My mind was reeling at the download of new information. I had been confused by the different factions on the Council, but the politics between the Briton nations was entirely new to me. I nodded absently at the one constant direction I had been given: keep my identity secret. Got it. Hide my abilities. As Callum well knew, my command of magic was far from under my control. Keeping it concealed would be easier if our lives stopped being threatened.
“Swear to me,” he insisted.
“Swear what?” I asked, distracted by my swirling thoughts.
“Swear that you will not reveal who you are to anyone unless your lives are at risk,” he said.
“Who would I tell?” I had a hard enough time digesting the information myself, and I had only the loosest idea of who and what the Lady of the Lake was. Why on earth would I go blabbing to strangers, especially since I had nowhere near her legendary power?
“Fine. I swear,” I conceded, under Callum’s unwavering glare.
Marcus echoed my promise.
Gideon lifted a brow at Callum. “Promises are for fools. I do not give them.”
“Gideon,” Callum growled.
“It’s her secret.” Gideon lifted a shoulder carelessly. “I will not reveal it before she does.”
That, it seemed, would have to suffice. We would be in Carlisle before long anyway. Where my brother lived. And there the truth must all, surely, be revealed.
Chapter Fifteen
We rode for miles, and I was uncomfortably aware of Gideon, who had barely acknowledged my presence. Finally we came into view of Dinas Brân and, from our vantage point high on a hill, we looked down into the golden valley spread out before us; the stone tower was the most welcome sight I could recall seeing in my life. The sun cast soft light across the wooded valley and a slight evening mist was starting to seep across the meadows. The fallen autumn leaves rustled as we made our way through the dappled light under the trees. My mind began to tumble with worry. Were they here yet? Had his condition worsened? Was he…?
I glanced over at Marcus as we arrived at the entrance to the castle, which was a lot less welcoming up close. The outer wall was high and solid, and the central tower loomed over us in the growing dark.
Gideon hailed the sentry, who was no more than a dark shadow peering down on us from above the gate.
“Ho there! Open the gate,” he called up.
“Who goes there?” the voice called down. The tone was flatly unfriendly.
Gideon huffed a laugh in my ear. “Well, lady, what name would you have us enter under? I assure you mine is unlikely to gain us entry.”
“Tell him we are…” I racked my brain for inspiration. “Weary travellers,” I finally offered weakly.
I could practically feel Gideon’s eyes rolling in his head.
“We travel in the name of the King of Mercia,” he called up, ignoring my suggestion. “We have a message for Lord Rhodri.”
A second man-shaped shadow appeared above the gate, no more welcoming than the first. “The Lord of the Lakelands is no friend to those who dwell here. If you have a message, deliver it and begone.”
“You will deny weary travellers a bed and food, my lord?” Gideon challenged the newcomer, using my words despite his scoffing. I sat straighter in the saddle, unable to let the moment pass unmarked.
The second figure disappeared and the shadows grew longer. What if they refused even to let us in to explain. Should we announce to all here at the gate that we were here to meet Devyn? Was Devyn already here? Was that why they were so unfriendly to strangers? No, that made no sense. If Devyn were here then they would have expected us. My stomach sank, the expectation that had been building since morning fizzling slowly out of my tired body.
“He’s not here,” I said out loud, to myself as much as my companions.
“How do you know?” Marcus’s face was in shadow as he started to utter the unspeakable. “Maybe he isn’t…”
I frowned at him, seeking Devyn through the bond that stretched thin between us. I couldn’t feel anything, but I also couldn’t feel a dreadful nothingness either.
I shook my head.
“He’s not here; we are not expected.” I twisted my body to take in the silent warrior behind me. “We should go out to meet him.”
“Our horses are exhausted. We were to meet here. Bronwyn will bring him.”
“And you just don’t care,” I threw at him. After all, it was his fault Devyn was sick. Why would he do any more than he had to?
Voices came from the other side of the gate and the heavy wooden barrier in front of us opened slowly, the grand oak entrance yielding unwillingly. Gideon nudged our horse forward, and we made our way under the wall and into the courtyard in front of the tower, dark figures of armed men edging forwards from the shadows.
Gideon scanned the men appearing in our wake as the gate closed shut behind us, his body tensely poised at my back. I leaned forward, aware that my presence hindered him should the lack of welcome here become something more life-threatening. Though his odds against the ten or more guards that surrounded us couldn’t be good. I steadied myself, tensing in anticipation of the attack that felt imminent.
“An odd group of messengers,” came a dry voice from a slightly bent figure who I could now see was walking towards us across the courtyard.
Gideon turned and inclined his head.
“My lord.”
The grey-haired man stopped as he came alongside us, his eyes shifting from one to another of us in measurement. He grunted what I supposed amounted to acceptance and with a swing of his head indicated for us to follow him to the main entrance of the tower.
Marcus dismounted first and made his way to me to help me down as. With two of us astride, there was no easy way for me to get down without help and I was typically somewhat unsteady at the end of a long day of riding.
