The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (28 page)

“Be gone, Erlend,” he commanded, thoroughly disgusted with the old man’s filth, Ceridwen’s good cheer, and the course his life had taken.

“I’d be gone,” Erlend groused. “I’d ha’ been long gone, if ’tweren’t fer the demned castle guards layin’ siege to me.”

“Siege?” The word was no sooner out of Dain’s mouth than he heard the commotion on the other side of the Druid Door. Voices were rumbling. The sound of feet could be heard going up and down the tower stairs. “What is this?” he demanded.

“They want the maid,” Erlend said. “I let the first one in, that Noll, but he left in such a fuss when he din’t find the girl that I daren’t let another pass. They been out there since sunup. Yellin’ and threatenin’ and raisin’ a ruckus on the door, but I locked ’er down tight and I hain’t lettin’ another one in. If’n I was ye, I’d be demn careful.”

“Locked her down?” Dain questioned.

Erlend nodded. “Tighter’n a drum.”

Dain swore and strode over to the door, tossing the folded Quicken-tree cloth on the bed as he passed. Fool man. D’Arbois would not hesitate long in taking a battering ram to the door, for all the good it would do him. He would do naught but seal the door even tighter by trying to breach it. The plates activated by the levers of the lock were embedded six feet into the curving tower walls on either side. The only way through the Druid Door was by destroying the tower itself.

The old baron had thought the tower sacred. He had allowed no one to disturb his bard’s chambers, despite the man’s falling from grace. Soren had no such constraints. Superstition had held him at bay for a few months after his father’s death, until his curiosity could no longer be denied. The Hart Tower had been said to hold a treasure trove, to be a repository of man’s greatest riches. It had also been said to be cursed, and thus Soren had devised his reward to induce another to do the actual opening, if they could but find the way. A hundred marks had seemed a small price to pay for the ill fortune to fall on someone else’s head.

That someone had been Dain, and if there was a curse, he had not felt it until a fortnight ago, when Ceridwen ab Arawn, most cherished and sought after jewel in all the land, had inadvertently fallen into his keeping.

Damn the chit, and damn the old man.

He ran his hand over the planks of the door, feeling the pattern of iron rods pushed into the wood. After a minute, he breathed a sigh of relief and looked over his shoulder at Erlend. The man knew nothing. He’d meant no more than the securing of the crossbar. If the door had been truly locked down “tighter’n a drum,” it would have taken Dain himself a sennight to open it back up. That was how long it had taken him to open it the first time. Since then, he’d not locked the door past the second minor level, and that only once. The first minor level was adequate for most circumstances. It had kept Ceridwen in.

“It’s him, ye know,” Erlend said, making not much sense as usual.

“Who?” Dain asked, only half listening. The third minor level of iron rods was flush with the oak planks, their exposed ends making the symbol for Venus and copper within the circular pattern of the lock.

“The pig whose troth was’t plighted.”

Dain’s eyebrows drew together in a deep furrow. The pig whose troth was’t plighted? Erlend’s blubbering would soon give him another headache. A quick visual survey assured him the first and second minor levels, being the Sun and gold, and Mercury and mercury, respectively, had not been tampered with. The fourth minor level, the heretical placement of Earth, was...
Pig
.

His hand stilled on the oak planks. Caradoc had come for the maid. His breath grew short as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder. Ceridwen had understood. Her face had paled beyond white to ghostly.

“I—I am not ready,” she stammered.

His heart beat too quickly in his chest. His thoughts were a tangle. Caradoc had come for the maid. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would form.

“You promised me magic,” she told him, blending accusation with her plea.

Magic? He had no magic. He had nothing. Had she not seen through him yet?

A great pounding started on the door, sending hard and heavy vibrations up his arms. ’Twas the ram he’d expected, a ridiculously short one, given the available maneuvering room in the stairwell, but one sturdy enough to do damage.

“Cretins,” he hissed, his anger rising out of the morass of his mind and taking hold of his thoughts. He whirled on Ceridwen with a command. “Take your clothes off and hide yourself in the bed.”

Erlend immediately brightened, a toothless grin forming upon his face.

