by Ruth Kaufman
Wait. She stopped short. Ninian, too, was a knight? She’d never heard about a female member of the Round Table. Because there wasn’t one. There weren’t any real male knights, either.
Morgan and Ninian seemed to possess their wits. She herself did, too. Were they all lunatics?
She’d endure this playacting for a few minutes more.
Twenty or so well-dressed men filled the other seats. She recognized the three men they’d met at ap Lewis’s market.
Thus far, they looked like any gathering of nobles she’d seen. Nothing marked them as immortals or Arthur’s knights, not even a badge along the lines of those worn by kings’ servants on their liveries. Except, she noticed, they all wore necklaces similar to Morgan’s. She wasn’t close enough to see what was on each amulet. Yet.
“We must choose. Take action. We can’t wait forever with no word,” said one of the men from the marketplace, the one with long, dark hair and with a well-trimmed beard. His dark blue tunic matched his eyes. Lance, they’d called him. Lancelot?
“What choice do we have?” asked a man with shorter, reddish-blond hair. Percy, also from the marketplace. “Not only is it our command, our sworn duty—”
Lance interrupted, “Was our duty, I say. It’s been hundreds of years. Morgan will never find a way to free Merlin.”
“He must. We need Merlin’s powers to proceed. And his counsel. We’ve traveled the world seeking the solution, yet when we gather, yield none that work. Do any of us know how to bring Arthur back?”
No one answered.
“Sorry we’re late,” Ninian called.
The group rose as one. Gasps and whispers resounded.
“Morgan. Ninian. What have you done?” demanded Lance. He towered above the others, looking every bit the knight of legends. “We can’t proceed with an outsider present.”
“This was his idea, Lancelot.” Ninian pointed to Morgan.
Hmm. She’d envisioned Lancelot as blond. Blue-eyed. No. No.
“Morgan wouldn’t listen to me.” Ninian flowed to the table and took a seat next to a bulky, bald man. “I’ve had enough. Of the both of them.”
A long moment of silence followed. All eyes were on her, some curious, some hostile. She stared right back, though the “knights” made her feel the same as when the doctors examined her. Like an unpleasant insect under study.
“So, Annora. Is this proof enough?” Morgan asked. “What do you see?”
“I see a group holding a bizarre meeting. Playing at being knights described in oft-told stories. Wanting to believe it’s real doesn’t make it so. It’s not possible.” Annora couldn’t lie, not even for him. No matter how much she knew what he wanted to hear or how she wanted the lie to be true. She shook her head. “I’m trying to prove I have my wits. Not show I’ve lost them by believing immortals exist and King Arthur not only existed but will return to this table engraved with all of your ‘names.’”
“As you said, you believe Jesus existed. Have faith that He’ll return. Without any physical proof. Without knowing when, or how,” he said.
“True, but—”
“With only the word of the Bible and priests. They believe that’s real. What’s the difference?”
She’d wondered the same thing. Speaking before so many people would’ve made the old Annora nervous, but the woman fighting for her freedom wasn’t cowed. “Catholicism has been England’s and other countries’ foremost religion for hundreds of years. Millions of people believe in God and Jesus and in the tenets preached. They prove their faith by attending mass daily in God’s houses.
“You meet in secret. You fear anyone discovering what you do, who you say you are. Yes, the stories of the Knights of the Round Table are revered by millions, but that doesn’t make the knights real men who still live today. Those are the differences.”
As his face fell, her heart clenched. She couldn’t reassure him that this didn’t matter, that everything would be all right. Because the impasse forged in London remained too wide.
And, though her very bones ached to admit it, it was for the best.
“The subject of my past is officially closed,” he said.
So was the lid on her hope for their future.
* * *
Annora’s spirits hadn’t been so low since her uncle locked her in her room.
