by Gwen Rowley
She stared at him in shock, fighting her growing hope. He had agreed to her conditions.
He slipped from the bench to fall to one knee. “Will you marry me, Enid?”
There was nothing left to think about. “Aye, my love. I will.”
He hugged her so hard that he lifted her clear off the bench. Setting her on her feet, he said, “I knew that you would marry me. I told the priest so.”
“The priest?” she said, laughing. “I thought you were dealing with your soldiers this afternoon.”
He waved that aside. “They can make do without me. But I was hoping for a wedding, so a priest—and King Arthur—were whom I needed to talk to.”
“You told the high king about us?” she said with a gasp.
“I did. And he said if you agreed to be my bride, he agreed to allow us to marry. He trusts my judgment. Would tomorrow be too soon?”
She felt her excitement giving way to trepidation. “Tomorrow?”
“Enid, trust in me. I can wait no longer to make you my wife. The world is full of dangers—why deny ourselves happiness?”
She could think of no rebuttal—didn’t want to think any more about refusing him. She wanted to be his. A part of her knew that things between them were moving much too fast, but she kept telling herself that everything would work out, that their love could conquer anything.
THAT night, with the moon calling to her fiercely, Enid gave in to one of the secrets she could not tell her betrothed. With water from a basin, she summoned the Lady’s power. With her arms, she pulled in shadows to cloak herself from prying eyes. In a castle housing hundreds of people, guarded by the best soldiers and knights of the realm, she could not risk being seen.
She avoided the patrolling guards, and the great hall itself, where so many servants made pallets before the immense hearths. She escaped through a small door which led from the women’s apartments to the lady’s garden, and from there she sprinted across the open wards.
She heard the soldiers calling to each other from inside their barracks and the sound of dogs barking as she passed the kennel. Of course the poor animals could smell her, but the houndsman, after a look around, only hushed them and went back to his bed of hay.
After borrowing a rope from a storage shed, she ascended the winding staircase in a corner tower and went out onto the battlements. The cold wind made her shiver as she tied off her rope and let it slither to the ground outside the castle. She froze when a pair of guards passed her, but she was not discovered. The moon’s shadows were at her bidding.
After pulling the back of her skirt up between her legs and tucking it into her belt, she climbed down the rope, using her feet against the curtain wall. She knew that just a year before she would not have had the strength for such dangerous work. But the Lady of the Lake had agreed with her mission, had trusted her with the power of unearthly strength. And Enid used it gladly.
By moonlight she found the pond she’d seen from the road. No human sound disturbed the magic of the night. When she was naked, she accepted the buzz of her skin as she stood at the water’s edge. With a small dagger, she made a tiny slice in her finger and held it over the still water, letting several drops fall. Then she raised her arms and beseeched the night sky in her own tongue for the power it had so recently begun to grant her. The trees began to sway with a wind she could not feel at first. The whisper of their branches was another language to her ears, and she swayed with them. She placed one foot in the water, then the other.
The sudden energy that shot between her and the moon, replenishing her powers, was invigorating, restoring her sense of purpose, her knowledge that she was doing the right thing, though it be a secret from her future husband.
When finally the light faded, and she was simply Enid, standing in a pool of water, she waded back to the embankment and donned her garments again.
GERAINT was drunk. Several of the knights had begun plying him with ale hours before in the great hall, as they tried to persuade him to reconsider marriage.
Geraint held up his tankard. “To my future wife!”
There was a chorus of groans and boos. Sir Rowan and Sir Maxwell slumped on their benches across the table from him, shaking their heads.
“You are far too young to marry,” Rowan insisted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Or maybe he needs a woman too badly,” Maxwell said with a guffaw, “and she will not give in without a priest’s blessing!”
“Go ahead and laugh,” Geraint said. “I will be a happy man tomorrow, and the rest of you will only have your envy to console you.”
Rowan looked like he was about to protest, but suddenly he stiffened, his face mottled white and red.
Maxwell peered at him. “You look ill, my friend.”
Rowan suddenly bolted to his feet and began to run for the double doors that led outside.
Geraint stood up.
Maxwell dropped his head to the table. “He doesn’t need us to witness his folly.”
“Mayhap he needs us to make sure his folly does not become worse.”
Maxwell didn’t move. “There’s a good man, Geraint.”
Geraint was quite proud that he didn’t stagger as he crossed the hall. Two sentries gave him amused looks, but they didn’t try to stop him as he pushed through the doors and went outside. The air was cool and fresh, and he was so busy enjoying it that he almost forgot the stairs leading to the ground, though they were lit with torches. He staggered down them without falling and found Rowan on his knees clutching a water trough.
“Tell me you did not foul the horses’ drink,” Geraint said, laughing.
“Nay, but I thought I might need to dunk my aching head.”
As Geraint stood over his friend, smiling, something strange came over him. The wind suddenly picked up, and it must have chilled his skin, because he felt goose-flesh rise. And then he saw a flash of lightning in a cloudless sky.
