Читать книгу The Witch’s Kiss Trilogy - Katharine Corr, Katharine Corr - Страница 13

THE KINGDOM OF THE SOUTH SAXONS, 498 AD

Gwydion ran his finger under the collar of his tunic, and wished he could stop sweating. He could see the servants and guards looking at him sideways, smirking. He caught the subtle tone of mockery: ‘A flagon of ale, my lord? Or perhaps some sweetmeats, my lord?’ It was because he had grown up here. Many of the servants remembered him, and they knew him only as the son of the king’s falconer, little more than a boy. To them, he was nobody.

Of course, he had almost been less than nobody. A slave passed nearby, carrying a load of firewood for the kitchens, the permanent iron collar round his neck advertising his status. If King Wulfric had not freed Gwydion’s father, that would have been his fate: a piece of property to be bought and sold, to live and die at the will of Wulfric and the rest of these filthy Saxon usurpers –

Gwydion mastered his anger and forced a smile at the woman who had approached to offer him some bread. After all, his fortunes were about to change.

In the meantime, however, he was sitting in the outer hall, kicking his heels while the king dealt with other matters. The son of an Irish chieftain had arrived earlier. Gwydion had caught a glimpse of him and his companions, sweeping into the palace courtyard: laughing carelessly, sunlight glinting off golden torcs and polished armour, their horses splashed with mud. The Celt was just as tall as Gwydion, strongly built, as blond as Gwydion was dark. Gwydion had disliked him the moment he had laid eyes on him. But he had been waiting so long now; waiting for the day when his worth would finally be acknowledged, when his life would really start. Waiting, and planning, and giving up so much. He could wait a little longer.

Finally, the door to the great hall opened.

Gwydion stood up, adjusted his sword belt and straightened his shoulders. He walked through the long, vaulted room, past the assembled ranks of knights and captains, up to the dais where the king sat. There he stood stiffly, pulling his cloak forwards to hide the worn patches on his tunic.

The king cleared his throat.

‘Gwydion, welcome. And forgive me for the delay in receiving you. But now the court is assembled, to do you honour for the great quest which you undertook and accomplished.’ The King looked around at his courtiers, and gestured to a crystal jar that was displayed next to his chair. Inside the jar was a dark, shrivelled mass. ‘Behold, my lords, the heart of the Sorceress, cut from her corrupt carcass by the hand of this young man. Truly, Gwydion, I know not how to reward you.’

Murmurs of surprise and disbelief ran around the room.

Gwydion bowed. ‘Thank you, Sire. There is only one reward I desire: the hand of the princess I rescued. The reward promised to whomsoever should return her alive to Helmswick.’ Gwydion heard the courtiers behind him muttering. He ignored them.

The king picked up the crystal jar, as though to examine its grisly contents more closely. ‘To marry the heir to the kingdom – that was the stated reward, was it not?’ Wulfric replaced the jar and stood, wincing as he straightened up. ‘Come, walk with me a little.’ The king, leaning on Gwydion’s arm, passed out of the great hall into a smaller private room beyond. The room was dark apart from the bright squares of sunlight on the rush-covered floor, falling from the windows high up in one wall. ‘Help me to that chair, Gwydion. Then sit.’

Gwydion fetched a stool from the side of the room and sat near the king, who beckoned to a servant hovering nearby.

‘Here.’ King Wulfric said, as the servant handed Gwydion a small, cloth-bound package. ‘I have been waiting to give this to you.’

The package was surprisingly heavy. Gwydion balanced it on his knees and carefully opened the wrapping. A large gold brooch, fashioned in the shape of a wolf with garnets for eyes, glittered against the dark cloth.

Gwydion smiled. The wolf was the symbol of the royal house.

‘Thank you, Sire.’ He pinned the brooch to his cloak. ‘May I see Edith now? I did not speak to her about our marriage on the journey back to Helmswick, but—’

‘Gwydion,’ Wulfric raised his hand, interrupting, ‘I am afraid the matter is more … complicated than I anticipated.’

Gwydion frowned.

‘I see no complication, Sire. I have completed the quest.’

‘Yes, yes.’ The king paused again. ‘But you see, when I offered the reward, I did not expect …’ He straightened up. ‘The truth is, Gwydion, I did not expect the quest to be completed by one such as you.’

Gwydion felt the blood flame into his cheeks.

‘The princes and lords you sent out failed, Sire. Most of them didn’t even return.’