As soon as she and Morgan left Ninian and the Gathering, the weather deteriorated rapidly from partly sunny to overcast. Then a violent, driving rain assailed them. She’d been soaked and chilled for hours. Every few minutes she blew water out of her nose or spit it from her mouth. She could barely breathe or feel the reins through her wet gloves.
Primrose cowered in the bottom of her sack, mewing piteously.
Still they plodded along, the road a morass of mire. So much mud splashed on her she was surprised any remained beneath Moonshadow’s hooves. Mist wove among the trees lining the road. Limbs drooped beneath the moisture.
“Can we rest somewhere until the rain stops?”
No answer.
The visits to Ninian’s shop and the Gathering had only made matters worse. Morgan wasn’t speaking to her. Again.
Why Ninian and Morgan had conspired against her, she didn’t know. Nor did she know why she still desired and cared about Morgan. Why she wished he’d take her from the cold straight to bed, where he’d keep her warm and safe.
She could tell he was upset, too. He’d been so serious about the knife attack and looked so disappointed when she called it a hoax. She believed he thought he’d been stabbed. How could it be so, she asked herself for the hundredth time.
Ninian, too, insisted they were immortals. People who could never die. Both claimed to be King Arthur’s knights. So many surprises had come Annora’s way in such a short time.
Most of the time Morgan seemed so compelling. Handsome, wise, and strong. She felt comfortable with him. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
Then because of her persistent nagging about his past, all of this immortal nonsense had come to light. When he spoke of that, he frightened her. With a flash she realized Ninian had been right about one thing. She didn’t understand or know what to make of the things he said, and that frightened her.
Could they be telling the truth? Or did they belong in Bedlam?
* * *
For several hours, the back of Morgan’s neck had prickled as they rode, but he hadn’t been able to place his unease.
He closed his eyes to focus on woodland sounds, his keen hearing sorting out normal from abnormal. Animals skipped through the underbrush as light winds rustled the trees. Neither the horses nor forest creatures shared his distress.
Annora had requested rest, making him feel bad that he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her suffering. The rain stopped, the sun shone, but his instincts remained on alert.
Perhaps she was the cause. Her refusal to believe. His clinging to deep feelings for a mortal against all reason.
A faint whicker floated through the trees.
Were they being followed?
He strained to see or hear anything other than their horses and the lapwing’s distinctive peewit.
They dismounted and sat beneath the only tree in the midst of a large, grassy meadow, sharing a light lunch as the sun warmed their backs. He and Annora ate in silence, because he no longer knew what to say to her. Even though he still burned to have her accept him. Burned to make love with her again.
Six riders appeared at the edge of the field.
He’d failed to hear them approach. He forced his thoughts from Annora to their surroundings. To worry for once in the moment instead of the future.
“It’s him,” one shouted.
The men whipped their mounts and thundered toward them.
“They’ve found us!” Annora cried.
He and Annora jumped to their feet, the earth shaking beneath them. She clung to his side, fingernails digging into his arms. He shoved her behind him as options raced as fast
as the horses speeding closer.
Nowhere to hide in an open field with but one oak tree. Horses—no time to mount. Forest too far away to outrun riders.
He had to call upon his powers. Risk using them in front of Annora. If only he’d had the courage to reveal some of his skills before, she might not be trembling against him now. She’d know he’d keep her safe.
No matter what.
Her safety was of utmost importance. But a display of his unique skills was sure to cause her more pain and confusion. Years of training meant nothing if his powers led her to grieve as she had in Ninian’s shop. Or worse, made her fear him. He could bear most anything but her censure.
How could he save her only to lose her?
Worse, she, too, could be caught in the maelstrom if he unleashed the Mysteries. He had no way to home in directly on the men and spare her. She was much too close.
Morgan felt as vulnerable as he had when lying wounded in the cottage with Jankyn ap Lewis pounding on the door.
