The Grail King (23 page)

Cormac looked discomfited. “I’d nay be so foolish as to stand on that man’s threshold. He’s a hard one and his blacksmith son is no coward, either. I confine myself to greeting Rhiannon in the forum market. I canna say she is overjoyed to see me, but she’s nay adverse to giving me food or coin. We are kin, after all.”

“Of course,” Owein said dryly.

“Ye should go to her, lad. She’d be glad to see ye alive. She’s still your kin, for all she’s given herself to a Roman.”

Owein’s gaze shuttered. “Nay. My sister has chosen a new life. ’Tis better if it doesn’t include me.”

Owein couldn’t help flinching when Clara laid her hand on his shoulder. He only just managed to stop himself from flinging her away.

Cormac had faded into the forest to scout a trail to the city. Perhaps Owein should have taken on the task himself, to avoid being alone with Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter. His anger was white hot, searing a hole in his chest.

“Dinna touch me, lass.”

Clara snatched her hand away. “I want to explain.”

“Ye needn’t bother. Ye played me for a fool. A fine joke it was, too.”

“No. It wasn’t like that. I—” She reached for him again, but stopped just short of contact. Fear showed in her eyes. That was good, Owein told himself. Very good.

Then why did it rip at his soul?

He paced a few steps away. “Why did ye lie?”

“I should think the answer to that question is clear enough.”

“I had the right to know the truth. I’m sure Aiden would nay have instructed ye to keep such a thing from me.”

“No,” she said hesitantly. “He urged me to tell all of it. But I was frightened. I knew full well Father’s order had destroyed your village. Would you have promised to help me find my mother’s cup if I’d told you why I wanted it?”

“Ye saw my village. Your father is a murderer.”

“There was to be no bloodshed!”

“Blood soaked the ground,” Owein spat out. “Innocent blood. ’Twas still wet when I arrived.”

“What of the innocent Roman blood shed by Celt brigands?” Clara asked quietly. “A woman and her three daughters, used and murdered on the road from Isca to Maia. A merchant cart ambushed. Four young masonry apprentices hacked to pieces. The governor’s own niece violated. Do you deny your clan gave aid to the savages who committed these crimes?”

Owein held himself very still. “If a kinsman came seeking food or care, we didna turn him away.”

“What I told you before was true. The order to clear the hills came from the governor in Londinium. It was Father’s hope that the brigands would be identified and punished. The other Celts were to be brought unharmed to Isca.”

“To be sold as slaves.”

“No. To live as freemen. As long as they surrendered peaceably.”

Owein made a disbelieving sound in his throat. “What man comes along peaceably when his wife is snatched from his pallet in the dead of night? When his son is murdered and his daughter defiled before his eyes?”

“That cannot have been by my father’s order.”

“A commander is responsible for his men. I know the truth of what passed that night. I came too late, but not all were dead.”

“The resettlement was supposed to be peaceful,” Clara said quietly. “My father … he wasn’t there. He couldn’t have known.”

Owein forced himself to unclench his fists. “He should have.”

Tears swam in her dark eyes. “I am sorry.”

The despair of that terrible day lodged like a stone in his chest. He’d gone to the circle of the Old Ones, seeking wisdom for the clan. When he returned, he found the village ravaged. But whether or not Gracchus sanctioned the attack, Owein knew Clara could hardly be held to blame. And yet the darkest corners of his soul could not absolve her completely. She was Roman. Perhaps that was all he needed to know.

Clara’s voice intruded. “Why didn’t you tell me Lucius Aquila’s wife is your sister?”

Rhiannon.
Did she think of him still? Or had her Roman stepson blotted Owein from his sister’s memory?

“You should go home to her,” Clara said softly.

“Nay.”

“Why not? Rhiannon is the most loving person I’ve ever met. I know she would welcome you.”

“I tried to kill her husband, lass.”

“You are not seeking to kill him now,” Clara pointed out. “And Lucius Aquila is not a vengeful man. Surely you can come to some understanding for Rhiannon’s sake.”

He shook his head. “The past canna be forgotten. Nor should it be.”

“So,” Cormac said. “Is it true Roman virgins beg to suckle barbarian cocks?”

Clara froze behind a screen of pines. She’d left Owein and Cormac, retreating into a copse to tend to her private needs. She returned to find them discussing her.

