Born of No Man
Author: Tracy Cooper-Posey
Date: 2018-08-27 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical Romance; Romance; Fantasy; Historical Fiction; Historical; Adult; Fiction; Arthurian
Description: Book 1 of the Once and Future Hearts, series, set in Britain during the time of King Arthur. A LEGEND BEGINS ... Was Merlin born of no man? Lynette, companion to Princess Vivian, mother of the child who will grow to become the powerful shadow behind thrones, knows the truth. Cadfael the Black, battle commander to High King Vortigern, lives only to kill Saxons, to avenge the brutal murder of his family at their hands. At the court of King Gwilym, the very heart of Roman Britain, he meets the beautiful Lynette, a woman who could thaw his frozen heart. As the only keeper of the truth about Merlin

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Table of Contents

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About Born of No Man

Praise for Tracy’s Historical Romances

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

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Copyright Information

About Born of No Man

A LEGEND BEGINS…

Can love triumph despite duty?

Lynette, companion to Princess Vivian, has learned to trust the princess’ visions and so, guards the dark and powerful secret of the man in the cave.

Cadfael the Black, battle commander to High King Vortigern, lives only to kill Saxons, to avenge the brutal murder of his family at their hands. At the court of King Gwilym, the very heart of Roman Britain, he meets the beautiful Lynette, a woman who could thaw his frozen heart.

When duty thrusts them together, Lynette’s secret clashes with Cadfael’s suspicious nature and threatens to tear them and the entire kingdom asunder. But, Lynette must keep her secret at all costs to protect Princess Vivian’s unborn child. A child who would become known as…

MERLIN.

This novel is part of the ancient historical romance series, Once and Future Hearts, set in Britain during the time of King Arthur.

1.0 Born of No Man
2.0 Dragon Kin
3.0 Pendragon Rises
4.0 War Duke of Britain
5.0 High King of Britain
6.0 Battle of Mount Badon
7.0 Abduction of Guenivere
8.0 Downfall of Cornwall
9.0 Vengeance of Arthur
10.0 Grace of Lancelot
11.0 The Grail and Glory
12.0 Camlann

Readers have described Tracy Cooper-Posey as “a superb story teller” and her ancient historical romances as “written art”.

Praise for Tracy’s Historical Romances

Another “can’t miss” by Cooper-Posey! Night Owl Reviews

[She] creates realistic scenes of life and the struggles of that age. Lifts up hope for humanity and shows a remarkable, giving love that fills the heart with happiness. GOOD READING! Long and Short Reviews

Gripping characters and descriptive writing makes this a book that you will want to read all over again. This reviewer had trouble putting this book down and found myself with tears in my eyes. Fallen Angel Reviews

An amazing amount of detail to the time period. Love Romances

Well researched with two very strong and appealing lead characters. Romance Reviews Today.

One of the best historical romances I have read this year. The BookNook

Prose which is distinctive, sharp, crisp and yet powerfully feminine. Wordweaving

Chapter One

Kingdom of Dyfed, Britain, 440AD.

They came across the snared man in the hills behind Maridunum, well out of sight of the busy town. He sat on the sopping turf, his cloak pulled well over his head so the rain dripped from the edges onto the ground between his knees. One leg thrust out at an odd angle.

The rain was a steady hiss against the ground and hid the sounds of their approach. They were beside him before he stiffened with caution. As people did at the approach of a stranger, he reached for his belt knife.

However, the knife and a good sword rested on the grass out of his reach, both wet and reflecting the gray clouds among the green growth.

The man’s shoulders hunched over once more. He brought the cloak around him.

Lynette stopped her pony with a soft word. She lifted her head so she could see beyond the edges of her hood to look at the woman on the other horse. Vivian’s dark eyes held the same far-seeing, glassy expression that had been there when Vivian insisted they ride among the hills this morning, rain or not.

“See if you can help him,” Vivian instructed.

Lynette did not argue with the princess. When she was in one of these moods, there was no point. Just as Lynette had resigned herself to being soaked to the skin from riding out on such a miserable day, she now climbed from her horse with stoic silence.

“He won’t harm you,” Vivian added, her voice louder. Her tone was firm and distant. She spoke with complete certainty.

Cold fingers drifted up Lynette’s back, colder than the touch of the rain.

She loosened her knife in her belt, anyway, and moved cautiously across the slippery turf toward the man. She crouched down in front of him, putting herself between him and the knife and sword.

Black eyes looked back at her. White, clear skin. He was young, yet had big shoulders under the heavy cloak. The cloak, Lynette noted, was of good quality stuff. The fur lining it was thick, although it was bedraggled by water, now.

“Could you cut me free?” the man asked. “I can’t reach my knife.”

“I don’t know him,” Lynette called to Vivian. “He’s not from here.” She looked at the man’s outstretched leg. Around the heavy boot was a strip of leather, cinched in tight above the ankle. It had tightened enough to squeeze and crumple the boot, collapsing it against his calf.

The other end of the snare was buried beneath a rock so heavy it would need two men to move it. Local hunters used rocks to weigh down their snares in this way. They would leave the snares in place for weeks at a time, while long grass grew up around the edges of the rock, beckoning prey to nibble upon it.

The man must have struggled hard to yank the snare so tight. The rain made it impossible to ease open the snare.

“I dropped my knife and sword when the snare tripped me,” he explained. His voice was strong and confident. “I won’t hurt you,” he added.

A dim shadow cast over them, then Vivian dropped next to Lynette and studied the man, her hand on her knife.

He stared back at her, a faint surprised expression in his eyes.

Lynette had seen many men stare at the princess in that way and hid her smile. Poets had written verse about Vivian’s beauty and kings and princes from far and wide had sought to marry her.

Her father, Gwilym, had refused them all.

“It isn’t for lack of fortune,” Vivian had explained to Lynette when the last king had been sent away with his head down. “They are all as rich as anyone can be, these days. It is their political affiliations my father objects to.”

Where King Gwilym’s true loyalties lay, no one knew for sure. He paid lip service to High King Vortigern, as did everyone, yet remained vague about sending troops to aid Vortigern’s efforts against the Saxons, despite his sons railing at him to let them fight.

Lynette had learned upon her arrival at Gwilym’s palace a year ago to step delicately around the subject of allegiances and the High King. Vivian remained unwed, offering hope to neighboring leaders. As long her father did not pursue a match for her, there was no need for formal alliances that could not be broken later. While she was unwed, his loyalties did not have to be declared via a joining of houses through marriage.

In the meantime, Vivian bewitched every man who saw her. She was a Celtic beauty, with raven black hair, eyes that matched and clear fine skin. Her brows were two sweeping arches and her chin fine and pointed. Most men, when they saw her, missed the firm line of her jaw and the furrow that was quick to appear between the elegant brows.

The snared man blinked, absorbing the impact of her appearance. He waved toward his ankle. “Will you free me?” he asked Vivian.

“We don’t know him,” Lynette said. “Look, he has a good sword and boots and that cloak is no simple war cloak.” There was little else she could see beneath the cloak. However, the wrappings above his squeezed boot were leather, not torn linen. The boot itself was sturdy, thick leather, with a solid sole and leather lacings. He wore bronze wrist guards about both wrists. “Why would he drop his knife and sword when he fell, if they were in his belt?”

Vivian looked at the man, raising her brow.

“Yes, I was holding them,” the man said with a touch of impatience. “I almost walked into the middle of an encampment of soldiers last night and backed away with my blades out. I kept them out, while I looked for shelter from the rain.”

It was a reasonable explanation. Soldiers, particularly the High King’s men, were inclined to act first, only asking for explanations later.

“There are king’s men on the road?” Vivian asked, her tone sharp.

“I did not say they were Vortigern’s people,” the man replied, his tone matching hers.

Lynette rolled her eyes. “Then it might have been anyone. Or no one at all.”

The man sighed. “There is a simple way about this. Take my sword and knife and toss them far out of reach. Then cut the snare. Then leave, before I can reach them.”

Vivian plucked her knife from her belt. “I judge you to be as harmless as any rabbit.”

“Vivian, no,” Lynette breathed. She shifted back on the grass and snatched up the knife and sword. She held them beneath her cloak. They were solid, heavy things. The sword’s hilt was inlaid with a great green jewel and wrapped with gold wire. It was no simple soldier’s tool.

Vivian ignored Lynette’s protest. She sawed at the leather about his ankle. Even with a sharp blade, the leather was reluctant to separate. Then, with a wet snap, it loosened and fell.

Almost as if the rain had been waiting for that moment, it stopped with a suddenness that made all three of them lift their chins and look up at the sky, startled.

The man laughed. There was a wary note in his chuckle.

Lynette pulled Vivian away, out of the man’s reach, as he stood and shook himself off. He stamped the foot that had been trapped and wriggled the ankle, testing it. He was taller than Lynette had guessed.

They waited warily while he assessed himself. Then he squared his shoulders. “You have my thanks. Now, if you will point me toward my weapons, I will collect them and go.”

Lynette glanced at Vivian. The princess nodded, raising her knife to a more useful height, in case he tried to attack them, after all.

Lynette lifted her hand, displaying the knife and sword.

“Ah.” He took a step toward her, then his knees buckled and he sank to the ground, one hand held out to save himself.

Vivian leapt toward him and pushed at his shoulders to straighten him and prop him up.

“I feel…strange,” he said, his voice distant. A great shiver wracked his body.

Lynette lowered the weapons as Vivian pulled the hood off the man’s head and rested her fingers against his high forehead. His hair was black and short…and wet. The fine cloak had been no protection through the long, rainy night.

“He is far too hot,” Vivian declared.

“We should take him back to the palace. The physician will be here tomorrow,” Lynette said.

“No physician,” the man said. “No towns.”

“No king’s men, either, I presume,” Lynette said dryly.

The man gave another violent shiver.

“The hermit’s cave is up at the top of this hill,” Vivian said. “We can leave him there. I have herbs that will heal him. I can bring them back. Help me, Lynette.”

It was the same flat tone Vivian had used to announce she wanted to ride, this morning.

Lynette wanted to protest. They should not be helping this man. He avoided kings’ men, travelled well-armed and didn’t want to be seen by ordinary folk. To help him would entangle them in the danger that followed him.

Only, Vivian had made up her mind.

She was normally highly cautious of being seen as anything other than a loyal daughter. Sometimes, though, the way she had of glimpsing the future directed her to foolish and risky acts.

This seemed to be one of those times.

Vivian’s gaze held Lynette’s, willing her to help.

Lynette didn’t quite sigh. She enjoyed a close friendship with the princess, yet she was still in service to her and sworn to obey her. Vivian’s unmoving stare was a reminder of that obligation.

Lynette threaded the sword and knife through her pony’s saddle cloth, then bought both ponies closer to where Vivian held up the man. His head was hanging forward, although he was not unconscious. He helped them get him up into Vivian’s saddle and held himself in it while they coaxed the reluctant ponies up the sharp slope to the summit.

While Vivian led the ponies, Lynette collected wood, carrying it in a fold of her cloak.

As they walked, a watery sun emerged from a break in the clouds and the gray day turned into one of rain-washed colors. It was March. Daisies and foxgloves, bluebells and primrose were lifting their buds to the sun. Swifts and sandpipers called from the higher branches of the trees.

A merlin gave a harsh cry as it dove straight down, its talons spread, and speared its prey.

The reminder was not wasted. Lynette stopped gathering wood and watched behind and around her. They were a good way from the town and it was not unknown for Saxons to move this far west in their search for land and food and sometimes, simple conquest.

