Silver Silence (8 page)

“Aye, and Dafyd’s sermon only confirms what many are whispering,” Howell said. “Duke Gerlois’s tournament is naught but a show of force designed to taunt King Uther.”

“Gerlois has been taunting Uther all summer,” Trent remarked. “Despite all the fighting in the east, Gerlois has sent not a single knight to the high king’s aid.”

“One can hardly blame the man,” Kane said. “The king insulted the duke quite blatantly last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. Uther made no secret of his lust for Lady Igraine.”

“If a lustful eye cast toward the duchess enrages Gerlois,” Howell retorted, “the duke had best be ready to taunt every man in Britain! Lady Igraine is far too beautiful for any husband’s peace of mind.”

Rhys followed this interchange with great interest.

“ ‘Tis beyond foolish for men to fight over a woman,” Floyd commented, slurping his gruel. “Even one so lovely as Igraine.”

“True,” Howell said. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “But I canna credit how close to outright treason Dafyd came tonight. He all but called for Gerlois to replace Uther on the high throne.”

“The bishop grows bold, aye,” Trent said. “He is Gerlois’s younger brother, after all. He knows there are many in Britain who would pledge fealty to the duke rather than Uther. But I cannot like it. Gerlois holds Dumnonia and the west country well enough, but can he protect the east of Britain, which lies on the Saxons’ very doorstep? I think not.”

“I agree,” Howell said. “Uther is Britain’s fiercest warrior. He may not be the most ardent follower of the Christos, but what of it? Prayers are no match for arrows and swords.”

Kane’s cheeks reddened. “For shame, Howell! If all Britain’s faith proves as weak as yours, the Saxons will certainly be our masters.”

“ ‘Tis only due to Uther we dinna all wear Saxon slave collars,” Howell retorted.

“Some of Lord Vectus’s subjects already do,” Kane countered, “seized as they were after their master fell to Saxon raiders, not even a month past! ’Twas Gerlois’s warriors, not Uther’s, who answered the pleas of Vectus’s people. Else even more would have been taken.”

“It was Gerlois’s duty to aid Lord Vectus,” Howell said. “Vectus was Lady Igraine’s kin. Must King Uther
personally hold every mile of western coast for Gerlois, as well as the south, north, and east for the rest of Britain’s dukes and petty kings?”

A sour silence descended, each man frowning into his cup.

“Only the Christos can grant Britain victory against the Saxons,” Kane muttered eventually.

The bottom of Howell’s mug hit the table with a thud. He looked right, then left, then leaned forward to hiss in Kane’s face. “If your Christos is so concerned with Britain’s defense, where was he fifty bloody years ago? He might have prevented the Roman army from abandoning Britain in the first place!”

“What of the Druid the bishop mentioned?” Rhys asked Trent. “This Myrddin?”

“Ah, Myrddin,” Trent replied. He took a long draught of bitter ale, frowned into his mug, then put it aside. “Uther’s old Druid is an enigma, to be sure. No one seems to know whence he came. Eire, perhaps. At least that is where he first became known as Uther’s advisor, during the campaign Uther waged as King Ambrosius’s general. Many believe Uther’s victories in Eire, and all the ones after, were aided by Druid magic. ’Tis even said Uther changed his battle standard, and took a new surname, solely because of a vision Myrddin received from his pagan gods.”

“Indeed,” Rhys murmured.

“Aye, ’twas a dream of two dragons—one red, one white—locked in battle. At first, it seemed the white would be victorious, but then the red prevailed. Shortly after, Ambrosius was murdered, and Uther took his half brother’s throne. He raised a standard to the red dragon, and named himself Pendragon—son of the dragon. From that day to this, Myrddin has rarely strayed from Uther’s side.”

“ ‘Tis an incredible story,” Rhys said.

“Many say Uther’s own mother was a Druid priestess,” Howell put in. “And that Myrddin is her kin.”

“Small wonder, then,” Rhys mused, “that Bishop Dafyd should desire a new king for Britain.”

“Duke Gerlois almost certainly shares Dafyd’s ambitions,” Trent said. “To my mind, the tournament is but an excuse to keep his lords and knights close, in case Uther and his knights decide to pay Cornwall a visit. But I believe the duke overreaches in his aspirations. Gerlois may be popular here in the west country, but the dukes and petty kings of the east prefer Uther. Despite his youth and arrogance—or perhaps because of it—the Pendragon is the fiercest warrior king Britain has ever known.”

“Now that the Saxons’ raiding season has ended, I would not be surprised should Uther decide to ride,” Howell said. “He must put Gerlois’s disrespect to rest once and for all. Perhaps he will even claim the beautiful Lady Igraine as his own.”

Two bright spots of red appeared on Kane’s pale cheeks. “Bite your tongue, Howell! That would mean war!”

