Silver Silence (9 page)

The castle village, resting firmly on the mainland, was a small, but prosperous, settlement. A second vil
lage of tents, bustling with activity, sprouted in a neighboring field.

“They’ve come for the festival,” Gareth explained.

“It looks to be a popular event.”

“It is. Gerlois provides food and drink for all. Minstrels and other entertainers will be about, too. The market offers a chance to barter for one’s needs before winter sets in.” He pointed to a field close to the castle access, where carpenters labored to erect a raised viewing platform along one side of a broad, flat field. “That is where the tournament will take place.” His tone hardened. “The duke’s show of strength to the high king.”

“You do not approve.”

“Gerlois plays a dangerous game. If there is opposition to Uther in Dumnonia, it has been stirred by the duke’s hand.”

Myrddin had told Breena that three years ago, Igraine had been forced to wed Gerlois, though she had been secretly pledged to Uther. Last spring, in Caer-Lundein, Uther had planned to reclaim his intended bride. But Bishop Dafyd’s sorcery interfered, and Gerlois carried Igraine back to Cornwall. War had prevented Uther’s chase until now.

“We must remove Lady Igraine from Tintagel before the king’s forces arrive,” Gareth continued. “If a siege is enacted, casualties will be high.”

“Surely, with Myrddin’s magic, it will be not be so difficult to rescue Igraine.”

“It may be harder than you think. Since his return from Caer-Lundein, Gerlois holds Igraine in near seclusion in the castle tower. She is only rarely seen.”

Dear Goddess. What if they were already too late? What if Breena’s vision had already come to pass, and Igraine already lay dead? “Are you sure Gerlois has not harmed his wife?”

“He has announced she will preside over the harvest feast. It is vital that you find your way to her side, and advise her of Myrddin’s plan. We must see her safely away, and quickly.”

Gareth pressed his knees to Jupiter’s flanks. The horse began a trot down the hill to the castle. Breena’s gaze snagged on a bird flying toward Tintagel. A small falcon. A merlin, if she was not mistaken.

Her heart tripped a beat. She’d seen Rhys once, in his merlin form, sailing overhead, looking much the same as this bird did now. But of course this falcon was not Rhys. It was just an ordinary bird, no doubt on its way to cull pigeons from the cliffs for its breakfast.

Breena’s eyes followed its flight. The merlin flew straight ahead, toward Tintagel. Her initial uneasiness multiplied a thousandfold when the bird flew in a slow circle about the old Roman tower.

Just as it had in her dream.

Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall, was a large, well-muscled man of middle years. He was possessed of unbounded arrogance, a loud voice, and a hard, round stomach that put Breena in mind of a woman about to give birth.

His beard and hair were cropped short, and his long tunic was trimmed with purple and gold, in the style of a Roman senator. He wore a twisted Celtic torc about his neck, however, and a belt inlayed with a Celtic scroll design. His features, and his mien, were all Celt warrior. His shrewd blue eyes took in Breena with a single hard glance.

Anxiety kept her gaze cast downward. The mosaic floor of the duke’s receiving chamber had been poorly repaired in more than a few places, with new stones that did not quite match the color of the original ones. Breena stared at one patch of yellow amid faded gold
and prayed the duke believed she was stricken with grief for her lost family.

At the duke’s right sat his younger brother, the flaccid, frowning Bishop Dafyd. Breena carefully avoided meeting his gaze, studying him through her lowered eyelashes. He wore a long brown robe, devoid of decoration, and held a staff with a hooked end.

A woman of middle age sat on Gerlois’s left. She was introduced as Lady Bertrice, the duke’s widowed sister. Bulky and sour-faced, she resembled her brothers greatly. She, too, wore a mix of Roman and Celtic garb.

Two soldiers were also present, standing at attention near the door. A second monk, a gaunt figure draped in a black-cowled robe, stood a few steps behind the bishop, head bowed.

Breena was grateful for Gareth’s confident presence at her side. The knight bowed to his lord and proceeded to relate Antonia’s sad tale.

“After the Saxon dogs were driven back into the sea, I remained behind as my brothers-in-arms returned to Tintagel. I thought to search the forest for friend or foe. I discovered Lady Antonia and her servant huddled in a cave.”

Breena dared a glance at the duke. Gerlois’s attention was fixed on Gareth.

“How is it the women did not return to the village upon the Saxons’ withdrawal?” Gerlois’s Latin was precise, his inflection that of a patrician.

