Читать книгу Camelot’s Shadow - Sarah Zettel - Страница 7

The evening meal was a mostly silent affair. Rhian, still disturbed by the events of the day, had no appetite. She could only force down a piece of bread sopped in gravy from the mutton, and for once her mother did not chide her for it. Father attended to his drinking and little else. At last, Rhian excused herself and fled the hall. Aeldra rose primly to follow her, but Rhian waved her maid back to her seat. She did not want that nosing, talkative presence now. She wanted to return to her chamber, to sit alone and try to regain some composure. But as she mounted the narrow, spiralling stairs she paused, one hand resting on the cool stone of the wall, and she remembered what her mother had told her.

She did not want to spy on her parents to find out what it should have been her right to know. But mother had spoken truthfully. If, after turning down five separate suitors, father had not told her what his reasoning was, he had left her with no choice but to gain that understanding by artifice.

At the top of the stairs, Rhian turned right instead of left and entered her mother’s sitting room.

The room was empty. All were still at board. The great embroidery frame with its partly completed scene of a lion and a unicorn kneeling before the Virgin waited for its mistress’s touch. Other tapestries, some completed by her mother’s hand, some by ladies gone before, hung about the room. Scenes of hunts, pastoral weddings and orchards blocked out the worst of the draughts and dressed the bare stone with summer colours. After a heartbeat’s indecision, Rhian lifted the corner of the orchard tapestry and ducked behind it, drawing her hems in close to her body so they would not peep out and give her away.

She felt completely ridiculous; a naughty child at some mischievous game.

Think of Vernus, she counselled herself as she attempted to find the patience to wait. The tapestry smelled of old dust, and the crowning of this whole nonsensical affair would surely be if she gave herself away with a sneeze.

Think of finally knowing why you are being forbidden to marry. Think of becoming mistress in your own house. Vernus was kind, and had beautiful eyes. He would be good to her, as mother swore father had once been. But Vernus would not change as father had. Surely he would not.

Rhian bit her lip and tried to compose her agitated spirits.

Fortunately, she did not have long to wait. Light footsteps soon sounded against the floor, signalling the arrival of Jocosa with her faithful maid, Una.

‘Una, please ask his lordship if he will attend me here. Then you may retire.’

Cloth rustled, indicating, Rhian was certain, Una’s small curtsey. ‘Yes, my lady. Are you sure though…?’

‘I will send for you if I have need.’ Jocosa’s voice was tired.

‘As you wish, my lady.’ Rhian thought Una sounded a little hurt. It was a day for bruised feelings.

Rhian did not directly hear Una’s departure. She inferred it from the sound of her mother’s sigh, from the brush of cloth as she crossed the chamber, the gentle scrape of her fingers against the uncompleted tapestry, the soft pop of a needle through cloth and the drag of thread behind it as she completed a single stitch. Rhian wondered if she should reveal herself, but decided against it. There was no telling when father would walk in, and should the unthinkable happen and the scene turn truly ugly, she wanted to be able to say mother had no idea she had concealed herself in the room. That much, at least, would be true.

Boots slapped against stone. Hinges creaked. Rhian held her breath.

‘You sent for me, Jocosa?’ Father’s voice was heavy with more than just an overindulgence of ale.

‘I did, my husband.’ Mother’s voice was crisp, efficient, as when she was giving orders to the servants. ‘I am told that young Vernus was sent away with his hat in his hands.’

Wood creaked sharply as father dropped himself into a chair. ‘It is not time for our Rhian to marry.’

‘Tell me, pray, when will it be time?’ Each of mother’s words took on a sharp edge. ‘She is fully nineteen and a grown woman. She is ready to be mistress of her own house and mother of her own children.’

‘Vernus is not for her.’ His reply was dull. Rhian wondered if he even looked at mother.

‘Why not?’ Rhian imagined mother throwing up her hands in wonderment. ‘His rank and heritage are good, his father’s standing with the High King…’

‘I say Vernus is not for her! Be content!’ roared father, his fist thumping hard against the chair’s arm.

‘How am I to be content?’ demanded mother. ‘When I watch my daughter sink into melancholy and my husband sink into a pitcher of ale?’ Cloth rustled and Rhian knew mother strode across the room. ‘What has happened to you, Rygehil? Where is the man I loved more than life itself?’

Silence stretched out, long and heavy before her father spoke again in his thick voice. ‘I did not think it would be thus. I thought there would be other children.’