The six men swiftly surrounded them and leapt from their horses. Annora gripped him tighter, her back against the tree. He could hear only breathing: his own, harsh and ragged; Annora’s rapid pants; horses all around, sides heaving; and six wheezing men. They wore no identifying badges or colors, though one looked familiar.
“We’ll be greatly rewarded today,” the shortest one said as they closed in.
“Overconfidence has led to many a man’s downfall,” Morgan replied calmly. “Let the woman go. You have no quarrel with her.”
“Oh, but we do.” A tall man with a thick neck strode forward but remained out of reach. “You don’t remember me? From the cottage and the market at Llanarglyn. Howard’s the name. You’ll not forget me again.”
The man who’d hit him several times. Morgan sizzled with need to take them down. He’d beaten five at a time before, more than once, without summoning his powers. Then he’d had no concern for another to distract him. While he fought, any of them could harm Annora.
To call upon the Mysteries or not….
Not.
“Use them,” some female relative whispered.
“Don’t,” another warned. “You could kill her.”
“Now,” Howard ordered.
The men rushed the tree as the sky darkened. Wind gusts blasted them.
He had to take the risk. Just a few more seconds and….
Too late.
Five of them grabbed Morgan as Howard yanked Annora from behind him.
“Let me go! Morgan!” She clawed and scratched as Howard dragged her away.
Morgan knocked one man senseless with a swift punch to the face. Another received a vicious kick to his nether parts. The victim fell to the ground with a loud moan, clutching his groin.
Two down, four to go.
“Morgan ap Myrddin, halt immediately or she dies.”
Morgan glanced toward Annora and took a brutal punch to the gut.
Howard held her before him, an arm clamped around her waist. His other hand held a shining dagger to her throat. Just as Roger had held Ninian. Annora’s lips pressed together as if holding back another scream. She squeezed her eyes shut.
That was a good thing. If she’d sent a single pleading look his way, Morgan would’ve fought like a berserker to free her. But the dagger might have reached its mark before he succeeded.
The brief focus on her cost him. Two men yanked his arms back, hard enough to break a lesser man’s bones. His muscles stretched as if on the rack. Roughly they tied him to the tree, bark scraping his back. They bound his wrists.
Fool. Morgan cursed himself for wavering. Too late now. The ropes pulled too tight. He needed his hands to activate his powers, as Ninian did for hers. Minute gestures and subtle turns of the wrist were essential to ensure satisfactory results.
He couldn’t fail Annora. There had to be another way.
“We’ve got ’im now!” This from the shortest and thinnest, who’d lurked on the fringes of the brief fight.
Annora opened her eyes and gasped. Gusts tossed her hair.
The one sporting a burgeoning black eye laughed in Morgan’s face. “Not so tough after all, are ya?”
Morgan met the man’s jeering gaze. “You’ll eat those words. I have strengths you can only imagine. Wait and see.”
He shouldn’t have responded to the taunt, but pride again overcame good sense. Like his father, he was proving all too weak when it came to a mortal woman. Hadn’t he learned anything from Merlin’s example? From King Arthur’s?
If they harmed her, he’d never forgive himself. Nothing like having centuries to dwell upon your mistakes.
Never, never again would he let his feelings for Annora influence his decisions.
“Never say never,” a voice whispered in his head. His Aunt Beatrix, lover of platitudes.
Damn his relatives. How dare they taunt him now.
“Strengths I can only imagine?” The man frowned as if assessing the verity of Morgan’s words, then laughed again. “Quite the boaster, you are.”
He yanked the rope still tighter, making Morgan jerk. Annora flinched and pulled free. Howard wrenched her back.
“I wouldn’t try that again if I was you,” he growled.
She stomped on his foot. He slapped her, knocking her to the ground.
Morgan surged against the ropes. Something warm oozed over his fingers. Blood. But he kept straining. Soon he’d break free. He had to buy them some time.
“John, Ralph, over here,” Howard commanded.
They obeyed, moving to either side of her, each grabbing a slender arm.