Trent dipped his bread in his gruel and ate a messy bite before answering. “Aye, and perhaps that is the only way to put the matter of Dumnonia’s loyalty to the high throne to rest once and for all. Uther has Myrddin at his side. Many say he cannot fail.”

“What good is Briton killing Briton?” Kane said. “Saxons raid our shores with impunity, while Britain’s lords bicker like washerwomen! A king should value diplomacy as highly as swords.”

Howell grunted. “To what purpose? King Ambrosius was a fine diplomat, and a bloody fool! He sat down to make peace with his enemies and got a knife in his back for his trouble.”

“Hush, man!” Trent placed a cautioning hand on
Howell’s arm. “Our discussion has begun to attract undue attention.”

The minstrels fell silent, bowing their heads over their bowls. Rhys ate the rest of his meal in silence, mulling over what he had learned. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together into a picture that was, in a word, preposterous. And yet, it was the only explanation that made sense.

He was now certain he was not in the Lost Lands. This was a land of real men—a war-torn country assaulted from without by a brutal enemy and torn from within by political turmoil. And he was very much afraid he knew exactly where this dangerous land was.

Or, more precisely,
when
it was.

It was well known that Druid Seers, like Breena and Owein, could cast their spirits into the future. Rhys had never before considered the possibility that a Druid could transport his flesh and bones there as well. But Rhys was certain that in casting the unknown Druid’s spell, he’d unwittingly done precisely that.

He was no longer in his own time. He existed in a violent future Britain—the one Cyric had foreseen.

And Breena was lost somewhere in the nightmare.

H
ow does she fare? Any change?”

“Nay. Just the same.”

The answer was expected. Why, then, did it descend upon Myrddin’s heart with all the weight of a millstone? His gaze cut to the doorway. Vivian’s room was dark.

“The light bothers her eyes,” the village woman explained. “Do ye wish a candle? There are coals in the brazier…”

“No,” he said. “A candle won’t be necessary.”

He approached the door with something like panic clawing at his innards. The crisis at Tintagel was fast approaching; Vivian, if she were able, would scold him for being here with her, rather than at Igraine’s side. But how could he stay away? She was everything to him. He had not expected her to improve during his absence. The clawing disappointment he felt now told him he’d been hoping, nonetheless.

At least his wife was still alive, he told himself. There was yet hope.

She looked up as he entered. “Who is there?”

“It is I, love. Myrddin.”

“Myrddin?” She blinked. “I do not think I know that name.”

Gently, he eased himself into the chair by the bed. Vivian looked unnatural. The aura of magic—the light
he was so accustomed to seeing about her head and shoulders—was gone. She lay, still and pale in the center of the mattress. He remembered the day he’d brought that mattress to her. He’d been so proud. Stuffed with down, rather than straw, it had been one small luxury he’d been able to provide for her. She deserved far more. And yet, in all their years together, she’d never complained.

It was so difficult to see her like this. It was even more difficult, knowing he was to blame. He should have sensed the darkness gathering at Uther’s court. He should have watched over her more closely.

He picked up his wife’s hand. It was limp, her skin cool. He held it tightly, tears burning his eyes. She did not protest.

“You do know me, Vivian. You know me very, very well.”

He longed to kiss her. How many times had he kissed her? Too many to count. But today, he would not. He was not sure how she would react.

A bitter laugh passed his lips then. Just imagine—the great wizard Myrddin, did not even dare kiss his own wife. A harsh irony indeed. No doubt Vivian, with her quick wit and quicker laughter, would have been the first to point it out.

If her mind had not been…elsewhere.

Damn caution. Easing onto the mattress, he slipped his arm beneath his wife and gathered her into his arms. She fit perfectly, as always. She struggled a bit, her eyes flaring with alarm. But when he shushed her, and rubbed the back of her neck, she settled.

He could feel her heart beating. He concentrated on the sound. As long as her heart was beating, there was hope. The spell Dafyd had cast was deep, but not impenetrable. Now that Breena had taken Vivian’s place at Igraine’s side, he could, perhaps, fight it.

Vivian’s eyes roamed the room. He was not sure what she saw.

He began to speak. More for himself than for her. But then, speaking to Vivian was as natural to him as thinking. After so many years, it was as if they shared one mind.

“I found her,” he murmured, “just where I knew she would be.” He grimaced. “Do you know, it was not even difficult to persuade her to come with me? She is so innocent. So trusting. And so very, very young.” He fell silent for a beat. “I cannot remember what it was like, being so young. Can you?”

He stared at a shadowy point on the wall, head cocked, as if awaiting an answer. Vivian said nothing, of course. He was not even sure she had heard him. But he knew exactly what she would have told him, if she’d only been able to.

“It is a grave risk, I know,” he said to her. “Deep magic…it is always dangerous. And so often deadly. And to tamper with time itself…”

A chill ran up his spine. He’d been so sure of himself when he’d gone to fetch Breena. Now, doubt crept in.

