Diarmad collapsed into Lancelot’s arms. Lancelot could only stare at him, shocked.
I ran to Diarmad’s side and knelt next to him. “Oh, Diarmad, I am so sorry. I thought you were going to kill Lancelot.”
He smiled ruefully. “I was. But when your blow landed, I knew I could not let that viper live.”
I held his wound, watching helplessly as life drained out of him.
Lancelot slowly recovered from his shock. “Why join with her, Diarmad?”
“She traced you to me. Said she would make it worth me turning on you. It was either die by her hand or yours, and after so many years of living on nothing, I’m afraid her promises of riches outweighed my loyalty, even to you.” He groaned. “I am so sorry, my friend. . .”
Lancelot bowed his head. “All things are forgiven in the end.” He looked at me.
I placed a hand on Diarmad’s brow. “May the Lady guide you home, and in her arms may you find rest. Drink from her cauldron and be reborn without sorrow or stain. Go in peace.”
Diarmad smiled and covered my hand, red now from his blood, with his own. “Forgive me.” He breathed one last time and closed his eyes, still for eternity.
The mountain rumbled again, and Lancelot looked up. “We will get no additional warning. Come. We must hurry or the avalanche will bury us along with our enemies.”
Cold, bloodied, and limping, we reached the cabin just before sundown. It must have been a hunting lodge for it was well stocked with preserves, blankets, and a store of firewood. Although what anyone would have hunted up here eluded me. We had seen signs of a few bears but were at too high an elevation for deer or boars. Squirrels and fox were everywhere, but there were easier places to lay traps for them.
But as the sun sank lower, the wolves began to howl, and I understood. I shivered as their mournful cries turned my blood to ice.
“They are the banshees of the animal world,” Lancelot said. “That’s the one thing I never got used to when traveling on the open roads. I know their habits, but that doesn’t stop something inside me from cringing when I hear them. But we’ll be safe in here.”
Lancelot insisted on examining me before allowing me to tend to him. He sewed a few new stitches in my shoulder blade and pronounced two of my ribs broken from the butt of Aine’s axe, but that was the extent of my injures.
Finally he let me see to his thigh, which was still trickling blood. He had removed his breeches out of necessity, and strangely, I was acutely aware that the hem of his tunic was the only thing preserving his modesty. Much to my horror, the thought made my cheeks burn as I bathed the wound. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and I blew on the gash, only too aware of the intimacy of the gesture.
“You never did tell me how you came to find Diarmad on this journey,” I prompted. “Perhaps telling me of it will help distract you from the pain.” And me from my embarrassment.
“Where did I leave off?” he asked as I repeated the procedure with water, seeking to see just how badly injured he was. “Ah yes, Sobian and I were separated from the rest of the group in unfamiliar land. We headed north because that’s what I’ve always done when I am lost. It’s something I remember the Lady of the Lake telling me. ‘Whenever you have lost your way, follow the North Star home.’”
He stopped talking and flinched as I probed his wound with my fingers. “It is not nearly as deep as it should be. Your movement must have taken some of the force out of her swing. Don’t walk for a while, and there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.” I met his eyes briefly, seeing relief in them, and poured honey into the wound to clean and bind it before stitching him up.
Lancelot continued through gritted teeth. “After walking for what felt like days, we came upon Diarmad’s house, much as you and I came upon this place. At first, he was wary of me. But once I recognized him and recounted our past history—something no one else could have known—he began to trust me. One day, Sobian returned from town with word of activity in the tower. We watched it for several weeks before we saw you. When Diarmad told us he was due to deliver supplies, Sobian saw our way in. It was her idea to have us switch places. I believe you know the rest.”
“She is a master of intrigue,” I credited, slathering the stitched skin with a liberal coating of Imogen’s stinky salve before I covered it with clean cloth. “This shows no signs of infection. But you need to lay off the heroics,” I joked with a wag of my finger.
He grabbed my finger and twisted. “Only if you promise not to get yourself kidnapped again.”
I writhed in mock pain and protest. When I looked up, our faces were less than a hand span apart. We froze, staring at one another for a long time. Finally, I dropped my eyes.
“We should sleep,” I muttered.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed.”
We retired to opposite sides of the bed, backs to one another. I sent my consciousness down into the earth, intent on thanking all the gods who had saved my life today. But I sensed something else, something looming and oppressive. I sat up suddenly.
“Lancelot?”
“Mmmm?” He was already partially asleep.
“We need to stay here. A snowstorm is coming.”
Large flakes fell from the sky for the next three days, and it was three more before we could leave the cabin. I was grateful for the extra time to rest and recover from our injuries.
But soon enough, the sun broke through the clouds, turning the forest into a wonderland of glittering snow and shining ice, a frozen paradise into which we ventured, full of hope that we would soon be home. Our progress was slow. Lancelot was still limping and leaning on a stripped pine branch for support. We took turns carrying the heavy pack of supplies, and I had to stop often to give both him and my shoulder a rest. Another two days passed before we finally came upon the old Roman road leading to Isca. We could follow it for the remainder of our journey.
