And yet. He had been cooped up for days.
I ducked my head against the driving rain that stung my face like needles. I ran across the courtyard, hunching against the weather.
I paused as I entered the stable, and after shaking off the rain as if I were a half-drowned dog, I centred myself and felt for Devyn. If he was here I should be able to… There.
Passing by the horse stalls to the end, I found Devyn putting a saddle on a horse.
“What are you doing?” I asked, aghast.
“Going for a ride.”
“In this? What is wrong with you? You’ve barely recovered from the… you know, nearly dying.”
“It’s better for everyone if I stay out of sight. I need to be outside these walls for a couple of hours,” he said in a controlled manner. I went to him as he fixed the girth, laying my hand on his arm.
“He’s looking for you.”
Devyn’s muscles tensed. He was wound as tightly as I’d ever seen him. I recalled his face when he’d opened the door to find Deverell at breakfast. He didn’t want to face his former friend, didn’t want to lie to him. But lie he must.
“Are you sure?” His eyes flicked behind me to the entrance.
“Well, no. But he’s been watching that door all morning, so I assume he knew you weren’t in the dungeon anymore. He seemed upset that you decided not to join us and stormed out after you.”
“Right,” he sighed. “Now he wants to talk.”
“Devyn—” I started to remind him that he couldn’t say anything.
“Stay here,” he cut me off abruptly, pushing me firmly back into the stall as he made his way out of the tack room.
“Leaving again?” Rion Deverell sounded bored.
Devyn gave no response that I could hear.
“What are you doing here?” Deverell sounded angry, but it was heavily laced with frustration and exasperation. “You come back and put yourself in the middle of… If you had just come to me first as I told you, I could have contained it. We could have figured it out. But now it will be public and I cannot be seen to show weakness.”
I waited for Devyn’s response.
“I am still your man,” Devyn finally said.
“That remains to be seen.” That cool, restrained tone returned at Devyn’s formal but uninformative response. Silence hung in the air, filled only by the soft whickering of horses.
“I asked you a question.”
“I was poisoned. It wasn’t exactly my decision,” Devyn answered.
“You’re lying to me.” Deverell spoke slowly, assessing the man before him.
Silence again. I could feel Devyn’s struggle to find words that would move them beyond this. Something that would help him avoid lying further.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Deverell tried again, to resounding silence. “York’s bride came with him.” The king tried a new tack. “As I recall you nearly got yourself killed in Londinium over her.”
My heart stopped. Did he know? Was it possible that he suspected the truth? I leaned my head against the wall, begging Devyn to hold the line.
“Damn you,” came that controlled voice.
Footsteps rustled through the straw, leading out of the stables until they paused momentarily before they quickly returned.
“You left me alone. He was a ghost. After you left, I had no one.” I couldn’t see Rion, but I could hear his pain and feel the answering pain his words stirred in Devyn.
“Why did you leave?” The words sounded like they had been torn from him against his will.
Again, Devyn didn’t answer; he didn’t need to this time. His boyhood friend knew the answer already. Deverell’s groan said as much, as did the sound of a hand hitting a stall with a bang.
“Dammit. That cannot be your defence.”
“It’s the truth.”
More silence as Deverell absorbed Devyn’s simple reply. He didn’t ask if Devyn had had any success. Whether because he didn’t care if his sister was still alive or because no part of him thought it possible, it was hard to tell.
“How long will you stay this time?” No echo of the anger of a moment ago remained in his voice.
I could feel the shame that weighed Devyn down at this question. Other emotions pulled at the edges of that shame. A wish to be able to make that promise. Frustration at being unable to do so. As if the promise was not in his gift to give. I swallowed as I crouched in the tack room, the straw scratching at my ankles.
“I have forgiven you twice. There will not be a third time.”
Once, when he was a child, Rion Deverell had chosen to stand in front of the boy the world hated for his mother and sister’s death. When was the second time?
“Twice?” Apparently Devyn couldn’t do this calculation either.
“When I saw you in Londinium, I thought…” There was a pause, as if he could not find or name the words he had felt there in the middle of the masquerade ball. “For a moment I half expected you would step forward and present…”
Would Devyn tell him now? That he had done what he had set out to do and found his long-dead sister.
There was a huff.
“You should have come directly to me.”
No response again. Devyn wasn’t the most liberal with words when under pressure.
“A thrice-damned trial,” Deverell said. “Your uncle seeks to save you. But he… There is little I can do here.”
“I know.”
What did that mean? Little he could do about what?
“Will you have me back?” Devyn’s question was barely audible.
“Should you live so long,” came the flat reply.
There was nothing for Devyn to say in response to that. “Damn you.”
Deverell ended the conversation, the crunch of straw indicating his departure. I opened the stall door to find Devyn standing there, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I could feel he wasn’t. I knew how difficult hiding the truth had been for him.
He lifted his head and looked over at me. A smile broke across his grey face. Like the light that breaks through a bank of cloud and in shards of light illuminates a single section of countryside.