“Was it wrong? Perhaps. But Vivian, what choice did I have? The stakes are far too high! I could not bear to risk you. But the timing is critical, as our enemy knows. We set our course long ago…and perhaps that is where we went wrong. Certainly we had doubts. But we made our decision then, and now there is nothing to do but see it through. And Breena, truly, is the only Druid able to play your role in this.”

He could almost feel Vivian’s frown. But when he looked down at her face, her expression was blank. A black fist squeezed his heart. How often in their long life together had he fled her disapproval? Now he would welcome it, if only she would come back to him.

He smoothed a white curl from her forehead, and tucked it behind her ear. She allowed him the small liberty; he even imagined he saw a slight smile on her lips.

“I cannot let you go,” he said, more to himself than to the silent woman in his arms. “Not without a fight. I had no choice but to find Breena, and bring her here. She will be fine. Her magic is strong, her instincts excellent, and I have set a magical protection about her. I’ve left Gareth with her as well. I will find you, and then I will go to her. Once Igraine is free, I will send Breena home.”

Myrddin prayed it would all be so easy.

But he very much feared it would not.

“This is never going to work.”

“I beg to differ, my lady. The great Myrddin’s magic paves our path.”

“It is not Myrddin’s magic I doubt,” Breena muttered, “It’s my own. And…my balance on this stallion. I—”

A gasp stole her breath as the warhorse pranced sideways, snorting as his nimble hooves avoided a deep rut. If Breena could have tightened her death grip on the beast’s mane, she would have done so. As it was, her fingers were already so tightly clenched in the horsehair she’d begun to wonder if they would ever uncurl.

The young warrior guiding the beast chuckled. “I will not let you fall.”

Breena was not so sanguine. Sir Gareth’s warhorse—Jupiter—was nothing like the Celtic ponies she’d grown up with. The beast was by far the largest and surliest equine Breena had ever seen. Its owner, a knight in the service of Duke Gerlois of Cornwall, had been waiting for Myrddin and Breena at a sea port near Avalon. Sir
Gareth had told her his magnificent stallion’s bloodlines had been cultivated by a wild people known as Sarmatians, horsemen from the eastern fringe of the Roman empire.

Jupiter had boarded the boat with Breena and Gareth, to sail west along the rocky Cornish coast. The pitch and roll of the sea had unsettled Breena’s stomach. Riding the last miles to Tintagel on Jupiter’s back had not improved it.

Myrddin did not accompany them. He would rejoin them at Tintagel, he’d said, as soon as he could—but certainly before the rise of the harvest moon. That was the night the old Druid expected the events of Breena’s vision to unfold.

Breena did not know what Myrddin meant to do in the meantime. When she pressed him, he would tell her nothing. He spoke only of Breena’s mission.

Igraine was a Druid. A Seer, like Breena. But the duchess’s power was weak. At Tintagel, Breena was to form a link between her magic and Igraine’s, and protect her until Myrddin’s arrival. Breena only hoped she was worthy of the trust Myrddin had put in her.

She was not even sure she would arrive at Tintagel with her bones whole. Gareth’s warhorse was so large! Gingerly, she peered down at the ground passing rapidly beneath her. She tried not to imagine her body’s impact on the road.

Gareth’s arms were solid and sure on either side of her torso; his hands held the reins loosely before her. “Relax, my lady. It wants but three miles to Tintagel. I promise you, I will not allow you to tumble to an untimely death.”

Untimely death?
Now, there was a jest. How could it be untimely for a woman to meet her death some three centuries after her birth?

Breena wondered if Gareth knew she’d traveled
from the past. She did not ask him. Even Breena had difficulty believing what had happened. Gareth had no magic—very few people in this age did. The young knight all but worshiped Myrddin, but could he accept magic as deep as the power that had brought her here?

Gareth was a knight pledged to Duke Gerlois. His first loyalty, however, lay with Britain’s high king, Uther Pendragon, and with Myrddin, the king’s counselor. Though Gareth had no magic of his own, he revered Druidry and the old ways. Breena had been astounded when he’d shown her the mark of the Druids of Avalon—the triple spiral of the Goddess, merged with the cross of the Carpenter Prophet—on the hilt of his sword.

Her pendant bore the same symbol, as did Myrddin’s staff. Gareth was, bluntly put, the elder Druid’s spy in Cornwall.

“Myrddin charged me with your safety, my lady.” The young knight was very earnest. “I will not fail him. Or you.”

Breena twisted in the saddle to meet Gareth’s gaze. He was perhaps only a year or two older than she. It was impossible not to notice how handsome he was, with his thick chestnut hair and green eyes.

“I did not mean to suggest you would fail in your duty. Of course you will not. It is only that I am…” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “…somewhat frightened.”

