The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  So this was what it felt like to be loved by a man. She’d never dreamed it could be such bliss. Her body tingled with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his urgency. She could hear echoes of Owein’s whispers—especially the sound of her name on his lips.

  Her conscience was curiously silent. She’d given what her father had guarded so vigilantly—her virginity—to a wild barbarian. The thought should have appalled her. But it did not.

  She eased onto her back. It was full daylight outside the watch station—hazy shafts of light pierced the gaps in the roof tiles, casting bright patches of sunlight on the floor and wall. For a moment, she wished the day away. But no—they were but a day’s travel from her father’s villa. She prayed the grail was there, as Owein had seen in his vision. She had to carry it to Father before it was too late.

  She sat up, a sudden sick feeling in her stomach. The magic of the grail frightened her, but she would give anything to have her father well again. She loved him so. If he died, what would become of her?

  If she refused to marry Valgus, he could use his guardianship to force her to marry him. Now that she knew what lovemaking could be, how could she bear that?

  Her only hope lay in Father’s recovery. Once he was well, she would appeal to his reason. Explain why she couldn’t marry Valgus. Surely, she could make him understand that being a Senator’s wife wasn’t worth her happiness.

  The warmth of the night deserted her. Troubled, she eased from Owein’s side, and let her cloak fall from her shoulders. Groping for her tunic, she pulled it on quickly. Where were her girdle and sleeve pins? There. She fastened the pins and buckles with shaky fingers, then slid her feet into her boots.

  The door groaned on its pegs when she opened it. Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, she stepped out into the daylight, blinking at the dazzle of the sunlight on the sea.

  It took her a moment to realize she was not alone. A strange boy stood nearby, hands on his hips, watching her. Her eyes narrowed. Not a boy—a man. A man whose head was no higher than her breasts.

  He had a grotesque melon of a head, accented by a bulbous nose. His torso was heavily muscled and nearly the proportion of a normal man’s, but his legs and arms were thick and stumpy. He wore a mail shirt, a gladius, and a Legionary battle dagger, but no one could mistake him for a Roman soldier. His blond mustache and beard, shot with gray, were braided in the same primitive style Owein’s had been.

  Behind her, she heard Owein expel a mutter of astonishment. She turned slightly to look at him, while keeping the newcomer within her sight. Owein stood in the doorway to the watch station, dressed only in his braccas. With a start, Clara realized he was unarmed. As was she. Both their daggers had been lost in the fight at the mansio.

  But while Owein was clearly amazed at the sight of the newcomer, he didn’t seem concerned for their safety.

  “Cormac,” he said, shaking his head.

  Clara started. Owein knew this gnome?

  The little man inclined his head. “Well met, lad.”

  Owein snorted. “I canna imagine why I am surprised to meet ye here. Ye’ve ever had a talent for turning up in unexpected places.”

  The dwarf hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I thought ye dead.” His eyes were bright. Clara realized with a start that they were wet with tears.

  Owein looked very much like he wanted to embrace the small man, if he could figure a way to do it without dropping to his knees. Apparently he could not, for he made do with a nod. A succession of emotions, not all pleasant, flitted across his face.

  “I’m very much alive, as ye can see.”

  Cormac’s gaze darted to Clara, then back to Owein. He grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. “ ’Tis seven years since I last laid eyes on ye, Owein, but I’d nay have guessed ye’d change so much as to be plowing a Roman field. Ah, well. I suppose a woman’s willingness overcomes her bloodline.”

  “Ye’d best watch your words,” Owein cautioned.

  Cormac shook his head. “Alive. By the Horned God, I’m glad to find it true. I looked for ye, ye know, after the battle.”

  The muscles in Owein’s neck tensed. “I saw ye fall.”

  Cormac scoffed. “No Roman can keep me down. I gained my feet in time to retreat.” His rough voice turned hoarse. “Ye were taken?”

  Owein crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye.”

  “But escaped as well, I wager.”

  “After a time.” A muscle ticked in Owein’s jaw. “How long have ye been on my trail?”

