Chapter 27

Twenty-Seven

Late, late into the night, as a misty rain began to drizzle down, Rhiannon found herself struggling in the saddle.

Pulling her woolen cloak more tightly about herself, she donned the hood as well, tugging it down over her face.

Compelled to despite her resolve, her eyes closed of their own accord, and not even the dampness soaking through her cloak was enough discomfort to keep her from teetering in the saddle.

Forsooth. If her mother should appear right now, she would be ill-suited to do aught more than fall at her feet, face down in the muck—like King Stephen.

How embarrassed he must have been—the sovereign of England with a gob full of mud.

Rhiannon might have enjoyed seeing that—though not more than she would have enjoyed the sight of his sour-faced wife lying there beside him.

Deliriously, she thought, "That's not very nice, Rhiannon." The poor lady is already dead. But then again, because that was so, she already had a gob full of muck, now didn't she?

That wasn't Rhiannon's fault.

Half insensate, Rhiannon seized a handful of her horse's mane only to help steady herself, refusing to complain. If everyone else could endure so long, so, too, must she.

"Just a little further," she coaxed herself.

Like a black-clad guardian angel, Cael appeared by her side. With barely any effort, he plucked her from her saddle, dragging her into his arms, where he tucked her against him and said, "Rest, my love."

My love…

My love…

Was she really his love?

Could one truly love despite being aligned elsewhere? Every day of her confinement, he had reminded her of the debt he owed her mother. And more… that he'd desired everything Morwen desired—most importantly, an end to the regime that answered to an unscrupulous Empire. Betimes he spoke as though he had a personal grievance against the Church, and Rhiannon oft wondered why.

He wasn't a dewine—never the hunted, always the hunter! He was an executioner, a man to be feared. And yet… Rhiannon didn't fear him, and she never had.

Aside from those first few months that he'd kept her in the tower, Cael d'Lucy had never once mistreated her.

Even then, he'd come to keep her company, talking with her for hours, standing outside her gaol, even without a chair. Conversely, at least Rhiannon had had a cot to sit on, and betimes whenever she'd wept, he'd opened her cell and come to sit by her side, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. She'd known then that, deep down, where it mattered, Cael d'Lucy's heart was good. In fact, before her mother had delivered the shackles, she might easily have found a way to escape, still she never tried.

Why?

Because of him.

It wasn't only because she'd had a vision of their fates. Admittedly, some small part of her had lived for each moment when he'd come to console her.

In the beginning, she'd believed it was pity that compelled him—pity for her affliction, pity for her circumstances.

The child in her had clamored for some simple human connection, and the woman in her had laid her tear-stained cheeks in the crook of his neck and inhaled the very masculine scent of him—a scent that to Rhiannon had been oddly familiar, though she'd never met Cael before that day, fresh from her tumbril.

Nay, he would never hurt her.

She sensed that truth deep in her soul.

Somehow, she'd always trusted that Cael would defend her, despite everything.

She felt his chest expand with a contented sigh as he pulled the edge of the cloak over her face, taking care to keep the rain from her, and Rhiannon lost the battle to stay awake. They'd been traveling too long now, with her nerves on edge, and now that she was in her husband's arms, she hadn't any spirit left to muster. Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against his leathered chest, and slept like a newborn babe. When she reopened her eyes again, the first blushing of morning light had begun to unfurl.

"Wake up," said Cael. "Rhiannon!"

Her head shot up, as she heard bellowing.

The morning sky was a watery rose as they ventured onto Amdel's parklands, and though the rain had stopped, the entire landscape was a muddy brown.

Looking far more like a pile of stones against the dusky horizon, Amdel castle lay shrouded in a thick morning mist, its aura black as pitch.

"Tell him to come out, treat like a man!" shouted one of two fellows standing in the middle of a muddy field—one mounted, one not.

The one doing the bargaining stood, arms akimbo.

Reining in their mounts, the entire cavalcade stopped to assess the situation.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Rhiannon righted herself in the saddle.

Marcella patted her mare's neck, whispering gently to the beast to keep her calm.

Jack reined in as well, tightening the lead rope to Rhiannon's riderless horse, bringing it close.

Even the wolfhound stood silent, perhaps evaluating the level of danger. Although Rhiannon half expected the animal to growl or to leap at the pair of warriors standing in a watery field, he remained close by their side.

Before them, Amdel Castle rose from rich, black loam, looking like a debased tomb, with its half-finished stone wall nearly gone to rubble.

It was, as though, she thought… the lord of this place had begun to construct a bastion, only to be thwarted by his coffers, or perhaps even a king's mandate.

There were many adulterine castles built after King Henry's death—over a thousand, so she'd heard. So long as their lords bent the knee, the Usurper had allowed many to remain, far too many, his barons would say.