I hesitated before swinging a leg over in readiness to slide off the tall black stallion, bracing for the impact of his touch. Awareness flared as he put his hands on my waist, his green eyes a mixture of heat and denial as I slid to the ground. I looked down, fighting the chemistry ignited by his touch and the damned handfast cuff, shame at my involuntary response curdling in the pit of my stomach. I felt like my reaction was broadcast to everyone in our vicinity. Yet the guards continued to back away and go about their business. Gideon dismounted behind me and gave the reins to a stable boy who had run up to take care of our horses.
Marcus’s corresponding reticence was the only visible sign that the strength of our response to each other was not a figment of my imagination. Last night, in my exhaustion, I had felt only safe in his arms, but this morning, the burning in my blood had returned in full force. Worry for Devyn, fear of the hounds, and exhaustion from what had happened on the river had dulled the handfast-elicited desire but this morning I had felt it strongly enough that I had actually volunteered to ride with Gideon.
Each day that I was separated from Devyn, my defences against the handfast bond weakened. The urge to comply with the Code and return to the city thankfully remained absent. Given that we needed to convince people we were together, my desire to be close to Marcus wasn’t all bad… as long as it didn’t become overwhelming.
Marcus lowered his eyes, sucking in his cheeks in acknowledgement of my rejection. He turned to stride after the older man, not waiting for either Gideon or me. The pull to stay close to him was almost tangible. I forced myself to lag back, earning a dark glance from the ever-observant warrior, who stopped to wait for me.
“Stay close,” Gideon said quietly as I rejoined him. His warning brought me back to the broader present and the fact that we were neither welcome nor safe in our latest surroundings.
Part of me wanted to almost dismiss this knowledge in anticipation of the fact that for the first time in what felt like forever, we would not be sleeping on the ground. At least I hoped we wouldn’t, I amended, taking in the rather forlorn appearance of the inside of the tower as we made our way t
hrough the dark entrance hall with its tired tapestries and tatty furnishings; dust and dirt tracked in from outside remained undisturbed in this unkempt space. My experience of Briton buildings was limited, given we had avoided them as much as we could on our journey north. The odd barn was the only structure I had seen the inside of apart from the beautiful golden stone of Oxford’s great buildings of learning. Despite being relatively empty of students when we had been there, the halls had been well cared for, warm and welcoming. This building had a coldness to it that went beyond its grey granite stone; what once might have been a home felt hollow and abandoned, despite being occupied.
Exiting the darkness of the hall, we came into what I supposed was the great hall of the keep. At least, I supposed it had once been great, but the long, dusty tables and dirty floor added to the general feeling of neglect. Were it not for the fire crackling in the hearth at the top end, I would have easily believed no one had lived here in decades.
“Well, what is your message?” came that dry, raspy voice from a high-backed chair that faced the fire. Was this really Devyn’s father? His grey hair hung limp about his face, and his eyes, while dark, did not have the intensity of his son’s; they appeared, instead, endlessly tired. His shoulders were slumped, as if the energy to stand tall was beyond him, though underneath this they appeared to be broad and his long body hinted at former power. His face was lined, pale and unshaven but his clothes, unlike the hall, were clean; small hints of mending suggested that someone here at least took better care of him than he did of his home.
Gideon walked forwards until we stood within range of the warmth of the crackling fire, my entire body absorbing the heat as it hit the skin on my face and started to warm my clothes.
“No one has arrived before us?” Gideon asked in his turn.
The man in the chair cocked an eyebrow at Gideon’s failure to answer the question asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at the tall warrior. He had to be Devyn’s father, or at least some relative, because I recognised the guileless look that masked the detailed threat assessment that was taking place. But while Devyn was always coiled in preparation for a fight, I could see the muscles of the man before me start to gather as he took in Gideon before surveying Marcus and me rather more slowly.
“Who are you?” His question was directed at me as he finally met my eyes fully.
“We are weary travellers seeking hospitality at your door,” Gideon responded, taking an almost imperceptible step to place himself slightly in front of me.
“I thought you were messengers,” the man reminded him.
“That too.”
A rather wide woman appeared from a door at the side of the room and bustled forwards with the tray she was bearing, unloading the goods she carried onto the top table a few steps away from us and lighting some more candles to eat by.
“Well, my weary travellers,” the man said, indicating the food and drink with his hand as the woman, having laid everything out to her apparent satisfaction, disappeared back to wherever she had come from.
We ate and drank in silence; the food was functional but good and simply being indoors added flavour to the meal, as far as I was concerned. Our host sat back, indicating that any further discussion of our business here could wait until we had received the hospitality of his hall – something I was infinitely grateful for as I enjoyed sitting on the hard bench and eating real food for the first time since Oxford. I finished an extra slice of the delicious, nutmeggy cakes, flat, round and golden in colour, before our host invited us to join him back at the hearthside.
“Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what brings you to my home?” he prompted.
“We’re looking for your son.”
If Gideon was aiming to get a reaction then he was disappointed, as the older man didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid in response.
“I’m afraid you have travelled in vain then,” he finally offered in an even tone. “For I have no son.”