The cave was empty. No one had lived in it for many years despite it being an excellent shelter. There was even a small spring at the front, seeping up from among the rocks at the mouth. The water was pure and cool.

Vivian and her women had delighted in telling Lynette the story of the haunted cave. The ghosts of those who lived and died there lingered. The last man to use the cave had gone mad. True, he had lived alone for thirty years, which might be enough to make anyone mad. Yet the townsfolk of Maridunum were convinced it was the fault of the ghosts whispering in his ears all those years.

Vivian helped the man down from the saddle. He leaned on her and shuffled into the cave. Lynette followed.

The sandy floor was even, the cave itself a rounded oblong, deeper than it was wide. The air was crisp with a chill more biting than the cold of the rain outside.

“I’ll get a fire going,” Lynette said, moving toward a ring of blackened flat stones in the middle of the cave with her armful of wood.

Her voice whispered, repeating itself, over and over, rising toward the craggy roof. Lynette froze, startled.

Vivian’s eyes were large, almost unfocused, as she met Lynette’s gaze. “Voices of the dead,” she murmured. Her voice ran on, too.

There was a soft stirring sound above their heads. The roof was dark with shadow. The shadow moved.

“Bats,” Lynette said.

“Bats that are used to humans. They won’t bother us,” Vivian replied. She guided the man over to a shelf of rock deepened and smoothed by previous residents to make a sleeping shelf.

Lynette dropped the wood into the old ashes and used her knife to shave off bark for kindling. A flint and striker sat on one of the flat rocks. No one wandering into the cave had dared take them, too frightened by the tales of vengeful ghosts to risk thievery.

In a few minutes, the fire crackled. She fed it the damp wood in stages, making it grow.

“Your cloak, Lynette,” Vivian said.

Lynette looked up from the flames. The man was lying on the shelf, now. Vivian’s cloak was beneath him. His own hung from a sharp projection on the wall, dripping. The sand beneath it was dark with water. The puddle spread.

Lynette slid her cloak from her shoulders and gave it to Vivian. Vivian spread it over the man. His eyes were closed. In the low orange light cast by the fire, Lynette could see sweat on his brow.

Lynette shivered at the cold touch of the air in the cave and rubbed her arms. The thin linen of her gown gave no warmth. She went in search of more wood. Instinct told her to look deeper inside the cave. It had been used by men for generations and where man ventured, he left his mark.

She found a cache of thick logs at the back of the cave, stacked neatly. Thick dust coated them. They would be dry enough to burn well. Pleased, she carried them back to the fire and dropped them onto the flames. By the time she returned with another armful, the fire leapt high and the cave filled with light. The air was already warmer.

Lynette stacked more wood next to the man’s shelf, within arm’s reach. He could tend the fire himself by tossing a log onto it when needed.

“Knife…” the man whispered and swallowed.

“I’ll get them,” Vivian said and walked outside. She came back and propped the sword against the shelf next to the wood. She handed the knife to the man. Lynette didn’t protest. He was incapable of tackling either of them.

Vivian looked down at him. “I’ll be back with medicine and food.”

“Thank you.”

Lynette moved to the mouth of the cave and waited.

“What is your name?” Vivian asked the man.

He took a moment to answer. “Emrys.”

“I will return, Emrys,” Vivian murmured.

* * * * *

There was a trace of a path leading down from the mouth of cave, heading for the town. They mounted and let their ponies pick their way down, for they were sure-footed beasts, bred for hills like these.

“He might die before you return,” Lynette said.

“He will not.” Vivian’s voice was firm and distant.

“His clothes, the sword, his manners, his speech…he isn’t a simple villager trying to avoid entanglements with the military, Vivian.”

“I know.”

“I don’t believe Emrys is his name any more than you do. If we don’t know who he is, we cannot tell if he is a threat.”

“He isn’t a threat,” Vivian said.

“You know that?” Lynette asked. “I mean, in the way you have.”

Vivian had an uncanny way of seeing into the future. She often knew what would happen before it did. After serving her for a year, Lynette had become accustomed to Vivian’s predictions about the weather, the yield of a harvest, pregnancies and the sex of newborns. This matter with Emrys, though, was an altogether different sort of prediction.

Vivian stirred and shook herself, as if she was waking up. “I don’t need the Sight to tell you he is harmless. He will be for days now, while the fever has him. Mayhap I will steal his pretty sword for myself, for he could not stop me.” She laughed and kicked her heels. “I’m cold. Let’s hurry!”

Her pony snorted and broke into a gallop. They were on smoother ground. Just over the next rise, they would see the town laid out below them like the map Lynette had once seen, scratched into a wax slate.

Lynette urged her horse into a canter, then a reluctant gallop, following Vivian across the shallow dale.

They cantered up to the crest and came to a halt, looking down at Maridunum.

Lynette was used to the bustling towns and cities of the north. For a southern town, Maridunum was pleasing. It lay along the edges of the Towy. The water at the mouth was deep enough for the drafts of bigger ships. A harbor had been built that allowed ships to tie up right in the heart of the town. Three ships were berthed today, even though it was still only March. Their high prows and sterns jutted above the quay, for the tide was low.

There were four inns, a smithy and other shops opposite the quay, with houses behind them.

Perched on a flat, low crest looking down over the town was the king’s palace. It had once belonged to a Roman general, who had used the house as his summer residence. After the Romans left, the big house had fallen into disrepair. Now, the straight lines of its Roman heritage were only just visible, while many more lean-tos, stables and outhouses were built against its walls.

The original stout oak gates were still in place, although during the day they were left open, while Gwilym’s men guarded the coming and goings into the courtyard beyond.

From up here, the palace looked small. The red roof with the curved tiles ran on all four sides of the big courtyard. Smoke curled from chimneys and in the courtyard itself, Lynette could see grooms and boys working on horses. Women hung washing now the rain had stopped. Chickens roamed the yard freely.

It was called a palace, yet Lynette’s father’s house was a grander affair, with two stories and glass in the windows. Still, Gwilym was considered a strong king and many people looked to him for protection, which he had provided for over twenty years. Grandeur had not been the reason her mother had sent Lynette to this far distant court.

At the other end of the town was the monastery—a ramshackle collection of buildings surrounding the church. Between the monastery and the harbor lay the rest of the town. The expansion was only possible because of the strong, graceful bridge that had been built across the river seventeen years ago. Before then, everyone had been forced to travel twenty miles upstream to the ford.

Cutting through the center of the town, heading east, was the old Roman road to Lecarum and farther on to Caerleon, that the Romans called Isca. The road was still sound and wide enough for five men to ride abreast. The road had been built before the bridge and therefore ended here at Maridunum, although across the river there were more winding tracks and trails leading west.

There was movement on the road. Lynette heard the faint clod of hooves and jingle of harnesses. She narrowed down her focus upon the road, spotting movement. Details. “Soldiers…” she breathed and looked at Vivian.

Vivian nodded. “Then that much of his story was true. Can you see any shields or devices?”

Lynette peered again. “Not yet. When they turn to go up to the palace, I will.”

They waited, watching the large company of men and horses canter along the road. Their mail and the studs on their shields glinted in the light of the sun, which was almost at its zenith. It was too damp for their horses to kick up dust. There were over thirty men, with polished helmets and tall spears. The horses were all big, broad-chested animals, bred for war.

When they reached the river, the company wheeled and headed along the beaten earth track up to the palace itself.

“Square shields,” Lynette murmured. Saxons carried round shields.

“If they had been round, the alarm would have been raised a long time ago,” Vivian pointed out. “I can see…wait…yes.” She settled back on her horse. “The man in the middle, at the front. That is the new king from Calleva.”

“Mabon?” Lynette squinted, to distinguish details from this distance. “He’s short, isn’t he?”

“Or the man next to him is taller than usual,” Vivian replied. Her eyes were narrowed, too. Any man who saw her now would recoil, for Vivian’s expression was hard as she assessed the entourage below. All the sweetness vanished from her face as she juggled allegiances and loyalties and the meaning of Mabon’s arrival.

Lynette had learned much from Vivian about politics and the flow of power among men. She focused on the man to the king’s left, the position of power. He was tall. From here, she could see little of his face. She studied his shield, instead. “I don’t know that shield,” she murmured. “Do you?”

The company passed the burnt shell of the old smithy and turned to follow the track up the hill, slowing as the climb steepened.

“Black shield with a white hammer…” Vivian paused. “Fighting…war…battle.”

“Cadfael,” they both said at once.

“Cadfael the Black,” Vivian finished, with a satisfied air.

“Isn’t Cadfael Vortigern’s man?” Lynette asked.

“Sworn and loyal to a fault, they say.”

“What would he be doing with a petty king from the south?”

Vivian’s gaze met hers. “That is the question, is it not? Although that is not the primary concern.” Her gaze moved back to the king’s retinue, as their horses blew and worked to take the last of the incline up to the palace.

Movement in the courtyard said their arrival had been noticed. Gwilym’s men moved out onto the road in front of the gates, their swords sheathed, yet to hand if needed.

“Mabon’s seat is Caer Celemion,” Vivian said, using the local name for Calleva Atrebatum.

“Right next to the Saxon Shore border,” Lynette added.

Vivian nodded. “Vortigern needs strong leaders along the borders. Mabon is unknown, his strength untested. Perhaps that is why Vortigern’s dog is with him.”

“To help?”

“Or to test and report back to Vortigern.”

As the company paused in front of the gates, to meet the challenge of the guards, the horses dropped their heads, blowing hard from the climb. Shields were lowered.

“There is a woman among them,” Lynette said.

Vivian leaned forward, as if the lean would allow her to see better. “Where?”

“Just behind the king.” Lynette peered, too. She saw again what had caught her glance. The bare head, with no helmet to shield it, shone golden in the high sunlight. The woman’s veil had dropped across her shoulders, revealing the wheat-colored tresses.

“Braids,” Lynette said, her distaste making her voice flat. “She’s Saxon!”

Vivian made a hissing sound. “A slave, perhaps, although why would a slave be with a fighting company? We must find out. And we must find out why Mabon is here. Come!” She turned her horse and pushed it into a tired canter.

Lynette followed. “If Cadfael the Black is with Mabon, that would mean Mabon is Vortigern’s man.” She lifted her voice above the thud of their horses’ hooves.

“Perhaps. Perhaps Vortigern is unsure of his loyalties.”

“Either way, Cadfael is a man of the high king’s.”

“Yes.”

“Emrys wants to avoid them. Taking medicines to him might expose him.”

Vivian’s reply was airy. “I will find a way, with your help.”

Chapter Two

Cadfael stayed by the young king’s side, as the man looked about the big courtyard, at the industry and sturdy prosperity of the place.

Mabon turned his black gaze up to Cadfael. “A well-founded establishment. ‘tis little wonder Gwilym prefers the isolation of his own walls. It appears he has no need of the High King’s support.”

“Isolation is a weakness,” Cadfael said. “Saxons can still reach even this corner of the world.”

“The power of alliances, right, Cadfael?” Mabon said with a boyish grin. He had teased Cadfael about his harping upon the theme of formal alliances for weeks now. “You must keep reminding me of their value, so I may pass them along to Gwilym. If I am to bring him into the High King’s fold, I will have need of the reminders.”

Vortigern had asked the new king to coax Gwilym into a formal recognition of Vortigern as High King. The wily old king of the south had avoided a formal declaration for an entire generation.