‘God has left us Rhian,’ said mother, puzzled.

‘No.’ To her shock, Rhian heard tears in her father’s voice. ‘He has not left her to us.’

Again, a rustle of cloth. Did her mother kneel? Retreat? Rhian longed to see, but forced herself to hold still.

‘I do not understand,’ said mother.

‘I…she…oh, Jocosa…’ emotion made father’s voice tremble. ‘I made a promise, Jocosa. I did it for you, I swear, I thought there would be other children. I did not know. I would undo it if I could, I swear. I have tried…’

‘Husband.’ Mother spoke the word firmly, but Rhian heard the fear in her voice. It echoed the fear causing Rhian’s breath to flutter in her throat. ‘Contain yourself.’

Father, what have you done?

Neither drink nor grief permitted father to gain coherence. ‘We were returning from Arthur’s coronation. I didn’t know you were with child or I never would have taken you on the road. You were sick to death, Jocosa. I was so afraid I would lose you. You were everything to me. I was weak, and afraid. I…’

‘Rygehil, what are you saying?’ Rhian thought mother must have shaken him then. ‘I cannot understand you.’

Rhian listened, her heart growing cold and tight with fear, as her father told of taking shelter in the old Roman garrison, of finding the sorcerer there, and of making his bargain. Rhian’s life in exchange for Jocosa’s.

‘No,’ whispered mother, her voice trembling as badly as Rhian’s hands at these impossible, terrible words. ‘Say this is not true. Say it is the drink, some madness. Anything but that you sold our daughter away to a black sorcerer.’

‘I did it for you, Jocosa. You were going to die!’

‘Better I had died!’ shouted mother in return. ‘Better Rhian had never been born than you should do so impious a deed!’

‘You will not so speak to me!’ bellowed father. ‘Ungrateful woman!’

‘No!’ screamed Rhian, unable to contain herself a moment longer. She shoved the tapestry aside to see what she had suddenly feared; father towering over mother, his strong hand raised to strike her pale face.

‘Rhian,’ he breathed. He truly was very drunk, the effects of the ale causing his emotions to ebb and flow without warning. In a heartbeat, he had gone from rage to guilty pleading. ‘Daughter, you should not be here. This is not for your ears.’

‘Then for whose is it?’ Rhian was too afraid, too infuriated to be placated. She interposed herself between her parents and squarely faced her father, turning her face up so he could strike it if he so chose. ‘Can you at least tell me what I have done that I should be sold off in this manner? Have I ever been unfilial or impious? What crime could I have possibly committed that you would thus condemn me out of hand?’

‘This is no fault of yours, Rhian.’ His breath smelled of the excess of ale he had drunk but he was struggling to rise above it. It was a terrible sight, as if she were watching him drown. ‘I acted as I thought best. Look at your mother. It was her life I sought to save.’

Rhian did look at her mother, the gaunt, lined woman who had spent years trying to understand why her husband held himself at such a distance from her. Now she had her answer, and her gentle brown eyes were full of the horror of it.

‘We must seek this man out,’ said mother, twisting her hands together as if attempting to rip a solution out of thin air. ‘We must offer him some other bargain. Any other…’

Father shook his head. ‘I cannot find him. I have searched the countryside for him, thinking to trade my life to break the bargain.’

‘Then go to the High King,’ urged Rhian. ‘Tell him what has happened. Surely, he will not hold you to so evil a contract.’

But father just turned away. ‘This is not a matter for the laws of men, not even for kings. The sorceries here are too deep for that.’

Rhian thought of her vision in the forest and shuddered.

‘Return to your room, daughter,’ said father without looking at her. ‘The bargain is made and may not be undone. Ask no more after marriage and commend yourself to God. Only He can help you now.’

Stunned and sickened to her core, Rhian found words died in her throat. She looked helplessly to her mother.

‘We cannot leave it at this,’ mother said.

‘We will, because we must.’ With those words father departed from the room, the tread of his boots echoing off the stone walls.

‘No!’ cried mother. ‘No, husband…’ Gathering her skirts, Jocosa ran from the room, following her husband, to cry, plead or threaten.

For a long moment, Rhian found herself unable to move, and when she did, it was as if her body had undertaken the decision of its own accord. She walked down the cold, stone hall, past the stairs and into her own chamber. There, Aeldra stood among so many familiar things; her spindles and threads, her sewing and embroidery, her paints, the small inlaid table that held her jewellery box, the carved bed she had slept in since she was a child. It all seemed hollow, drained of substance, as her life had suddenly become.