“Get below, old man,” Dain warned, shifting his attention to the lecherous servant, “or your next breath will be your last.”

The ram hit the door again. Hollow echoes sounded through the chamber, curving around the tower walls and leaving a tinny resonance hanging in the air.

Bastards.

“Move!” he barked. Erlend jumped, but Ceridwen held her ground.

“Let me go,” she said.

“No.”

“My ankle is near healed. Let me return back through the tunnel and make my escape.”

“To where?” he demanded. “Strata Florida? Caradoc would have you run down before you could clear the river.”

“Then through the woods to Deri. Rhuddlan would keep me.”

“For his own purposes, not yours.” Foolish girl. Did she trust everyone more than she did him?

The ram struck home a mighty blow.

“What about your friend, Madron?” Her voice took on a desperate edge. “Her serving woman liked me well enough. Mayhaps they would hide me until I can get word to my brother.”

“Madron is no friend of mine, or of yours,” he snapped. “She was disguised as the crone, and while you slept, she looked upon you long enough to pronounce you the perfect bride for the Boar of Balor.”

She stared at him, her hands growing limp at her sides, his words taking the fight out of her.

“The crone? But I remember a woman coming, a special woman. I felt her presence in the cottage.” Her voice was unsure again. “I... I thought ’twas someone else.”

“There is no one to help you except me.” They did not have time for this debate. “Get yourself into the bed, or I will be done with you.”

His threat had the desired effect, and she began stripping off her gown.

He threw off his cloak and reached for the lacings on his gambeson. They were already half undone, giving him a moment’s pause and making him wonder what else Madron had seen in the night besides his mind. The witch had better beware.

He finished freeing the laces and removed the gambeson. He needed physick and a simple to make Ceri sleep, and elderberry, chamomile, and lime to make her sweat. Blood would be good for visual effect, but he had none at hand.

Except for Erlend’s.

He looked at the old man shuffling toward the trapdoor and started forward. Some of what he thought must have shown on his face, for the servant quickened his steps, making it a close race as to who would reach the stairs first. Erlend won with a sprightly jump that no doubt left a little of the needed blood on the floor of the alchemy chamber. Dain grimaced at the waste of it, then shut the trapdoor and kicked the bolt home with his foot.
Pudre ruge
would have to do.

He dipped a cup of water out of the cauldron steaming on the hearth and began pulling pots and bottles off the shelf, this and that, all the herbs he needed and half of what he didn’t. The battering ram hit again, a resounding, percussive thud. A bottle slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor, splintering glass and spilling a vile-smelling concoction. The castle guards were putting their hearts into it. Mayhaps D’Arbois had gotten out his whip. Dain bent to pick up the pieces of glass and swore when he cut himself. Now he had the damn blood. It ran down his finger and pooled in his palm. He grabbed a pile of bandages, making sure to spread the blood as far as possible, and turned to Ceridwen.

To his dismay, she was still standing in the middle of the chamber. Her gown was gone, but not so her kirtle and chemise.

“Why aren’t you in the bed?”

“What are you doing?” was her reply, no answer a’tall.

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Her resolve had rehardened in his few moments of inattention. Though still obviously frightened, she had that sharp-tongued look about her. Would serve Caradoc well to give him the maid in such a mood.

Then why not do it?
he asked himself. Why not be done with her? Her betrothed waited, if not in the stairwell, then in the great hall. He could not have her for himself—Madron had made sure of that—so why not give her to the man who could?

Because she is too ill to travel
. He lied to himself with amazing ease, knowing that if ’twas not yet the truth, it ’would be soon enough, after she drank his potion.

“I am mixing an infusion to make you sweat and vomit,” he explained patiently, working hard to keep himself from going over and shaking her. “Mayhaps I’ll also give you the runs and make you delirious. I am going to wrap your head with bloody bandages, smear your scars with
pudre ruge
, and rub ashes into your teeth and gums.”

He saw the light of understanding and hope flicker in her eyes. With all due haste, she worked her way out of her kirtle, pulling it up over her head and leaving him to stare at the soft curves of her body as revealed through the fine linen chemise.

