. “And it is downwind of the latrine. This is not acceptable.”

  “ ‘Tis the best I can do on short notice. If you don’t like it, return to the village.”

  “We’ll take it,” Trent grumbled.

  “I thought you might. Now, then. There’s food to be had in the large tent—the one with the red flags atop. No fires at all in the sleeping areas, mind you. We’re sheltered from the worst of the wind here in the forecourt, but a rogue flame could whip through these tents in a trice. I’ll be making regular inspections. If you’re caught with a fire, it’s back to the village with you.”

  The man paused, but only long enough to draw a quick breath. “Minstrels are allowed in the feasting hall only while awaiting their performance. Keep to the back of the hall beforehand, and leave directly afterward.”

  “What about payment?” Trent demanded. “How much? And when do we receive it?”

  “At the festival’s end, according to the duke’s pleasure. If you please him, you’ll do well for yourselves. If not…” The man shrugged.

  Trent’s chest puffed. “We’ll be the best the duke has ever seen, I daresay! Now, tell me, man. Who arranges the order of the performers?”

  Dermot smiled slightly. “I do.”

  “Well, then, ’tis your aid we beseech! For we do not wish to take the stage at the start of the dinner. No one pays any mind to the first entertainers. But neither do we wish to be the last. By the end of the night, no one is sober enough to attend to the entertainment. Surely,” Trent continued, smoothly pressing a coin into the man’s hand, “there are a few empty seats at some poor corner table in the feasting hall where my lads and I might await our time on the duke’s stage. We play so much better when warm and nicely fed.”

  With a gleam in his eye, Dermot palmed the coin. “Aye,” he murmured. “I believe there just might be.”

  A fanfare blared.

  The thousand or so butterflies that had taken up residence in Breena’s stomach fluttered their wings in response.

  She stood in a small antechamber between the castle’s main wing and its feasting hall. Gerlois and Igraine were to be the last to enter Tintagel’s great hall, preceded by Breena, Bertrice, and Dafyd. Once again, the duke had dressed in the trappings of Rome. Garbed in a snow-white toga edged in purple, he might have been standing in the Senate.

  Igraine stood beside her husband. She wore a stola of aquamarine blue; glittering diamonds adorned her girdle and sleeve pins. She looked as beautiful as she did brittle; the day had not worn well on the duchess. The ceremony on the tournament field had been taxing, and the prospect of again being on display at the feast had her trembling. Breena feared Igraine was close to withdrawing into another strange melancholy.

  Gerlois offered no comfort to his wife. Indeed, despite the duke’s insistence that Igraine attend the ceremony and tonight’s feast, he seemed barely aware of her. His head was bent in conversation with Dafyd, who stood rigid, hooked staff in hand. Lady Bertrice edged closer, clearly eavesdropping on her brothers’ dialogue.

  A glimpse through the door showed the expansive hall already filled to overflowing. The most important of the noblemen and their ladies were already seated on the dais, while the lesser ranking nobles, and the tournament knights, filled the main floor. The tables had been arranged encircling the perimeter of the room, with an area in the center left open for the entertainers.

  Servants scurried among the tables, delivering goblets of wine and mugs of ale. Breena craned her neck, realizing only after she’d started looking that she was searching for Rhys. Commoners were not permitted in the castle, and with Dafyd’s spell hanging in the air, Rhys would have to be very careful with his magic. Still, she had no doubt that he had found a way into the castle. He was a very persistent man.

  The relief she felt at not being alone in this dangerous future world was overwhelming. And yet…she could not forget their last meeting, when Rhys had rejected her love. She suspected that when she next spoke to him face to face, he would treat her like the child he believed her to be. He would be appalled at the danger she was in, and would want to yank her out of it.

  If he thought he could draw her away from her purpose, he was sadly mistaken. She would not leave Tintagel before she ensured Igraine’s safety. Tomorrow’s tournament weighed heavily on her mind. She needed to speak with Gareth. Rhys could wait.

  “You look very beautiful tonight, my lady.”

  Startled, Breena turned. To her surprise, Dafyd’s acolyte stood not two steps away. It was the first time she’d heard the monk’s voice. It was rich and low, beautiful as his ruined face was ugly.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then, “What is your name?”

  “I am Brother Morfen.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Breena said. “I am Br—Antonia of Vectus.”

  “I know, my lady.” She did not miss the hint of amusement in his tone. Morfen’s voice was very fine. She wondered if he ever sang.

