Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy (11 page)

He jumped from the saddle, grabbing hold to it for a moment to steady himself, then ran into the arms of his sister, Glynnis. Seeing this, Aelwyd and Cadwynn ran to join in the group as well. He gently kissed their faces. When the melee quieted, Rhys turned around to see his parents and grandparents waiting patiently on the steps. His mother’s cheeks were stained with tears and Irelli was wiping her face with her apron. He walked slowly toward them and kneeled, bowing so that each of them could touch the top of his head in greeting.

“What has happened to my son?” Mucuruna demanded of Richard and Erasmus.

“Do not worry, Mother. It is just a superficial wound,” Rhys replied, kneeling before her.

When he stood before his family again, Rhys swayed. Richard ran to catch him and as he held out his arms, Rhys collapsed unconscious in them.

“The arrow,” Erasmus said. “The black ones. They must have been poisoned!”

***

For two solid days Rhys twisted and turned in the throes of a fever-driven, hallucination-filled sleep. No one could rouse him from it and all they could do was try to keep him cool and hydrated until the fever broke, which it did early on their third morning at Kenilwurt. He dragged himself from the bed and into the bath house where the steam from the water hitting the hot stones seemed to calm every muscle in his body. He could feel the poison leaving his body through his opened pores.

When he was clean and feeling more like himself, he slowly dressed and made his way to the kitchen. He was famished and felt like he had gone a year without eating and he knew that Irelli would be already busy getting breakfast ready for the family.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he heard his grandmother speaking quickly to her maids.

“Be a help and take the bread out of the oven Clara; it’s done baking,” Irelli said to a girl as Rhys entered the kitchen.

“Of course, milady,” she replied.

Reaching for the wooden paddle, she used it to disperse the red hot coals and pull out the loaves from the brick dome. The kitchen was warm and toasty, despite the sun having not yet risen. Even in the midst of summer, Worwick had a constant dampness in the air, making everything feel dull and soggy, so the dry warmth of the kitchen air was a vivid reminder to Rhys of the vibrant summers of Avalon. He felt saddened by the memory, confused as to why Avalon would stir up feelings of homesickness.

“Good morning, Grandmother,” he said weakly. “May I bother you for some porridge?”

“Oh bless the goddess! Rhys, you are awake!”

She rushed to hug him tightly to her and rocked him in her arms like a baby.

“I’m awake. I’m alive and I’m starving!”

“Oh, yes, of course. Here is a bowl. Eat, eat!”

The porridge was hearty and it filled him up as quickly as he could eat it. Irelli fussed and fawned over her baking until the scullery maids came in to start working for the day. They all stopped and made quick little curtsies to Irelli and Rhys. Feeling better, Rhys jumped up from his chair to bow in return, sending his stool tipping over on the floor. The girls giggled uncontrollably, blushing bright red until Irelli clucked at them and they exited to the maids’ closets to change into their aprons.

Rhys sipped a mug of tea that Irelli had given him as he watched the goings on around him unfold. Mornings were always the busiest time of day in an estate’s kitchen; this was also true at Avalon where he spent some of his mornings with Amarelle. It was not just time to prepare the breakfast, but also the time of day when all the food deliveries and the supplies for days to come would arrive. The milkmaid brought in two buckets of fresh milk followed by her younger sister who carried a huge basket on her head containing a large pot of butter, a jug of cream, one heavy slab of cheese and a cloth full of soft, salted cheese curds. One of the scullery maids checked the contents of the basket and paid the girls for their wares. She then turned to pour a bucket of the new milk into a large pot which was already on the stove. She covered the other and took it into the pantry along with the basket of goods. Not long after, one of the maids came in with a basket full of eggs which she placed beside the stove and then went to wash her hands. Another maid immediately came to stir the simmering pot of boiling water and vinegar and then started breaking the eggs into the swirl she had created.

Just then, the egg-fetching maid had the breads out on the table, slicing them with a large, sharp knife and arranging the slices along with the buns into a cloth-lined basket. The milk-scalding maid returned to the kitchen and took the milk pot from the fire just as the froth began to rise to the top. She ladled some of the hot milk into a jug and left the rest to cool in the pot. The egg-poaching maid was now slicing a slab of salt-cured bacon, while milk-scalding maid had started to fry some sausages.

The work took on a symphony-like precision and Rhys watched in amazement as the breakfast dishes rapidly assembled on the kitchen table. He turned to look at his grandmother and saw that she had stopped what she was doing to imitate him with both her hands on her chin and eyes wide open. He burst into laughter and she smiled back at him.

“Rhys! You are staring!” his grandmother called at him. “Your eyes will become stuck like that.”

She was spooning the tea leaves into the tea pots she used at breakfast every morning. She always served three different types of tea. She had put some mint leaves into one and black tea into another before pausing and putting everything down on the counter. She seemed to be thinking.

Rhys got up from his stool and picked up his grandmother’s herb basket and her tiny knife which she used for picking things in the garden.

“Let us have a look at your garden, Grandmother. It has been a long time since we picked food for the table together.”

“Aye!” she replied softly, taking his outstretched arm and letting him lead her out of the kitchen into the fresh, crisp air. “But we have not a lot of time, dear. The meal is almost ready to be served.”

They strolled easily down the paths between the rows of herbs and flowers and vegetables. Instinctively, they paused at intervals to pick spring onions, cherry tomatoes, thyme and rosemary before they turned around and walked along the outer ring of the garden. Rhys stooped close to the ground to pick fiddleheads from the fern plants and then gathered a bouquet of his sisters’ favorite flowers; meadowsweet, lavender and marigolds. His grandmother sighed as he placed the last flower into his bouquet.

“Pick six of the large top blooms for me, Rhys,” she said, “The older, the better.”

“Why, Grandmother? Those are no good for the table.”