“And if that does not sway your betrothed,” he continued, “I will make you tremble and jerk upon the bed like a woman possessed, all the while assuring the Boar that I nearly have your demons banished and will soon have you aright.”

The billowing of her clothes filled the air with her scent. He inhaled the fragrant, feminine redolence, all thoughts of shaking her vanishing like so much ether in the wind, and replaced with imaginings of a much gentler ilk. His gaze caressed each flowing curve, from her throat to the arch of her foot, up the length of her arms bared by her chemise, and down again to linger in the shadows between her breasts and lower still to the beckoning mystery between her thighs.

And if that does not sway your betrothed, I will possess you myself. I will slip into your mind, into your breath, into your body. I will give myself to you in a way you cannot resist, sweetly, so sweetly, with trickery and wiles, and if needs be, with the truth.

He was mad. His mind had finally broken. He had lost all reason in his yearning. What Jalal had failed to accomplish with his exquisite tortures and opiated
kif
, with his subtle games and degradations, one small maid had managed by the mere taking off of her kirtle. A bartering ram was at his door. His hand was bleeding onto the floor. And he could do naught but stand and stare at the cause of it all and think of her kiss.

“No potion,” she said, as if she were in charge. “I can make my own delirium and will have no trouble trembling in fear with the Boar in the room. No vomiting, but I will gag and spit if you wish.”

Aye, he thought, befuddled and bemused. ’Twas his fondest desire to have her gagging and spitting while in his bed.

“I cannot abide the runs.”

Neither could he, but desperate situations required desperate measures.

“Wet me down, if you must. Water will do for sweat. All I ask is that you do not let him touch me.” She threw the kirtle onto the bed and turned to face him. “I cannot bear for the Boar to touch me.”

Neither could he. “’Tis his right.”

The delicate lines of her jaw tightened and an angry glint sparked in her eyes, both good signs. “If the time comes, let it be one he will die for.”

“You cannot kill him with magic, Ceri.”

“Then mayhaps I’ll use a knife.”

Her audacity was a worthy, foolish, frustrating thing. If a man died every time a woman said
no
, the kingdom would be knee-deep in dead men before the month was out. ’Twas not how the world worked.

“Mayhaps I’ll teach you how,” he said for the sake of convenience, “but only if we live through the day.” He lifted his hand toward the bed, trying to hurry her along. The ram hit again, making him wince and convincing her to comply.

With his pots and cup of water, he dabbed and smeared her face and neck, putting most of what he’d wanted inside her on her instead. She bound her hair up and used the bloody bandages to best advantage around her forehead. ’Twas a slapdash job at best, finished off with a rotting salve to give her a putrid air.

Were he Caradoc, he would not touch her with that smell upon her. He doused her again for good measure, then put his finger to her lips and leaned very close over the bed.

He stared at her long and hard, very hard, keeping all expression from his face, watching her eyes widen in expectation and then narrow in unease, then finally make the transition into confusion with a hint of fear. That was where he wanted her, cowed and vulnerable. The battering ram kept up its pounding, and still he continued his silent staring. He knew her, knew her stubborn courage could be the end of their game, and so he waited. When he felt a tremor run through her, when her eyes slowly widened again in greater fear, he leaned even closer.

“Not one word will you speak,” he whispered, putting menace in his gaze and solemn threat in his voice. “Not one move will you make, or I will give you to him myself and be done with it. Do you understand?”

She made the slightest motion with her head, acquiescence from a woman of her word, yet he would rather have had time to get a sturdy sleeping draught into her, whether she said yea or nay.

As long as she was awake, though, he planned on putting her to good use. Reaching above her, he unwound the end of a rope and placed it in her hand.

“When I light the candle on the table, pull this and do not stop until it is done, then hide it back behind the curtain.”

With her final nod, he pulled a swath of bandage down to cover her eyes and left the bed, drawing the damask drapes behind him.

~ ~ ~

“Out of my way. Out of my way, man,” Vivienne shouted from down in the bailey, sending a ripple of anxiety up the tower stairs.

On the landing in front of the Druid Door, Soren blanched at the sound of his wife’s voice.