‘Mistress?’ said Aeldra, tentatively. ‘Are you well? Shall I fetch you wine? Or a cloth for your head?’

‘No,’ Rhian managed to say. ‘I want nothing.’

‘At least sit then.’ She felt Aeldra tugging at her arm and permitted herself to be guided to a chair and made to sit.

Her mind was too full to perform these simple actions without assistance. The same thoughts rang over and over, like church bells on the Sabbath. She was promised, to a sorcerer, who had asked for her before she had even been born, and her father, her father whom she had loved and trusted all her life, even when she did not understand him, had given her over, and had done it for love.

She tried to understand a love that would make such a bargain, that would demand so much. It was passion such as the bards sang of. It knew no limits. It would sacrifice all for the beloved.

And in the ballads, it sounded very fine and noble, but what of the one who must be the sacrifice? What of the child she had been and the maiden she was now? Was it her duty to go meekly with this stranger who had demanded so evil a price from a desperate man and a dying woman?

That thought broke the paralysis that held her.

‘No,’ she said, looking up at Aeldra. ‘It is wrong and it is wicked.’

‘What do you mean, my lady?’ asked Aeldra, confused.

Rhian’s mind felt as clear as it had been cloudy before. She would not be handed over like a bribe to a corrupt seneschal. She would not stay and watch her father do this, nor would she watch her mother break her heart over what her husband had done.

‘Aeldra.’ Rhian gripped her maid’s hand. ‘Aeldra, are you my friend?’

Aeldra stiffened, shocked at such a question. As she looked into Rhian’s eyes, however, a measure of understanding came to her. ‘I hope my lady knows how well I regard her.’

‘Then as a friend, much more than as my maid, I am asking for your help. You must bring old Whitcomb here to my room. Neither of you must be seen, by anyone, but most of all not by my father, do you understand?’

She did not. The expression on her lean face said that plainly enough. She folded her hands primly before her. ‘I am sure my lady knows what is best…’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ Rhian shook her head. ‘Your lady is terrified, for her life and her soul, and she is trying to save both. Will you help her?’

Again Aeldra searched Rhian’s eyes, looking deeply. ‘Very good, my lady.’ She curtsied. ‘I’ll see to the matter.’

Aeldra shut the door behind her. In the silence left in her wake, Rhian fancied she could hear her own heart beating like the hooves of a galloping horse, spurred on by the temerity of what she meant to do.

Whitcomb was her dearest friend among her father’s servitors. Where her father would not, or could not, love her, Whitcomb had. He was the one who had taught her to shoot and to ride. He had helped her train her hounds and taught her to hunt. He told her all manner of stories he’d learned from the freemen and serfs, most of which Rhian was quite certain her mother would have been appalled that she knew. But despite years of such daring secrets, Whitcomb was always the first to insist she learn to be a proper, God-fearing lady and be a source of pride to her parents.

But at the same time he was staunchly loyal to his lord. Rhian bit her lip. There lay the danger, but she needed him. He could go without question where she could not, no matter how dark the night or how thoroughly she disguised herself.

Rather than simply pace about, Rhian sought action. She pulled a square of fine linen out of her sewing basket. She had meant to broider it into a veil. Now she upended her jewellery box into it. She did not have much, but she had some gold, a string of amber beads, a brooch of pearl and rubies, and several rings, one set with a square emerald the size of her thumbnail her mother said had come all the way from Rome. The whole of her wealth. She tied the cloth tightly and stowed it in the leather satchel she took with her when she went out shooting.

She’d have to leave her hounds behind. Rhian’s heart twinged at the thought. Odd – it was a small thing compared to leaving her parents. She rubbed her forehead. She must not distract herself with such thoughts. She must keep her wits about her, or she was lost.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

‘Come,’ she called.

The door opened. In the threshold stood old Whitcomb. He had been her father’s right hand for longer than Rhian had been alive. His hair and long beard were iron grey turning to white, but he was still a bluff man with hard hands and eyes that could see a lazing stablehand through a stone fence.

Those eyes took in the bulging leather satchel as she beckoned him inside, and they surely saw how white her face had gone.

‘So,’ he said with a sigh as he closed the door. ‘It’s come home at last, has it?’

Rhian started. ‘What do you know of this?’