“I’m surprised ye dinna know the answer to that already,” Owein replied. “Ye never used to have trouble luring women into your bed.”

Cormac bristled. “I still don’t, lad. But Roman virgins …” He shook his head. “They are locked up tighter than a Legionary pay vault.” His voice grew throaty. “Gracchus’s daughter—did she fall easily? Does she take ye in her mouth?”

“I willna answer that,” Owein said.

Clara expelled the air that had stalled in her lungs.

Cormac laughed. “Ye were always a quiet one. Always gallant with the lasses.”

They sat a moment in silence. Clara was about to make her presence known when Owein spoke. “Tribune Aurelius Valgus,” he said slowly. “What can ye tell me of him?”

“Valgus? He’s one of those patrician sons sent from Rome to peer over the shoulders of the true soldiers. Vain. Pompous. Frequents the baths and the barbershops. Enjoys whores, but often doesn’t pay. His gambling debts are steep and his Senator father hasn’t the coin to save him. Why do ye ask?”

“Gracchus has promised his daughter to Valgus as wife.”

“Truly? I didna know. But aye, it makes sense. Gracchus is rich, but his bloodlines are mixed. It’s no secret he’d like to buy his way into an influential patrician family.” He laughed. “I hope Valgus doesna mind used goods.”

“Have a care, man,” Owein warned.

Cormac chuckled. “Ah, Owein, ’tis good to know ye are alive. I should have known sooner. By the gods, why did ye remain alone in the hills after Gracchus’s purge? Ye should have come to the towns. If ye had, Rhys might have found ye.”

“Rhys? Who is that?”

“The Bard of Avalon.”

“Avalon? The Druid isle? But it was lost. Destroyed by the Romans years before my birth. The Holy Ones were slaughtered.”

“Not all. Some fled to practice the ways of the Old Ones in secret. Cyric is descended from their line. Nine years ago, he gathered what was left of his family and returned to the sacred isle. Rhys is his grandson. The lad roams Britannia, gathering Celts touched by the Deep Magic. If they are willing, he brings them to Avalon. They are a clan of sorts—more than twenty souls, all Druids.”

“I canna believe the Romans leave them in peace.”

“The Romans dinna know of them. Cyric has cloaked Avalon with spells of protection.”

“This Cyric is powerful?” Owein asked. “Does he wield the Deep Magic?”

“Nay. He considers the power of the gods too dangerous for mortals. He calls only the Light.”

“Will it be enough to keep the Romans away, I wonder?”

“I dinna know,” Cormac replied. “But I know there is a way to ensure Avalon’s safety. The Lost Grail, smithed in Avalon and stolen during the Roman invasion, holds the power to safeguard the sacred isle.” He paused. “I know ye seek the grail with Gracchus’s daughter.”

Owein made a sound of disbelief. “And how do ye know that?”

“ ’Tis my trade to know,” Cormac said modestly.

“The cup I seek was in Roman hands for many years. It might very well have been taken as spoils during the invasion of the west country.” Owein exhaled. “It belongs in Druid hands. And that is where it soon will be.”

Clara sucked in a breath. Was Owein’s promise to her a sham? Had he planned all along to steal the grail rather than allow her to take it to her father?

When Owein spoke again, his voice was hesitant. “Is there a young Druidess living on Avalon? A woman of rare beauty, with hair like a skein of shining silver?”

His words were like ice-tipped arrows flung into Clara’s heart. A woman? What was this?

Cormac’s reply was hoarse. “She’s shown herself to ye already?”

“She exists?” Owein asked sharply.

“Aye,” Cormac said in a choked voice. “Hers is a rare talent, far beyond the rest of the clan. With the Lost Grail in her hands, she would be more powerful still.”

“She’s the one who called the storms,” Owein stated.

“She fears Cyric’s Light willna be protection enough to shield Avalon. The Romans are scouting the Mendips, probing old silver mines. Should they move farther west, it will be hard to keep the sacred isle hidden.”

“An awesome power indeed would be needed to counter the Second Legion.”

Cormac swallowed. “With the Lost Grail in her hands, she will not fail. I am certain of it. Her magic is that strong.”

“Then the Lost Grail shall be hers.”

There was no doubt in Owein’s mind: the Lost Grail belonged in Druid hands. Why then, did his guilt rise every time he looked at Clara?