  “Since first light. Ye know how to unsettle a fine tavern, lad, that much I can say for ye. I arrived past midnight to find the place in an uproar. A man dead, even. When I got the full tale from the innkeeper, I knew the flame-headed Druid they spoke of had to be ye.”

  Owein cursed. “Are ye sure none followed ye?”

  “Are ye daft? Ye frightened the stones from between their legs. They call ye demon, ye ken? Ye spurt fire from yer mouth and sever a man’s cock with a lift of a finger. None of those cowards would seek ye out. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “I wouldna pass that way again if I were ye.”

  “I dinna intend to,” Owein muttered.

  “Wait,” Clara said suddenly. Both men looked toward her. She fixed her gaze on Cormac.

  “You said you thought Owein was dead. Why would you suspect he was the Druid from the tavern?”

  Cormac shifted. “Ah, well, perhaps I heard tell not so long ago that my kinsman was alive. That he was the holy man of the mountains whispered about in the alleys of Isca.” He eyed Clara boldly. “Perhaps I even heard tell that the daughter of Sempronius Gracchus himself had run into the hills, seeking his aid.”

  Clara’s lungs seized.

  Owein’s head whipped around. “Daughter of—” He stared. “Ye told me your father was a merchant.”

  Cormac snorted. “A merchant? A fine jest, that. Nay, this lass is Gracchus’s daughter. I’ve seen her often enough in the market in Isca.”

  “I … I never saw you,” Clara managed. She was all too aware of Owein’s eyes upon her. Her knees went weak. She put a hand on the hut’s stone wall, steadying herself.

  Cormac gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Ah, well, when ye spy for a living, ye learn to be overlooked.”

  “Is it true?” Owein asked quietly. “Are ye Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter?”

  “I am.” Clara raised her chin and braced herself for Owein’s wrath. He said nothing. She shifted on her feet, wishing he would shout. Even if he were to blast her from here to Isca with his anger, it would be better than enduring his cold, unfeeling gaze.

  “Might I ask, Owein,” Cormac said mildly, “where ye are going with Gracchus’s daughter?”

  “I’m taking her home.”

  Cormac stroked his forefinger over his mustache. “Well, that’s a fine thing, lad. Perhaps while yer in the city, ye might visit Rhiannon. Your sister’s settled nearby, ye ken, with Lucius Aquila and his son.”

  Clara’s head jerked up. The Celt healer was Owein’s sister? No wonder he’d reacted to her name.

  Owein regarded Cormac impassively. “I canna believe Lucius Aquila welcomes ye in his house. Ye tried very hard to kill him.”

  Cormac looked discomfited. “I’d nay be so foolish as to stand on that man’s threshold. He’s a hard one and his blacksmith son is no coward, either. I confine myself to greeting Rhiannon in the forum market. I canna say she is overjoyed to see me, but she’s nay adverse to giving me food or coin. We are kin, after all.”

  “Of course,” Owein said dryly.

  “Ye should go to her, lad. She’d be glad to see ye alive. She’s still your kin, for all she’s given herself to a Roman.”

  Owein’s gaze shuttered. “Nay. My sister has chosen a new life. ’Tis better if it doesn’t include me.”

  Owein couldn’t help flinching when Clara laid her hand on his shoulder. He only just managed to stop himself from flinging her away.

  Cormac had faded into the forest to scout a t
rail to the city. Perhaps Owein should have taken on the task himself, to avoid being alone with Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter. His anger was white hot, searing a hole in his chest.

  “Dinna touch me, lass.”

  Clara snatched her hand away. “I want to explain.”

  “Ye needn’t bother. Ye played me for a fool. A fine joke it was, too.”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. I—” She reached for him again, but stopped just short of contact. Fear showed in her eyes. That was good, Owein told himself. Very good.

  Then why did it rip at his soul?

  He paced a few steps away. “Why did ye lie?”

  “I should think the answer to that question is clear enough.”

  “I had the right to know the truth. I’m sure Aiden would nay have instructed ye to keep such a thing from me.”

  “No,” she said hesitantly. “He urged me to tell all of it. But I was frightened. I knew full well Father’s order had destroyed your village. Would you have promised to help me find my mother’s cup if I’d told you why I wanted it?”