“Lady Antonia was delirious with fever. Her maid could not carry her, and was loath to leave, lest Antonia die in her absence. Indeed, Antonia’s fever did not break until several days after I carried her to the village. Another fortnight passed before she was strong enough to make the journey to Tintagel.”

The duke did not appear to disbelieve Gareth’s lies. Breena’s shoulders unclenched a fraction.

They tensed again when Bishop Dafyd’s staff struck the floor. The cleric rose. Breena tried not to flinch under his narrow gaze. “The girl escaped the Saxon attack.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Gareth replied.

Dafyd addressed Breena directly. “Lady Antonia.”

Reluctantly, Breena raised her eyes.

“Did you escape
all
of it?”

A long, blank moment ensued before Breena understood. Dafyd was asking if she’d been raped.

She wet her dry lips. “Yes, Excellency. By the mercy of the Christos,” she added belatedly.

“Saxons are godless demons.” Dafyd’s statement sounded like an accusation—not of the Saxons, but of Breena. “They are not easily thwarted in their unholy lusts. How did you evade them?”

Breena dared a glance at Gareth. The knight’s expression was carefully neutral. She inhaled, and launched into the tale she’d practiced with Myrddin.

“My maid woke me before dawn, as the attack began. We ran through the kitchens to the pig yard, where we blacked our faces with muck. We escaped through a postern gate and fled into the forest. The Saxons took no note of us.”

“This maidservant. Did she not accompany you to Tintagel?”

“No, Excellency,” Gareth said. “Lady Antonia permitted the woman to remain with her daughter’s family.”

Dafyd nodded. Silence ensued, during which Breena felt the bishop’s scrutiny like a crawling insect on her skin. She stood very still, her eyes fixed on a point behind his shoulder. Her gaze fell on the black-cowled acolyte. The man had not moved a muscle during Breena’s interview. Now he lifted his head. His cowl fell back just far enough for Breena to see his face.

She swallowed a gasp. The monk was hideous.

The left side of his face looked as though it had been boiled in oil. The hair above his missing ear had been burnt away. From temple to jaw, his flesh was raw and puckered. No lashes grew on his left eyelid. The eye over which it closed wandered blankly to one side.

By the gods! What tragedy had the poor man endured?

The monk’s good eye, dark and intelligent, took note of Breena’s horror. Immediately, Breena looked away, embarrassed to think the poor man had caught her gawking at his misfortune.

Bishop Dafyd resumed his seat. Leaning toward the duke, he conversed with his brother in low tones. Breena strained her ears, but could not make out more than a few indistinct words.

Honor…shame…sin
…

At last, the duke rose, and his siblings with him. “I thank you, Sir Gareth, for the mission of mercy that has brought my wife’s cousin to Tintagel. You may take your leave.”

Gareth bowed. “At your command, my lord.” Pivoting with military precision, he strode from the room without a backward glance.

Breena’s lungs squeezed. She’d known, of course, that she would not have Gareth constantly by her side until Myrddin’s arrival. But that did not prevent her panic from welling.

The duke addressed her. “Antonia. I give thanks to the Christos that you were spared your father’s fate. It is good and right that you have come to us at Tintagel.”

Breena’s knees nearly buckled with relief. Gerlois believed her! “I am honored by your kindness, my lord. May I…may I go to my cousin now?”

“In good time,” Gerlois said. “First we must settle the matter of what is to be done with you.”

“What is to be done with me?” Breena echoed.

“Your hair, of course, makes things difficult.”

Breena brought her hand up, uncertainly, to touch her hair. What was the duke talking about?

Bertrice made a disapproving sound with her tongue. “Such bold color is the devil’s work, I do not doubt.”

“Indeed,” said Dafyd. He gazed at Breena thoughtfully. “How old are you, child?”

“Seventeen,” she said, still confused. The real Antonia had been a year younger than Breena.

“You claim your virtue is intact. But a woman’s soul is deficient. Even a virtuous woman utters many untruths. A woman with hair the color of hellfire cannot be trusted at all.”

Breena stared dumbly at the bishop. He believed she lied? Because of the color of her hair?

Gerlois’s expression was grim. “If there is to be a mongrel babe, we will soon know it.”

“Even if no bastard yet grows in her belly,” the bishop said, “I very much doubt even Bertrice’s vigilance will prevent one from taking root soon enough.”

Breena’s mouth fell open.

“I advise that you place her under a husband’s control immediately,” Dafyd told his brother.