The High King had been far more frank with Cadfael about the assignment. “Mabon is unmeasured and unknown, Cadfael,” Vortigern growled, as he bent over the faded map of Britain that traveled everywhere with him. His wine cup held down one curling corner of the hide. “Yet he sits right next to the Saxons, down there. If those white-haired bastards get it into their heads to break the treaty—”

“Again,” Cadfael interjected, earning Vortigern’s dark scowl.

“Again,” Vortigern added heavily. “If they have another bad harvest, they will break it. I need my defenses set before the summer is over. Take Maela to him and linger there and measure the man. He tugs his forelock easily enough, but I need a genuine ally in the south.”

Cadfael had obeyed even though he would prefer to stay and help Vortigern with the Pict skirmishes to the north. In the north, there was a guarantee of battle. Escorting a new bride to her whelp king was a guarantee of nothing but boredom.

“Gwilym is a strong king,” Cadfael told Mabon now. “He will be a useful ally.”

Mabon opened his mouth to speak, although Maela chose that moment to approach her husband, the ends of her white braids bouncing against her hips. Mabon remained silent.

“My lord,” Maela said, her voice soft. She said nothing more and kept her eyes downcast.

Her meekness was considered a virtue in a wife, which in Cadfael’s estimation was a good reason to never marry. Cadfael shifted on his feet, smothering the flare of hatred that speared him every time he saw the girl. It was not her fault her mother was Saxon, or that her servility irritated him. Mabon was the unfortunate man forced to live with her shortcomings.

Mabon cleared his throat, his gaze skittering from his queen to the men around them stretching their legs and exchanging greetings with Gwilym’s. “I am sure the queen will find you suitable accommodations, if you wait but a moment,” he told Maela awkwardly.

The man was just as uncomfortable with his wife as Cadfael. He had accepted the High King’s daughter for the political alliance, for he was not a stupid man. Now he must learn to live with the reality of that alliance. Maela was far too Saxon for a Celtic man’s tastes.

Mabon straightened, relief showing in his face. “Ah! There we are. There is Mervyn now.”

“Mabon!” The tall young man pushing his way through soldiers was richly dressed, befitting his princely status. Mervyn was Gwilym’s oldest son and an ardent supporter of Vortigern. He was known to Cadfael. Mervyn was a good fighter, though weak when cornered. Vortigern took care never to put Mervyn and his men on a flank where they might be caught in a pincer movement.

Mervyn greeted Mabon with warm enthusiasm, babbling about rooms and food and wine.

Cadfael let his attention wander, disinterested. The real welcome would be tonight, when the king sat at table and Mabon could press his case for supporting Vortigern.

Two women rode into the courtyard. They wore neither veil nor mantle and no cloaks, even though the day was mild enough to warrant them. They were both dark haired Celtic maidens with clear, pale skin. The one on the left, in a white gown, was the more richly dressed of the two. Her belt was studded and thick, the buckle possibly made of gold, or a highly burnished bronze. She was a lovely woman, one of the glorious beauties that drove men to drink and duels and poetry. She left Cadfael unmoved.

The other woman wore a deep blue gown with a plain girdle. Cadfael frowned, studying her.

The blue was the color he had spotted, high on the hills over the town. It was not a color found in nature, which was why it had caught his eye.

Seeing the color once more prodded him into moving toward them. He shoved his way through groups of soldiers and nudged a horse’s rump with his arm to move it out of the way.

They saw him approach and cast their eyes to the ground with bashful grace.

Cadfael stopped before them. “You were in the hills above the town as we rode in. What were you doing there?”

The woman in the white gown lifted her eyes to meet his, before dropping them again. “Why, we were riding, my lord. It is a lovely day.”

“It has become a lovely day. It did not start that way. You wear no cloaks. You left without them? In the rain?”

The woman in blue raised her chin. “May we have the pleasure of your name, my lord, so we understand who demands we explain ourselves?”

She had brown eyes, dark and lovely. There was nothing of the Celtic black in them. They were large and expressive. Her hair was brown, too. He could tell because no veil hid the gleaming waves and curls. A tendril the thickness of his wrist tumbled and coiled over her shoulder, brushing the corner of her jaw, to lie over her breast. Beneath, the plain girdle encompassed a narrow waist.

“Cadfael,” he told her with a touch of impatience. Why did she not just answer the question? “Late of Deva. Now, from Calleva.”

“You are in the presence of Vivian, daughter of King Gwilym, Cadfael,” the woman in blue informed him, her voice firm. “The princess answers to no one but the king.”

Vivian lifted her chin. This time she did not drop her gaze.

Cadfael cleared his throat, aware of the treacherous ground he had stepped upon. Insulting the daughter of the king they wanted to woo would not further their cause. “My lady, I apologize for my enquiry.” He attempted to make his tone servile. Instead, it emerged wooden and insincere. “I only seek to identify threats to my king.”

“From two women?” the woman in blue said. She smiled, the full bow of her lips curving at the ends.

She had not declared herself a princess, yet everything about her said she was high born. Her speech was that of the court. Her appointments, though plain, were still expensive. And she dared meet his gaze.

“A threat is a threat. I make no presumptions,” he said. “Saxon women fight as fiercely as their lords.”

“As you can see, we are no Saxons,” the lady in blue replied. “If you will make way for the princess?”

Cadfael hesitated. Here was a mystery that itched to be uncovered. Why were two high born women riding about the hills with no escort, no cloaks and defensive attitudes? He had not forgotten that the sentries at last night’s campsite had reported the approach of someone who had later faded into the night without declaring themselves. From the gathering of small, inconsequential facts, dangerous truths became clear.

He could not question the king’s daughter, though. Reluctantly, he stepped aside, so they could continue on their way.

They picked up the hem of their gowns and moved toward the verandah, skirting men and horses and stuffed, heavy saddlebags piled in heaps for the servants to convey to quarters.

As they stepped up onto the tiles of the verandah, the woman in blue looked back over her shoulder at him. Her gaze lingered, before the princess pulled her along the verandah.

He could not question them. Instead, he would watch them and, in that way, learn their secret, for it was clear they had one.

He would watch them very closely indeed.

* * * * *

Barely before they were out of the big man’s range of hearing, Vivian gripped Lynette’s wrist. “Damn. He is suspicious!” She kept her voice down.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone as tall, before,” Lynette admitted. “He felt big.” It was an inadequate expression of the way his presence had dominated the space it took up, demanding attention.

“It helps make him a superior soldier. It gives him a longer reach. Big men are clumsy, though,” Vivian said dismissively. “We must deal with him. I cannot have him following me up to the cave.”

“He is only doing his duty,” Lynette pointed out. “With luck, he’ll forget all about us leaving without our cloaks.”

“If that is true, then look back at him. If he is only doing his duty, then he will not watch us leave. He will have dismissed us from his mind and turned to more important things.”

Lynette took the moment they paused to step up onto the tiles to glance over her shoulder.

He glared at them. No, he scowled at her. His blue eyes, that had reminded her of a cloudless sky, were fixed upon her. A heavy line wrinkled his brow.

In this land of black-haired Celts, he was remarkable not just for his height, but the russet color of his hair. His face was weathered, rough with whiskers that could not yet be called a beard. There were lines of weariness at the corners of his eyes, as if he narrowed them often, in suspicion or pain or tiredness.

It made her think that Cadfael the Black had endured more than most men yet lived to tell the tale. “He watches,” she breathed, her heart thudding.

They moved down the long verandah to the women’s quarters and the door that was always guarded. As the guard snapped to attention, Lynette opened the door for Vivian and stepped back.

Vivian glanced at her. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked sideways, toward the center of the courtyard, then back to Lynette. She smiled and moved inside.

Lynette nodded at the guard and stepped in behind her.

Vivian whirled as soon as the door shut. “I was wrong,” she said. “He watches you alone. We can use that against him.”

Lynette shivered. She dismissed it as a reaction to the heat rising from the hypocaust vent she stood next to, bathing her flesh with warmth. It could be nothing else.

* * * * *

Lynette did not have to wait long to find out how Vivian planned to neutralize Cadfael, for the princess made her first move that night, during the evening meal.

The hall was full to jostling, with Mabon’s senior officers seated at Gwilym’s table. Gwilym had wisely placed Mabon to his right. Gwilym’s queen, Ninian, sat farther down the table, with Mervyn and Padrig on either side of her, which was not a dishonorable position.

Lynette and Vivian’s other ladies stood around Vivian’s small table, waiting for Gwilym and Mabon to seat themselves. Late arrivals scurried to find a seat at the big table, or one of the lesser tables at the end of the hall.

Vivian leaned closer to Lynette. “The Saxon woman. See, she is seated next to Mabon!”

Lynette looked. The blonde woman wore a gown of glowing red-brown that made the most of her hair. Her veil was a cream color. Mabon was not a tall man, yet standing next to him, the woman appeared even smaller. That surprised Lynette, for everything she had learned about Saxon women said they were tall, strong and crude.

This one was almost delicate.

Olwen, across the table, also leaned. “That is Maela, his new queen.”

“She’s Saxon,” Lynette pointed out, disgust making her throat tight.

Olwen shook her head. “She’s the High King’s daughter.”

Vivian’s brow lifted. “That is a powerful match!”

Iva, next to Olwen, frowned. “The High King’s witch queen is Saxon.”

“Rowena,” Lynette supplied.

“That makes Maela half-Saxon,” Vivian said. “Poor thing.”

Lynette looked at her, startled. “Poor thing?”

“To be an outcast among strangers is one thing. To be born one of them and still be outcast and have nowhere to truly call home?” Vivian shook her head.

Gwilym settled in his big chair. He was a short man with iron gray hair and a pure white beard, with faded eyes that took in more than they appeared to.

The room rustled as everyone else sat, too. Stools and benches scraped.

Servants carried in trays to serve the meal and conversations buzzed as the meal began.

The women at Vivian’s table discussed the merits and blights of Mabon’s queen. Her braids were disparaged and her mother’s vices discussed. Lynette held herself back from the discussion, turning over in her mind Vivian’s observations about outcasts and outsiders.

Lynette had been an outsider when she first arrived in Maridunum. She had been accepted quickly. Still, there had been long days of wariness while Vivian’s ladies grew accustomed to her northern accent and she had grown used to the different customs of the south and of Gwilym’s court in particular.

If she had looked different—if, say, she had blonde hair—would it have taken even longer for the women to accept her? Even though she was one of them?

The two kings talked, their heads turned toward each other, which excluded everyone else at the big table. No one dared tried to inject themselves into their conversation. Instead, they chatted to others.

The wine flowed, which loosened tongues and lubricated conversations.

In honor of the guests, a final dish of peaches in stewed wine and herbs, the last of the previous year’s harvest, was served. It was a signal that the formal part of the meal was over, and many diners rose and left the room. Those who sought company for the evening, or wished for music or talk, lingered.

Vivian did not like to stay once the meal was done. It exposed her to unwanted attention. Lynette glanced at her, waiting for her to rise, for no one else at the table could stand before she did.

Vivian did not move from her small chair. She frowned, studying the top of the big table.

Lynette glanced that way. The high table had less than half the people left, allowing her to see between shoulders and heads. It was the first time she noticed Cadfael at the far right end of the table, right next to Mabon’s queen, Maela.

He wore a scowl, his gaze moving around the room as he gripped a cup in one big hand. The polished iron on his wrist guards flashed, reflecting the light of the sconce behind him. He spoke to no one. He was the only man at the table not talking.

His gaze swung to Lynette and settled. The scowl deepened.

“This is useless,” Vivian murmured. “While he watches you, I cannot leave.”

Lynette pulled her gaze away from the head table. “Why can you not leave?”