The lines on Whitcomb’s kind face deepened until he looked as old as Methuselah. ‘I was there, my lady. I heard your father speak his bargain with that black sorcerer. I knew one day there would be a reckoning.’ His gaze hardened. ‘I have searched the land whenever I had leave, hoping I might find him and put an end to this thing one way or another before…’ It seemed he could not make himself finish.

Rhian felt her hands begin to shake once more. ‘I thank you for all you have done for me, though I knew of none of it. Now I must ask for your help again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I mean to leave tonight to seek sanctuary with the holy sisters at the monastery of St Anne. I will take holy orders if I must.’ She laid her satchel down beside the empty jewellery box. Surely there was enough inside to dower herself to Christ, if that was the only way the Mother Superior would shelter her. ‘I need you to go down and saddle a horse for me. Not Agamemnon,’ she said, with another pang of regret at leaving behind her favourite steed. ‘That would cause too many questions.’ Whitcomb could make a hundred excuses to ride out at any hour. She could not. It would be hard enough for her to sneak out into the yard without being seen. To ready a horse in the stables with the hands sleeping in the loft, or playing bones in the stalls would be impossible.

If she was seen, she would be stopped, she was certain of that. Whitcomb was her one chance.

‘I will see to it, my lady,’ said Whitcomb gravely.

‘Thank you.’ She grasped both his hands and kissed him swiftly on his rough cheek. ‘I will be behind the brewing shed as soon as I may after the household goes to sleep.’

‘I will not fail,’ he said, squeezing her hands.

With that, he turned and opened the door. He looked sharply left, then right before he stepped into the corridor, leaving Rhian alone once more.

Rhian swallowed. All her limbs felt suddenly heavy as lead. Are these my choices? To be taken away by a black sorcerer to live or die at his whim, and who knows which would be worse? Or to live in silence behind stone walls swaddled in black and grey and to know only work and prayer?

She squeezed her eyes shut, to stop the tears that threatened to flow freely. Mother Mary, there must be another way. I beg you, send me a sign, some messenger that I may know what to do.

But if the Holy Virgin had an answer for her, Rhian could not hear it.

Harrik opened his eyes. Light flickered against pale canvas. Outside the wind whistled through the branches of the trees, rustling their new leaves. He lay on a bed of furs. A good fire burned in the centre of the pavilion, scenting the enclosure with smoke…and something else. Something rare and unfamiliar that at once disturbed his mind and made him feel profoundly awake.

Harrik sat up. His hands were not bound, which he would have expected, for surely he was a prisoner. He had no memory of how he had got here. He remembered finding the stone, and seeing the raven, but then all was darkness.

The unfamiliar scent reached him again and he breathed it in. It was like cloves, and like amber, but neither of these. It appealed, like the scent of a good meal just cooked, or, even more, the scent of a woman close by.

Harrik shook his head. It was distracting. If they had left him his hands, whoever brought him here, they would learn they should not, even though they had thought so far as to deny him his sword.

He got himself to his feet, but before he could take a step, the pavilion opened to reveal a woman. The rich scent grew suddenly sharper, as if she carried it with her, and for a moment Harrik felt dizzy. Then he recognized the slim form and the golden hair. This was Wulfget’s woman. What was her name? Had he even heard it?

But it meant that Wolfget held him, and it meant he must be careful still what he said.

The woman, however, spoke first. ‘Welcome Harrik, Hullward’s son,’ she said and her voice was low and clear, and truly did seem full of welcome. Her eyes that reflected the firelight also seemed to hold welcome, but of a very different sort.

Harrik reminded himself again that he was not a boy nor a fool and pushed himself to his feet. He towered over her. She had not seemed so small nor so delicate when he had seen her before as she did now, moving to a table where cups waited with a skin of wine. Harrik stared, fascinated. He had not remembered her skin being so fair either, nor her hands so supple as they lifted the skin and deftly poured the wine, red as blood, red as her gentle mouth, into the cups for them to share.

‘Why have I been brought here?’ he remembered to ask. ‘Where is Wulfweard?’

‘My husband will be along presently.’ She lifted a cup in her pale hand and held it out to him. She seemed luminescent, absorbing the firelight and returning it softened and a more pure white than it had been. Her mouth was so red…had she already drunk some wine? Was that what stained her lips and turned them so inviting a shade?