  “Ye saw my village. Your father is a murderer.”

  “There was to be no bloodshed!”

  “Blood soaked the ground,” Owein spat out. “Innocent blood. ’Twas still wet when I arrived.”

  “What of the innocent Roman blood shed by Celt brigands?” Clara asked quietly. “A woman and her three daughters, used and murdered on the road from Isca to Maia. A merchant cart ambushed. Four young masonry apprentices hacked to pieces. The governor’s own niece violated. Do you deny your clan gave aid to the savages who committed these crimes?”

  Owein held himself very still. “If a kinsman came seeking food or care, we didna turn him away.”

  “What I told you before was true. The order to clear the hills came from the governor in Londinium. It was Father’s hope that the brigands would be identified and punished. The other Celts were to be brought unharmed to Isca.”

  “To be sold as slaves.”

  “No. To live as freemen. As long as they surrendered peaceably.”

  Owein made a disbelieving sound in his throat. “What man comes along peaceably when his wife is snatched from his pallet in the dead of night? When his son is murdered and his daughter defiled before his eyes?”

  “That cannot have been by my father’s order.”

  “A commander is responsible for his men. I know the truth of what passed that night. I came too late, but not all were dead.”

  “The resettlement was supposed to be peaceful,” Clara said quietly. “My father … he wasn’t there. He couldn’t have known.”

  Owein forced himself to unclench his fists. “He should have.”

  Tears swam in her dark eyes. “I am sorry.”

  The despair of that terrible day lodged like a stone in his chest. He’d gone to the circle of the Old Ones, seeking wisdom for the clan. When he returned, he found the village ravaged. But whether or not Gracchus sanctioned the attack, Owein knew Clara could hardly be held to blame. And yet the darkest corners of his soul could not absolve her completely. She was Roman. Perhaps that was all he needed to know.

  Clara’s voice intruded. “Why didn’t you tell me Lucius Aquila’s wife is your sister?”

  Rhiannon. Did she think of him still? Or had her Roman stepson blotted Owein from his sister’s memory?

  “You should go home to her,” Clara said softly.

  “Nay.”

  “Why not? Rhiannon is the most loving person I’ve ever met. I know she would welcome you.”

  “I tried to kill her husband, lass.”

  “You are not seeking to kill him now,” Clara pointed out. “And Lucius Aquila is not a vengeful man. Surely you can come to some understanding for Rhiannon’s sake.”

  He shook his head. “The past canna be forgotten. Nor should it be.”

  “So,” Cormac said. “Is it true Roman virgins beg to suckle barbarian cocks?”

  Clara froze behind a screen of pines. She’d left Owein and Cormac, retreating into a copse to tend to her private needs. She returned to find them discussing her.

  “I’m surprised ye dinna know the answer to that already,” Owein replied. “Ye never used to have trouble luring women into your bed.”

  Cormac bristled. “I still don’t, lad. But Roman virgins …” He shook his head. “They are locked up tighter than a Legionary pay vault.” His voice grew throaty. “Gracchus’s daughter—did she fall easily? Does she take ye in her mouth?”

  “I willna answer that,” Owein said.

  Clara expelled the air that had stalled in her lungs.

  Cormac laughed. “Ye were always a quiet one. Always gallant with the lasses.”

  They sat a moment in silence. Clara was about to make her presence known when Owein spoke. “Tribune Aurelius Valgus,” he said slowly. “What can ye tell me of him?”

  “Valgus? He’s one of those patrician sons sent from Rome to peer over the shoulders of the true soldiers. Vain. Pompous. Frequents the baths and the barbershops. Enjoys whores, but often doesn’t pay. His gambling debts are steep and his Senator father hasn’t the coin to save him. Why do ye ask?”

  “Gracchus has promised his daughter to Valgus as wife.”

  “Truly? I didna know. But aye, it makes sense. Gracchus is rich, but his bloodlines are mixed. It’s no secret he’d like to buy his way into an influential patrician family.” He laughed. “I hope Valgus doesna mind used goods.”

  “Have a care, man,” Owein warned.