“I must go to the kitchen for supplies,” Vivian said, softly enough that none of the other women at the table could hear.

For Emrys. Vivian was still determined to follow through on her mad plan, despite the new level of scrutiny.

“You risk raising the suspicion of Vortigern’s man,” Lynette pointed out.

“Not if you distract him. He watches you. Go to him.”

“What?”

“Go and speak with him.”

“I cannot. He has not invited me.”

Vivian rolled her eyes. “You know how to seduce a man. I have seen you do it.”

Lynette’s cheeks burned. “You want me to seduce him?”

“If you must. He stares like a man already besotted. It should take no effort on your part to capture his attention and keep it.” Vivian pushed at her knees, under the table. “Go.” She pushed again.

Prodded by Vivian, Lynette rose and resettled her mantle. She was not the only person on their feet, although she felt as if she was. He was likely still monitoring her.

Careful not to look toward the head of the table and signal her intention, Lynette drifted to the side of the room and the corridor of space between the benches and the walls, where she could walk to the other end.

There was another set of doors into the room at that end, too, which gave her an excuse for moving that way, if she needed it.

Her heart jumped and scurried as she walked. Seducing a man who welcomed the attention was one thing. Disarming a man with charm when he was suspicious and surly was quite another task.

She did not consider for a moment disobeying Vivian’s command. She was sworn to serve her and usually, Vivian’s wishes were few and made sense. In the year since Lynette’s mother had sent her to Gwilym’s court, she and Vivian had become friends. Vivian trusted Lynette more than any of her ladies, although Lynette’s ability to read and write had at first forced the trust. Despite not understanding why Vivian was so intent upon helping the stranger, Emrys, Lynette must trust that the princess had good reasons.

On the other side of the table, Mervyn shoved back his bench with his knees and stood, his wine cup in his hand. In the other, he held a big flagon that sloshed heavily.

The movement of his bench nearly dislodged others sitting upon it. Mervyn took no notice. Instead, he lurched along the table, aiming for the head of it. His strides were longer than Lynette’s. His small eyes beneath his jutting forehead were narrowed in concentration.

Lynette thought he was approaching his father and Mabon, who had remained at the table. Instead, he stepped around his father’s tall chair, past Mabon and the silent Maela. He moved to the other end of the table and dropped onto the end of the bench near where Lynette stood, facing Cadfael on the other side of the corner.

Mervyn’s wine slopped, staining his sleeve. He rested the cup on the table, his fingers curled around it and thumped the flask next to it. “You’re the one they call the Black, then?”

“I’m not the only one with that name,” Cadfael pointed out. Unlike Mervyn, his voice and his movements were steady and sober. His gaze moved around the room once more.

Lynette sank onto the empty bench, which put her behind Mervyn, shielding her from Cadfael’s view.

“You’re Vortigern’s battle commander,” Mervyn insisted.

Cadfael was slow to answer. “I…used to be.”

Battle commander! Lynette dipped her chin, hiding her expression behind her veil as shock slithered through her. Vortigern had sent not only his daughter to a southern throne, but also his most trusted warrior!

No wonder Cadfael had instantly become suspicious of Vivian and her. He was used to scanning an entire battlefield, spotting weaknesses and strengths and devising strategies for victory. Suspicion would rise quickly in his mind because wariness was how he stayed one step ahead of the enemy.

“You serve Mabon now?” Mervyn asked. He sounded puzzled.

“I still serve the High King. As we all do,” Cadfael replied stiffly.

“Yes,” Mervyn said, eagerness flooding his voice. “I would serve him better, if I could. They say you are here to convince my father to fight with Vortigern. Is that true?”

The probing question was the height of rudeness…and exactly like Mervyn. He was a colt in a barn, kicking his way to freedom. He and his younger brother were wild to go to war, while Gwilym counseled them to contain themselves, for war would come to them sooner or later. Later, though, did not suit Mervyn’s temperament.

“Lad, you need to find a bed for the night and sleep off the wine,” Cadfael growled.

“I brought the wine for you and I to share.” The whining tone in Mervyn’s voice was not flattering. Then he added, “Hey!”

Lynette leaned back against the table, just enough to see around Mervyn’s shoulder.

Cadfael had pulled the flask out of Mervyn’s hand. He unstopped it and filled his cup. “Go to bed,” he told Mervyn.

Lynette looked toward Vivian’s table. It was empty. Even the other ladies had departed. Cadfael had not taken notice of any of them. The task Vivian had set her had was completed by Mervyn’s clumsy overtures. There was nothing else Lynette needed to do, here.

She rose and slipped to the other end of the room. She would use the door at that end to step onto the verandah and move to the women’s quarters. She felt as if she had escaped by a narrow margin.

Vortigern’s battle commander! Even Vivian would not have thrust her in his path had she known that. Surely, she would not insist upon continuing this madness with Emrys in the hills when she learned Cadfael’s true identity?

Chapter Three

After prayers and breaking fast the next morning, Vivian and her women returned to their wing and settled in the common room to take up their usual duties.

There had been no time for Lynette to share with Vivian what she had learned about Cadfael the previous night. They were constantly surrounded by ladies, including Elaine, Padrig’s wife, who was sharp-eyed and sharper of tongue. Elaine had been included in Ninian’s retinue for barely a month before Ninian told Vivian she must take the woman instead.

Vivian set herself up at a small table to grind and blend the herbs she had taken from the kitchen last night, preparing them for ingestion. The other women glanced at her work curiously. Even Elaine did not dare question her, though.

Instead of opening her sewing basket, Lynette settled by Vivian’s side to read to her the letter that had arrived upon the latest ship. The ship was from Amorica, although people did not say that loudly, even here in Gwilym’s kingdom. Vivian had a cousin in Brittany, Mallt, the daughter of King Budec.

Brittany was where it was rumored the young sons of Constantine, Ambrosius and Uther, had fled when Vortigern slaughtered their father and mother and the oldest son, Constans, then took the title of High King for himself.

Whenever Vortigern’s excesses tried the patience of Britain, the rumors would rise once more of Ambrosius’ imminent return to save them from both Vortigern and the Saxons. The rumors were frequent enough and wild enough that no one believed them, yet the idea of Ambrosius’ return was presumed by many to be a fact. One day, he would come.

Only, it had been twenty years and Ambrosius would be a grown man now, yet he still had not returned.

The rare letter from Brittany never mentioned Ambrosius. Vivian’s cousins led a quiet life, with little money to spare for the sending of letters. Mallt did not read, either, which required she pay a scribe for a letter.

Despite the stilted style and the need for someone to read them to her, Vivian loved receiving the letters. “They bring images of far off places I will never see for myself,” she told Lynette once. “In my mind, I can travel to Brittany, when I hear them.”

Lynette had only cracked the seal on the letter and unrolled the first handspan when the outside door opened. Maela stepped into the room.

Everyone put down their sewing and turned to look at her.

Maela cleared her throat. “Lady Vivian…it was suggested I might be more comfortable among your ladies than the women your mother…I mean, your queen, keeps around her.”

Lynette recalled the queen’s women. They were all older matrons, wives of Gwilym’s officers and lieutenants. They were accustomed to their own company and they kept the queen’s room far too hot, with additional braziers to add to the heat from the hypocaust.

Elaine sighed loudly.

Maela flinched at the vexed sound.

Lynette put the letter aside. “Please come and sit with us, Maela.” She picked up the twists of herbs lying on the stool next to Vivian’s table, put the herbs next to Vivian’s elbow and placed the stool between her chair and Vivian’s.

Maela sidled between the women, her smile tremulous. She sank onto the stool and smoothed her gown over her knees with fluttering hands. “I…have no sewing…” Her cheeks flushed. “I could carry only what fit into a single pack. Cadfael insisted we must be free to move swiftly and not be weighed down by a woman’s notions…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m sure there is a spindle to spare, somewhere,” Vivian said, her voice kind. “There is always more spinning and weaving, heaven knows.”

The room remained silent around them as the women stared and listened.

“Iva, get the old spindle from the chest, please,” Vivian directed. “Mabyn, the goat’s wool in that bag there, please bring it here.”

The two women put aside their sewing and moved over to the chests that held the wool findings for spinning.

“Goats…oh…” Maela breathed and pressed her lips together.

“You have not spun goat hair?” Lynette asked her, trying to keep her voice even and hide her surprise. Really, who had not spun every fiber there was to be spun, before they were married? Was Maela that sheltered?

“It is just the same as sheep’s wool,” Vivian lied, for it was decidedly different. “I thought you might like to spin it, for it is the softest and most delicate thread, gentle on the fingers and your skin won’t smell afterward.”

“Which won’t drive away your husband,” someone added softly, from within the group of women behind Maela.

Everyone laughed heartily.

Maela blushed.

The suffusion of color spread across her cheeks. It emphasized Maela’s small, upturned nose. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks—pale things that made her look very young.

Iva and Mabyn handed Maela the small spindle and findings, which she fumbled and settled on her knees, with a flustered expression.

“There is no rush,” Lynette told her. “The bag has been sitting at the bottom of the chest for more than a year.” It had been there when Lynette first arrived. No one wanted to spin such delicate thread when there was no call for it.

The room returned to soft sounds of industry. The loom in the corner clacked with a pleasant rhythm as Heledd worked the shuttle with quick movements. Spindles touched the tiles with low knocking sounds.

Lynette put the letter away and collected the basket that contained her sewing supplies and the shirt the queen had asked her to make for Gwilym. Vivian would not want the letter read aloud in front of Maela, whom she did not know or trust.

As she sorted her threads and checked her progress on the sleeve of the shirt, Lynette sought to find a topic of conversation to draw Maela out. No one else was bothering to try.

“Your husband, King Mabon, seems to be a fair man,” she ventured.

“Fair in judgement, or fair in appearance?” Olwen asked, not lifting her gaze from her spinning.

“Both!” Iva declared, making everyone laugh again.

The faint blush was returning to Maela’s cheeks. Possibly, she was not used to the frank and ribald conversation among ladies, if she had grown up in Vortigern’s court with her Saxon mother. Not that Lynette knew how Saxons raised their children, other than thrusting a sword in the hands of either sex as soon as they were taller than the weapon.

“Mabon is a pretty man, with those black eyes of his. A proper Celt he is,” Heledd said. She bent to toss the shuttle across her threads. “He’s much too young for my tastes, though.”

“You have taste, Heledd?” Olwen asked.

Heledd rolled her eyes.

“That husband of yours says otherwise,” Olwen added. “He’s all hair and eyes.”

The women laughed loudly, for Heledd’s husband did have a long and bushy beard and eyes that protruded.

Lynette caught Maela’s eyes, as she looked up, startled at the burst of laughter. “Heledd’s Dewi sat on Mervyn’s right, at the table last night,” she said. “You may have noticed him.”

Maela’s lips parted in surprise, then the corners of her mouth turned up and she nodded. “I did see him,” she added. She put her hand to her lips to hide her smile, as if the merry expression was indiscreet. The Lord knew, perhaps in Vortigern’s court, looking happy was indiscreet.

“Although Mabon is handsome,” Lynette told the young girl. “You must find that compensation for having to leave your father’s court and come all the way south to Calleva.”

The merriment faded from Maela’s eyes. “I was pleased to leave,” she said, her tone flat. She got the spindle turning with a jerk of her hand. She put too much energy into the movement and the spindle moved too fast, kinking the small amount of thread already on it, forcing her to unravel the length and start again.

Vivian’s gaze met Lynette’s. She said nothing as she spooned the herbal mix onto an open leather pouch.

