The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (10 page)

“And I am here to bargain”—Dain smiled—“for the return of a virgin.”

After a moment of dumbstruck silence, Morgan returned the smile and called him something foul. “I should have known an unskilled maid would not rouse your interest.”

“Had not so much to do with her lack of skill as her lack of consciousness.”

The smile disappeared in a heartbeat. “She was hurt?”

“Insensate. One of D’Arbois’s knights, Ragnor, caught her on the track and brought her to Wydehaw. He was not gentle.”

“Then he’s the dead man in this. Owain!” Morgan turned and called out to his captain. A large, rough-looking man answered, rising immediately from his place by the fire. “Mount up the men. We go to Wydehaw.”

“Wait.” Dain put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “Come alone. We’ll talk after you’ve seen her.”

Wariness in his blue eyes, Morgan hesitated before he spoke. “You ask a lot, dear friend, for a Welsh prince, even a poor one, to enter a Marcher castle without his men at his back.”

“If ’tis necessary, I’ll be at your back,” Dain promised. “But I rather doubt anyone will know you’re there, unless you make your way into the great hall and announce yourself at supper.”

“What’s this then, conjurer?” An imp’s grin returned to Morgan’s face. “Do you spirit us inside your tower with the wave of a rowan wand?”

“If I could but find the right switch, I would,” Dain said, one eyebrow arched in emphasis to the sincerity of his wish.

Morgan lifted his hand to make a warding sign, then he caught himself and gave Dain a shamefaced smile.

“Sometimes you frighten me, Lavrans. I wonder that you do not frighten yourself with all your dabbling and inquiry into things better left alone,” Morgan said, though he could no sooner judge what his friend had become than what his friend had once been. If not for Dain’s protection, he would have been as lost to God as his friend, his faith stripped from him by the mortal transgressions and dark arts of the Saracen.

“Tell your men to keep camp,” was all Dain said. “You’ll be here at least until the morrow. And don’t worry, Morgan. The way into the tower isn’t by the casting of spells, though you may wish it were before we’re there.”

“What’s this, then?”

“I’ve found another entrance through the lower chamber.”

Morgan grimaced. “That’s a rank place.”

“’Tis the sulfurs I use for the alchemy.”

“Very rank sulfurs,” Morgan grumbled, though he smiled in forgiveness. ’Twas what he always gave Dain, forgiveness, for deep in his heart he feared God never would—and deeper still, in a place he hardly dared to look himself, he feared he was to blame for the darkest of all the acts Dain had committed in the name of survival, those that had allowed the Saracen to reach deep into Dain’s core and change him from the stoic warrior he had been into the dangerously sly and clever mage he had become.

No, he could not judge. He could only forgive and be grateful he hadn’t seen the half of what had transpired ’tween Dain and Jalal al-Kamam, for the half he had seen haunted his nights.

~ ~ ~

“Christ’s blood.”

“Don’t touch her,” Dain warned, and Morgan curled his fingers away from Ceridwen’s face into a fist.

She lay on Dain’s bed, nestled into the pillows and quilts, the sunlight streaming down upon her slight form through the glazed window. Edmee’s gentle touch was apparent in the tidy braid she’d fashioned out of the maid’s thick mass of curls. Even so, separate strands floated cloudlike around the small face.

“Where is the butcher who dies for this?”

“’Tis not as bad as it looks, Morgan. She will be scarred, but most of what you see is physick, not blood. The bruises will fade.” Dain moved aside the neck of the clean chemise Edmee had put her in and checked the stitching on her shoulder. He sensed Morgan’s stance grow even more rigid as the ragged bite came into view. “This, too, will look better with time,” he said. His finger lightly traced the double crescent incised on the pale curve of skin. She was well and truly marked. The bite wound would heal, but would never be discreet. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water.

“And the rest?” Morgan asked.

“You can assure her lord that with luck she will not be lame.”

A low, guttural curse came from the man. “The Prince of Gwynedd may be appeased with so little, but I must take more than luck and assurances to Caradoc.”

“More?”

“Ragnor.” The name was spoken without mercy.

Would ease the maid’s life too, if the beast was taken away, but Dain doubted D’Arbois would relinquish the knight. Other methods would have to be employed.

“You are not called the Thief of Cardiff for naught, Morgan. Steal him if you want him.” Taking care not to awaken the maid, he drew the damp cloth across her shoulder, cleaning away the previous night’s dressing. A mouth, especially one as rotten as Ragnor’s, was more likely to leave a festering wound than a dagger. When the bite proved free from infection, he turned to the finer cut framing the side of her face.