“There is a village just up ahead,” Lancelot said, weariness in every aspect of his demeanor. His shoulders slumped, his eyes were heavy, and his gait was sluggish. “I know this area. We will be safe here.”
We must have looked like a couple of outlaws when we stumbled into the village. I combed my fingers through my hair, but it was hopelessly tangled. At least we’d been able to wash in an icy pond earlier in the morning, so I didn’t think we smelled worse than anyone else who’d been on the road. But our clothes were dirty and torn from multiple fights, and bruises blossomed all over our bodies.
I pulled the hood of my cloak farther down over my forehead as we passed a small Christian church, uncertain whether someone of my faith would be welcome in this town. I had heard stories of how well the missionaries were doing in the south, and I had no desire to suffer persecution on top of everything else. Just in case, I pulled a few withered juniper berries off a bush as we passed and squeezed them until I had just a few drops of juice on my fingers. I touched my forehead then wiped my fingertips on my skirt. This juice was nearly the same color as the ink in my tattoo, so touching it would enable me “smudge” the tattoo if needed, making it appear to be drawn on rather than permanent. It was a trick all priestesses of Avalon learned in case we ventured into unfriendly territory, but I hoped my precaution would prove unnecessary.
We stopped at the mouth of an alley where two buildings opposed each other and a wooden fence forced a dead end beyond them. The one to our right, if the sour smell was any indication, was a stable—and not a very clean one. To our left was what I could only guess was an inn. Music and raucous laughter flowed out of its open door while men and women played games of chance in the street, shouting over the din from inside. At the far end of the lane, a group of youths used the fence to practice knife throwing, a crude target having been drawn on its surface.
We pushed past patrons in various states of inebriation. All glared in response, but no one was bothered enough to make a scene. The air
inside the inn was thick with wood smoke, scents of food—some new, some several days old—and strongest of all, stale ale. Men and women of all ages, shapes, and sizes crowded every table and corner, laughing, joking, or conducting business in hushed conversation. Serving women and children darted in and out of the crowd, providing mugs of thick dark brown ale or golden mead alongside loaves of bread, steaming bowls of stew, or joints of meat. In exchange, coins of all values, from gold and silver to the most meager metal, changed hands—and not just for food. At quite a few tables, men were buying companionship for the evening.
As one of the serving maids passed us, my stomach rumbled audibly. We found an empty place to sit at the end of a long table. The top was laden with burning lumps of candle wax. No one bothered to remove a candle when it burned out—they simply stacked a new one on top of the pool of wax made by the last one. The benches were covered in furs and hides, a welcome comfort after days on the road.
A burley man sidled up to us. “What will it be then?”
“Two mugs of ale and two joints of that boar on the spit. We would also like a room for the evening,” Lancelot requested.
The barkeep glared at Lancelot. “One room?” He looked from Lancelot to me. “It’s a shame, but our only private room is in use. You’ll have to sleep in the common room tonight or seek shelter somewhere else.”
He started to walk away, but Lancelot put a firm hand on the man’s arm. “Tell me, who is your distinguished guest? Unless it is the high king himself”—Lancelot surveyed the room—“and I doubt he would stay here, you will ask that person to remove himself from those quarters. Unless you would like me to remove him myself.”
“Who are you to demand such things?”
“Lancelot du Lac, High King Arthur’s Master of the Horse and member of the Combrogi.”
The innkeeper snorted. “And I’m the queen.”
I turned to him. “Actually, I am.”
The innkeeper scowled at me but inspected me closely. Then he roared with laughter. “Tonight the queen, tomorrow the unruly slave girl, isn’t that how it goes for your lot?”
I smiled inwardly at his assumption that I was a prostitute playing a role to satisfy the fantasy of my customer. It was probably safer than admitting my true identity as we were still in Malegant’s lands. If he wished to believe it, then I would not correct him. Playing along, I merely dropped my eyes to the floor.
The innkeeper cackled again. “Hey, boys, you have to come see this one.” He motioned to two young men who were obviously his sons. “And bring them two wet ones and a piece of the piggy.”
“Why did you not tell him who you are?” Lancelot whispered to me once the innkeeper had gone.
“We can’t have them know who I am, can we?” I looked around, but no one was paying us any heed. “You are safe because everyone knows Arthur’s knights go where they please. But the same is not true for me. Until we’re back in Cadbury, I trust no one. Neither should you. Pretend to be my customer. They are entertained by it. The more enthralled they are, the less likely they are to be suspicious.”
“You are a devious one, you know that?”
I gave him a coy smile. “I’ve been around Sobian too long.”
The innkeeper’s boys arrived. They were tall like their father but not yet fully grown. They kept a close watch on us while they set down our trenchers and the rest of our meal.
“Look,” the older one said, “she even has the queen’s marque.” He pointed at my forehead.
“The marque is fake,” I said in a sultry whisper only he and his brother could hear, looking up at then through my eyelashes. “This man told me he wanted to be with the queen, so I’ve done my best to fulfill his wish.”