  Cormac chuckled. “Ah, Owein, ’tis good to know ye are alive. I should have known sooner. By the gods, why did ye remain alone in the hills after Gracchus’s purge? Ye should have come to the towns. If ye had, Rhys might have found ye.”

  “Rhys? Who is that?”

  “The Bard of Avalon.”

  “Avalon? The Druid isle? But it was lost. Destroyed by the Romans years before my birth. The Holy Ones were slaughtered.”

  “Not all. Some fled to practice the ways of the Old Ones in secret. Cyric is descended from their line. Nine years ago, he gathered what was left of his family and returned to the sacred isle. Rhys is his grandson. The lad roams Britannia, gathering Celts touched by the Deep Magic. If they are willing, he brings them to Avalon. They are a clan of sorts—more than twenty souls, all Druids.”

  “I canna believe the Romans leave them in peace.”

  “The Romans dinna know of them. Cyric has cloaked Avalon with spells of protection.”

  “This Cyric is powerful?” Owein asked. “Does he wield the Deep Magic?”

  “Nay. He considers the power of the gods too dangerous for mortals. He calls only the Light.”

  “Will it be enough to keep the Romans away, I wonder?”

  “I dinna know,” Cormac replied. “But I know there is a way to ensure Avalon’s safety. The Lost Grail, smithed in Avalon and stolen during the Roman invasion, holds the power to safeguard the sacred isle.” He paused. “I know ye seek the grail with Gracchus’s daughter.”

  Owein made a sound of disbelief. “And how do ye know that?”

  “ ’Tis my trade to know,” Cormac said modestly.

  “The cup I seek was in Roman hands for many years. It might very well have been taken as spoils during the invasion of the west country.” Owein exhaled. “It belongs in Druid hands. And that is where it soon will be.”

  Clara sucked in a breath. Was Owein’s promise to her a sham? Had he planned all along to steal the grail rather than allow her to take it to her father?

  When Owein spoke again, his voice was hesitant. “Is there a young Druidess living on Avalon? A woman of rare beauty, with hair like a skein of shining silver?”

  His words were like ice-tipped arrows flung into Clara’s heart. A woman? What was this?

  Cormac’s reply was hoarse. “She’s shown herself to ye already?”

  “She exists?” Owein asked sharply.

  “Aye,” Cormac said in a choked voice. “Hers is a rare talent, far beyond the rest
of the clan. With the Lost Grail in her hands, she would be more powerful still.”

  “She’s the one who called the storms,” Owein stated.

  “She fears Cyric’s Light willna be protection enough to shield Avalon. The Romans are scouting the Mendips, probing old silver mines. Should they move farther west, it will be hard to keep the sacred isle hidden.”

  “An awesome power indeed would be needed to counter the Second Legion.”

  Cormac swallowed. “With the Lost Grail in her hands, she will not fail. I am certain of it. Her magic is that strong.”

  “Then the Lost Grail shall be hers.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was no doubt in Owein’s mind: the Lost Grail belonged in Druid hands. Why then, did his guilt rise every time he looked at Clara?

  She met his gaze boldly. He saw betrayal in her eyes, as if she’d guessed his scheme to return the grail to his people. Of course, he’d meant to take the grail after she’d used it to cure her father. Her merchant father, Owein thought savagely.

  If anyone had a right to feel betrayed, it was he. Clara had fed him an outright lie. He’d lain with Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter! He still couldn’t force the notion into his mind.

  They skirted the main road as they neared Isca, keeping to a sheltered foot trail. As the wilderness gave way to farms, Cormac forged ahead, saying he wanted to scout the outskirts of the city. Once he was gone, Clara turned to Owein, her eyes cold.

  It occurred to him that he’d never seen her truly angry.

  “You had no intention of helping me cure my father,” she said tersely. “You meant to steal my mother’s cup from the start.”

  “Aye,” said Owein. “I meant to have the grail, but only after ye’d used it to heal your father. The father you claimed was a merchant.”

  “And now that you know the truth, you withdraw even that small bit of decency! You want my mother’s cup for another woman. Some silver-haired Druidess.”