A shout arose from outside, the noise accompanied by the sound of many horses.

“Better Ragnor’s head than mine,” Morgan said, stepping back to the window’s embrasure to stare down into the bailey.

“Are you sure it needs be someone’s head?”

“With Caradoc, nothing less than blood will suffice, the more the better.” Angry curses and the crack of a whip mixed with the sound of a horse’s scream.

“Then what I’ve heard from the north is true?”

“Most, if not all.” Morgan gestured to the window. “Who arrives with such a clatter?”

“’Tis your man, Ragnor.” Dain didn’t need to see the knight to recognize his voice or his typical homecoming. He returned his attention to the maid. In the light of day, his stitchery looked good, a fine tracery of thread down the side of her face. ’Twould be a shame to have it all ground to dust between the Boar of Balor’s jaws, if such a thing were possible. “Tales have been told of Balor,” he said, “of strange happenings and harsh dealings reminiscent of Gwrnach.”

“Caradoc is a hard man,” Morgan admitted. “Mayhaps he’s grown a little wild, but he is no worse than any other.”

“I heard the castle wall was a gift from the captain of Llywelyn’s war band.”

Morgan chuckled. “I was there the night Llywelyn’s
penteulu
lost his fortune in Balor’s pit, wagering on a boar. Aye, more than one has said Caradoc built his keep with pig’s blood.”

The ruckus outside caused the maid to stir, the barest fluttering of her lashes betraying her rise from the depths of a drugged sleep. Dain dipped his finger in a cup of weakly opiated wine and wet her lips. He was not ready for her to awaken, not with Morgan there. When her tongue licked, he lingered, letting her take the draught from his fingertip, even as he both studied and fought his desire to do the same.

“Caradoc won’t thank you if you deliver him an opium-eater for a bride, Dain.” The words were spoken softly with a concern that went beyond the woman.

“I am judicious,” Dain said, but stopped and passed his hand down over her eyes, willing her to sleep awhile longer. ’Twas not much as magic went, but he’d never been one to underestimate the power of a sincere thought, especially when accompanied by the appropriate simple. He lowered his hand and found her lashes to have done the same. Sometimes it seemed he had a knack for such things.

“Will Ragnor hunt again on the morrow?” Morgan asked, returning his attention to the bailey.

“Aye,” he said just as Ceridwen spoke his name on a sigh. Maybe not such a knack after all, he thought, touching her mouth with a thought for silence.

“What?” Morgan asked.

Ceridwen smiled beneath his caress, and Dain cleared his throat.

“Aye,” he said louder, standing up and drawing the bed curtain behind him. He would see to the maid after Morgan left. “’Tis boar he’s after, and he will not rest until he slays one.”

“What of his lord?”

“D’Arbois hunts tamer game.”

Morgan laughed softly, keeping his attention on the man outside. “I have never thought of you as tame, Lavrans.”

“Neither should he. Come.” He gestured toward the worktable, where food had been set out: ale, bread, cheese, stewed fruit, and a sweet cream pudding. “Let us eat and bargain.”

In the end ’twas decided to leave the maid at Wydehaw, in the Hart Tower. She was too broken to take a journey over the mountains, too nubile to be given to D’Arbois’s care, and too precious by the ancestry of her blood for Caradoc to complain overly much about her health taking precedence over his immediate needs and desires to have her at Balor Keep. The Boar of Balor could have his bride at Beltaine.

Morgan laughed at that. “She has escaped me three times in less than a sennight, and you think you can hold her for a month? Could be your best trick yet.”

“’Tis not much of a trick when Numa doesn’t let the maid out of her sight.” Dain leaned forward and finished off the last bite of pudding with his silver spoon. “Now, have you got the list?”

“I’m not likely to forget it. Almonds, rice, saffron, spices and grains of paradise, oranges—you’ll never get those, not out of a Welshman—violet sugar, for Christ’s sake, and a hundred marks. It’s more than Caradoc would have spent on her in a year, two, even three! And I doubt if he’d know a strand of saffron from a sheep’s buttocks!”

Dain arched his eyebrow and fought a smirk.

Morgan was scandalized. “If you heard that, you heard a lie.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“Worse?” Morgan exclaimed, as if it were impossible for anything to be worse than swiving sheep.