I curled myself around Lancelot, hip touching him suggestively, one arm around him while running my other hand inside the collar of his shirt and playing with his chest hair. I expected the surprised look on his face, but I wasn’t prepared for the shock of pleasure that ran up my arm from my fingertips. I did my best to recover by aiming the smoldering I felt Lancelot’s way.
“If you say I’m the queen, I am the queen,” I purred. “As long as the price is right, I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”
When I looked back at the boys, both of their mouths were hanging open.
I fixed them with a longing stare, dropping my voice once again. “Are you boys interested in tomorrow night?”
They both stuttered, their words incomprehensible.
The older one recovered first. “But the marque—if it’s not real, how did you get it?”
“Like this.” I brought my thumb to my lips and licked it seductively, sucking just enough to hold their attention. I brought it to my forehead and down in an arc. The “ink” of my tattoo smeared just as I’d hoped it would. Thank the gods for juniper berry juice.
“Oh.” The younger boy sounded disappointed. “Well then, we’ll leave you to your meal.”
“But I may be back around later to ask about your price,” the older added quietly.
I winked at him.
As soon as they were lost in the crowd, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“You know you’re going to have to keep up the ruse of being a whore for the rest of the evening, right?”
I gave Lancelot a lingering sidelong glance. “Does that make you uncomfortable, my noble knight?” I couldn’t be sure if it was the play of the light from the fire pits or if he blushed.
Before I had a chance to tuck in to my meal, the innkeeper returned. “Your room will be ready shortly, sir.”
From somewhere above, a racket rose above the din. It sounded like a herd of bulls were running through the upstairs rooms. A few moments later, the barkeep’s sons emerged, each carrying one end of an unruly minor noble. The younger had him under the arms and his brother was fending off kicking feet.
“I will not be treated in this manner. I am a descendant of a Damnonii chieftain as well as a Roman general. I will not stand for this.”
“No, but you’ll lie down for it,” someone in the crowd yelled, garnering raucous laughter.
“If you have a problem with our treatment of you, take it up with the member of the Combrogi who is in our midst.”
Lancelot waved at the indignant upstart. He leaned over to me. “Sometimes I’m so glad I accepted this position.”
“But not when a crazed noble’s half sister is aiming a sword at your gut.”
“You jest. That is the best part.”
I found myself unable to look away from his smile. Even with the bruises discoloring his right eye and the cut across his other cheek, his looks and charm were enough to make any woman melt. I tore into the hunk of meat in front of me and continued to watch him. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
He swallowed a mouthful of food. “It’s not often I get to spend the evening with a woman of questionable virtue.”
“Then you must not spend much time at court.”
He laughed. “Point taken.”
We finished the rest of our meal while making idle conversation with the patrons around us. A toothless old woman was trying to keep up, but her poor hearing made her repeat nearly every word.
“Cadbury, did you say? Have you met the king’s new wife?” she asked a rugged, road-weary man who appeared to be a merchant of some sort. “They say she’s a beauty, striking as one of the fey.”
My heart froze.
“No. She did not accompany him into town.”
The woman’s reply was lost in the din of voices.
I grabbed Lancelot’s hand to get his attention. “What did she mean ‘the king’s new wife’? Surely the old crone was mistaken.”
Lancelot’s face clouded. “I wish she were. This is something best discussed in private. Follow me, and don’t forget your role.”
“Oh, I haven’t,” I s
aid, sliding a hand around his waist as he rose. I was surprised at how comfortable I was playing the harlot with him.
Lancelot tossed a handful of coins to the innkeeper as we passed. He acknowledged the largess with a nod to Lancelot and a knowing grin at me. I smiled back and slid my hand down to Lancelot’s backside as we ascended the stairs. A few muted hoots floated up from the more observant patrons.
I collapsed on the bed almost immediately once we were alone, exhausted from keeping up the pretense and hollow from the possibility of Arthur’s betrayal. New wife? What could that possibly mean? I glanced at Lancelot, both hoping and dreading he would pick up the thread of our conversation, but he was busy rummaging in our bag for the supplies he’d need to clean his leg.
I stood and busied myself by fetching a ewer of water and a basin, which I placed on the floor next to him. I curled up on his other side, tucking my legs into my skirt and hugging them. A cold weight had settled in my chest, like at the onset of catarrh, but this was no illness. It was the weight of betrayal.
“The old woman wasn’t wrong,” Lancelot said in low voice, as if loath to speak the words. He peeled back his bandage as he continued. “After six moons of searching with only your golden comb to tell us you were taken via the main road into town, the other lords and some of the Combrogi were ready to declare you dead. Arthur did not wish to give up the search, but in the face of your disappearance and the arguments that even if you did return, you would not bear him any heirs, he invoked the ancient laws allowing him to take a second wife. She has no title beyond royal wife and will never be equal to you in stature, but she has already brought him one son, sired before you and he were wed.”
I turned around so quickly the stitches in my shoulder pulled. I grimaced. “How does he—how does anyone know the child is his?”
Lancelot chuckled darkly. “One look at him and there is no denying his paternity.”
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