“Omer, get your whip.”
His heart skipped a beat. Was the whip for him or for her?
Omer, the heftiest of the bunch, unhooked a thick whip from his belt and headed toward the tree, leaning into the wind.
Thank the gods, the whip was for him. But they were going to whip him in front of Annora. Because Morgan could will most of the sting away, he wouldn’t suffer much. He knew she’d feel each lash as if it landed upon her tender flesh. She cared, despite their impasse. He had to spare her more misery.
The ropes bit into his wrists as he tugged, but he felt them give. He’d almost won his battle. Almost.
Beneath gray skies and racing clouds, Annora stood several feet away, chin up. The men guarding her had already grown lax, loosening their hold. Another gust blew her auburn hair and molded her thin tunic to her legs. A guard leered. Morgan wanted to tear the man’s eyes out.
He sought Annora’s gaze, needing to reassure her. Needing to convey a single message.
Run.
Her only hope was to flee as far as she could get. With her out of range, with his hands free, he’d release his powers and make short work of his captors. No matter if she saw him do it. Or what she’d think.
At last Annora looked at him.
He glanced toward the woods and tilted his head slightly.
Her eyes widened. She licked her lips, considering her decision, then shook her head. Annora wouldn’t leave him.
But she had to.
Omer snapped the whip with a flick of his wrist. A sharp crack resounded, a portent of doom.
Annora flinched again, but didn’t look away.
“Ap Lewis said to bring him back alive. But he didn’t say we couldn’t have our fun first,” Howard said. He circled Annora, so close he almost touched her.
“Our lord was very specific when it came to you,” Howard continued. “Said I wasn’t to so much as touch you unless absolutely necessary to restrain you. I could make you want to be restrained.”
Morgan heaved against the ropes. So close.
Omer widened his stance and raised his arm, the whip dangling behind his back.
“Run!” Morgan yelled. “I’ll come for you. I promise.”
As the whip began its descent, she obeyed.
Howard lunged for her but missed, then gave chase.
Morgan barely felt the whip slash his chest again an
d again. All energies went to Annora’s fast retreating form and laboring with renewed vigor against his bonds.
Two louts followed clumsily after her. They grew winded, gave up and returned to the tree. He smiled as blood dripped from the lashes on his chest.
’Twas time for retribution.
His wrists slipped out of the ropes. At last he could call upon the Heavens.
All of the men were within his sphere of control. Annora, thank the gods, was not.
Morgan raised his arms. Instantly wind blasted forth, bending the trees, sending leaves whipping through the air. Clouds sped by.
Howard and his cronies could barely stand. They tried to move, but the wind wouldn’t allow it. A powerful gust knocked the smallest man to the ground.
He thought of a hail storm and his hands completed the appropriate pattern. Hail the size of apples poured from the sky, pummeling the men.
“Help me,” the skinny one cried.
“What the hell?”
He ordered bolts of lightning. They sizzled from the sky. The tree burst into flames. One by one, each man collapsed. The stench of burned flesh and wood filled the air.
Victory tasted sweet.
Closing his eyes, Morgan willed the sun to shine again, his hands palm up, fingers spread wide. The winds subsided at once. Hailstones began to melt as he raced toward the forest.
Toward Annora. Where was she? What had she seen?
He reached the tree line.
“Annora!” he called. A grazing deer met his gaze, then darted into the depths of the forest. “Annora, it’s safe to come out now.”
He made his way through the oak trees, ignoring branches and twigs that slapped him. Moments later he found her huddled under a rotted log, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. Her hair was tangled and covered with sawdust and twigs.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Praise the gods she was uninjured. Suddenly all that mattered was that they were together. What a fool he’d been to allow his hurt to prevail, to close off his feelings for her. To push her away because she couldn’t accept him as he truly was. He wouldn’t waste another moment bemoaning what she couldn’t offer. If she was still willing, he’d enjoy whatever she could give.