‘I know. And I would give much to know the details of how you succeeded where they failed.’ King Wulfric glanced up at Gwydion from under his brow: – a glance full of speculation – but Gwydion remained silent. ‘Still, the ancient law is clear, as is the mood of the council. The heir to the throne must marry one of noble blood. Of noble, Saxon blood.’ The King leant forwards awkwardly patted Gwydion on the hand. ‘But you can still be a prince, Gwydion. You may marry Audrey. She is only fourteen, but in a year’s time—’

‘Audrey?’ Gwydion clenched his fists. He could barely even remember Audrey. She had only ever been Edith’s cousin, an annoying child Gwydion had always done his best to ignore. In Gwydion’s universe Audrey was an insignificant, barely visible star. Edith was the sun. He had adored her since they were both children, and she had stopped the steward from beating him, had allowed him to join in her games on the lawns outside the great hall. By the time he was sixteen and Edith was fourteen, he knew he was in love with her. Since then, he had never thought about anyone else. And at some point, he did not remember when, he realised that loving Edith, gaining Edith, would bring him everything else he desired as well.

‘I did not kill the Sorceress in order to become a prince. You and the council think me too lowly to take the throne. But I love Edith. I always have done. And she loves me.’ He went down on one knee before the king. Wulfric, sick and weak as he was, would not willingly disinherit his only child. Councils could be dealt with. Laws could be amended. Gwydion took a deep breath, tried to steady the quickening of his pulse. Once he and Edith were actually married, everything else could be managed. ‘I saved her life, Sire. I risked my own life to bring her back to you. Surely, if she wants to be with me, to give up her claim to the throne, you will not prevent it?’

Wulfric gazed down at him, and Gwydion wondered why the king’s eyes were filled with pity.

‘I think you had better talk to Edith,’ Wulfric said. ‘Let her be summoned.’ A guard, who had been standing unobtrusively in the shadows, bowed and ran from the room. Gwydion saw two more guards, heavily armed, still waiting by the doorway. Did the king … fear him?

Edith soon appeared. She was pale and thin from her captivity, and Gwydion knew the long sleeves of her gown concealed scars that would never truly fade. The Sorceress had been bleeding her, stealing her life force to work dark magic. But she was still his Edith: her wavy chestnut hair was loose about her shoulders, and the copper colour of her gown brought out the golden flecks in her dark brown eyes. She smiled at him.

‘Gwydion, I am so happy to see you.’ She went up on tiptoes to throw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly before stepping back. ‘The healers would not let me out of bed until three days ago, and I was not allowed visitors.’

‘I know. But now we can be together. And we won’t ever be parted again.’ Gwydion lifted Edith’s hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘You need only tell your father what you want.’

Edith’s smile faded a little. ‘What I want? What I want is for you to be honoured in this country, as you should be, and for you to live in Helmswick, and to be happy. And maybe in time, when Audrey is older …’

Gwydion shook his head, as the first cold tendrils of doubt crept into the dark corners of his mind.

‘What does Audrey have to do with anything? You know how to make me happy, Edith. Tell the king you love me. Tell him you renounce the throne so we can be married.’

Edith stepped back, what little colour she had draining from her cheeks. ‘But Gwydion, I don’t understand. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember; more than friends. I don’t want to be parted from you. But I cannot – I cannot marry you.’

Friends?

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, I cannot marry you, Gwydion.’

Gwydion bit his tongue until he tasted blood in his mouth. This was supposed to be his moment of triumph – was the woman he loved about to snatch it away from him?

‘Edith, if you still wish to be queen, I will try to understand. But I’m begging you, tell me we can at least still be to each other what we used to be. Tell me that I can live here with you, and we can walk together in the grounds each day, and I can teach you about the flight of birds and the uses of herbs and the movement of the stars. Tell me that you love me.’

Tears started into Edith’s eyes.

King Wulfric stepped forwards. ‘Gwydion, while you were—’

‘No, father – I must tell him.’ Edith took Gwydion’s hands. ‘Before you came to find me, you were away for three years, Gwydion. I was only fifteen when you left. Three years is a long time.’

‘I went to seek my fortune. You were never going to marry me as I was.’ Gwydion closed his eyes briefly. ‘My father died while I was away. Did you know that?’

‘I did; he was a good man. Gwydion, I understand why you left. But you did leave. And then, before the Sorceress—’ She stopped, shuddering. ‘Before I was taken, an Irish prince came to stay here. His name is Aidan. I love you Gwydion; I love you like a brother. But I am in love with him.’

Aidan. The image of the tall Celt Gwydion had seen that morning flashed into his mind.

‘But I am in love with you, Edith. Did you never realise?’

‘No. Because you never told me so, Gwydion.’

‘How could I, until I had bettered myself?’ Gwydion knew he was shouting, but he didn’t care. ‘And how did this Aidan have time to come here and – and make love to you, yet not have time to rescue you from the Sorceress?’

‘He tried to. He nearly died.’

‘I wish with all my heart he had.’

Edith snatched her hands away.

‘If I could spare you this pain I would, Gwydion. You have to believe me. I would do almost anything. But I will not marry you.’

