Giles De Vere blinked, peering up at Marcella, and shaking his head, and Rhiannon understood that he must be confused by the voice in his head, although not entirely surprised.
For a moment, he tore his gaze away from Rhiannon, perhaps doubting his sanity. He nodded toward the castle. “Eustace is inside,” he said.
“The King’s son?”
Giles nodded. “So his men have said.”
The bigger man spoke now, his brow creased more with anger than concern. “I’ll warrant the sorry bastard knows I’m ready to break his neck.”
Giles cut the bigger man a quelling glance, then beamed at the young paladin in their company. “Jack,” he said warmly, and suddenly the bigger man’s face erupted with a grin.
“Jack!” he exclaimed as he rushed to the young man’s side, reaching up to offer a hand in greeting.
Jack grinned. “Thought ye were rid o’ me, di’ ye?”
“You’ve grown whiskers,” the bigger man said, rubbing his own face. “I scarcely recognized you.” And then he tugged Jack down from the saddle, as though he were just a wee boy, dragging the apprentice into his burly arms, then clapping him hard on the back. He said fondly, “’Tis been too long!”
For his part, Jack could scarcely respond for the force of the hug. “You’ll be the death of me yet, if you don’t release me, old man,” he complained.
The giant released him, and Giles said at large, though he once again settled his gaze upon Rhiannon, “This is my brother, Wilhelm Fitz Richard.”
Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to the brother, realizing only belatedly that she was face to face with not one, but two of her sisters’ champions. Wilhelm was Seren’s husband.
“So, what’s it going to be?” shouted the man on the parapet, rudely interrupting their reunion. “Will you leave peaceably, or must we fill you with holes?”
Brave words, said with less conviction than he’d spoken only moments before, but his warning effectively cut their greetings short. Whatever more need be said must wait until they dealt with the rogue prince and the adulterine castle he’d squatted upon.
Giles offered them a quick detail: They’d tracked Eustace to Amdel, after chasing him from Bury St. Edmunds. According to his men—those on the parapet—he was inside now, though he’d yet to show his face.
“How many are there?”
“No more than four on the parapet,” said Giles. “No telling how many more within, but evidently they aren’t concerned enough by our presence to provide a show of force.”
“’Tis been these same four men on that wall,” explained Wilhelm. “Only one of them speaking for the rest.”
“There’s only one inside,” said Rhiannon.
Every pair of eyes slid to her, where she sat before Cael in the saddle.
“How can you know?” asked Wilhelm.
Rhiannon’s eyes met Wilhelm’s and she held his gaze. “Because… I feel his heart flame.”
The behemoth narrowed his eyes.
Undaunted, she continued. “There are four on the ramparts, one elsewhere on the premises, and I presume he must be hiding inside the keep.”
“Like as not drunk and lamenting his fate,” agreed Giles.
“Quite likely,” agreed Marcella. “We heard the cur was dispossessed and that Stephen intends to cede his throne to Duke Henry.”
Giles nodded affirmation. “Indeed, that’s the plan,” he said. “However, after I left, Eustace accused his father of ruining his life. He took a contingent of his own men—more than he has here, I presume, but I believe he lost them all after looting Bury St. Edmunds.”
“Idiots,” said Cael.
“Anyone of note on the ramparts?” asked Marcella.
Giles shook his head. “I don’t believe so.” He shook his head again. “Only a handful of dafties who believe the King’s son has some chance with Morwen’s intervention.”
A prickle of fear raced down Rhiannon’s spine at the mention of her mother. Instinctively, she peered up at the skies, searching for ravens. None were yet to be found.
And yet, even so, she understood with conviction that there were no coincidences. The Mother Goddess provided, if only one listened, and there must be some reason Wilhelm and Giles were already here.
There was a good reason they’d happened upon the King’s son as well.
Whether or not they were aligned, their fates certainly were.
“We’re pleased to see you,” said Giles. “Now mayhap, we’ll root out the bastard and set off to Warkworth together.”
“We won’t be traveling on to Warkworth,” said Rhiannon. “I’m afraid this is where we must make our stand.”
“Impossible!” declared Marcella.
“We haven’t the men or resources,” said Giles. “Warkworth is where they will send reinforcements.”
“What goes here?” asked Wilhelm, frowning, perhaps slow to realize who Rhiannon was, since they had never laid eyes upon each other before now.
Rhiannon closed her eyes, inhaling a breath, communing with the aether, if only to be certain. When she opened her eyes again, she was sure and she met Marcella’s gaze, pleading with the paladin to keep faith. Out of everyone standing here, Marcella was the one person who might fully understand. “And nevertheless, this is where we must remain,” she said.
“God’s bones!” erupted Wilhelm. “Who the hell is this woman to tell us what to do?”
Very somberly, Giles clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder, and said, “You of all people… can’t you see the familial resemblance? She’s Rhiannon Pendragon.”
28
Like Warkworth, so many new castles were being designed with an eye toward safeguarding against fire. The brothers had learned the hard way how devastating such a happenstance could be. Five years ago, at Morwen’s behest, Warkworth was put to the torch, on the command of the man who now lay hidden within this very fortress.
It was Wilhelm Fitz Richard who proposed sending a few, well-placed missiles onto the ramparts—“An eye for an eye,” he said. Positioned right, those arrows could very well ignite the entire edifice, especially if those dull wits atop the barbican were keeping barrels of pitch over the gates, ready to boil and turn. If those should happen to catch fire, the parapet would ignite and burn swiftly.
As with Warkworth, there were two curtain walls, one defending an already compromised outer bailey and a smaller, stone wall surrounding the keep.
However, only part of the outer wall was made of stone, and the wood they’d used to bolster it was dry and ready to burn, even despite the deluge they’d received last night.
Additionally, the ground, though puddled, was baked, signifying an overall lack of rain.
All things considered, they decided it would be simple enough to take out the outer wall without compromising the inner wall. Worst case, if the arrows didn’t catch, they would create a suitable distraction, and Giles and Wilhelm could approach the gates to set fire to the doors.
Rhiannon thought it was a terrible plan, even if it was the only one they had. There was simply no way to know if there were barrels of pitch stored up on the ramparts, much less be sure where to find them. Simply because they employed such tactics at Warkworth did not mean the lord of this demesne would know to do the same. Clearly, though Beauchamp had had plans for his castle, he hadn’t found the funds to complete it, much less defend it.