She met his gaze boldly. He saw betrayal in her eyes, as if she’d guessed his scheme to return the grail to his people. Of course, he’d meant to take the grail after she’d used it to cure her father. Her
merchant
father, Owein thought savagely.

If anyone had a right to feel betrayed, it was he. Clara had fed him an outright lie. He’d lain with Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter! He still couldn’t force the notion into his mind.

They skirted the main road as they neared Isca, keeping to a sheltered foot trail. As the wilderness gave way to farms, Cormac forged ahead, saying he wanted to scout the outskirts of the city. Once he was gone, Clara turned to Owein, her eyes cold.

It occurred to him that he’d never seen her truly angry.

“You had no intention of helping me cure my father,” she said tersely. “You meant to steal my mother’s cup from the start.”

“Aye,” said Owein. “I meant to have the grail, but only after ye’d used it to heal your father. The father you claimed was a merchant.”

“And now that you know the truth, you withdraw even that small bit of decency! You want my mother’s cup for another woman. Some silver-haired Druidess.”

Owein felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “How do ye know that? Did ye use magic—”

“No magic,” Clara said bitterly. “I heard you and Cormac plotting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I understand that you hate my father, but to condemn him to death so easily? How could you? You know how much I love him.”

“The grail belongs to my people.” Owein felt like the worst of beasts as he said it.

“You may have it. Just let me have it for Father first.”

Owein’s jaw set. “And where is his sickbed, lass? In the fortress?”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes.”

“I canna follow you there.”

“I’ll bring the cup to you, once Father is well.”

“Ye have no reason to keep your word,” Owein said, his voice tight. “Once you disappear inside the fortress walls, ye’ll be beyond my reach.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Owein. I give you my word. Trust me in this.”

His gaze locked with hers. When her tears began to fall, he knew he couldn’t deny her request.

He nodded. “I’ll speak to Cormac. We’ll set a place and a time when ye’ll bring the grail to us.”

Her dark eyes lit with gratitude. Owein wondered that she didn’t curse him again. He didn’t deserve her thanks. But when Cormac returned from his scouting mission to Isca, he brought news that made Clara and Owein’s bargain moot.

“Sempronius Gracchus is dead,” the dwarf announced. “The city is abuzz with the news.”

“No.” Clara gasped her denial, her body flinching as if from a blow. Without thinking, Owein put out a hand to steady her.

“When?” he asked Cortnac.

The dwarf spat into a pile of dirty snow. “This morning.”

“No,” Clara repeated, her voice a whisper.

Her grief tore at Owein’s conscience, even though he knew his decision to steal the grail had come too late to make a difference in Gracchus’s decline. But he’d made the choice thinking Gracchus was still alive. The raw grief in Clara’s voice only increased his guilt. No matter what kind of man Gracchus had been, no matter that his order had resulted in the death of Owein’s adopted clan, one thing was clear—the Roman must have harbored a great love for his daughter, if she grieved his passing so keenly.

“Are … are you sure?” Clara asked in a small voice. “Perhaps there’s been some mistake.”

“No mistake, lass,” Cormac said, not unkindly.

“I must go to him,” she said, clutching her satchel to her stomach like a shield. “It was my task to close his eyes and place Charon’s coin in his mouth. Who did those things in my stead?”

Her shoulders shook with silent tears. Against his better judgment, Owein pulled her close. He couldn’t stop himself from smoothing his hand down her back.

She stiffened in his arms. “Don’t pretend to regret my father’s death. You wished for it often enough.”

She disentangled herself from his embrace and paced a few steps away, still clutching her small satchel. A surge of protectiveness washed over Owein. Clara was alone now save for the man Gracchus had named as her husband and guardian. Valgus.

Owein could not allow that Roman dog to have her.

There had to be some way Owein could ensure Clara’s happiness. He could never claim her, of course. His destiny lay with his own people, with the Druidess of his dreams.

The thought brought no joy. When he thought of love, he thought only of Clara. Clara, moving beneath him, gasping as she reached her peak. Clara speaking words of love. And yet, she was not his future, and he was not hers. How, then, was he to keep her safe?

The germ of an idea formed. He might leave Clara with Rhiannon. Thirteen years ago, Lucius Aquila had been a formidable army commander. Surely he was still man enough to protect Clara from Valgus. And Lucius’s son, Marcus, had already offered her marriage. Owein knew little of Roman law, but surely, if Clara were to marry the blacksmith she would be beyond Valgus’s reach.