He blinked stupidly. “Did you see that?”
Rowan hiccuped. “I only see water.”
“I just saw lightning, but heard no thunder.” He waited, but it didn’t repeat. “It seemed so close.”
A feeling of foreboding swept through him. Was the solitary lightning bolt a sign from the heavens? He told himself it was the ale making him feel so morbid. He was about to be married to the most wonderful woman in the world—who refused to tell him her secrets. Was God trying to tell him something?
Sir Rowan grabbed his leg. “Your assistance, please.”
Geraint helped him to his feet, but he couldn’t stop looking at the moon, as if waiting for confirmation that a storm was approaching. But the wind died away, and he was left feeling . . . unsettled.
“Let me help you back inside,” Geraint said.
Sir Rowan clutched his shoulder and swayed. “Are we in a hurry?”
“I just need to see to my betrothed.”
“Tonight?”
“Aye, tonight.”
“But do not ladies need a night to reflect on the purity they’re about to lose?” Rowan laughed softly to himself.
Not Enid. She kept offering to give herself to Geraint without vows of any kind. He reminded himself that her tribe did things differently than the Britains—like bathing no matter who was watching.
He shook off these strange thoughts. Everything would be fine once he talked to Enid.
He escorted Rowan back inside, propped him up next to Maxwell, and then went looking for Enid’s bedchamber. He knocked softly, but there was no answer. She was probably asleep. He turned to leave . . . and hesitated. He just needed to make sure she was safe. Something just felt . . . wrong tonight.
“Geraint?”
He whirled around and saw Enid standing in the corridor, looking uncertain. She still wore her gown, though she had retired hours before.
He kissed her cheek. “I am sorry to disturb you, my sweet.”
She smiled. “I can tell you’ve been enjoying your evening.”
“The
odor of ale, eh?”
She only shook her head indulgently.
“I saw lightning on a clear night, and for some reason I had to come check on you.”
She stiffened, and he knew he’d offended her.
“Forgive me—the drink is playing with my senses,” he said. “You were probably using the garderobe.”
“Surely ’tis better than hiding behind a bush for my private needs, as we did on our journey.”
She glanced at her chamber door.
“You must be tired,” he said. “You could not sleep on your last night as a maiden?”
With a shrug, she said, “My mind was awhirl. Too much excitement, mayhap.”
He stepped aside and let her open the latch on her door. As she moved past him, he happened to notice a stain on the front of her skirt, and loose thread at the bottom, as if the hem had ripped.
“Enid, what happened to your gown?”
She glanced where he pointed, then blushed. “You will think me foolish, but I am not used to wearing skirts. I stepped on the hem going upstairs and fell.”
He touched her arm in concern. “Are you bruised or bleeding? Should I send for a healer?”
“Nay, Geraint, but—” She turned to face him, lifting her chin with a resolute expression. “I am not sure what kind of marriage we can have if you question me whenever I’m not exactly where you think I should be.”
He blinked at her. “ ’Tis the drink, Enid.”
“Is it? Are you changing your mind about me?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.
“Because I would understand. You could come to my chamber now, and I would give you everything you might want of me, without any vows, if that’s all you need from marriage.”
“You know ’tis not, Enid,” he whispered. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
He kissed her good night, then waited until she’d closed the door. He stood looking at it foolishly. He didn’t only want her body; he had vowed to trust her. Surely it must be the ale making him so suspicious. He needed to sleep.
Enid kept her back to the door, holding her breath until her lungs ached. But Geraint didn’t knock. She let out air with a heavy sigh of relief.
What was she doing? Geraint wanted her regardless of her secrets. But the moment she did anything unusual, he seemed suspicious. And this marriage would be filled with the unusual, as she studied a knight’s training.
He had promised to trust her—but she couldn’t trust him. What kind of relationship was that?
Should she leave Camelot? Find another place to learn military skills? But where else would she be able to have this kind of ready access?
By the gods, was she only using Geraint to fulfill her mission?
But she loved him! She wanted a life with him, and it would only be a few months more, and then there would be no secrets between them. She wasn’t using him; she could refuse to marry him right now and still be allowed to remain at Camelot, secretly learning from them.
She just couldn’t bear to live her life without him.
Chapter 4
FOR Geraint, the wedding and the midday celebration passed in a blur of frivolity that seemed to be happening outside himself. Within, he was full of clarity and purpose and certainty. Enid was his destiny—seeing her smile and her happiness were all that mattered. And when they were finally left alone in his bedchamber, never more to be separated, his contentment was complete.
She was his. He would show her his commitment and love, and eventually she would trust him with the secrets that haunted her.
But for now, she trusted him with her body, and it was enough. He peeled her beautiful gown down, kissing each scar revealed. He ached for what had been done to her, what she’d been forced to bear, putting aside the rage that festered inside him. He was gentle as he caressed her skin, pleasured her breasts. By her cries he knew when she was ready and entered her with great care so as to cause her as little harm as possible.