  “You have a lovely l
ilt to your accent.” She forced herself to look directly into his ruined face. “I find myself wondering where you were born.”

  “I am from Gwynedd. In the north of Cambria, or Cymru as the locals call their land. Do you know it?”

  “I hear it is a land of mist-topped mountains.”

  “That is so. The tallest is the seat of Idris the giant. It is said that the hounds of Annwyn hunt on its slopes.”

  Breena smiled. “I have heard that story. It is very old.” Even older, in this time, than in hers. “But, I confess, it surprises me to hear you speak of Annwyn. I do not think Bishop Dafyd would approve.”

  A shadow darkened Morfen’s expression. “No doubt he would not. It is a sin to speak of Annwyn.”

  An awkward pause ensued. Breena returned her gaze to Brother Morfen’s face. She couldn’t quite suppress a wince of pity.

  He noted it. “You think my face is hideous.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “It merely requires getting used to.”

  His lips twisted, the unmarred side rising more than the burned side. “There can be no getting used to it. I have had years, you see, and still have not done so.”

  Breena’s face reddened. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be.” He paused. “You are wondering how I came to be this way. Shall I tell you?”

  “If you would like.”

  He studied her. “Oddly, I believe that I would.” His hands rose, and he pushed the cowl back far enough to reveal the puckered skin that covered the right side of his head. The shell of his ear was almost completely gone. Wisps of black hair sprouted all around it.

  “I am a monster.”

  Breena swallowed. A protest would be a bald lie. “Many would think so.”

  “And you?”

  “I think…the first sight of you is a shock. But after that…” Her gaze moved over his disfigurement, and this time she did not flinch at all. “Once one is accustomed to your scars, one sees only the character that lies beneath your ruined skin.”

  He gave her the ghost of a smile. “A pretty speech, I am sure.”

  However ugly his face might have been, his voice was pure beauty. The sound sent a tingle down her spine.

  “I was little more than a lad when it happened. I was playing in the kitchen, when a boiling cauldron overturned.”

  “How awful! You must have been in agony.”

  “I screamed for days, I am told. I do not remember much of it. The entire household prayed most fervently for my death.”

  Breena could think of no reply to that.

  “Their prayers were not heard, and I did not die. It would have been better, perhaps, if I had. My demon’s face agitated the village. A year after the accident, I was turned out.”

  “But you were just a boy!”

  “Only ten winters,” he agreed. “I might have died then, of starvation or cold, but again God intervened. I found my way to a monastery. The good monks cared for me, but even they saw Satan in my face. Only Father Dafyd was blind to my appearance. I have served him ever since.”

  “You must be devoted to him.”

  “Must I?” His single eye seemed to bore into her soul. “Do you believe that gratitude breeds love so surely?”

  “Why, I do not know. I never considered it, truly.”

  “The bishop is rigid in the dogma of the new religion. He has no reverence for the Old Ways.”

  “And you?” Breena asked curiously. “What do you revere?”

  “I have not forgotten the gods and goddesses of my youth. But the land and the people are changing, even in such a far-flung place as Gwynedd. Men like Dafyd rule with iron fists. The old ways will soon die, and Annwyn will be forgotten.”

  “I hope not,” Breena said softly.

  “Ah, hope,” he murmured. “What a fragile commodity that is. And yet, man does not hesitate to grasp at it.”

  Brother Morfen raised his cowl, and retreated into gloom once again. As Breena stared after him, the crier announced Bishop Dafyd. With a parting glance, Morfen followed the cleric into the hall.

  Breena and Lady Bertrice entered next, and took their seats upon the dais. The duke and duchess processed to the high table amid deafening cheers. Standing at the high table, Gerlois said a few words to the assembly, then asked his brother to invoke the blessing of the Christos.

  Morfen, who had been standing in the shadows, came forward with a small book. As Bishop Dafyd droned his prayer, Breena let her eyes roam the hall. Gerlois’s guests were a curiously mixed group. While most of the lords dressed in Celtic style, a good number followed their duke’s example and wore various types of Roman clothing. The knights and soldiers also wore a mix of Celtic and Roman armor.

  Breena spotted Gareth standing among a group of Gerlois’s knights. When their gazes caught, the steady confidence in his expression helped Breena breathe a bit easier. Gareth was a warrior. With the young knight at her side, perhaps she would not need Rhys’s help.

  She looked toward the door that led to the privies, hoping Gareth would understand. When he gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, she was sure that he had.