“Was life at court not…comfortable?” Lynette asked carefully.

Maela struggled to control the spindle, then caught it with her other hand and put it back in her lap and sighed. She met Lynette’s gaze. “No, it was not comfortable at all.”

“Because of…your mother?” Lynette probed.

Maela looked down at her lap where her hands squirmed. “I suppose that would be natural, wouldn’t it?

If it was not her mother who made life at court intolerable, then who? Her father?

Lynette debated pursuing the subject any further. She felt as uncomfortable as Maela looked. She had not forgotten they were speaking of the High King and his Saxon queen. While everyone in Britain stood behind Vortigern in the quest to rid the land of Saxons, no one really liked Vortigern.

He was an effective king only because his methods were extreme. He had invited the Saxons into Britain and used them to turn back the Picts in the north, which many had criticized. Now the Saxons had a toehold on the land and would not leave, instead raiding and pillaging British towns and farms as they felt moved.

Vortigern held them at bay with sheer force and brutality. For twenty years he had done nothing but fight them to a standstill, holding the western half of the island for the British and the Roman families who had remained after the departure of the legions.

Men grumbled about the methods Vortigern used. They spat when his name was mentioned—although not where those known to be genuinely loyal to the High King could see. Yet Vortigern was effective in halting the Saxons, even if he could not dispel them altogether and for many, that was enough to pay him with their allegiance.

To have Vortigern as a father and a Saxon mother, living among Celts and Romans…Maela’s life must have been a merry hell.

“I would speak to you, Lynette,” Vivian murmured, pulling Lynette’s attention away from the crown of Maela’s golden head, all that she could see of the girl right now.

Vivian tugged the thongs tight around the small pouch she had been filling. The bottom bulged. She tucked the pouch in the purse hanging from her belt, rose and moved over to the chests and opened one, pawing through the findings.

Lynette moved to stand next to her. The chests were far enough away to avoid eavesdroppers if they whispered.

Vivian kept her gaze on the contents of the chest. “I saw when Maela came in just now—I saw over her shoulder. Cadfael lingers in the courtyard, monitoring everyone who comes and goes.”

Lynette’s heart sank. She knew what Vivian was asking without her having to speak it aloud. The stables were on the other side of the courtyard from the women’s quarters. Vivian must cross the yard to reach them. If Cadfael was there, he would see her and take note.

Vivian wanted Lynette to distract him.

“You’re leaving? Now?” Lynette said, her voice rising. “Surely this afternoon—”

“And let Emrys linger without help?” Vivian shook her head. “I must go now. I will head for the kitchen. I want to collect food from there, anyway. If he is still where I saw him, going to the kitchen will put me behind him when I cross to the stables. With you before him, I have no doubt he will not think to check his rear.” She dropped the lid on the chest and straightened.

Lynette schooled her face, keeping her expression serene. Her perturbation must have shown, though, for Vivian frowned and her jaw tightened. “Do not disobey me on this, Lynette.”

Lynette shook her head. “Why this man? Why Emrys? If you would explain it to me, perhaps I would understand better why you risk yourself this way. You have never been so…” She halted, aware of where her words led her. She swallowed.

“Foolish?” Vivian finished. “To you, it appears that way. You must trust me, Lynette. Trust me and do what I say. It will all work out.”

“You have…seen that?”

Vivian’s gaze turned inward. “I have seen the end,” she said softly. “I do not know what lies between, yet I am sure the end will come to pass, which means I must do this. And you must help me.” Her gaze came back to Lynette. “Please,” she added.

Lynette sighed. Vivian never begged. She cajoled and she ordered, but she did not say please. To bring her to it now… “Very well,” Lynette said, reluctance making her speak slowly. “Although I do not have your faith in my ability to distract the man. He is far too angry.”

Vivian patted her arm. “You underestimate yourself, Lynette of the North. I saw his face last night at supper.” She plucked from the rods on the wall the crumpled and worn cloaks they had found among the discarded garments in the big chest in the corner. She held the longest of the pair out to Lynette. “Ready?”

Lynette took the green garment. “I am not ready. Not at all.”

Vivian laughed and took her arm, tugging her toward the door. The other women lifted their heads to watch them go, although none would dare question Vivian directly. Even Maela remained silent, though her greater rank would allow her to demand an explanation if she cared for one.

Vivian opened the door and pushed Lynette through, then shut it behind her.

There he was. The big man sat on an upturned barrel in the sunny corner of the yard. His back was against the corner post of the verandah and his arms were crossed. He scowled as he watched world go by.

He appeared to be ready to do murder.

Chapter Four

Cadfael saw the princess’ companion as soon as she stepped out of the guarded door where the women spent their days.

Not that he was watching the door, of course. However, in this yard full of men in muddy, dark cloaks and tunics, the hint of color and elegant movement drew Cadfael’s gaze like sunlight bouncing on water.

He had learned her name last night. Lynette, the most favored of Vivian’s companions…and the most trusted.

The red gown she wore today made her hair seemed even richer in color, as did the dark green cloak she shook out and wrapped about her shoulders. She slid her curls out from the neck of the cloak and adjusted the folds. Women had a skill that men did not for arranging simple squares of cloth about them in a way that became enticing.

Lynette did it now, tucking the ends of the cloak under each other so it wrapped about her shoulders, yet still left her slender neck and the fine flesh at the base of her throat bare. It drew attention to them, in Cadfael’s mind.

Her clothes arranged to her satisfaction, the willowy woman stepped off the verandah and moved as directly as possible across the courtyard, skirting men and horses, goats and pigs. She lifted her gown so the hem didn’t drag in the dirt, which was still mired from yesterday’s rainstorm.

Unless he had lost all judgment, she was heading for him.

Her gaze settled on his face as she walked.

Yes, she intended to speak to him.

Cadfael sat up with a start. This must surely be the most interesting thing to happen all morning. Mabon was locked in with Gwilym, pressing his cause. The rest of Mabon’s men were scattered about the town, finding amusement where they may. Everyone else in the palace had duties to tend to, except for Gwilym’s oldest, the whining Mervyn.

The man had driven Cadfael away from the hearth and the wine, in search of a location where Mervyn would not venture. This corner of the cold courtyard was the only section to see sun until it was higher in the sky. The day was cool enough to keep a man inside unless he had reason to be out.

Cold did not deter Cadfael. He’d been colder more often on campaigns and before battle. The land north of Hadrian’s Wall was a frozen misery. A mild southern morning and a barrel to sit upon were luxuries in comparison.

And now, the lovely Lynette approached.

He held still, watching her, trying to guess her intention.

She came right up to him, stopping only when her hips were just short of touching his leggings. Seated upon the barrel, he was a half-a-hand shorter than when he stood. Her head was not too much lower than his. “My lord Cadfael—”

“I am no lord,” he said gruffly.

“You are the High King’s battle commander, are you not?” Her big eyes fastened upon his. Now she was closer, he could see that the red of her dress was touched by brown. The cloak was a shabby thing, yet oddly complimented the dress. There was a fine line of gold embroidery swirling around the neck of the gown, drawing his gaze to the flesh there.

“I was the High King’s battle commander,” he replied, his tone still rough. How fast word passed about this ramshackle palace!

“I doubt one like you was sent away in disgrace, which means you are still the High King’s commander. High or low born, that still gives you a superior rank to the rest of the world.”

He frowned, clamping down in his mind the warmth that came from her implied compliment. “Yesterday, you could not run away from me fast enough. Now you seek me out. I was suspicious yesterday. Now I am even more so.”

Her smile was a gorgeous thing. It grew reluctantly. She was not trying to dazzle him with it. There was a touch of chagrin in her expression, while warmth filled her eyes. “I owe you an apology for yesterday. That is why I am here.”

It was not what he had expected her to say at all. He had been braced for some coquettish overture. A batting of her eyes. A come-hither tilt of her head. His surprise loosened his tongue. “Then you are not here to distract me, or coax information from me?”

“What information would I want that you might have?” she asked. Now she was the surprised one.

Cadfael swore silently at his own indiscretion. Now, only frankness would serve. “You confess you know who I am. Here we are, in the kingdom that some say is the very heart of old Rome in its customs and its sympathies—”

“You mean Ambrosius, do you not?” she interjected.

Cadfael paused, both annoyed at her interruption and admiring of her thrusting question.

She must have sensed his irritation, for she said softly, “They call him the last true Roman, don’t they?”

True. “Yes, I mean Ambrosius.” It came out rougher than he meant.

“He is a myth,” she replied. “It has been twenty years. Ambrosius will not save Britain.”

“Oh, he’s out there,” Cadfael assured her, amused.

“Some say he went to Rome. Or Constantinople. Some say he’s dead, that he and his brother died trying to leave Britain after Vortigern…”

Cadfael did not finish the sentence she would not speak. They both knew what Vortigern had done to Constantine, his wife and their oldest son. “What does a woman know of such things?” he demanded of her.

“I listen when men talk.” Her mouth turned down. “They do not notice me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her eyes danced. “When the Princess Vivian is nearby, I assure you, no one notices any other women but her. She commands the eye.”

“Not merely draw it, as a woman should,” he concluded. He recalled the crude, drunken jests of the men as they had settled for sleep in their borrowed dormitory, last night. None of them had spoken of their lust for anyone other than Vivian.

“Do you believe Ambrosius will return?” Lynette asked.

Cadfael stared at her. How odd that a woman would turn a conversation away from herself and back to politics!

“Do you believe Ambrosius will return?” he demanded.

“If I did, my lord Cadfael, you would be the last man I would admit it to.”

His laugh emerged, gruff with surprise and louder than it should be. Heads turned.

Even Lynette smiled. Warmth filled her eyes once more. He liked that expression in her eyes. It was pleasing, which he could say of only one other woman.

His heart gave a little flutter and settled. The reminder swept away his good cheer. “You are right to be cautious about me, girl,” he growled. “For I am Vortigern’s man and will be as long as he gives me the opportunity to kill Saxons.”

Her smile fled.

Cadfael’s attention was drawn away from her pure features, caught by movement beyond her shoulder. He focused there. The hills behind the palace rose above the roofline, bright with sunlight that was still to reach here. Traveling up the worn path to the peak of the first hill was a dark haired woman upon a gray pony.

Vivian.

Cadfael lurched to his feet, watching the distant figures climb the hill. In a moment they would be over the top and gone from view. It was only these short minutes she would be visible. Even if he left now, she had too long a lead to catch her.

Fury bit deep, making his gut clench and his temples to throb. He grabbed Lynette’s arm. “You…!”

She didn’t try to wrench her arm from his grip. Instead, her chin came up. “My lord?” she said, her tone cooler than the snow on Y Wyddfa. Her gaze dropped to his other hand. He realized he gripped his knife, squeezing it convulsively.

Her gaze met his again. There was no apology there.

There was no fear showing, either, although he could see a pulse beating in her throat, giving her away.

Her courage cooled his temper. “If it is true, what they say, that you are the daughter of a lord, then I cannot kill you.”

She flinched but remained silent.

“If I cannot kill you,” he ground out, “then I have no time for you. Keep your petty intrigues away from me, woman. I am tired of them already.” He flung her arm from him. The movement turned her about.

She recovered her balance and straightened. “I wish you a good morning, my lord.”

Her chin was still up as she moved back to the verandah and the guarded door. She did not look around, not even when she reached the door.

Cadfael stayed on his feet, his hands clenched, knowing he had lied. Now, more than ever, he was determined to uncover her secret. The depths he’d glimpsed in her told him the secret would be worth uncovering.