‘But your father promised—’

‘I should not have done so,’ Wulfric interrupted. ‘Aside from Edith’s feelings, it is a good match. Edith has a responsibility to our people. We need allies, especially given the constant attacks of those Kentish thugs—’

‘Father!’ Edith shook her head, waving a hand to silence him. ‘Gwydion, I will always be in your debt. You saved my life. But that does not give you the right to decide how the rest of my life should be lived, or to tell me who to love. I am going to marry Aidan.’

Gwydion stared at Edith; the sunlight from the high windows faded. The floor beneath him seemed to tilt, sending him sprawling against the wall. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand as his stomach churned.

‘Gwydion!’ Edith took a step towards him, but the king seized her wrist, holding her back.

Years passed in a matter of seconds. Gwydion realised he was shivering; he was cold to the very core of his body. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet. Something inside him was changed, suddenly and forever.

‘The Sorceress warned me, before I slit her throat. She told me you would betray me.’ Gwydion saw the guards draw their swords, but he ignored them. ‘I vowed to love you, Edith, to protect you forever. I swore it over my mother’s grave, sealed it by writing the runes in my blood, and the vow binds me. I cannot physically harm you. But your father, your—’ Gwydion’s mouth twisted as he spat out the word, ‘—lover, they are a different matter.’

‘Guards, seize him!’ Wulfric drew his own sword, but Gwydion waved a hand, drawing a complicated symbol, forming air into bright lines of fire that hung there for a moment before fading. The guards collapsed and the key turned in the door behind them.

Gwydion advanced on the king. ‘Did you think I had merely been wandering the kingdom these past three years, wasting my time learning how to wield a sword or make songs about courtship? Did you think I could have defeated the Sorceress with nothing more than armour and courage?’ Gwydion drew another symbol in the air, and the king bellowed and threw his sword away as the metal glowed red-hot. ‘Fool. I have been using my time much more productively.’

‘Gwydion,’ began Wulfric, ‘you must—’

‘No. I don’t want to hear the word “must” from you. I don’t want to hear any more words from you.’ Another symbol: the king dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Edith backed into the corner of the room, her eyes wide.

‘Gwydion, what have you done to yourself?’

Gwydion didn’t answer, but moved forwards until he was only separated from Edith by a hairsbreadth. He tilted her chin upwards.

‘So beautiful. How was I to know that such a face could conceal such a heart? A heart just as black as the one now sealed in a jar next to your father’s throne.’

‘Are you—’ Gwydion saw Edith’s throat convulse as she swallowed hard, ‘are you going to kill me?’

‘I cannot. But I swear, that as you have snatched away everything I love, everything I hoped for, so I will take away what you love most.’ Gwydion drew out the small dagger he carried at his waist and slashed down across the palm of his hand. He pressed his hand to Edith’s chest, smearing the blood across her skin. ‘You will not know the form of your punishment, you will not know the day or the hour, but eventually my retribution will find you, Edith. And then you will suffer, just as I am suffering now. You will taste the bitterness of despair.’

He ran to a smaller door that let out into the courtyard behind the hall. There were horses stabled there, as he remembered. The guards and stable hands presented no difficulties, and soon he was outside the walls of the keep.

Gwydion rode without direction or thought for hours, without resting or trying to find food, hoping that bodily exhaustion would counteract the agony of his mind. When he finally realised that he needed some sort of plan, his initial instinct was to head south, to one of the coastal villages. From there he could make his way across the sea to the Kingdom of the Franks, or maybe to the Celtic tribal lands farther west. But as he rode away from the downs, the folds of the hills forced him east. A little before sunset he came to the marshes that formed the eastern border of the kingdom: a flat, treacherous landscape, carved by criss-crossing streams and dotted with stagnant swamps. On the edge of the marshes he dismounted. If he went any further this way, it would be easier to travel on foot.

Gwydion tied his horse to a tree and sat on the ground, trying to force himself to make a decision. The whole plan of his life, for as long as he’d had a plan, had been built around the idea that Edith loved him, and that she would be his if only he could find a way to show he was more than just the son of a servant. And with Edith would come status, wealth, power. Now his plans had proved no more than a fantasy, what was he to do with himself? He could still turn south and try to reach to the coast. Or he could go on into the marshes, and return to the only possible home that now remained to him: the hidden hall of his master, Ranulf, an old and powerful wizard who had taught him his magic. Gwydion had left with Ranulf’s predictions of failure ringing in his ears, and without permission. It was possible Ranulf would try to kill him on sight.

The last shreds of Gwydion’s pride pushed him to turn away and head for the sea. But the oath he had sworn to take vengeance on Edith – to fulfil that oath, he needed to complete his training.

He let the horse go free, and stumbled forwards into the marshes.

Gwydion reached the house just before dusk. It was a long, low building, built on stilts hammered into the boggy ground; Ranulf had placed a charm upon the wood to stop it rotting. Gwydion hesitated as he approached the door, but not for long; he had not eaten or drunk for nearly two days, and thirst drove him forwards. The door opened at his touch. He fell upon his knees.