Husband?

Gerlois stroked his chin. “Yes, there is merit in that plan. She will wed as soon as possible.”

“But who will offer for a girl tainted by Saxon swine?” Bertrice asked.

“Vectus’s wealth was not inconsequential,” Gerlois replied. “Even if his treasure has been sacked, many will be willing to fight for his holdings alone.” He slashed the air with his hand. “I will open the harvest tournament with a contest for Vectus’s lands. Lady Antonia’s hand will, of course, be part of the bargain. The wedding will take place immediately.”

“A fine notion.” Dafyd nodded his agreement.

Breena briefly shut her eyes. This was insanity. The festival was set to begin on the third night before the full moon.

What would she do if Myrddin did not arrive before then?

I
f one wished to travel the Lost Lands in the flesh, one had to pass through an ancient standing stone. A human mind, however, could enter the shadow realm from any point. In either case, the journey was fraught with danger and deep magic. Time unfolded illogically in the Lost Lands. An hour in that mystical place might be a day, or a year—or ten—in the human realm. A man could return to find all he knew was lost forever. Myrddin did not count the cost. Detaching his mind from his body, he followed his wife’s path to the Lost Lands, which was a more complex problem, especially as she had not traveled the route by choice.

He had little time to reflect on the wisdom or folly of his actions. Vivian lay sleeping, her face pale as death. Her body, stripped of its soul, had steadily deteriorated these past months. All summer, while he battled at Uther’s side, his mind had been here, with Vivian. Now, with Breena ensconced in Tintagel, and the night of her prophecy drawing near with sickening speed, he had a short span of time in which to search for his lost love. He could not fail. She was his life. He did not know how he could go on without her.

Her hand in his was cold, her skin stretched like parchment over fragile bones. She was his anchor in the storm that was his life, and he clung to her. If he failed, he did not know if he would have the strength to keep living.

The trail of Vivian’s soul led into the sky. Following it was like plucking the dimmest stars from the night darkness. But her magic was as familiar to him as his own. He did not falter.

This was not like traveling through the standing stone to Breena’s time. He had been in control of that magic. Or at least, he’d held the reins as firmly as any man could when he’d harnessed deep magic. This journey into the Lost Lands, with only his mind, was different from treks he had made in the flesh. His life essence was dust tossed by merciless storm winds. All he could do was pray the gods would not blow him off course.

He did not remember entering the midlands. He became aware of his surroundings abruptly, as if he’d fallen asleep in one place, and awakened in another, with no memory of how he had come to be there. He found himself in a forest of towering trees. Jagged overhead branches blotted out the sun.

His sense of hearing was heightened—every bird’s cry, every creaking tree limb, every whisper of wind, was almost deafening. Even the insects scurrying beneath his feet did not escape his notice. His smell was keen, too. Moss, and mold, and grass.

Vivian?

He tried to speak her name, but the sound formed only in his mind. The faint trace of her life essence was gone. The earth magic of the forest was so deep it obliterated every power but its own. The world stretched endlessly before, and behind, and to his right and left. Each direction identical. He did not know which way to turn.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward. And stumbled. His feet were not his own. Looking down, he was stunned to discover paws covered with white fur. His body was not a man’s. It was rounded, with plump belly, short forelimbs, and long, powerful hind feet.

He did not remember shifting. Had not felt the pain. He was a hare, an animal in whose form he did not feel comfortable. It took some concentration to command four feet instead of two. He hopped forward, nose twitching, wondering if he could scent Vivian’s magic. Going up on his hind legs, he sniffed the air.

And froze.

The dog appeared as if out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of a gaping maw lined with razor-sharp teeth, drool dripping. The stink of
predator
exploded in his nostrils.

The beast snapped at his ears.

Myrddin ran.

“You are in sore need of a bath.”

Lady Bertrice’s nostrils flared. Not without cause, Breena admitted. It had been three days since she’d bathed—three days of travel by boat and horseback. She did not smell like a rose.

“Yes, my lady.”

The duke’s audience chamber gave onto a covered walkway circling Tintagel castle’s main courtyard. The wide space was crowded with servants hustling to and fro, carrying foodstuffs, firewood, coal, and linens. Bertrice cut a diagonal across the court, skirting two serving women drawing water from a well. Breena caught a glimpse of an arched passage leading to what looked like a large feasting hall. Five or six soldiers lounged with tankards at one of the long plank tables. Reflexively, she searched the group for Gareth. He was not among them.