“No boy, they aren’t, but they are excellent for tea. Your grandfather has swelling in his knees and elbows which is bad business for someone who rides as often as he does. The man practically lives in the saddle,” she added with a scoff. “The marigold will soothe the aches in his joints and quell the swelling, and then perhaps he will not fall and kill himself.”

Rhys nodded and cut the flowers for her. They were big and old, a few were even about to go to seed. They turned toward the kitchen door just as the milk-scalding maid came out to look for them.

“We are coming, Magda,” Irelli called out before the girl could say a word. “Come Rhys, the food is ready and the family is seated in the morning room, ready to come in to breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, giving her his arm.

The sky was still only barely lit and he did not want his grandmother to fall in the dark. The day always started this early at Kenilwurt. In the kitchen, his grandmother washed the fiddleheads and the large marigolds, putting the fiddleheads into a pot of roaring boiling water and the flowers into the third teapot as the three scullery maids stood neatly in a row watching her. The finishing touches to the dishes were Irelli’s responsibility. She did this for every meal, every day, and had done so since she had come into Anlawdd’s house at the age of sixteen. She turned to the egg-poaching maid and told her to pour the boiling water onto the teas and cover the teapots. She washed and trimmed the herbs expertly, placing the spring onions on the platter next to the slices of cheese, the tomatoes in a bowl and the thyme was coarsely chopped and sprinkled over the cheese curds and the rosemary stripped from the stems, finely chopped and tossed over the poached eggs. She fished the fiddleheads from the boiling water and placed them on the meat dish between the strips of bacon and the plump sausages; they immediately started soaking in the fat from the hot, fried meats.

Lastly, she took the ends off the bouquet of flowers Rhys had picked and placed them neatly into a jar of water. Irelli stood back and looked everything over while allowing the milk-scalding maid to undo the strings of her apron. Satisfied, she nodded her head and the maids began to retrieve the dishes and exit the kitchen. Rhys followed Irelli out into the hallway. They passed the scullery maids at the staff entrance to the dining room delivering the trays of food to the stewards who would place them attractively along the breakfast buffet. Rhys knew that in accordance with Irelli’s household style, the only servant who would be present when the family came in to dine would be the head steward.

When he led his grandmother into the morning room, Rhys was greeted by excited hugs and chatter. It was obvious that he had given them all a terrible fright. Everyone was overjoyed to see him up and about again.

He found his father and grandfather pouring over some maps of their lands at the desk while his sisters and his mother were sitting near the fire, all four working together on a large piece of embroidery. Erasmus stood gazing at the titles on the spines of the books along the shelves. Rhys settled his grandmother in the seat next to his mother and went to join his valet at the bookshelves.

“Everything alright, Master Rhys?”

“I asked you to stop calling me Master, Erasmus.”

“I apologize. I am just so happy to see you up and about again. We had long gone past worrying to being quite beside ourselves with grief.”

“I am glad that the gods have returned me to you, Erasmus. To all of you.”

Erasmus was taken aback by Rhys’ frank outlaying of emotion toward him.

Rhys patted the valet’s shoulder, walked across the room to the window and hopped up onto the ledge. With his back against the cold stone, he peered out over the land which was growing brighter with the rising of the morning sun. He stared out over the fields, searching the horizon as if he was expecting someone to approach from that direction.

“Who is she?” his mother whispered in his ear, startling Rhys from his thoughts.

“What do you mean, madam?” he stuttered.

“Who is the girl who has you staring out into the morning with such longing?” she asked, a little smile playing on her pink lips. “I know a little about these things, Son. Tell me, who is she?”

Her question was met by more silence from her only son. She placed her fore and middle fingers on his forehead and closed her eyes for a few seconds. Then she looked him again.

“I had a dream last night, of a fair-haired girl with striking violet eyes. She offered me lavender, sage and thistles tied with a golden thread.”

Rhys’ eyes widened at the revelation and the shock was visible on his face, but he quickly recovered and answered, “What are you speaking of, Mother? I do not understand your meaning.” But the telltale blush which had already rushed into his cheeks ensured that his mother had received her answer.

Just then the doors opened and Jules, the head steward entered to announce breakfast. He turned on his heel and led the way to the dining room. Mucuruna smiled.

“We shall have our time to talk tomorrow Rhys; do not be late for tea.”

Rhys went to assist his grandmother from her seat and escorted her into the dining room. When everyone was seated, the platters, bowls and dishes were brought one by one to the table and then Jules went back to the sideboard to retrieve the first teapot. When he had finished serving the tea, he returned to stand just off to the side between the buffet and the dining room doors.

About half way through the meal, there was a soft knock. Jules’ face distorted slightly with a mix of exasperation and disgust. He barely moved as he swiveled to answer the door. Opening it just slightly, he whispered to the person who was outside, retrieved a small roll of white paper and waved the messenger away stiffly. He walked over to the sideboard and laid a clean napkin over a small silver plate then placed the correspondence on top of it before making his way over to the head of the table and placing the dish beside Gwallawc.

“A message for you, Sir.”

“Who from?”

“Merlin, my Lord.”

There was a collective gasp from the women and a grunt from the men as Gwallawc proceeded to unroll the stiff piece of paper. He glanced over the contents then raised his eyes to scan the faces at the table. The old man shook his head slowly from side to side as a grave expression settled into the grooves and lines of his forehead.

“It’s not good news I’m afraid, but gauging from what you endured at the inn, I doubt you will find Merlin’s news surprising at all. He has written:

“My dear friend, Gwallawc,

“It has been a long time since we have communicated and even longer since we have been in each other’s company. Considering the state of affairs in the land at present, perhaps it is destined to be even a longer instance before we will see each other again. For now, there is much more pressing and dangerous business to be attended to.