‘Well, boy?’ Ranulf was standing in front of him, wheezing, even wider and more misshapen than Gwydion remembered. ‘So you have returned to me, like the filthy dog you are?’

Gwydion risked looking up; if Ranulf had decided to kill him, he would not be bothering with questions. But there might be punishment. And that Gwydion would have to endure, if he wanted to learn the darkest of Ranulf’s arts. He braced himself, expecting pain.

But to his surprise, Ranulf laughed.

‘That princess of yours did indeed treat you like a dog, did she not? A fitting punishment for a disobedient apprentice. You look like you have suffered enough; for now, at least. Come.’

Ranulf led Gwydion into the house, set some wine and bread on the table and waved him to a chair.

‘So, boy, it is eight months since you left me, so full of your own plans and abilities. What do you have to say for yourself?’

Gwydion looked down at his hands. ‘You were right, Master. You were right about everything.’

‘Tell us then. Tell us what happened.’

Gwydion cleared his throat, and began describing the weeks he had spent searching for the Sorceress in the great northern forest. Eventually he had found her, living in an ancient stone tower surrounded by a huge hedge of black holly trees: black bark, black berries, dark green leaves with thick, sharp, spines. He’d also found the bodies of some of the men who had already tried to break through the hedge. The branches had blunted their swords, and the spines scratched them and plunged them into a poisoned sleep, a perpetual night from which they never awoke. Inside the hedge, the tower was guarded by three enormous ravens, with beaks sharp enough to pierce chainmail and rend flesh. Gwydion had spent another two months practising the runes that would allow him to bend the holly trees and the ravens to his will, before he attempted the tower.

‘I caused the hedge to open before me, and the ravens to become docile. After that, the Sorceress presented no difficulty: she was old and weak and had no other defence in place. Her magic was mostly that of potions and curses. She was attempting to work blood magic, to link the power of the shadow realm to a human body and thus create a dark servant, but she had not the skill.’

Ranulf grunted. ‘The magic and entities of that realm are evil and full of cunning. To summon such a one, and keep it housed within another’s form, that requires more than blood magic. Great mastery and great sacrifice are needed. How did you kill her?’

‘I cut out her heart, since I needed evidence of my deed. Then I searched for the princess. Edith was very…’ Gwydion faltered for a moment. ‘Very ill. We had to journey slowly on our return to Helmswick.’

‘Hmm. Go on.’

‘I don’t wish to—’

‘I told you to continue.’ Ranulf lifted a hand, threatening.

‘The king promised Edith’s hand in marriage to whomever rescued her. But he is a cheat and a liar. And so is she. During our childhood, before I left to come here – she made me think she loved me. But it was all mockery. She is to marry another.’

Ranulf laughed, the same unpleasant cackle Gwydion remembered.

‘What did I tell you, boy? Women are all the same: false and cunning. Their—’ a fit of coughing shook him, forcing him to break off. Gwydion refilled Ranulf’s ale mug and pushed it towards him. ‘Their love is like a shallow pond, liable to dry up if they are not constantly showered with compliments and gifts.’ He spat a gobbet of blood on to the floor. ‘All love is but love of self, a woman’s love doubly so. You should be thankful this Edith has found another fool to make miserable.’

Gwydion sat in silence. He didn’t feel thankful.

Ranulf watched him for a while.

‘And what would you now, boy?’

‘I wish to complete my training. If you are willing, Master.’

‘For what purpose? And do not tell me it is for love of me, or for the love of learning.’ He sat back in his chair, waiting.

Gwydion thought a long time before he answered.

‘I wish to complete my training not for love, but for hatred. I want to become powerful enough to take revenge upon the woman who spurned me. A revenge so complete that she will curse the day she was born. I want to make her suffer.’

‘Very well.’ Ranulf held out his hand, waiting for Gwydion to kiss the ornate gold and sapphire ring he wore on his middle finger. ‘I will continue your training, boy. I will teach you the only true way to take and keep a woman’s heart, or a man’s: through blood and fire and dark magic. But there will be a price to pay.’

‘Of course, Master.’

‘Another six years, maybe five if you pay attention and work hard, and then, when the opportunity arises, you will be ready.’

‘Ready for what?’

‘Ready to create a monster that will serve your purpose. Ready to create a King of Hearts …’

For five years Gwydion studied with Ranulf. Every day he gained in knowledge; every day, lost something of that which had made him human.

King Wulfric, sick and frail as he was, did not long survive Edith’s return, and she became queen.

Edith grieved for her father, and wondered often what had become of Gwydion. And yet, Aidan filled her heart with joy, and the kingdom prospered, and in the fullness of time the young king and queen were blessed with a child. A baby prince, who might one day become a king …