Gareth’s ocean gaze gentled. She was all too aware of his arms around her, shifting with the stallion’s gait. Her left shoulder pressed against the chain mail he wore under his tunic. Embarrassed, she fixed her gaze on a small scar on his right cheekbone.

“Do not worry so, my lady. Myrddin is a great man, and a powerful Druid. He is never wrong.”

“Never?”

“No, my lady. At least, I have never known him to be.”

Breena could almost believe it. An intense magical energy surrounded Myrddin. Even she, who had no special talent for detecting magic, could feel it. When Myrddin had explained how she was to protect Lady Igraine, it had sounded so simple.

But now, deprived of the his immense magical presence, doubts flooded in. Oh, she did not question the importance of her task—far from it. She knew with a bone-deep certainty that the Great Mother had set her on the path she now tread. No, it was her own abilities, and her magic, that she doubted.

“My lady—”

“Please,” Breena said. “Stop calling me that.”

Gareth nodded. “You are right. I should call you Lady Antonia, so that you may become accustomed to the name.”

A shiver ran through her. “I do not like the notion of assuming a dead woman’s identity.”

Gareth guided Jupiter around a puddle with little more than a subtle press of one knee. “The ruse will bring you quickly to Lady Igraine’s side.”

“I feel like a thief. I’ve taken Antonia’s name, her life, and her history.”

“She is dead,” Gareth said grimly. “She is beyond protest.”

Another shiver raced through Breena. Yes, Lady Antonia was dead, as was her family. Her father, Lord Vectus, had been a minor landowner and cousin to Lady Igraine. The entire family, and a good number of their tenant farmers, had been killed in a Saxon raid a month earlier.

“How can Myrddin be so certain I will be accepted as Antonia? Lady Igraine is sure to know I am not her cousin’s daughter.”

“Antonia was but a child when the duchess last saw her. As for the duke, Gerlois has never laid eyes on Vectus’s daughter. But Myrddin told you all this. Do you not trust him?”

Oddly, she did. “I’m just apprehensive, I suppose. What if I fail? What if they question my story?”

“They will not. Your Latin is that of a noblewoman. Your hair is the color of fire, as Antonia’s was. It is not a color often seen in the south. You could hardly be anyone other than Antonia. Nay, the danger in Tintagel lies not with the duke, but with his brother, Bishop Dafyd, who has traveled west for the festival.”

Dafyd possessed dark magic. Myrddin had lectured Breena at length about the danger the sorcerer posed. He’d even cast a spell to veil her magic from Dafyd’s senses. Until Myrddin arrived at Tintagel, Breena was to stay close to Igraine, and avoid catching the bishop’s attention.

A hare darted across the road. Gareth’s stallion sidestepped neatly, causing Breena to shift in the saddle. Her bottom bounced hard between Gareth’s spread thighs. The knight shifted backward immediately, but not before Breena felt something hard and blunt prod her left buttock.

Heat flooded her face. Gareth cleared his throat.

“Er…my apologies, my lady.”

“Do not think on it,” Breena said hastily. She moved as far forward as she could. “Um…how much farther is it to Tintagel?”

Gareth shifted the reins to one hand and gestured ahead. “When we gain that rise, we will see the island below us.”

“Island?”

“Did Myrddin not mention it? Tintagel Castle is built on an island that lies but an arrow’s flight offshore.”

Gareth reined in Jupiter as they crested the hill. Tintagel Castle perched like a dark jewel atop sheer cliffs polished by the crashing spray of surf. A deep channel, spanned by a narrow, rocky ridge, connected the island to the shore. Above the battlements, seabirds circled.

“It is said to be impregnable,” Gareth said.

Breena could well believe it. The island’s cliffs dropped a dizzying distance to the sea. The natural stone bridge spanned about twice as far as a man could throw, and was scarcely wide enough for two horses to travel abreast. The road ended at an open area before a massive pair of timber gates. Anyone requesting entrance would stand exposed to archers on the battlements above.

Breena imagined even a Roman legion at full strength would have difficulty taking the island. Any enemy who dared try to rush the gates would be shot full of arrows before he reached his goal. His body would be consumed by the rocks and sea below.

The castle’s most prominent feature was a tall, square tower. “It looks like a Roman army watchtower,” Breena said, an uneasy feeling creeping over her.

“Aye,” Gareth replied. “It once was. When the legions withdrew from the west country, the outpost was claimed by the local lord.”

The fortress, large as it was, did not cover the whole of the island. Breena glimpsed fields and orchards beyond. “Why, the island is as large as my father’s farm,” she said, “barring our outlying fields.” Large enough to be self-sufficient. “Is there a source of fresh water?”

“Cisterns catch rainwater,” Gareth replied. “Tintagel castle, fully provisioned, can easily withstand half a year’s siege.”