But there was no maidenhead to sunder. She was not a virgin. For a frozen moment they stared into each other’s eyes. This was one of her painful secrets. But how could he blame her, after the way she’d been raised? A woman forced to learn skills to defend herself against the world. She might even have been raped.
So he put aside the sorrow he bore for her, hushed her protests, and made love to her as she deserved, many times over through the night. She brought eagerness and power to their bed, even if she did not bring purity. She made him so happy, and he vowed he would never give her cause to regret their union.
AMID the summer splendor of the lady’s garden at Camelot, Enid laughed as her new husband lay her back in his arms so he could feed her grapes one at a time. They reclined on a bench, partially hidden by climbing roses.
She chewed and swallowed, then smiled up at him. “We are displaying our happiness before the entire court. Surely we are making someone uncomfortable.”
“Think of the inspiration we provide,” he murmured into her ear. “Mayhap there will be more love matches at Camelot, because everyone will envy us.”
She told herself this, over and over, but regardless of what Geraint said, a feeling of unease had not left her since the consummation of their marriage last night.
Now he knew she’d had another man before him. She still remembered the shock in his eyes, so close to hers. She’d been ready for anger, but instead a sweet sadness had altered his expression, as if he would accept anything she was. He had wanted no explanations. How could she not love a man like that and want to remain with him always?
“I think it was a mistake to leave our room,” he said, his hands combing through her hair.
She closed her eyes on a sigh at the rush of pleasure. “You know you have your duties, Geraint.”
“And I also have a new wife to care for. No one will miss us.”
She found herself hesitating, her mind clearing, as she caught sight of knights returning from practice at the tiltyard. Their leather garments were covered in sweat and spatters of blood, and they laughed and traded stories and exchanged coins wagered on personal contests. It was that world she knew, that world that her husband belonged to as well. She was so grateful to find a man who understood her. After all, he’d seen her in battle, knew that she had not been raised as the women of Britain.
“But, Geraint,” she said, “what will King Arthur say if you neglect your duties?”
“He has a wife, though she be a queen, my sweet. And he gives her the devotion she deserves.” His hand slid around her waist, his thumb brushing beneath her breast. “Let me offer you mine.”
She gasped and tried to remember what she’d been saying. Geraint was so distracting. With but a touch, but a word, her mind strayed to their bedchamber and the secrets they shared within. If she was not careful, she would lose all that she was, in service of this need to be joined heart and soul and body with him. Her training in the practice of lovemaking had not prepared her for the sensations that his love inspired in her. For of course, she’d never allowed another man to give her pleasure, regardless of what her student experienced while she taught him.
Reluctantly, she sat up and tied back her hair, chasing away his questing fingers. “You promised to show me the wonders of Camelot. We have barely left our bedchamber since yesterday.”
He laughed, but he seemed eager to display for her the impressive accomplishments of his high king. Arm in arm, he led her proudly through the inner ward.
Guilt began a slow simmer inside her as she realized that Geraint unwittingly helped her mission by guiding her around Camelot. She promised herself she was only going to learn how they trained even the lowliest of knights, something that surely was not a secret among his people. The Donella did not wish for war; they only wanted to protect themselves, and Enid was honor bound to help them.
She studied everything her husband showed her. She knew she displayed too much interest in the blacksmith’s art, but armor
was something her people did not know how to create and must learn in order to survive. She admired the barracks housing soldiers on the second floor of every outbuilding in the inner ward. There were stables and carpenter shops and sheds and kennels. Geraint tried to spend extra time showing her the kitchen gardens, but plants were her sister Olwen’s love, useful with the healing arts Olwen learned from their mother. Enid found herself impatient for what she really wanted to see.
She heard the sound of metal on metal before they were even through the gate separating the inner and outer ward. The tiltyard, the second home of every warrior, spread out below them down a hillside, framed within massive stone walls. Enid pulled up short and merely stared. Knights practiced their jousting at the quintain, a dummy that spun and knocked them from the saddle when they hit it incorrectly. Pairs of men fought each other with sword and dagger and axe. At the far end, archers aimed at targets braced by bundled hay.
She stared in silent awe. The skill evident in King Arthur’s knights brought home how inadequate her own father’s soldiers really were. Enid’s people were of the forest, fighters of skirmishes on foot; the skill of their sword arms usually ended combat. For they had none of the protective armor of King Arthur’s men. The mounted cavalry who could fight from horseback would slaughter her people. Her resolve to help them only strengthened. Her husband would understand.
The sounds of the castle faded from Geraint’s hearing as he stared at his wife. He never tired of studying her, as if she were a rare tapestry come to life. She looked out over the tiltyard, her pink lips parted with excitement, her shoulders thrown back, her body tense, as if at any moment she would attempt to draw a sword that was no longer at her side.
He knew she had battle training to rival his own, but as her devoted husband, he would protect her now. Never again would she know the fear of being alone against her enemies. He could not imagine a family, a home, that would so little protect its women.