“Just give him my greetings, explain to him the importance of rich food to restore her health, and convince him the money is well spent for a bride of such great beauty and grace... and virginity.” A slow grin spread across Dain’s face.

Morgan scraped his chair back from the table, muttering, “Don’t tell me any more. If I don’t know, he can’t get it out of me, and then he won’t have to kill you for ‘dabbling’ where no man should dabble lest he be wed. What of D’Arbois? What will you tell him?”

“I’ll gut a chicken before he sups and divine the importance of the maid.” Still grinning, he stood up to see his guest out. “Can you find your way back through the siege tunnel?”

“Aye, and I’ll meet you in the copse at the other end at dusk with her belongings, not that there’s much. The only dowry she brings is her lineage.” The Welshman hesitated for a moment, his gaze catching Dain’s. “She had a book, a red book, some pages half written in, some pages not written in at all, and some written in no language I ever saw. Strange as it is, it could be the most valuable thing she owns. I’d hate for her to have lost it.”

“Rest easy, Morgan,” he said, turning toward his shelves. “The book was on the maid when she washed ashore. Here it is.” He reached up and pulled down the red leather-bound volume.

“Aye, that’s the one. No, I don’t have to see it,” he said when Dain offered him the tome. “’Twas eerie enough at the first thumbing through, singing my fingers a bit, and mayhaps a bit more. Too much ale, I’ll bet, but I’ll not be needing another look.”

“Magic again?” Dain asked with a teasing grin.

“Mayhaps,” Morgan answered. “Or mayhaps it’s something else. I’d not have the book, but Ceridwen pored over it every night, and for her sake, I’m glad she’ll not have to do without it.”

Dain put the red book back on the shelf, more intrigued than ever. If Morgan feared to read its pages, the chit’s missive must be rare indeed.

D
ain stood in front of the tower room’s hearth, holding the bundle Morgan had given him that evening. His friend had been right. There was not much.

He moved closer to the fire, running his thumb over the tiny braids of leather tying Ceridwen’s clothes and personal items together. Snow melted in the dark folds of his hooded cloak and dripped onto the hearth to hiss and steam. Winter was upon them again, lingering past its time. The soft, frozen flakes had begun to float down while he’d waited for the Welsh prince and his men in the small wood surrounding the tunnel entrance. More of a thicket it was than a wood, necessitating an approach by foot, but the forest took up again near the rivers, making a safe place to conceal a horse.

The Cypriot had waited there for him all day, with a patience no destrier could claim. Dain had left the mare that morn, when he and Morgan had made their first trip through the tunnel. As he’d expected, Morgan had not been able to find her when he’d gone back through alone, and he’d looked for her, long and hard. Nothing would do, the Welshman had said, except for Dain to give him a foal capable of disappearing in the wink of an eye.

Dain smiled. ’Twould take more than the Cypriot’s blood to enable another horse to fade into the mists. A curse echoing up from below stairs broadened his smile. He’d banished Erlend to the alchemy chamber again, and the old man was not happy about spending another night amongst the crucibles, flasks, and vials, and what he called the “demned smelly” scorifying pans.

Shivering, Dain tossed an extra fagot on the fire with a liberality few others in Wydehaw could afford. The flames crackled with new life. Rare it was that he missed the heat of the desert, but those years had weakened his resistance to the cold and exposed him to certain comforts and luxuries he enjoyed more than was good for him.

But if to be accused of decadence was the price of his pleasure this eventide, he was prepared to pay. He’d sent for Edmee and had Erlend heating water on all the hearths for a bath.

He reached for the clasp on his shoulder to remove his damp cloak—and stopped, warned by the frisson of energy sliding down his spine.

Instincts honed by a thousand nights of captivity stilled his body and slowed his breath. Numa lay on the bed with her head poking out from between an opening in the curtains, a low sound rumbling up from her chest. ’Twouldn’t be Erlend setting her off, he thought, though he had been surprised at the marks on the old man’s throat. Fortunately, the dog hadn’t bitten as deeply as was her wont.

He looked to the Druid Door, but heard no footsteps, felt no skulking presence sneaking up the tower stairs. Next, he glanced over his shoulder at the hatch in the floor, then at the door leading to the eyrie. Nothing disturbed either opening. There was only Elixir sitting by the hearth, staring at him with a near innocent expression on his black-as-the-hounds-of-hell face.