Memories of the Heart (8 page)

Their route seemed to plunge ever deeper into a well of near total darkness relieved only intermittently by flames burning in shallow bowls carved into solid walls to be filled with oil and thick twine wicks. To Ceri it almost felt as if she were foolishly descending into an ominous pit.

Fortunately they soon came to a wide archway which opened into a vast chamber divided by a long wooden wall. One side housed the men of the garrison. The other side was congested with the smoke of cooking fires and echoed with the noise of many toiling within.

The stairway continued downward and Ceri was glad that she needn't descend even lower. Despite having never visited this place before, she and all in her acquaintance were bitterly aware that in Castle Westbourne the level below ground contained the dungeons. It was a fact that chilled her eyes to green ice. In those dungeons were housed both supplies for the future—and prisoners who had none.

“Ceri,” Vevina summoned the attention of the delicate girl she'd feared might be overwhelmed by the castle's ever bustling multitude but in whom she now saw a strength likely to prove her capable of enduring its challenges. “Come, Godfrey awaits.”

“Pray pardon my distraction.” Embarrassed to have already been caught acting a moonling, Ceri quickly shook off dark thoughts and gave honest praise. “I have never known anything to compare with what I've seen here in Westbourne.”

“Aye.” Vevina smiled warmly, pleased by the maid's observation. “Your response is much like mine when first I arrived.”

Linking her arm into Ceri's, Vevina escorted the dainty girl safely across the busy room. They dodged the steadily moving arms of a serf assigned to turn spitted meats above the massive firepit's low burning flames and wound between others toiling to energetically knead dough for pasty pies.

Ceri's gaze shifted rapidly from a small mountain of shelled peas to the long line of leeks uniformly laid out on a thick tabletop for mincing. Fortunately, Ceri's attention soon returned to the companion who brought them both to a graceful halt a mere two paces from the intently watching, dour-faced man who she assumed must be the seneschal.

“This is the niece whose service you would have me accept for labor in the castle?” Godfrey's thick brows met in a fierce scowl as he warily scrutinized the newcomer.

Uneasy beneath this plainly important man's assessment, Ceri returned it with an equally intent stare. Though his thick white hair and heavily lined face betrayed great age, Godfrey's tall frame was stiffly erect. And yet he was so painfully thin that she wondered if the man ever partook of the fine dishes created in this fortress's kitchen or of the bounty produced in its bakehouse.

“Pray meet my niece, Ceridwen,” Vevina was quick to answer the seneschal proudly responsible for the castle's management and ever protective of his position's rights. “She has given her oath to willingly perform every task that you command.”

After this formal introduction, Ceri was soon occupied with all the many chores she was ordered to undertake. So busy was Ceri that time flew by and when Godfrey himself approached, she was startled but had already learned enough to know what an honor it was when he gave the time to personally dispatch her to the great hall.

Ceri cautiously balanced in her arms a large pitcher brimming with ale while steadily moving up the same stairwell which earlier had made her deeply uneasy. Her lingering qualms were dispelled by the many others also either climbing or descending narrow steps by passing in too little space and with considerable difficulty.

Entering the great hall, empty and silent on her arrival at Castle Westbourne but now host to a cacophony of noise unlike anything she'd ever experienced in Llechu, Ceri carefully followed Godfrey's instructions. She started at the tail end of one of the two long lines of trestle tables stretching out at right angles to the high table while Mary, another servant, began at that position on the second line. Steadily moving from one seated diner to the next, Ceri filled empty earthen mugs or replenished others nearly so.

By the time Ceri reached the person seated just below the dais' unoccupied high table she'd nearly run out of ale. But, despite its depleted state, the pitcher seemed so unnaturally heavy that she was required to lend particular care in pouring the last of its contents into the final mug.

“Ah,” a loud voice announced, “fresh meat—”

A thick arm suddenly clutched Ceri's small waist and jerked her off center. While she tumbled awkwardly into a waiting lap her already precarious grip was lost and the pitcher slipped free to shatter amongst rushes layering the plank floor.