* * * * *

A spring storm whipped the town for two days and nights before it blew itself. While it raged, no one could leave the palace even if they wanted to, for the driving rain and freezing wind soon forced them back inside, their skin bitten by the cold.

With the extra guests, the old villa was filled to bursting. Everyone huddled about the braziers and fireplaces or lingered beneath their bed furs.

When the storm broke and the sun emerged at last, a deep collective sigh of relief rippled through the palace. The animals were let loose from the barns, wood piles were restocked, while more people than usual lingered outside with their faces turned up to the sun.

Mabon and Gwilym remained in the king’s private chamber for most of the storm, to emerge on the second evening with grim smiles. They did not disclose the outcome of their long conversation.

When the storm ended, Mabon did not immediately announce his departure. Instead, he lingered by the fire, either staring moodily into the flames, or listening to the men talk around him.

“He’s a broody boy, that one,” Iva observed, for she had spent the day at the back of the hall with the queen’s women. “He’s in two minds about something,” she reported back to Vivian’s women, “although neither of them will say what that might be. The men are uneasy, too.”

“His men or Gwilym’s?” someone asked.

“They were all irritable,” Iva said. “They want to leave.”

However, until Mabon chose to go, everyone lingered, rubbing each other like flint and stone.

On the first morning of pale sunlight after the storm, Vivian pulled Lynette aside. “I must see to Emrys,” she told her. “His fever was great.”

“That was two days ago,” Lynette pointed out.

“So now he will either be dead, or the fever broken, in which case, he will be weaker than the sun out there. He’ll need food.”

Lynette shook her head. “No, Vivian. I cannot lure the man away again. He’s suspicious.”

She did not voice the remainder of her reservation, for she was still working those few moments in the courtyard through her mind, trying to understand the undercurrents. It was rare for her to not understand the motives and desires driving any man she spoke to. A man’s gaze would always betray him, if his grasping eagerness did not.

Men were predictable and therefore controllable. If she smiled a certain way, moved a certain way or arranged herself in postures that put her figure on best display, then they would do whatever she asked of them, all while thinking it was their idea in the first place.

She had been aware of this power over men before arriving in Maridunum. Every woman had the gift, if they were clever enough to recognize and use it. Even the oldest hag, gray of hair and toothless, her youthful looks long gone, could still play upon a man’s sympathies for her vulnerabilities, or soothe his manly aches and pains with her knowledge of herbs and medicines, stitch his wounds and weave his war cloaks and thereby win for herself protection, shelter and food.

Vivian, though, had taught Lynette far more of the art of manipulating men. Vivian understood both men and women, how their minds worked, what drove them to act as they did and she had shared it with Lynette.

Men considered women helpless, good only for the bearing and rearing of sons. High born women had a single additional value, for they cemented political alliances through marriage.

Knowing how to win a man’s favor gave a woman a level of security that life rarely provided. Cadfael, though, was a different matter.

“Cadfael will no longer bend to my will,” Lynette told Vivian now. “That arrow has been loosed and is lost.”

“You did not believe him when he said he was no longer interested in your machinations, did you?” Vivian asked her.

“No,” Lynette said. “He was clearly lying on that score. Suspicion comes naturally to a man like him, for he is used to protecting kings from every threat. Only, Vivian, after two days of inactivity, hunched about the fires, all the men will be eager to stretch their legs. The horses, too. The hills will be thick with them. You cannot risk—”

Vivian cut her off with a curt chop of her hand. “The risk to myself is immaterial. I must help Emrys.”

Lynette threaded her hands together and squeezed her fingers, holding in her impatience and her fear. “You still will not share with me why this single stranger is so important you will risk the wrath of two kings and their senior officers?”

“It is not yet time for that.”

Lynette considered the princess. She rarely lied to Lynette…at least, Lynette had not uncovered any of Vivian’s deceptions aimed at her. Vivian implied she would explain later. Lynette had to be content with that. She came back to her original point. “I am not the one to distract your watchdog, Vivian. Not anymore. Perhaps one of the other women—”

“It must be you.”

“Why? Why must it be me? I don’t understand. You yourself taught me to leave a man alone once his guard was up. Cadfael is beyond that point. He will automatically disbelieve anything I tell him, now.”

A tiny line appeared between Vivian’s brows. Her jaw set. “I have spoken, woman. You will do this.”

Lynette knew that tone. She had pushed the boundaries of their friendship. The princess had issued an order to her lady. Lynette sighed. “He is a warrior, Vivian. A battle commander, used to reaching for his sword. If I anger him, and I most certainly will if I so much as speak to him directly…”

Vivian’s face smoothed out. The icy expression thawed and she gripped Lynette’s wrist. “I know what I ask of you. This is more important than either of us, Lynette.”

Lynette shook her head. “I do not understand how your Sight works. I am not gifted in that way. You have only ever seen little things in the light—births and deaths and pairings. The sex of an unborn child. Emrys, though, is not a part of women’s affairs. It is difficult to trust that what you see is as important as you say.”

“That is the risk of trust, isn’t it?” Vivian’s gaze focused inward. “When I see things, it is not a vision that comes to me. There is so much more that I understand, even though no words or warnings come with the vision. I have learned to trust what my Sight chooses to share with me. I know we are at the crux of a moment in time that will change the future, the future’s future and all the years beyond that.”

Invisible fingers stroked along the center of Lynette’s back. She shivered, as her neck prickled. Her heart thudded. “If I disarm the suspicions of the High King’s most senior officer and keep him blind to your business,” she added. Her voice sounded flat after Vivian’s poetic cadences.

Vivian smiled. “Indeed. That is your task in this affair.”

“If you have seen nothing of my future, then have you seen something of his?”

Vivian smiled.

“Yes, of course. You will tell me later,” Lynette said.

“When the time is right. Even you will know when the time is right,” Vivian assured her.

Lynette resigned herself to the task facing her. “Very well. Although I do not know how I am to manage this. If I go near him, he’ll push me aside and immediately search for you.”

Vivian tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. She gripped Lynette’s wrist, her fingers digging in. “Then you must go into the hills, instead.”

Chapter Five

Coins were rare in Britain, these days. The departing Romans had taken most of their coins with them. The occasional solidus or miliarense could be found, generally in the coffers of Romans who remained in Britain. The resulting shortage meant the sight of real coins could turn the heads of most men.

The buck-toothed lad’s eyes bugged when Cadfael held out the copper solidus. His hand hovered, as if he didn’t quite believe his good fortune, that if he touched the coin, it would disappear.

Cadfael gripped his wrist, flipped his hand and slapped the coin onto his palm. The lad was quick enough to close his fingers over the coin when he felt the real weight of it. He instantly settled upon the barrel in the corner of the courtyard, ready to stay there forever, if necessary.

With the boy watching the courtyard, ready to alert Cadfael the instant the princess left the palace, Cadfael was free to check on Mabon’s men. It had been an uncomfortable pair of days, locked inside. He sent groups of them out hunting for fresh meat, which would exercise both men and horses.

He strode down the length of the verandah to the suite of rooms given to Mabon and his queen. He would see if the man was of a mind to tear himself away from the fire and return to Calleva. It was too late to leave today, for it was past midday already, although the news that they were to leave upon the morrow would hearten the men.

Cadfael was eager to leave. There were too many undercurrents and secrets swirling about this place to keep track of and it was impossible to guess where allegiances and loyalties lay. Gwilym was nominally an ally of Vortigern’s and spoke of the High King respectfully, yet he and his household showed every sign of being pro-Roman. The only thing Cadfael knew for certain about Gwilym’s true loyalties was that the old king hated Saxons with as much passion as any Briton.

When Cadfael could not tell friend from foe, he could not spot potential threats to Mabon. Once they were on the road and traveling back to Calleva, the only threat Rafael had to concern himself with was the usual risks of travel in these uncertain times. Although even robbers and highway pillagers thought twice about attacking such a large compliment of men.

Yes, leaving Maridunum would be a good thing. It would allow him to relax and dispel the tension that had been gripping his chest and making his heart beat heavier than it should since he had arrived.

He glanced toward the corner of the yard. The boy was where he had left him. The boy shook his head at Cadfael. The princess was still in the palace, then.

Cadfael knocked and waited. No one answered. He pushed the door open and looked in. The room and the one beyond it with the big bed were both empty. Mabon would be in the main hall, then.

Cadfael headed there. He found, as he had expected, Mabon crouched upon the low stool by the fire. The young king stared into the flames, as he had since rising this morning and just as he had been since shortly after the noon meal yesterday, when he and Gwilym had finished their discussions.

It was fair that Mabon would not trust Cadfael enough to share the outcome of those discussions. The man was young, yet he was clever and quick-thinking. He would first report to Vortigern on his success or failure. Yet it was clear that something stirred his mood and thoughts. It could only have come from his talks with Gwilym.

Cadfael would not question Mabon about the talks. Trust came with time and couldn’t be forced. Instead, he picked up one of the bigger logs from the pile next to the fire-pit and turned it on its end next to Mabon’s stool. He settled on it and held his hands out to the flames. “The farmers say it will be warmer tomorrow,” he began.

“Good,” Mabon said. “You sent the men to hunt?”

“With orders not to return without meat.”

Mabon nodded. “It is only fair we refill Gwilym’s larders.”

“We could smoke some meat for the saddlebags, too,” Cadfael said, watching Mabon’s face. Something flickered there, which caused him to add, “We are leaving tomorrow, yes?”

Mabon stirred. His gaze slid away from Cadfael. “I thought another day or two would not hurt. It will give us time to rest…and fill the saddlebags for the return.”

Cadfael repressed his impatience. “As you say, we’re draining Gwilym’s larders every day we linger. It is polite to leave as soon as business is done.”

“Gwilym himself insisted we stay as long as we want.”

“He has to say that.”

“He was not being polite.”

“I beg to differ,” Cadfael said carefully. “They cannot afford to feed so many extra mouths for long. This is not a rich kingdom.”

“Tell me one kingdom that is rich, these days?” Mabon demanded. He shook his head. “I’ve decided, Cadfael. We’re staying two more days.”

Cadfael pushed his hand through his hair. “Why?” he demanded. “What possible benefit is there to lingering? The men will rest on the road. They’re all seasoned travelers and we can hunt as we go as easily as we can from here. You know that as well as I, so why stay?”

Mabon’s cheek tinged pink, reminding Cadfael of how young he still was. Mabon was a good leader, with a natural authority that made men forget his age, most of the time. He picked up the poker and prodded the fire, his lips pressed together.

Cadfael looked around for eavesdroppers, then leaned closer to Mabon’s flank. “No one listens,” he said. “Explain it to me and I will be happy to support you in this. Why must we stay?”

Mabon dropped the poker onto the tiles in front of the fire. He kept his gaze on the climbing flames. “I found Maela singing, yesterday.”

Cadfael stared at him, trying to sort out the man’s meaning. Maela? What did she have to do with anything? “I don’t understand,” he said at last.

Mabon shifted, clearing his throat. Still, he did not look at Cadfael. “I believe the queen is enjoying her time here. I would let her have more of it, for the gods and I both know she finds no pleasure in Calleva.”

Cadfael felt winded. “You anchor us here in this wretched town of Roman sympathizers, while the men fret, for the sake of a woman’s happiness?”

Mabon’s whole face flushed, this time. “You are not married, Cadfael. You do not understand these matters.”

“She is a woman. What else is there to understand?” Cadfael’s anger stirred. “My lord, if it is a matter of company, that can be arranged when we return to Calleva.”