She saw where his gaze lingered. How could she not? Harrik cursed himself and tried to look away, but she moved towards him with the grace of a doe. Her dress was simple, a plain fawn wool. It outlined her round breasts and a flat belly that had never yet known children. The braided belt served only to draw the skirt more tightly over her full, smooth hips that swayed ever so slightly as she approached, bringing all the scents of wine and spices, smoke and amber with her.

‘Will you drink with me, Hullward’s son?’ she asked softly, her eyes dipped, almost shy as she held out the cup. He should not take it. He must not. There was something wrong here, in the air, in his blood, in this woman’s presence. He tightened his hands into fists. If only he could think what it must be. If only her perfume were less strong, if only she herself were less lovely.

‘Surely there is no harm in sharing what is offered?’ she said with a small smile. ‘I shall drink myself and you will see.’ She lifted the cup to her full and smiling mouth. Harrik could not help but watch the way her tongue parted her red, red lips just a little in anticipation of the wine’s touch. She sipped delicately but long. He watched the way light and shadow played across her throat as she swallowed and. his clenched hands ached to trace the wine’s path down between her breasts to her belly and lower yet, to know what she kept between her round thighs, to hear what she said in love…

‘Now, you drink for me, Harrik.’ She held out the cup and looked boldly into his eyes, her mouth still parted just a little so he could see her white teeth. A drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth. It shimmered there like a ruby and he stared at it, mesmerized.

The woman noted that his gaze lingered there on her mouth, and her eyes widened, playfully, knowingly. With her free hand, she reached up and wiped the drop away, then held up the tip of her wine-stained finger before him.

‘Drink, Harrik,’ she murmured, her voice rich with promise. ‘Let me know what manner of man you are.’

Slowly, as in a dream, Harrik touched his lips to the tip of her finger. The wine tasted sweet, like honey, and her skin beneath was soft and warm. She sighed at his kiss, her eyes closing in pleasure. He took her hand between his own. It was light as the petal of a white rose and smooth as silk. Like silk, it was sensuous to the touch, inviting the hands to caress it, to press it, to wrap one’s whole self in its luxury.

She opened her eyes and all her pleasure of him seemed to shine in the sparks lit by the fire.

‘Take what you want,’ she whispered to him. ‘It is all before you, and then I will be yours and you will be mine. Come, Harrik my love. Hold nothing back.’

Her words undid him. Harrik laced his fingers in her golden hair and pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Her mouth opened eagerly to his, her tongue touching lips and teeth even as she made a sound like a laugh and threw her arms around him. She tasted of wine, salt and myrrh. Harrik felt himself rise and harden and his blood sang as the whole of her body pressed against him, rubbing, teasing, promising, ready. He could think of nothing else, desired nothing else but the silken warmth of her skin, the salt and sweet of her body. The thought of her surrounding him aroused him as if he were a youth again, and as she laid herself down onto the furs, he knelt as if in fealty and followed willingly where she led.

Daylight faded from the world with painful slowness. Rhian lingered over her sewing while the rush lights and the hour candle burned low around her. She sent Aeldra running for wine, for a posset, for a lavender-rinsed cloth for her brow, pretending that a headache kept her from seeking sleep.

At last, because she could think of nothing else, she sent Aeldra for a bed warmer. Alone, she tried to think. Rhian did not want to tell Aeldra any more than she already knew. When the household discovered Rhian gone, Aeldra would be the first one questioned, and Aeldra would not lie to her lord and lady. To do so was to risk being turned out of the hall to fend for herself in the hedgerows. Which left the question of how Rhian could send the maid away long enough to make her escape. She could not even allow herself be put to bed in her nightclothes, because she would have to dress alone and in the dark afterwards. It would take an age when every second would be precious.

Aeldra, however, solved her dilemma for her. She returned, not with the bed warmer, but with a brown cloak draped over her arms.

‘If my lady were to choose to wear this,’ Aeldra said quietly. ‘Anyone who saw her might think they were seeing one of the serving women instead.’

Stunned, Rhian accepted the cloak, a lump rising in her throat. ‘They will question you.’

Aeldra folded her hands in her familiar way. ‘And I will say my mistress said she went to meet young my Lord Vernus in the charcoal burner’s shed by the well of St Ethelrede.’

‘It will be a lie,’ Rhian whispered.

‘Not if you say it now.’

Slowly, Rhian repeated her maid’s words. ‘I’m sorry, Aeldra,’ she said, laying the brown cloak in her lap. ‘I knew you were my friend, but did not realize how true a friend.’

The maid’s smile was kind. ‘Young women seldom understand such things. Especially when the friend is apt to be exacting and sharp of tongue.’