“Come along then,” Bertrice said briskly. “We go to the laundry.”

“But…am I not to see the duchess now?”

“In that dirty dress? Smelling like a pig sty? You are touched in the head to even suggest it. No, you’ll have a
bath first, and don some suitable clothing. That rag you are wearing is little more than peasant’s garb. If one of Gerlois’s knights must be burdened with you, you should at least look like a lady.”

Gerlois’s sister traversed a long hallway, still muttering. “As if I have time to play nursemaid! What with festival guests arriving daily. The bishop’s retinue alone took up an entire floor of the castle’s main wing. And there is much left to do before the harvest feast.”

“You oversee Tintagel’s servants, my lady?” Breena ventured.

“I am the castle’s chatelaine. In Lady Igraine’s stead, of course.”

“Does the duchess not tend to her own home?”

“The duchess!” Bertrice shot Breena a look over her shoulder. “Why, that is ludicrous. The duchess cannot even tend to herself most of the time. She cannot be left alone for long, lest she harm herself.”

“Harm herself? Why would she do such a thing?”

Bertrice sniffed. “The woman is melancholy. For all her beauty, she is malcontent. Her mood only worsened after the babe was born…”

“Igraine has a child?” Breena blurted out, before she realized that Antonia would have surely known this.

But Bertrice did not seem to think the question odd. “She had a child. It died scant days after its birth. I am not surprised you do not know of it. My brother did not announce the babe’s birth, or its death. It was only a female, after all.”

“I’m sure the duchess was inconsolable just the same.”

“To be sure. Igraine’s condition deteriorated alarmingly after the birth.”

“She fell ill? A childbed fever?”

“No. Your cousin’s deficiency is of the spirit, and of morality. Not of the body.”

Breena did not quite know what to make of that. “I do not understand.”

“Lady Igraine fell into melancholy when her babe died, and her bleakness of spirit only became worse after she visited Caer-Lundein this spring. She tolerates very few attendants. Myself only, and one or two maid servants. The rumors in town have been rife. The duke has not been pleased.”

Lady Bertrice’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Perhaps she will accept you, since you are her kin. I can only hope that is the case. It would be a great help to me, I tell you. With the festival fast approaching, my direction is sorely needed in the kitchen. At the same time, the duchess is in need of constant care. She is greatly agitated by Gerlois’s command that she appear at his side during the harvest feast and tournament.”

“I will try my best to be agreeable,” Breena said.

“See that you do.” Bertrice bustled into the laundry. Three women, engaged in folding linens, looked up. They curtsied to the duke’s sister, and eyed Breena with curiosity.

Bertrice clapped her hands. “A bath. At once.”

The servants abandoned their work to comply with their mistress’s order. Two women erected a screen in front of a copper tub, while the third hurried through a doorway leading to the outdoors, where fires burned under three large cauldrons. Two sweating women employed in stirring laundry abandoned their task to draw clean water for Breena’s bath.

When the tub was filled, Breena waved off offers of assistance and ducked behind the screen to undress. She tucked her Druid pendant inside the linen towel she’d been given. It would not do to have Lady Bertrice notice that Breena wore the symbol of the mother goddess.

When she emerged from her bath, she found an un
dertunic, blouse, and overskirt laid out for her. The cloth was very fine, and the colors dark and rich. Her muddy shoes had been replaced with leather slippers. She dressed, and quickly slipped her pendant under her bodice.

One of the maids braided Breena’s hair, and wound it tightly about her head. Lady Bertrice, watching Breena’s transformation with a critical eye, produced a veil as a finishing touch. No doubt to hide the ungodly color of Breena’s hair.

Lady Bertrice surveyed Breena from head to toe and gave a curt nod. “Come along.”

Back in the busy central courtyard, Bertrice halted before an iron-strapped door. The soldiers guarding the portal snapped to attention.

“My lady.”

A stout wooden crossbar was raised. Breena passed into a small atrium garden, planted at the base of the old Roman watchtower. The door to the main courtyard shut behind her; the crossbar thudded into place on the other side. The only other exit from the garden was the door in the base of the watchtower. The structure stood some six stories high; Breena tilted her head back and looked up. Though the lower stories retained a watchtower’s small windows, the windows of the upper three stories had been widened and set with mullioned glass. The lowest of these three levels gave out onto a narrow terrace on the roof of the abutting building. This, then, was where Duke Gerlois kept his beautiful wife.