“But is it tender and sweet?” The coarse words instantly earned a round of crude snickers and raucous laughter.

After the initial shock, Ceri wildly struggled against the unwelcome yet too powerful hold. To better vanquish the feisty damsel, the speaker forcibly bound her arms uselessly against her sides with one arm while with the other hand harshly gripping her cheeks in the vice of his rough fingers.

“Ah, my lads, it seems this meat is not sweet but rather spicy—” Staring down into the face he held immobile, Ulrich tauntingly added, “And surely the tastier for that.”

Ceri abruptly stopped fighting and instead turned a fierce glare on her clearly arrogant attacker. With thinning hair more grey than brown, she assumed him to be of an age with Lloyd while the sneer on thick lips and his multiple chins were doubtless signs of a self-indulgent nature.

The moment his grasp lessened, Ceri freed one hand to deliver a stinging slap. The shock of her action so badly startled him that she was able to jump to her feet.

“I am no serf, yours for the taking!” Whirling about once beyond his reach, Ceri turned on her antagonist with dangerous silver blades glittering in her eyes and spat out her disgust for him like venom. “Nay, I am Welsh and freeborn!”

Face marked with the burning imprint of her hand, Ulrich was but an instant from punishing her outburst with the violence he firmly believed was his right to inflict when another interceded.

“Sir Ulrich, she speaks the truth.” Vevina was all too familiar with the easily provoked and resentful wrath of the bad-tempered guard captain. Clearly he felt Ceri had humiliated him before guardsmen whose respect he must keep.

“Ceridwen is my Welsh niece, here from Llechu to tarry in Westbourne as
my
guest.”

Choosing not to wait upon the knight's uncertain response, Vevina hustled Ceri from the hall and up the stone stairway to the castle's highest level.

This top floor was bisected by a hallway moving straight out from the landing. Along its length were doors to enter private chambers. But on either side of the landing an archway opened into a corridor which passed through the width of the stone bailey wall from one side to the other. Just within each of these archways were alcoves. The alcove on the right had long ago been fitted as a tiny family chapel with a wooden wall and door to close it off while the alcove on the left was a curtained sleeping area.

Vevina didn't speak until she stood alone with Ceridwen in this alcove allotted her as a private space to rest—a boon rare for any in the crowded castle save lord's family or guests of import.

“You will spend nights here with me in the alcove. Any other site would be unsafe for you … particularly after tempting fate by making such an extremely dangerous enemy.”

When Ceri's fine brows arched in silent query, the older woman ruefully explained.

“No matter how understandable your action, the man you struck is the captain of the guard. Sir Ulrich is overprotective of his position and controls his subordinates with an inflexible will the more hazardous for his ill-humor. To strengthen discipline, Ulrich never hesitates to violently punish any perceived infraction whether or not the one accused is guilty.”

Ceri was startled. The Tal she'd so long admired and come to know intimately, was honorable and fair. So how was it that he permitted such injustice from his own guard captain?

Thinking her somber niece's silence born of a sudden comprehension of what hazards she'd roused, Vevina sought to divert the girl's attention to lighter and more pleasant facts.

“Though not overly large, the mattress we'll share was a gift from my lady Angwen and filled with goose down. I often think it feels as if I were resting on soft clouds.”

As Ceri slowly nodded the ebony of her neatly coiled braids reflected firelight from a wall sconce above. In her initial planning for time at Westbourne, she hadn't once wondered where her nights would be spent. In Dyffryn this issue didn't exist. There her pallet lay on the far side of the cottage's central firepit from the one on which her grandmother slept.

For the first time Ceri recognized what a challenge the multitude who lived and toiled in this massive castle must daily face in finding an open space to sleep. Even minimal privacy was unlikely. This realization left Ceri thankful, indeed, for her aunt's generous offer to share her personal haven.

“Now that you know where your bed lies, you must return to the kitchens.” Vevina smiled at the girl already proving to be a welcome addition to her life. “And with a willing heart accept further tasks waiting to be done.”

Ceri again nodded and promptly moved to do as her Aunt Vevina directed. She could only pray that she wouldn't be sent back into the great hall … at least not tonight.