  Dafyd’s prayer ended; the duke and duchess sat. Their guests took their seats as well. Breena perched on the edge of her chair. Once Lady Bertrice’s attention was engaged elsewhere, she’d slip off to the privy alone.

  The servants climbed the dais to serve the first course. Breena’s eyes roamed the hall. Three massive chandeliers, every lamp within them lit, hung from the arched ceiling. Banners rippled on all four walls.

  She spied a flash of bright yellow at the opposite end of the long room. At the same time, she felt the weight of Rhys’s disapproving gaze.

  Her spine stiffened. She flushed, feeling like a child caught with a stolen sweetmeat. He stood against the back wall of the hall, near the door leading to the kitchens. The colorful men she’d seen on the tournament field—dressed in red, green, blue, and purple—were seated nearby. The man in green held a flute. Rhys had joined a troupe of minstrels! She had to admit it was a clever ruse.

  Their eyes met and held.

  Breena’s heart thudded. With the lines of his face set in anger, and his chin covered with a fortnight’s worth of beard, he looked every bit the dangerous man she knew him to be. She suspected he wished to turn her over his knee and spank her like a defiant child. An odd twinge in her belly accompanied the thought. Her head lightened, and for a moment, she felt faint.

  And overly warm. She fanned her face. Was it possible to feel the heat of a man’s anger from thirty paces away?

  Rhys’s companions were occupied with bread and ale; he was not. He stood a bit apart, one shoulder propped against the wall, watching her. The expression in his eyes put her in mind of when she was nine years old, and he’d caught her plucking the strings of his harp. He’d hauled her to her feet, brought her to her father, and Breena had gone to bed with no dinner.

  She inhaled sharply. He had no right to look at her that way now. She was no child—she was a grown woman! A Druid following a path set by the Great Mother. She belonged in this place and time.

  If Rhys disapproved, that was his problem. She would not allow him to impose his rules on her. He should not even have come after her! He was not her husband, nor her keeper…nor, for that matter, was he even her friend. For the last five years, he’d treated her as little more than an annoyance.

  Irritated, she turned away.

  “Something troubles you, my lady?”

  It was Brother Morfen who spoke. The monk stood but a few feet behind her.

  “Do you never sit?” she asked.

  “Rarely.” His chin lifted, and he met her gaze. Lamplight from the chandeliers caught him in the face, exposing his scars.

  This time, Breena managed not to flinch. Her heart twisted with pity. Morfen was truly hideous. What must it feel like to be so disfigured? Did anyone, apart from Bishop Dafyd, even talk to the poor monk? Or did Morfen experience only faces averted in horror?

&
nbsp; She sent him a small smile. “The bishop has left a chair empty for you. You should take it, join in the feast.”

  Morfen’s good eye widened. “I would not dare.” He paused. “But…thank you.”

  Nodding, he stepped back into the shadows. Breena studied the oysters before her. She wasn’t at all hungry, but she supposed she should at least try to eat. She picked up her knife.

  A trio of players took the stage, bowing low to the duke. They were not Rhys’s group. Thank the Goddess.

  She wasn’t quite ready to have him so close.

  “Come on now, men, look lively!” Trent paused to bat down the curling hem of Kane’s tunic. “We’re to take the stage once those three imbeciles drag their sorry white arses into the privy where they belong!”

  Trent prowled back and forth before the table, his small body alight with energy. The rest of the Brothers Stupendous stood ready, awaiting their signal to advance.

  Rhys, who had been glaring at Breena, shifted his gaze to Floyd, who was busy brushing crumbs from his chest and belly. Chuckling, Rhys bent to retrieve his harp.

  “Dermot is beckoning,” Howell said suddenly.

  Trent whirled around. “So he is. This is it, lads! Our first performance in Tintagel Castle! Can the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein be far behind?”

  They gathered at the edge of the open area below the high table. On stage, the aforementioned trio, whose intelligence and posteriors Trent had maligned, concluded a play in which Humility, represented by a whey-faced young man, triumphed over two masked villains, Greed and Lust.

  Bishop Dafyd leaned forward in his seat, his jowls quivering with approval, his crimson aura shimmering about his head and shoulders. Gerlois, by contrast, reclined almost lazily, sipping his wine. To the duke’s left, the beautiful Igraine sat like a statue, a slight, false smile on her face. There seemed to be an odd spell muting her magic, glinting around her like tarnished silver. Beneath it, her impotent Seer’s magic showed in flashes of white.