“She has a houseful of women for company at home,” Mabon replied. “They are no kinder to her than the women of Vortigern’s court.” His jaw worked and the expression in his eyes grew harder. Wiser. “It is hard for her, given her heritage. It is difficult for her and to be so far from her mother.”

“She has you to compensate for her lack,” Cadfael said, truly baffled. “She is the daughter of a king, married to a king. Her life is complete. You catering to her childish demands teaches her only that she can indulge herself whenever she wants.”

Mabon’s gaze met Cadfael’s. He saw the iron in Mabon’s eyes and knew he’d stepped over the bounds of their tenuous working relationship. “I said you do not understand,” Mabon said evenly, “and every word you utter demonstrates that. Maela made no request of me. She has not uttered a word of complaint since we left Calleva, despite you forcing her to travel as a soldier does. Oh, I understood the practicality of your demand, so smooth your hackles,” he added quickly. “If my queen is unhappy, the blame is surely mine. She has been unhappy since we wed. Now, a glimpse of sun through dark clouds presents itself. I will use that chink, small as it is, for while the queen is unhappy, so am I. Do I make myself clear enough for you, Cadfael?”

Cadfael nodded. “Amply, sir. Two more days it is.” He glanced around the room. “Is the queen with Ninian’s women now?” For there were no women at the back of the room, bent over their sewing, as there usually were.

Mabon settled back on the stool once more, relaxing. “She has been spending her days with the princess’ ladies, who are nearer her age.”

“The princess?” Cadfael’s tone was sharper than he intended.

“You have objections to that, too?” Mabon asked, raising his brow.

Cadfael breathed out his unease. “No objections I can name.” Yet his wariness was building. Unsettled, he rose to his feet, the log rocking at his movement. He strode over to the door and opened it, letting in cool air.

The boy was still upon the barrel, his gaze moving ceaselessly around the yard. When he spotted Cadfael, he shook his head again.

Vivian was still here.

Cadfael didn’t relax, though. He shut the door and went back to the log.

Mabon smiled as he sat down once more. “For a man who cares so little for the plight of women, your concern about the lady Vivian is extraordinary.”

“I care nothing for Vivian’s comfort. It is her conspiracies that concern me,” Cadfael muttered. In his mind, it was not Vivian’s black eyes he recalled, but instead, a pair of large, rich brown ones.

“And see, your concern is for naught,” Mabon added, nodding toward the back of the room.

The inner door to the chamber opened. There was a private passage at the back of the house, used only by Gwilym and the immediate members of his family, while everyone else used the verandah to reach other rooms in the palace.

Vivian stepped through, carrying a work basket. So did five other ladies, including Maela.

Cadfael admitted grudgingly to himself that Maela did look happy. At least, she was not the quivering, cowed woman who had crept about Mabon’s house for weeks, speaking to no one and starting if anyone spoke to her. Her back was straight. Her chin was up.

“See, it is much warmer in here,” Vivian told the women, as they moved to the benches and tables pushed up against the back wall.

Mabon’s smile was small and warm as he watched them settle on the benches.

Cadfael looked away from him, uncomfortable. The intimacy of Mabon’s smile made him feel as though he was peeping upon the man’s private affairs.

He deliberately turned and studied the women. They spoke softly among themselves as they spread linens and threaded needles.

With a jolt, he realized who was missing from among them. He shot to his feet.

“Cadfael?” Mabon said, startled.

Cadfael ignored him. He strode to the table where Vivian sat, stopping by her side. “Where is the lady Lynette?” he demanded.

Vivian looked up at him, her smooth brow lifting. “My lord?”

“Lynette,” he repeated harshly. “Where is she?”

“She’s ill,” one of the other women said.

Vivian spoke over the top of her. “Lynette is at the weaving loom.”

“But…” Maela said, startled. Then she bit her lip and turned her attention back to her sewing.

Vivian dropped her gaze, too. Every woman concentrated on her needle, silent.

Cadfael let his head drop back, closing his eyes, as fury tore through him. They sought to misdirect him.

Again.

He had been watching the wrong woman.

He was too angry to speak. If he did, he would break into violence. He could feel the urge to strike out running through him, heating his face and tightening his chest.

To be outsmarted by a woman—two women—was intolerable. He would not have it. He whirled, turning on one heel, strode to the door and threw it open.

How far ahead had she got? Could he catch her? The questions raised themselves as he crossed the yard and shoved open the stable door.

Stable boys and grooms looked up, startled, as he strode down the length of the stable to where his horse was munching on hay. He threw the saddle pad over the stallion’s back, while the grooms dithered behind him, too afraid to draw near and help.

Instead of leading the horse out into the yard and mounting there, he threw himself onto Mars’ back and kicked him into a gallop.

Wisely, the grooms leapt to open the big outer door before Cadfael reached it and he burst out into the sunlight at full gallop.

Never mind how far ahead she was. He knew the direction she had taken. He would track her horse, instead. He would track her and when he found her…

* * * * *

It took over an hour to find a trace of her. The closest hills to the town were busy with tracks from locals, who swarmed over them daily to find game, gather wood and harvest wild plants. Once he found the mare’s tracks, though, it became easy to distinguish her trail. Fresh hoof marks, not old and overriding every other print, led deeper into the hills.

He climbed back onto Mars and directed the stallion with his knees, as he bent closer to the ground to watch for prints. Mars was as eager to move as any of the war beasts quartered in the stables and trotted forward. Hunting was an old game for him.

They wound deeper into the hills. Up here, the air was cool, while the sun streamed impartially over hill and dale, sending cloud-shaped shadows scudding across the close-cropped turf.

Birds chirruped and hopped from branch to branch, telling him they had not been disturbed. He saw a red nosed fox peering from behind a tree. The creature slunk back into the shadows before he could reach for the small bow he kept on the saddle by his hip.

Still, the prints continued. She had tried to mask them by riding upon flat stones when they availed themselves. Once, she doubled back to check if anyone followed too closely, although he was not lured into repeating the loop. He found the newer trail and smiled grimly to himself as he turned Mars along it.

The sounds of men hunting, farther away, had been drifting to him upon the tiny breeze. Now those small sounds ceased. He was beyond their range. He nudged Mars down into the shallow valley before them. There were trees at the bottom, a thick copse of willows wound with creepers. A thief could hide among those shadows to leap upon passers-by. Although no self-respecting thief would consider lurking in this far-flung valley.

Mars snorted and walked down the stony hill, picking his way with care. Cadfael loosened his knife and let his hand linger on the hilt as they approached the copse, listening for sounds of movement among the trunks.

What he did hear was the trickle of a stream. It masked any noises that might alert him. Cadfael sat up in the saddle, withdrew the knife and held it at the ready as they grew closer. He glanced at the raw earth the hoof prints had thrown up. She had moved around the trees, not through them. Wise girl.

He followed her.

The copse was not large. After a while, he saw the source of the trickle. The stream was narrow enough for Mars to jump across without effort. It wound down from the top of the valley. The tinkle and splashing said the stream had a small drop in it somewhere ahead, possibly pouring over one of the stony outcrops that littered the area.

Apart from the trickle of water, there was no sound. Even the breeze had stopped.

Mars snorted.

Ahead, another horse nickered.

His heart thudding, he kneed Mars into a trot, so they could round the trees faster. The beat of hooves was no longer an issue. Her pony had told her someone was here. Better to catch her before she rode off. She had likely stopped to water the horse and drink from the stream herself, thinking she had left all pursuit far behind.

Mars moved to a canter, eager for company. They turned about an out-thrusting vein of trees and there she was.

Lady Lynette sat upon a cloth spread across green grass next to a fall of water no higher than her shoulder. She held a bannock dripping with honey in one hand, while she sucked the tip of her finger. An open pouch lay on the cloth next to her, showing a pared apple, a small flask and another bannock wrapped in linen.

She did not appear startled to see him. Her eyes did not widen. Instead, she finished licking her finger, then put the bannock down, as Cadfael galloped up to the cloth and brought Mars to a halt.

“Good day to you, lord Cadfael,” she said, her tone pleasant. “I have another bannock, if you would like it.”

Salt black fury rose in him as the truth registered. Vivian had set him on this path, knowing he would follow Lynette into the hills, leaving Vivian free to do whatever she wished.

Lynette was the decoy, after all.

Chapter Six

From Lynette’s seated position on the cloth, Cadfael’s war horse seemed huge. She made herself stay where she was, even though she wanted to shrink away from the blowing beast.

Cadfael leapt from the horse, his face dark with anger, a long knife clenched in his hand.

She had expected anger. Now she must deal with it.

He lunged across the cloth and gripped her hair, drawing her head back. The knife blade slapped against her throat, forcing her to stillness. It did not stop her heart from slamming against her chest.

“Give me a reason why I should not draw this blade deep and wide,” he demanded. His voice with thick with fury. He bent low over her, so that all she could see was his blue eyes, the deep lines radiating from them and the rough whiskers of his chin.

There was a scar under his chin. An old one, faded and pale.

He had demanded a reason to spare her. It was difficult to think. She had never in her life had a knife pointed in her direction, let alone a blade held at her throat. One quick slice and she would die.

Lynette made herself speak calmly even though her teeth wanted to chatter. “I am Vivian’s favorite companion. Kill me and you would upset the entire household. Vivian would see to it. I do not think you want to ruin your king’s efforts to recruit Gwilym with a hasty action like this.”

“Vortigern is my king. Perhaps the pleasure of slitting your throat outweighs my care for Mabon’s cause.”

“His cause is Vortigern’s. You are not so disloyal you would abandon your responsibilities for a single moment of pleasure, for that is all it would be. A cut, a gush and the deed would be done. I would no longer know anything of this world while you would remain a man bested by women.”

His growl rumbled in his throat and her heart leapt. Had she pushed too far? She had judged him a man who preferred frank speech. He had abandoned coquetry in the courtyard in favor of speaking his feelings. Perhaps he only liked truth he arrived at himself. Slapping him with it appeared to have the opposite effect.

She braced herself.

He straightened with a jerk. “Christ, you are a cool one!” He flung the knife. It landed point up in the grass by the stream, swaying.

His back was to her. Lynette closed her eyes and let out her breath. Relief ran through her veins, making her tremble. Another deep breath. Then she opened her eyes.

Cadfael bent and snatched up the saddlebag. “What are you doing out here?”

“Leading you away from Maridunum.”

He scowled. “Do not stretch my tolerance too far.” He pulled out her knife and turned it over. “The blade is too short to be useful, for one who wanders about by herself.” He dropped it to the cloth and dug again. He pulled out the rolled parchment and turned it around and around, looking at it. He held it toward her. “What is this?”

Lynette was puzzled. “A letter, of course.”

“That is all? A letter? Who would send the likes of you a letter?”

“My mother.” She frowned. “Do you not read, my lord?”

He glared at her. “You do?”

“Of course.” She shrugged.

He lowered the saddlebag, letting it hang from his hand. The one that held the letter gripped the roll. His knuckles whitened. “Who are you?”

“Lynette, my lord.”

“Who would teach a daughter to read?” he demanded.

“My mother,” she said.

The hand holding the letter dropped, too. He stood staring at her, as if his thoughts raced.

She reached for the letter. It pulled away from his fingers without resistance. She smoothed the dent he had made in the outer layer. “Everyone calls Saxons ignorant, because they cannot read or write. The real reason they don’t write things down is because there are no letters for their language.”

He let out a heavy breath as if she had walloped him in the back. “Saxons?” he breathed, his voice tight.

“They tell stories and sing songs and that is how they remember,” she added.