Only naturally, Stephen would respect a man who took what he wanted per force. After all, hadn't he done the same?

Still, it was impossible to say if this castle might be among the ones he did not approve. For whatever reason, the construction had been forestalled long, long ago. And even so, its aura gave Rhiannon the distinct impression that it had only been recently abandoned. It filled her with a strange sense of presentiment. Even the air itself held the faintest whiff of death. But she sensed heart flames within, so the castle wasn't entirely abandoned. More proof of that stood upon the parapet… one man with arms akimbo, though Rhiannon could spy others hidden behind the meutriers, bows knocked and arrows ready to loose.

"He'll not treat with the likes of you!" he shouted. "Get ye gone, else we'll loose another volley!"

The two men standing before the barbican stood far enough away that the first round of missiles had embedded themselves harmlessly at their feet. At least half a dozen stood planted in the sodden ground.

"Cael?" said Marcella. "I believe that's…

"Giles," he said.

Rhiannon perked over hearing that name.

Her sister's husband?

What were the odds?

Small, in truth, lest the fates be bound.

Rhiannon recognized him as well, despite that she'd only seen him once in a vision—more than four years ago when he'd first encountered her sister en route to Aldergh… before their mother placed her in shackles.

"God's bones," said Cael. "It is him."

So far, neither man on the ground had any sense of their presence, so preoccupied were they with the soldiers on the wall. And yet, the man on the wall did note them. His hands fell from his hips, and he retreated a few steps, then returned. Rhiannon could see the color of fear rising in his aura, even from this distance—brown as the loamy fields stretching before the castle.

"I must speak to him," said Rhiannon, as she rushed to dismount.

"Nay," said Cael, restraining her with a hand to her breast.

"Please!" she begged.

"Nay," he said, and before she could protest, Rhiannon suffered another vision—the first since removing her shackles. The intensity of it dizzied her, and any complaint she might have uttered died in her throat. It was no more than a fleeting glance, but when it was gone, she suddenly understood… and swallowed, hard.

This was the place…

Here.

This was where they would face Morwen—this monstrosity of construction, with its melancholy spirit and cadaverous stench.

"I'll go," offered Jack.

"Nay," said Marcella. "I will go."

And before anyone could stop her, she spurred her mount ahead, covering the distance quickly, her dark hair sweeping her back as she shouted in greeting.

"Hail, brother!" she said, waving in greeting.

Both men spun about, drawing swords. Giles froze when he saw her—thank God. They were far enough away that no one could intervene if he meant to cut her down.

To everyone's relief, both men re-sheathed their weapons, and Marcella stood speaking to them a long moment, then she waved the rest of them forward as she dismounted.

Jack complied at once.

Only Cael hesitated. "Until I know what they're doing here, say nothing, Rhiannon."

"He's my brother by law," she argued. "Why would you believe he would do me harm?"

Silence was Cael's response, but he nudged his destrier forward.

Rhiannon persisted. "We are en route to Warkworth, where you wouldst seek the man's aid. Why does it matter where he is? Inexplicably, he's here, when we need him most. I call it a gift from the Goddess."

"Rather convenient, don't you think?"

"She works in mysterious ways," apprised Rhiannon.

"Aye well, you'd do well to remember that your mother is a child of the Goddess, as well."

No doubt that was true, but Rhiannon also had dewine blood in her veins. She spoke her true heart and found lies distasteful. No one knew this more than Cael.

How many times had he begged her to pretend? All Rhiannon ever had to do was to marry him and bow to her mother, and never could she allow herself to do so.

In all her life she'd only spoken one lie—one—and that was the night she'd convinced Elspeth to escape Llanthony. She'd told all her sisters that she'd envisaged the future and that Cael would never have her. But even then, she'd known that wasn't true. The lord of Blackwood would have wed himself to a leper for the promise of Wales.

In part, Rhiannon had lied because she knew it was her sister's destiny to wed Malcom Scott, but there was yet another reason she'd done so: Some part of her woman's heart had admired Lord Blackwood even then.

He was her soul's mate.

Even now, she longed for his kisses.

De Vere," he said in greeting as they approached the gathering in the muddy field.

"D'Lucy," answered Giles with a half-hearted smile.

Clearly, they knew each other well enough to use given names. But then, again, why shouldn't they be well acquainted? They were cohorts, after all.

Only the bigger man seemed utterly confused. "What goes here?" he said.

All the while they approached, Giles de Vere had locked gazes with Rhiannon and then seemed unwilling or unable to take his eyes off her. Sensing he recognized the familial resemblance, Rhiannon dared to mindspeak.

"My lord Warkworth, we meet at last."

"Giles?"