I gasped at the denial, surer than ever that this man was Lord Rhodri. How dare he.While he was far from being a copy of his son, he had a certain steady way of looking at you that was all Devyn.
“That’s a shame, for we parted company three days since from a man who bid us meet him here at his father’s house – or at least his cousin did, as he was not much in the way of conversation at the time.”
The man threw a dark look at Gideon.
“You speak in riddles. I ask again, who are you?” The old man stood looming over an unconcerned Gideon.
“My companions are –” he hesitated “– Catriona and Marc of Oxford and I am Gideon, trusted man of the King of Mercia.”
I froze as Gideon used my true name as my alias. Ass.
But the introduction told our host nothing, and his lids lowered to cover his own reaction to Gideon’s dodging the true nature of his question.
“How come you here, speaking of my son?” His accent thickened as he glowered down at the smiling Gideon.
“I thought you had no son,” Gideon taunted.
“Enough.” I didn’t know or care what game Gideon was playing. I understood that Rhodri was not a respected man in Britannia, but playing with him like this was poorly done. “We were travelling with Devyn and we had to split up. We were hoping he might have made it here before us?”
The man looked at me with a lack of comprehension that made me wonder if he couldn’t understand my words; maybe my accent was too odd.
“Devyn?” He faltered on the name. “Coming here? How?”
“We were attacked, Devyn was injured, and because we were being pursued by the hounds of Samhain, we drew them off while he and Bronwyn were to come directly here. There is no sign of them?”
The man drew a shaking hand across his face.
“Devyn is on his way here?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
“No, no, he hasn’t arrived.” He started for the door and then stopped again. “Truly?”
“Yes,” I repeated and Gideon, in turn, nodded as Devyn’s father looked to him too for confirmation.
He made his way rapidly towards the door and there were sounds of shouting from the yard before he returned.
“If you are lying, I will end you; I care not who you serve,” he opened grimly.
“We are not lying,” I assured him.
“Then tell me how this comes to be,” he ordered.
“Devyn was hurt on our way here.” I didn’t want to reveal all, but his reaction had not included any surprise that his son was alive, despite the commonly held belief that he had died years ago.
“How?” For a man who, moments before, had been denying Devyn’s very existence, he seemed interested enough now.
“He was wounded by a knife,” I gritted out, not looking at my travelling companions, both of whom shared the blame for what had happened.
“The cut is deep?”
“No,” I shook my head. “But we think there was something on the blade and it’s made him very ill. We weren’t able to help him. Bronwyn said we should come here because you have a healer who might be able to do something for him.”
Rhodri paled.
“Our druid left yesterday and he is not expected back for another week at least. I should have gone with him, but I stayed here, just in case.”
I shook my head, confused. “In case of what?”
“In case my son came home.”
“I thought you had no son,” Gideon said with a smirk.
Lord Rhodri shook his head wearily. “I did not know who you were and ’twould not be wise to tell strangers at my door that I waited… in case he might seek a night here on his way north.”
“How did you know we were coming?” Marcus asked, speaking for the first time, I realised.
“Well, Marc of Oxford, the entire country is buzzing with news of the York prince fleeing the city with the Griffin’s son, risen from the dead, leading him home. People expect Marcus Plantagenet Courtenay to go to York,
but Devyn’s fealty is to Mercia. Once beyond the border, he would have a duty to go there directly.” The tired, dark eyes looked towards the fire. “I am an old man and I waited here in the hope that he would seek shelter on his way. I would like to see him once more.”
He turned towards me. “And so now that we are all being a little more honest, I take it your name is not Catriona?”
I hesitated. I so wanted to tell him. This man had been destroyed by what had happened twenty years ago but I bit my lip and shook my head.
“Cassandra,” I offered up, sticking to my promise to Callum and to Devyn to conceal the truth.
“Cassandra, it is my pleasure to host you.” He bowed his head, waving in a waiting serving woman. “Now, I’m sure you are tired. Meg will take you to your room.”
While it had been warm beside the fire, the temperature quickly dropped as we circled up into the tower where I was shown to my room. This room too showed signs of disuse but, like its lord, hints of former pride and grandness were still visible under the surface abandonment. I wondered what Gideon had made of the man who used to be the greatest warrior in the land, a man I recalled he had once admired, though his frame had become frail and seemed as discarded and uncared-for as his home.
I quickly washed as best I could, using the cloth and icy-cold water which had been left for the purpose, before climbing fully dressed beneath the somewhat musty, heavy covers of the four-poster bed. The throw at the bottom of the bed caught my eye, its geometric burnt reds and yellows far from the swirling blues and greens more typical of the Celts. It spoke of Mediterranean Africa; was this one of the few remnants of Devyn’s mother, who had died too soon after escaping the Empire? Devyn. My mind raced in worry. Where was he? They should have made it here before us. Even delayed by Devyn’s wound, their route should have been half the distance of the one we had taken. Where could they be?
I lay there, unable to relax despite the relative comfort of a bed, when the door opened again. I turned slightly, expecting the servant who had brought me here. But in the doorway, in the light of the single candle he held aloft, stood Marcus.
Curse of the Celts Page 21