“I broke my vow but he…” His chin crumpled. His friend had forgiven him his betrayal, without even knowing that Devyn had succeeded. Irrespective of everyone else’s condemnation, he had forgiven him.
I wrapped my arms around him as he sucked in great breaths to steady himself.
I knew that my brother’s opinion mattered a great deal to Devyn and the fact that he had been forgiven for breaking the vow he had made to Mercia would go a long way to healing the jagged tear that I could occasionally sense in Devyn.
“This is good, right? No need for a trial now?”
Devyn shook his head.
“It’s too late. Once the trial was called, my uncle acted immediately and sent out riders with a summons to neighbouring lords to convene here. Llewelyn meant well.”
“What do you mean?”
“He forced Rion’s hand by calling for a trial. If we had made it to Carlisle, then Rion alone would have had the power to decide my fate, and there would be little his peers could do to gainsay him, whether he forgave me or had me executed. It is his right as it was his house I broke my vow to,” he explained.
Executed? Since when was that the punishment for a broken promise? I knew that Devyn had been outlawed when he left the north, but I had assumed that the punishment would fit the crime. When the others had said… I’d thought it was a figure of speech. Breaking a promise wasn’t even a crime against the Code, but this felt like a massive overreaction. Surely some kind of fine would be more appropriate.
Devyn ran his hands down my arms. “It will be all right, Cass. The trial is a formality. The lords hereabouts should vote with my uncle.”
“Should?” I asked, my voice coming out a little on the shrill side. “Like the King of Mercia’s confidence that said you could r
eturn to his service if you live long enough to do so?”
Devyn lifted his head at the sound of approaching voices. He brushed his lips against mine.
He took the reins to lead the waiting horse outside. He was obviously still planning to go for that ride.
“It will be fine.”
But it wasn’t going to be fine. The first of the lords had arrived while Devyn was enjoying his ride along the coast in the wind and rain. And Lady Morwyn of Caernarfon, Llewelyn’s closest neighbour, was seriously displeased when she learned of it.
The gruff old lady insisted on standing in the courtyard to wait for his return. Llewelyn waited with her, simmering at the implication that Devyn could not be trusted.
Devyn finally returned, dark curls dripping down his face as he cantered in, immediately taking in his not so welcoming committee.
He dismounted and bowed formally to Lady Morwyn, who had the guards escort Devyn directly to his room where he was to remain for the duration of the trial. An oathbreaker was not to be trusted to his word not to run. Rion Deverell watched the whole scene, unblinking, from inside the doorway and merely stood aside, expressionless, as Devyn was marched past him.
His eyes flicked to me afterwards, less out of an interest in me than merely noting the anger on my face. My reaction was worth noting. Again, I had the impression that Deverell was assessing me like a piece on a chessboard.
Between my response now and his recollection of Devyn’s reaction at the ball in Londinium, he clearly had suspicions about our relationship, but whatever triangle was going on, while noteworthy, was no concern of his. I gnawed at my lower lip. For now.
It took some days before the Prince of Gywnedd announced that with six lords present they had a quorum ready for the judge. Llewelyn himself, the King of Mercia, his neighbours Lady Morwyn, Lord Arthfael and Lady Emrick, who came from somewhere in the mountains. And an Anglian, Lord Montgomery, who had been visiting Emrick when the summons had arrived. Two more days passed waiting on the druids even though they were nearby at Anglesey, the approaching solstice the likely cause of the delay. The arrival of the High Druid elicited a great deal of fuss. I watched her arrive from my window. Garbed in the same long cloak as the others I had met so far, she looked like something out of myth with her long, fine white hair and a flowing white dress.
When I went down to dinner later, I discovered to my delight that the High Druid was none other than the wisewoman Fidelma. She caught my eye as I went to greet her, shaking her head slightly. It would be better if our acquaintance was not common knowledge; I nodded faintly in compliance if not complete understanding.
The High Druid had not travelled alone; there were several white-robed druids seated at a high table in the hall, one of whom caught my attention and who I definitely was not going to pretend not to know.
Having spotted her first, I made my way around to her table. When I was at her shoulder, I leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“Hello, Marina.”
She let out a squeal and quickly extricated herself from the bench before wrapping herself around me, her delight abundant.
“Cassandra! Oh, I wanted to come and find you straight away but Fidelma said it wouldn’t be the thing to wander around the castle and we were waiting and waiting for you to come down, but you didn’t. But you’re here now.”
“We?” I asked, bemused.
“Me and Oban.” Her older brother was hovering behind her, looking a little disquieted at the amount of attention we were attracting. I hugged him and he smiled back at the warm reception.
I took them both in, Marina in a green version of the druid’s robes and Oban in a plain but immaculately cut tunic in the Celtic style.
“You came with Fidelma?” I took in Marina’s flushed, healthy colouring and her lustrous hair swept up in braids. “You look wonderful.”
“Yes, I’m a novice now but I’m training to be a druid.”
“In Anglesey?” I asked, struck by the coincidence that they had also ended up in this corner of the wilds.