Giles De Vere blinked, peering up at Marcella, and shaking his head, and Rhiannon understood that he must be confused by the voice in his head, although not entirely surprised.

For a moment, he tore his gaze away from Rhiannon, perhaps doubting his sanity. He nodded toward the castle. "Eustace is inside," he said.

"The King's son?"

Giles nodded. "So, his men have said."

The bigger man spoke now, his brow creased more with anger than concern. "I'll warrant the sorry bastard knows I'm ready to break his neck."

Giles cut the bigger man a quelling glance, then beamed at the young paladin in their company. "Jack," he said warmly, and suddenly the bigger man's face erupted with a grin.

"Jack!" he exclaimed as he rushed to the young man's side, reaching up to offer a hand in greeting.

Jack grinned. "Thought ye were rid o' me, di' ye?"

"You've grown whiskers," the bigger man said, rubbing his own face. "I scarcely recognized you." And then he tugged Jack down from the saddle, as though he were just a wee boy, dragging the apprentice into his burly arms, then clapping him hard on the back. He said fondly, "'Tis been too long!"

For his part, Jack could scarcely respond for the force of the hug. "You'll be the death of me yet, if you don't release me, old man," he complained.

The giant released him, and Giles said at large, though he once again settled his gaze upon Rhiannon, "This is my brother, Wilhelm Fitz Richard."

Rhiannon's gaze shifted to the brother, realizing only belatedly that she was face to face with not one, but two of her sisters' champions. Wilhelm was Seren's husband.

"So, what's it going to be?" shouted the man on the parapet, rudely interrupting their reunion. "Will you leave peaceably, or must we fill you with holes?"

Brave words, said with less conviction than he'd spoken only moments before, but his warning effectively cut their greetings short. Whatever more need be said must wait until they dealt with the rogue prince and the adulterine castle he'd squatted upon.

Giles offered them a quick detail: They'd tracked Eustace to Amdel, after chasing him from Bury St. Edmunds. According to his men—those on the parapet—he was inside now, though he'd yet to show his face.

"How many are there?"

"No more than four on the parapet," said Giles. "No telling how many more within, but evidently they aren't concerned enough by our presence to provide a show of force."

"'Tis been these same four men on that wall," explained Wilhelm. "Only one of them speaking for the rest."

"There's only one inside," said Rhiannon.

Every pair of eyes slid to her, where she sat before Cael in the saddle.

"How can you know?" asked Wilhelm.

Rhiannon's eyes met Wilhelm's and she held his gaze. "Because… I feel his heart flame."

The behemoth narrowed his eyes.

Undaunted, she continued. "There are four on the ramparts, one elsewhere on the premises, and I presume he must be hiding inside the keep."

"Like as not drunk and lamenting his fate," agreed Giles.

"Quite likely," agreed Marcella. "We heard the cur was dispossessed and that Stephen intends to cede his throne to Duke Henry."

Giles nodded affirmation. "Indeed, that's the plan," he said. "However, after I left, Eustace accused his father of ruining his life. He took a contingent of his own men—more than he has here, I presume, but I believe he lost them all after looting Bury St. Edmunds."

"Idiots," said Cael.

"Anyone of note on the ramparts?" asked Marcella.

Giles shook his head. "I don't believe so." He shook his head again. "Only a handful of dafties who believe the King's son has some chance with Morwen's intervention."

A prickle of fear raced down Rhiannon's spine at the mention of her mother. Instinctively, she peered up at the skies, searching for ravens. None were yet to be found.

And yet, even so, she understood with conviction that there were no coincidences. The Mother Goddess provided, if only one listened, and there must be some reason Wilhelm and Giles were already here.

There was a good reason they'd happened upon the King's son as well.

Whether or not they were aligned, their fates certainly were.

"We're pleased to see you," said Giles. "Now mayhap, we'll root out the bastard and set off to Warkworth together."

"We won't be traveling on to Warkworth," said Rhiannon. "I'm afraid this is where we must make our stand."

"Impossible!" declared Marcella.

"We haven't the men or resources," said Giles. "Warkworth is where they will send reinforcements."

"What goes here?" asked Wilhelm, frowning, perhaps slow to realize who Rhiannon was, since they had never laid eyes upon each other before now.

Rhiannon closed her eyes, inhaling a breath, communing with the aether, ifonly to be certain. When she opened her eyes again, she was sure and she met Marcella's gaze, pleading with the paladin to keep faith. Out of everyone standing here, Marcella was the one person who might fully understand. "And nevertheless, this is where we must remain," she said.

"God's bones!" erupted Wilhelm. "Who the hell is this woman to tell us what to do?"

Very somberly, Giles clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder, and said, "You of all people… can't you see the familial resemblance? She's Rhiannon Pendragon."