“Ceridwen—” a soft voice quietly called.

Halted one step from entering the kitchens, Ceri questioningly turned to face Mary, the gentle maidservant who had also poured ale at the castle's evening meal.

“If ever the two of us are again chosen to serve at the hall's lower tables, you take the line farthest from the door.” Mary's tentative smile of friendship was encouraging. “Since my husband is a member of his garrison, Sir Ulrich wouldn't dare assault me as he did you.”

Ceri barely had time to respond with a nod of appreciation before Mary slipped past to hasten up the dark stairwell, disappearing into its shadows.

Once standing in the kitchens, Ceri had more reason to fervently thank her good fortune. Into her hands was placed a silver platter polished to a bright shine. An elaborate flask formed of glass overlaid by strands of gold and filled with mulled wine was placed atop while the steward responsible for such matters instructed her to deliver these items to the family solar on the castle's highest level.

Negotiating the winding stairs upward, Ceri was careful to hold the platter and its burden steady but with each step the knot of nervous excitement in her throat tightened.

Was Taliesan awaiting the arrival of this flask? Would he recognize her? Ceri firmly castigated herself for this foolish and assuredly doomed fantasy when she knew full well both the power of her grandmother's spells and the inflexibility of any limits that she put upon them.

If there was to be any hope for a real relationship between herself and Tal, then it must be established anew and with no aid from memories of spell-cast joys shared in a Welsh cottage.

It was plain that her ascending footsteps had been heard when as soon as she stood outside the solar door, it was opened from within.

“Bring the platter to the table,” Angwen briskly ordered while turning to lead the servant on whom she wasted little attention toward a small table flanked by two heavily carved chairs. “And pray take care, the flask you carry is most valuable.”

Ceri feared these words indicated that the lady of the castle already knew what role she'd played in earlier shattering a pitcher. Her tension increased fourfold. While moving across the chamber she kept her eyes downcast for the sake of ensuring safe delivery of her precious load.

From a chair on the table's right side came a deep velvet voice that set Ceri's pulse to racing. “Are you newly come to Westbourne?”

“I arrived from Llechu this morn,” Ceri quietly answered with pounding heart threatening to uncomfortably strangle all sound in her throat. She carefully settled the platter and its burden on the table's smooth planks beside two waiting goblets before adding, “I've come to visit my aunt.”

Tal's dark brows met in a slight frown. “You seem familiar but I don't think we've met.…” He allowed the statement to trail away as wordless invitation for the damsel to respond.

Fearing her voice unequal to the deed, Ceri wouldn't risk saying more which left her only answer a sweet smile full of hope. That Taliesan might remember even so little as a faint reflection of her, she chose to greet as a good omen.

The earl gazed at the mysterious beauty with her shyly lowered gaze and assured himself that they couldn't have met before. It had to be so as he was certain that he would never have forgotten such a lovely creature as this.

When he inadvertently bumped the table, the flask wobbled slightly. They both reached out to steady its position and his eyes narrowed on her soft, gasp-parted lips.

The golden glow barely seen beneath his heavy-lidded gaze was so intent on Ceri's mouth that to her it felt like a kiss and prompted the same wild sensations. They only throbbed the more when his attention lifted to her eyes.

Shocked, Tal felt the jolt of her silver-green gaze pass through him like lightning. Of course she was familiar … she was his night fantasy in a beguiling human form!

“Tal, you're almost as clumsy as this servant,” Angwen scolded her son but with little real heat. “A simple houseserf, still she safely brought our wine while you near toppled it over.”

Startled by words that were both a defense and an insult, Ceri's attention automatically shifted to their source.

Angwen's dark eyes widened for a brief instant before her gaze dropped and she bit her lip hard. Mab! This new arrival from Wales had the eyes of that old and dangerous witch, Mab!

“You may return to your chores
below,
” Angwen snapped, anxious to see this too potent reminder of past sorrows and lingering fears gone from her presence with all good haste. And, even more importantly, she wanted to ensure this creature's threat would stay as far away from her son as possible.