“No, we’re in Glastonbury. Fidelma was visiting the Holy Isle for the harvest when the summons came. Druid John remained at the Holy Isle for the winter solstice so we came to Conwy instead; she’s more important anyway. She was supposed to be back for solstice at Stonehenge but she said we would come here instead. I really wanted to see Stonehenge, but obviously it’s so much better to see you here instead. Have you ever seen such a place? It’s huge, isn’t it?” She indicated the castle, her eyes wide in appreciation.
“Damp though.”
“It does rain a lot.” Marina sighed heavily.
“What do you mean, Fidelma is more senior? Isn’t she just a wisewoman?”
“No,” Marina laughed. “She’s the High Druid at Glastonbury Tor. She’s like the boss.”
“She’s healed you?”
Marina frowned. “I’m way better. Did you know that the Mallacht – that’s what they call it here – has been around for ages? It’s a curse caused when the energies of the earth aren’t cared for. That’s what druids do. Not the curse – though apparently that’s what the Romans say – but they know the old ways and they look after the land. I’m taking some of the medicine that Druid John produces so mostly I feel better but I can’t take it while I’m training because then I can’t sense the ley. But I can’t train on the road anyway.”
“But when you aren’t taking this stuff, you still have the illness? The Mallacht?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t dead,” she pointed out, winking.
I smiled back at her. It was unspeakably good to see them here. I was so tired of being surrounded by new people. And Marcus should be able to do better for her. He was showing the druid here his technique and Marina could be added to those he was using to demonstrate to Ewan and Madoc how he cured the Mallacht.
“How are you?” I asked, turning to Oban, giving the high table a glance over my shoulder; my presence at Marcus’s side was overdue.
“I’m well, my lady,” he said politely. I frowned at his polite response. “I… uh, I’m well enough,” he said. “P’raps not as useful in a druid community as I might be elsewhere.”
I surveyed their companions’ simple robes. “No, I suppose not. But if you’re looking for an occupation while you’re here, I could do with some help,” I said, indicating my plain woollen dress.
Oban grinned, his pleasure at being able to make himself useful evident. “Can do.”
At the high table, there was no real discussion of anything more than the recent harvests and the spread of illness in their communities. It was as if Devyn didn’t exist. Marcus, of course, was of great interest to the new arrivals, and they went to a good deal of trouble to engage him and solicit his thoughts on any and all topics that arose. Marcus was used to being the centre of attention in most gatherings in Londinium, so he took it in his stride and was effortlessly charming in return.
I, on the other hand, had little desire to charm anyone. Even my lifelong training to be the sociable beauty on Marcus’s arm wasn’t enough to entirely mask the dread that leached out of my sullen mood.
Chapter Twenty-One
The trial began on the evening of the day after Fidelma’s arrival with a great deal less ceremony than a Mete occasioned in Londinium. Each day, after the evening meals, tables were pushed back, Devyn was brought in, and was made to stand alone in the centre of the room.
He was never afraid. Every evening, for an hour or so, he calmly answered their questions about his life following his departure from Carlisle. According to their laws, everyone had a right to speak in their own defence, the goal being to understand events rather than spin evidence against the accused. Devyn was honest and respectful. He told them of his life in the Imperial Province. Marcus remained rigid as Devyn described his skills with technology, his friendship with Linus and other dissidents, and their efforts to help latents. He made it clear to everyone that he was quite willing to accept whatever the court decided,
and that this was an eventuality he had foreseen from the moment he had decided to leave the Lakes.
Since I was denied access to Devyn, Bronwyn kept me occupied by teaching me how to ride properly; otherwise I kept to my room as much as possible, though I was regularly joined by Marina, who bubbled over with enthusiasm for her new life. She was full of talk of the ley line she tended at Glastonbury and the druids’ delight in the strength of her ability. Oban also took to sewing in my rooms when Marina was off being treated by Marcus.
After Devyn was done with, others were called upon to fill in the events of our journey north, most particularly from the point when Devyn had become ill. Bronwyn answered clearly and placed emphasis on Devyn’s incapacity during the critical decision-making part. Gideon was called on to recount the events on our side after splitting from the main group. His responses to the High Druid, even for Gideon, were spectacularly insolent.
Oban lured me to his room the next day for a final fitting of my soon-to-be replenished wardrobe, having procured cloth from Rhys, with whom he had quickly become friendly. Returning to my rooms, I almost collided with Gideon as he burst around the corner. His hands shot out to catch me. He steadied me and seemed about to hurry on when a dark gleam suddenly lit his amber eyes.
Gideon stiffened and leaned his body further into mine, his hand on my lower back holding me to him when I tried to pull away.
He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you want me to keep your secret then grant me this one thing.”
What one thing? What was he doing? Gideon could have any woman in the castle; I had seen them throwing themselves at him.
“What thing?” I asked somewhat breathlessly. I was confused and annoyed but there was a reason every woman between ten and a hundred threw themselves at him. He was gorgeous and slightly dangerous… and his large body curving intimately about mine was making me think of things I had no business thinking about.
“Gideon.” A woman’s voice came from somewhere behind him.
Curse of the Celts Page 30