Lady Bertrice strode swiftly across the garden. The arching cane of a rose, heavy with bloodred hips, snagged her skirts. The atrium’s fountain was adorned with a carving depicting a stone maiden tilting a jug. But the vessel was cracked, and no water flowed. Slime edged the rainwater in the basin.

Inside the watchtower, flickering torches illuminated the steps of a stone stairway, winding somberly upward. After four complete turns, the stair opened into a narrow vestibule. The room boasted two doors. The one on the outer wall likely led to the roof terrace Breena had glimpsed from the atrium. The other, Breena discovered, led to Lady Bertrice’s bedchamber.

Light poured from the window, illuminating furnishings—table, chairs, trunk, desk, and bed—that had once been opulent. Now they were worn with use, the upholstery faded. In the window, Breena noted, fully half the glass panes were cracked. In one panel the glass was missing entirely; parchment was tacked in its place. The room did not lack for heat, however. Coals smoldered in an iron brazier, with more in a bucket nearby.

Bertrice crossed to a narrow door in the corner of the room and pulled it open. “You may sleep here until your marriage.”

Breena peered into a small storage room containing folded linens and discarded furniture, including a narrow bed. “Thank you, my lady.” With difficulty, she kept the impatience from her voice. “May I greet my cousin now?”

“Yes. Igraine is above, in her solar.” Bertrice blew out a short, irritated breath. “Let us hope the duchess is not in one of her moods.”

Myrddin had told Breena that Igraine’s beauty was renowned. Gareth, too, had proclaimed the lady’s loveliness. Their paltry descriptions fell far short of reality. The Duchess of Cornwall was nothing short of sheer feminine perfection.

Upon entering Igraine’s solar, Breena tried her best not to stare. Igraine’s skin was the finest, most fragile ivory, blushed with roses. Her blue eyes, high cheek
bones, and red lips merged in graceful perfection. Lush hair, gold with a touch of dawn red, was piled high on her head. A few loose curls dangled, emphasizing her slender neck.

Her figure was flawless as well. Tall and slender, with generous breasts, a narrow waist, and lushly curved hips, Igraine rivaled any Greek goddess. Or perhaps it might have been more accurate to compare her to Helen of Homer’s
Iliad,
whose beauty had been famed, more so than that of Hera and Athena. For just like Helen’s, Igraine’s beauty was destined to launch a war.

When Breena entered the room, the duchess was seated on a chaise with a maid in the chair beside her. Igraine’s brows drew together; she put aside her embroidery and rose. Her maid did likewise.

Igraine was dressed in Roman style, as elegantly as any patrician’s wife. Her undertunic of saffron linen was overlain by a
stola
of heavy golden silk, embroidered at the edges with gold thread and seed pearls. Her jeweled girdle was set with topaz and amber, and the pins at her shoulders and sleeves were twisted silver and gold. Her slippers were jeweled. And none of her garb was old, or worn, or mended, as everything else in Tintagel castle seemed to be.

She looked at Breena with a question in her eyes. Breena, quite nervous now, met Igraine’s gaze.

Breena’s eyes widened. Faint white sparks, shifting and swirling, clung to the duchess’s head and shoulders. The magic of a Seer. Myrddin had told her Igraine possessed Druid magic, but Breena had never expected she’d be able to see the duchess’s aura. For a moment, she just stared, wondering if her mind was playing tricks. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, Igraine’s aura vanished, fleeing before a dull silver pall.

Without a doubt, Breena knew that Igraine was the
faceless woman of her dream. The silver magic was only part of it. Her height, her graceful carriage, her air of sadness—it was all so familiar. And the painting on the wall—Breena noticed it now for the first time since entering the room. The beautiful, sad young man held a shepherd’s staff in one hand, and cradled a lamb in his other arm. This, too, she’d seen in her vision.

A bone-deep shudder ran through her. First the falcon circling the tower, now this. Myrddin had been right. This place, this time, this woman. All of it was Breena’s fate.

Her breath caught in her throat, making a sound like a hiccup. Lady Bertrice sent her a quelling frown. Breena closed her eyes against what felt like a sudden, dizzying dip of the floor.

“Duchess,” Lady Bertrice said. “Why, you look quite well today! I am pleased to see it.”

“Thank you. But whom have you brought to…”

Igraine’s question faded as the heavy, familiar silence descended upon Breena. Silver mist rose from the floor like a fog rising from a lake. Gray fingers of smoke reached upward, encircling Igraine, enveloping her, caging her…