Rhian glanced at the slash-marked candle beside her bed. It had been burning for three hours, and had been lit at twilight. ‘Is it safe now, think you?’

Aeldra leaned towards the door and put her hand to her ear in a practised gesture. ‘I hear no one.’

Rhian drew the cloak about her shoulders. A full handspan of her dress showed out underneath it, as she was some inches taller than Aeldra, but hopefully no one would be able to discern the colour or quality of the exposed fabric from one swift glance in the dark.

Aeldra fussed with the carved bone clasp and then, unexpectedly, kissed Rhian on the cheek. ‘God be with you, my lady.’

‘And with you, Aeldra.’

There was no time to linger. Rhian squeezed Aeldra’s hand, claimed her satchel, and opened her chamber door. The corridor outside was still and dark. She could not risk a light. She laid her hand on the cool stones of the left-hand wall and hurried ahead, trying to step only lightly on the rushes underfoot.

Behind her, Aeldra closed her door, cutting the golden candlelight off sharply, and leaving Rhian alone in the dark.

Rhian faltered only briefly. She called to mind what awaited her if she were caught, and that thought lent her speed. Her fingertips found the threshold leading to the staircase and her foot found the first stair. Feeling her way carefully, she began her descent.

Light flooded the world suddenly, making Rhian blink and miss her step. She stumbled, and looked back before she could stop herself, and found she looked up into her mother’s face.

Mother stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in the flickering light of a tallow candle. Only her eyes moved, as she took in the maid’s brown cloak, the satchel, and Rhian’s face peering out of the shallow hood. Rhian lifted her chin.

A single tear glistened on Jocosa’s cheek. Her mouth shaped words. Rhian thought she said, ‘God be with you.’ Then, her mother turned back the way she had come. Within two heartbeats, she vanished into the corridor’s shadows.

Rhian drew the hood down further over her face, more to hide her tears than her visage, and hurried out into the cool spring night.

Whitcomb had indeed not failed her. Rhian rounded the corner of the brewer’s shed to see him standing in its shelter, well out of the silver-grey light the curved quarter-moon sent forth. His gloved hand, however, held the reins for not one horse, but two. The first was Thetis, a grey mare, the horse Rhian had learned to ride on. She was no longer so fast or so spirited, but she was still strong and steady, and she knew Rhian well. The other was Blaze, a chestnut gelding with a white forehead and fetlocks that Whitcomb often rode as he surveyed the lands for her father.

Rhian stared accusingly at Whitcomb, now seeing that he wore his old leather hauberk and hood, and that he had his long knife at his waist and his bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He said nothing, but even in the darkness she could read his face plainly enough.

I am coming. I will not let you do this alone. If you order me back, I will follow you.

‘Father will be angry with you when he finds out,’ she murmured.

‘I have braved my lord’s anger before,’ replied Whitcomb with a grim smile. ‘And never with greater cause.’

There was no time for argument. The moon was already well up, and if mother had been stirring, others might be about. In truth, Rhian had no heart to try to order him away. His solid presence would make what she must do less lonely.

Whitcomb held Thetis’s head while Rhian stowed her satchel in the saddlebag. Inside she found a number of small but useful items Whitcomb had thought to add – a hunting knife, a spare bowstring, a pair of riding gloves. She mounted the horse and Whitcomb passed up her bow and quiver and handed her the reins. Then, expertly, if a little stiffly, he swung himself up onto Blaze’s back. The horses were longtime stable mates and old friends with their riders, so they stepped up quickly in answer to the lightest of urgings. Despite this, their hoofbeats on the packed earth of the yard sounded to Rhian like thunder. She could not help but glance back towards the hall that had been her only home. No light shone in any of the windows, not even her mother’s.

Tears threatened again, and Rhian turned her face quickly towards the night beyond the yard.

They rode across the cleared fields where the damp air was heavy with the scent of freshly ploughed earth. They crossed the chattering beck, its clear water flowing like liquid moonlight over round stones. Both deeply familiar with the countryside, they had no difficulty in finding the track through the forest that would lead them down to the broad Roman road. The rustles of the night-waking animals accompanied them. An owl hooted once overhead. The stars in all their millions filled the sky with glory and the wind blew chill, but soft, across Rhian’s skin. Slowly, she felt the ache in her throat begin to ease.

Perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps the Mother Superior of St Anne’s would shelter her without requiring that she take vows. The emerald ring and the rest would, after all, buy a small convent much that it needed. Perhaps Whitcomb could find some excuse to travel alone again and visit her there, bringing Vernus with him. Perhaps a small deception could be given out that would ensure the priest who came to hear the sisters’ confessions would agree to marry Rhian to Vernus on the spot…then they could have their wedding night, and make sure the deception became the truth. Then no one would have to know what father had done, and she would not have to be the cause of his dishonour. For despite all, she found she still had love in her heart for him.

Perhaps mother could make father see reason after all, and Rhian would be able to go home and live in peace again without resorting to such elaborate games to keep her freedom.

Games. Played on a board of ivory and ebony. What is it every woman wants?

Rhian closed her mind tightly against these thoughts. It had been a dream, after all. A dream. She could not let it distract her now.

Ahead, the black trunks of the trees parted just enough to show the stretch of road the Romans had laid, still straight and flat even after all these years. But Rhian’s eyes, which had become well-accustomed to the dark, picked out something standing just at the point where the track met the road. It was not a tree, nor yet a road marker. It might have been a standing stone, but there had never been any such in this place.

Whitcomb urged Blaze into the lead. Past him, she saw the wind catch hold of cloth, and realized that what she saw was a tall man wrapped in a dark robe.

‘Who is that?’ Whitcomb demanded.

The figure spoke, and its voice was low and cold. ‘I am Euberacon Magus, and you, old man, have what is rightfully mine.’ Euberacon turned towards her and in the light of the waxing moon she saw his hooded eyes glinting like a serpent’s – cold, inhuman, and filled with the knowledge of death.

Rhian’s mouth went instantly dry. She pulled Thetis to a halt. She did not ask how this could be, she did not have thought enough in her head for that. She only knew deep and sudden fear at the sound of that voice and the dark sheen of those hooded eyes. This was the one to whom her father had promised her life, and he had come to collect.

Thetis whickered and stamped. Rhian pressed her knees into the grey mare’s ribs. Thetis balked, but began slowly to back. The track was narrow here, and there wasn’t enough room to turn her easily.

‘Stand aside for my lady,’ Whitcomb commanded. ‘Or do you relish the thought of being run down by a pair of horses?’

Now she could see that the dark-robed man had thin lips and that they twitched into a smile. Whitcomb dug his heels into Blaze’s sides and the horse started forward.

No! she tried to shout, but no sound came.

Euberacon raised his hand, and Blaze reared up high, screaming in sudden, unbearable terror. Utterly unprepared, Whitcomb crashed to the ground. Blaze fled into the darkness, running in blind panic past the sorcerer who stood still as a stone, caring not a bit as his robes rippled in the wind of the terrified animal’s passing.

‘I can make that creature run itself to death,’ said Euberacon calmly, as if remarking on the weather. ‘I can do the same to a man. Shall I prove these things to you, so you will see I may not be brooked or gainsaid?’

Whitcomb groaned and tried to rise. The sorcerer glanced down at him, distantly, as if the fallen man were no more than a stick of wood.

Anger overrode the fear that filled Rhian. ‘Leave him be!’ She flung herself from Thetis’s back. The sorcerer did not seem concerned for her shout or her sudden movement. Steel glinted in the moonlight as he drew a wickedly curved knife from his belt. The sight of it stopped Rhian’s heart. Whitcomb rolled, trying to get away, trying to rise, but although he pushed himself up on his arms, it was only to fall again. Rhian pulled her bow off her shoulders and an arrow from her quiver.

‘Do not touch him!’ she cried as she nocked the arrow in the string. ‘Can you make a beast run itself to death? I can hit a mark at fifty yards.’ She drew the string back next to her ear, sighting along the shaft. Even in the dark Euberacon Magnus would be an easy target.

‘Run,’ croaked Whitcomb, rolling to his side again, struggling still to rise. ‘Run!’

She did not heed him. She would not abandon Whitcomb to this devil. ‘Leave us, sorcerer. I belong to none such as you!’

Euberacon turned his inhuman eyes towards her. They glinted like the steel of his knife. Rhian braced herself to let the arrow fly.

The bowstring snapped in two.

The arrow fell soundlessly to the ground. Rhian stared dumbfounded, unable to understand what had happened. Euberacon bent over Whitcomb, who swung out feebly. The sorcerer avoided the blow with ease. Rhian rushed forward, but it was too late. The sorcerer lifted his dagger and plunged it straight down into Whitcomb’s heart.

