“Wake up,” said Cael. “Rhiannon!”
Her head shot up, as she heard bellowing.
The morning sky was a watery rose as they ventured onto Amdel’s parklands, and though the rain had stopped, the entire landscape was a muddy brown.
Looking far more like a pile of stones against the dusky horizon, Amdel castle lay shrouded in a thick morning mist, its aura black as pitch.
“Tell him to come out, treat like a man!” shouted one of two fellows standing in the middle of a muddy field—one mounted, one not.
The one doing the bargaining stood, arms akimbo.
Reining in their mounts, the entire cavalcade stopped to assess the situation.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Rhiannon righted herself in the saddle.
Marcella patted her mare’s neck, whispering gently to the beast to keep her calm.
Jack reined in as well, tightening the lead rope to Rhiannon’s riderless horse, bringing it close.
Even the wolfhound stood silent, perhaps evaluating the level of danger. Although Rhiannon half expected the animal to growl or to leap at the pair of warriors standing in a watery field, he remained close by their side.
Before them, Amdel Castle rose from rich, black loam, looking like a debased tomb, with its half-finished stone wall nearly gone to rubble.
It was, as though, she thought… the lord of this place had begun to construct a bastion, only to be thwarted by his coffers, or perhaps even a king’s mandate.
There were many adulterine castles built after King Henry’s death—over a thousand, so she’d heard. So long as their lords bent the knee, the Usurper had allowed many to remain, far too many, his barons would say.
Only naturally, Stephen would respect a man who took what he wanted per force. After all, hadn’t he done the same?
However, it was impossible to say if this castle might be among the ones he did not approve. For whatever reason, the construction had been forestalled long, long ago. And even so, its aura gave Rhiannon the distinct impression that it had only been recently abandoned. It filled her with a strange sense of presentiment. Even the air itself held the faintest whiff of death. But she sensed heart flames within, so the castle wasn’t entirely abandoned. More proof of that stood upon the parapet… one man with arms akimbo, though Rhiannon could spy others hidden behind the meutriers, bows knocked and arrows ready to loose.
“He’ll not treat with the likes of you!” he shouted. “Get ye gone, else we’ll loose another volley!”
The two men standing before the barbican stood far enough away that the first round of missiles had embedded themselves harmlessly at their feet. At least half a dozen stood planted in the sodden ground.
“Cael?” said Marcella. “I believe that’s…
“Giles,” he said.
Rhiannon perked over hearing that name.
Her sister’s husband?
What were the odds?
Small, in truth, lest the fates be bound.
And nevertheless, Rhiannon recognized him as well, despite that she’d only seen him once in a vision—more than four years ago when he’d first encountered her sister en route to Aldergh… before their mother placed her in shackles.
“God’s bones,” said Cael. “It is him.”
So far, neither man on the ground had any sense of their presence, so preoccupied were they with the soldiers on the wall. And yet, the man on the wall did note them. His hands fell from his hips, and he retreated a few steps, then returned. Rhiannon could see the color of fear rising in his aura, even from this distance—brown as the loamy fields stretching before the castle.
“I must speak to him,” said Rhiannon, as she rushed to dismount.
“Nay,” said Cael, restraining her with a hand to her breast.
“Please!” she begged.
“Nay,” he said, and before she could protest, Rhiannon suffered another vision—the first since removing her shackles. The intensity of it dizzied her, and any complaint she might have uttered died in her throat. It was no more than a fleeting glance, but when it was gone, she suddenly understood… and swallowed, hard.
This was the place…
Here.
This was where they would face Morwen—this monstrosity of construction, with its melancholy spirit and cadaverous stench.
“I’ll go,” offered Jack.
“Nay,” said Marcella. “I will go.”
And before anyone could stop her, she spurred her mount ahead, covering the distance quickly, her dark hair sweeping her back as she shouted in greeting.
“Hail, brother!” she said, waving in greeting.
Both men spun about, drawing swords. Giles froze when he saw her—thank God. They were far enough away that no one could intervene if he meant to cut her down.
To everyone’s relief, both men resheathed their weapons, and, Marcella stood speaking to them a long moment, then she waved the rest of them forward as she dismounted.
Jack complied at once.
Only Cael hesitated. “Until I know what they’re doing here, say nothing, Rhiannon.”
“He’s my brother by law,” she argued. “Why would you believe he would do me harm?”
Silence was Cael’s response, but he nevertheless nudged his destrier forward.
Rhiannon persisted. “We are en route to Warkworth, where you wouldst seek the man’s aid. Why does it matter where he is. Inexplicably, he’s here, when we need him most. I call it a gift from the Goddess.”
“Rather convenient, don’t you think?”
“She works in mysterious ways,” apprised Rhiannon.
“Aye well, you’d do well to remember that your mother is a child of the Goddess, as well.”
No doubt that was true, but Rhiannon also had dewine blood in her veins. She spoke her true heart and found lies distasteful. No one knew this more than Cael.
How many times had he begged her to pretend? All Rhiannon ever had to do was to marry him and bow to her mother, and never could she allow herself to do so.
In all her life she’d only spoken one lie—one—and that was the night she’d convinced Elspeth to escape Llanthony. She’d told all her sisters that she’d envisaged the future and that Cael would never have her. But even then, she’d known that wasn’t true. The lord of Blackwood would have wed himself to a leper for the promise of Wales.
In part, Rhiannon had lied because she knew it was her sister’s destiny to wed Malcom Scott, but there was yet another reason she’d done so: Some part of her woman’s heart had admired Lord Blackwood even then.
He was her soul’s mate.
Even now, she longed for his kisses.
De Vere,” he said in greeting as they approached the gathering in the muddy field.
“D’Lucy,” answered Giles with a half-hearted smile.
Clearly, they knew each other well enough to use given names. But then, again, why shouldn’t they be well acquainted? They were cohorts, after all.
Only the bigger man seemed utterly confused. “What goes here?” he said.
All the while they approached, Giles de Vere had locked gazes with Rhiannon and then seemed unwilling or unable to take his eyes off her. Sensing he recognized the familial resemblance, Rhiannon dared to mindspeak.
“My lord Warkworth, we meet at last.”
“Giles?”