Rhian screamed. Whitcomb cried out, a long wail of terror and pain, as his blood poured out onto the ground. Rhian threw herself at the sorcerer, grappling with him, but he tossed her back easily. She scrambled backward, groping for a branch, a stone, anything she might use for a weapon.

Whitcomb’s cry fell silent, and all his struggles ceased.

‘No!’ wailed Rhian, pushing herself to her feet. She could not see Thetis. She could not see the road. She could not see anything but Whitcomb dead on the cold ground, and the sorcerer bending over him as if to examine his work for flaws.

‘Demon!’ She still had no weapon, but in that moment she could have torn him apart with her bare hands.

‘Cease this nonsense.’ Euberacon straightened up. His robes were so black that she could not even tell if he had any blood on them. ‘Come to your master.’

Rhian’s breath froze in her lungs. Unseen hands seemed to catch up her limbs, compelling her forward even as a fog descended over her mind, disordering her thoughts and confusing her senses.

‘No!’ she screamed, straining to hold herself still. ‘Mother Mary save me!’

Euberacon laughed, and the sound filled her like winter’s ice. ‘No mystic virgin can hear you now, little girl. All ears, all eyes here are mine.’ He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. How had she moved so far? Her hands and arms had gone numb. ‘For you now there is no God, no saviour, no father, no mother, no protector save for me.’

‘You lie, villain!’

Hoofbeats shattered the stillness. Sensation returned in a rush and Rhian jerked her head up to see a figure on a grey horse thundering towards them, a flashing spear raised high. Euberacon yanked Rhian sideways, but she twisted in his grip, grabbing at his little finger and forcing it back. He cried in pain and his hold broke. Rhian dived forward just as the mounted figure cut the night between them. She rolled, getting tangled in her own skirts, but somehow managing to get her legs free to stagger to her feet.

The horseman wheeled his mount in a tight and expert turn. Moonlight sparkled on mail, on harness, on spear’s tip and on shining dark hair. Euberacon’s face had broken into a snarl, and he raised clawed and empty hands. The horseman wasted no time digging in his heels and charging the sorcerer again. At first she thought the spear must have caught him square in the chest, but he only spun back, and did not fall.

Rhian did not stand and stare, for the moonlight also showed her where the sorcerer’s knife had landed. She snatched it up and held it out low by her waist as she had seen Whitcomb do while helping train young men who came to her father for fostering. Her flesh seemed to recoil at the touch of its smooth, warm hilt but she clutched it tightly nonetheless.

Again, the horseman wheeled. This time, the blow struck Euberacon flat on the ground. Now it was his turn to struggle to rise. Blood stained his temple black and he clawed at something under his robes. The horseman pulled his mount to a halt and leapt from its back, sword in his hand. Euberacon looked directly at Rhian with his snake’s eyes and she raised his knife defiantly.

‘Do you yield?’ demanded the horseman as he put himself between Rhian and Euberacon.

In answer, Euberacon’s mouth curled into a smile, and he made a gesture as if to throw something at them both. Suddenly, there was a roaring wind and a foul cloud of smoke. The gale knocked Rhian off her feet and she lay coughing in the damp grass, unable to do anything for a long moment but squeeze her eyes shut and clutch at her mouth and try not to breathe.

At last, there came silence and stillness.

Rhian opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet. A thick lock of hair had come loose and tumbled in front of her eyes. She pushed it aside and for a moment saw only a man’s broad back, corsletted in a leather coat with bright mail rings over it. He was breathing hard, and staring at the place where Euberacon had been. Soft sounds she suspected were oaths came from him.

Of the sorcerer, there was no sign.

The horseman turned towards her and for the first time, Rhian could see the whole of her rescuer. Broad and strong, he stood against the night. Behind him, to one side, her bewildered eyes saw his white horse and his shield that hung from the saddle. Its device shone clearly; a five pointed star of green on a silver field, the symbol of the Virgin Mother.

It seemed that her prayer had been heard after all.

To the other side of him lay Whitcomb, her dear friend and protector, still as stone, his eyes open and staring at the stars, but seeing Heaven.

It was too much. Relief, wonder and sorrow poured over her and Rhian began to cry. Not quietly with a maiden’s gentle grief, but in great, inconsolable sobs that shuddered through her frame. The strength in her legs gave way, and, still sobbing, she fell to her knees on the cold and sodden ground.