“How would you know such a thing?”

“I read it in a letter spies sent to my father.” She made herself smile at him even though the fury still radiated from him like heat from a brazier and her own heart thrummed with unnamed fear. She was not yet safe from his retribution. Even though his knife was over by the stream and his sword was strapped to his horse, he was still dangerous. “If I can read and write, surely that means I am not your enemy?” she added.

Cadfael dropped the saddle bag and took three steps away from the cloth, while his horse lifted his nose from the grass, to see if his master was returning to him. Cadfael’s steps were unsteady, as if he was drunk.

He whirled and came back, his hands fists by his sides. He stood breathing heavily at the edge of the cloth. “How did you know?”

“Know, my lord?”

“How did you know that reminding me the Saxons are my real enemy would steal my anger?”

“Did it?” She shook her head. “You told me in the courtyard you cared for nothing but slaughtering Saxons. I am not Saxon. I only want to avoid your knife…or your hands.” She eyed his fists.

He flexed them self-consciously, as his throat worked. “There is a town in the north…” He cleared his throat. “There was a town in the north. Cair Dain, it was called. Up near Catterick…do you know where that is?”

“Yes. That is close to the Saxon Shore, is it not?”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “Half a year after the Saxons had driven the Picts back behind the wall, they raided all through that land. Whole villages were burned to charcoal.”

Lynette’s gut tightened. “I have heard men talk of such raids, before,” she admitted.

“Have you? Then you might have heard of the valor of the Britons who fight the Saxons who dare step onto British soil, beating them back to their Shore and their long houses.”

“That is usually the way the stories go.”

“Only, on this day, not a single Briton raised a hand. Not a weapon was unsheathed. The Saxons flowed over the land like water and nothing stopped them.” His voice was hoarse. “No word reached us. No alarm was raised. Survivors said the Saxons took their time, raping and drinking, cutting throats and using men to practice their archery. They stripped every barn and stable and larder, piling their loot upon carts to carry back home, before they put a torch to the remains…” He looked away.

“Who of yours was in Cair Dain?” Lynette whispered, staring at the profile of his face, the strained lines and the old agony it portrayed. Everything about him—his distress, his anger—told her he had lost someone that day.

“My wife,” he whispered. He closed his eyes. “My son,” he added.

Lynette dared not speak. There were no words of comfort she could offer him.

His eyes stayed closed. “I found their…them, afterward,” he said. His voice was strained, but stronger. “To this day, the smell of burning flesh makes me too ill to stand.”

Lynette shuddered and held back her moan of horror. She got to her feet, picked up the flask and pressed it into his hand. “Drink,” she whispered.

He looked at the flask. Then he unstopped it and gulped the wine. He tossed the empty flask onto the cloth and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze met hers. “The only care I have left in the world is to put my sword into as many Saxons as I can.”

“The lady Vivian is not a Saxon. Her affairs are of no threat to you or Vortigern. I give you my word on that.”

He laughed. It was not a happy sound. “You give me your word?”

She met his eye. “As a Celt and a Briton.”

“You omit naming yourself a servant of Vortigern,” he pointed out.

Lynette hesitated. “It goes without saying,” she said as off-handedly as she could and gave a shrug.

“Does it? You called him Vortigern, not the High King, or King Vortigern.”

Lynette dropped her gaze.

“You are pro-Roman,” he concluded.

“I don’t know what I am,” she said truthfully. “I suppose, as he is the High King, I am for Vortigern, yet…”

Cadfael laughed again. This time there was amusement in it.

“Why do you laugh?” she demanded.

“I laugh at the spectacle of a woman trying to decide where her loyalties lie. As if they matter a damn in the scheme of things.”

“You think a woman cannot have an opinion?”

“About politics? No.”

Irritation touched her. “I read, I listen. I naturally form an opinion. I can tell you that Vortigern is as much a blight on this land as the Saxons—” She tried to suck the words back inside her, to take them back. It was too late. They had been spoken.

She lifted her chin and looked at him.

Cadfael nodded. “So, the truth comes out. No wonder you hide here in Maridunum. You keep good company.”

“If the company I keep makes me no different from them, then you have no need to single me out, do you?”

Cadfael pursed his lips. “You are not Saxon, nor are you one of their spies, not tucked away in this place. I give you that. You are hiding a secret, though. Perhaps I should unravel it to keep myself entertained while Mabon lingers here.”

“When you learn the truth, perhaps you would be kind enough to share it with me.” She blinked, surprised at the degree of bitterness that sounded in her voice.

Cadfael considered her, his hand at his chin. “You don’t know what your lady does, any more than I do.”

“I know little more,” Lynette admitted. “Which I will not share with you,” she added hastily. “What I do know makes no sense and Vivian refuses to explain herself.”

“Yet you risk your neck to lure me here, so she can tend to her secret, anyway,” he finished. “You are loyal, aren’t you?”

“I am sworn to her service,” Lynette said stiffly.

“Did you swear your fealty before you knew you would be asked to seduce men in her name?”

Lynette felt her cheeks heat. “I have made no attempt to seduce you,” she pointed out stiffly. “Unless a woman’s conversation is considered to be seduction,” she added.

Cadfael smiled. It was unexpected, and Lynette caught her breath. The expression wiped away the worn expression in his eyes. He looked younger. Carefree. Perhaps even happy. Cadfael the Black had momentarily departed. “Every man back in Maridunum would tell you that a woman signals by her conversation an interest in a man. That interest opens the way for the man to press his advantage. You are too sophisticated a woman to not understand that instinctively.”

“You are saying I should have walked up to you on that barrel and kissed you, for all the difference it makes.”

“Oh, there is a difference,” he assured her. “I would not fail to notice a kiss from you.”

The words strummed between them.

Lynette could not pull her gaze away from his eyes. They grasped her attention and held it, to the point where she could hear nothing but the thud of her heart. Her whole body pulsed with it.

His gaze shifted and dropped.

To her lips.

Her heart fluttered weakly. She made herself speak. Her voice was also weak. “Then perhaps I should have kissed you, for that would have held your attention, while my mere conversation failed to.”

For a moment more, he studied her. She couldn’t move.

Then he turned away. “Pack your things. I will escort you back to the palace. It’s getting late and we’re a long way from the town.”

“Not really,” she told him, as she bent to pack away the meal and stuff it into her saddle bag, along with the cloth she had been seated upon. “I came around in a great curve. There is a shortcut through the end of this valley, back to the town.”

His scowl rushed back into place, as he picked up his stallion’s reins and perversely, Lynette was pleased to see it. She felt as if she had escaped by the narrowest margin.

The sensation stayed with her all the way back to Maridunum, as she tried to resolve the riddle. What, exactly, had she escaped from?

Chapter Seven

Lynette left the weaving to other women. Any loom she approached tended to break its warp threads at the sight of her and snarl into a defensive tangle before she could touch it. On the other hand, she was a good seamstress—good enough that other women asked her to make garments for their men and themselves for occasions where more workmanlike skills would not serve.

She always had more than enough sewing tasks to spend her time upon, although she did like the clack and swish the looms made as the women worked them. It made the time pass pleasantly.

The day after Lynette led Cadfael into the hills and survived to tell the tale, Vivian asked the best weavers in her retinue to weave the finest cloth they could manage, for Vivian wanted to surprise the king with a tunic for his birthday. The three looms were set up with gold and white threads and the women got busy with their shuttles. The looms ticked softly as the women worked, with few words between them for they were hurrying and needed to concentrate.

Maela broke the absorbed silence. “The looms are not in rhythm. They are competing with each other. The work would go much faster if they were in time.”

Lynette looked up from the seam she was sewing. The young queen’s face was pink with her own daring, the freckles standing out. “What do you mean, they’re not in rhythm?”

“You don’t have weaving songs?” Maela asked.

Vivian looked amused and puzzled at once. “Why don’t you sing one for us?” she asked.

Maela’s flush deepened. “I could hum it, I suppose.” She put down her embroidery and hummed softly. Lynette could only just hear her over the sound of the looms.

“Louder,” Vivian suggested.

Maela halted, flustered. Then she nodded and sang, “La-la, la-la-la…” As her sweet voice piped the notes, she gestured with her hands, mimicking the motion a weaver makes, shooting and catching the shuttle, then pulling the beater forward, switching the warp threads, then pushing the beater back.

The tune had a simple beat that made Lynette’s foot tap, while the notes climbed and dipped in a pretty little tune.

The weavers—Iva, Olwen and Mabyn—paused, looking at each other. Olwen tilted her head and smiled, then nodded. The three of them turned back to their looms and paused to start in time with the tune.

The three looms followed the beat of the song. With the looms adding to the beat, Lynette found even her own needle was sliding through the fabric every third beat.

The work continued for a few minutes, then Mabyn turned on her stool. “Are there any words?” she said. “Then we could sing it for ourselves.”

Maela halted, her gaze skittering to Vivian and away.

“I think there are, only Maela is too much a lady to share them,” Vivian said.

Olwen turned quickly. “Oh, are they bawdy? Please share them!”

“Yes, do,” Iva added.

Maela rubbed at the base of her throat, her eyes downcast. With her head down, she sang again, this time using words. It was a simple little tale about a husband coming home too drunk to see and trying to seduce his wife. He takes off his leggings, stumbles and falls, hitting her head with his and making them both pass out. He wakes and thinks his prowess in bed was so fine, his wife fainted from the pleasure. His wife, thinking quickly, assures him that yes, he was more than a man and could she please experience that pleasure again. The next night and every night after that, he returns home sober, to outdo himself in bed and this time to experience it, too. Their marriage was happy from then on.

As the song progressed, the women smiled, then laughed. When it ended, they clutched their looms and held them while they giggled and snorted and wiped tears from their eyes.

“Again!” Iva called, turned and facing her loom properly once more.

Maela began the song again, with no hesitation. Her chin was up, now and her eyes shining. The women picked up the words quickly and sang, their looms keeping time.

The opening of the outside door brought silence to the room. Everyone looked up to see Cadfael walk in, looking around with interest. His cloak swirled around him and his sword knocked against his leg. He seemed to bring in with him a hint of the cool air, a scent of horses, smoke and wine. It was a masculine smell and foreign in this room.

The women dropped their eyes to their work demurely and waited. Lynette did, too, her heart skipping along a little faster. He could only be here because of her.

Cadfael cleared his throat. “Queen Maela,” he acknowledged.

“Good day to you, Cadfael,” Maela returned.

“My lady Vivian,” Cadfael continued. “I wonder…if you would be so kind to lend me the services of your ladies. I have a tear in my tunic and no woman to take care of it.”

Vivian stirred. “Lynette, perhaps you could repair the tunic in the storeroom and let us return to work?”

Lynette picked up her basket and got to her feet. It was a reasonable request. While a man of rank stood in the room, the women could not turn their backs and work. Without looking at him, Lynette murmured, “This way, my lord,” and moved over to the inner storeroom. There was a curtain across the entrance, which would cut his view into the workroom.

She closed the curtain behind him, her heart jumping. There were shelves on three side of the room and a little sorting table, which left little space. Cadfael seemed to fill the space even though there was a little room to step around him and move to the table.

The looms set to work again, on the other side of the curtain. After a while, the weaving song began, too, only the women were tra-la-la-ing, instead of singing the words.

Lynette smiled to herself and held out her hand. “The tunic, my lord?”

Cadfael reached up and slid the pin from the brooch on his shoulder and the cloak fell away. He bundled it and put it on one of the shelves.

Then he unbuckled his sword.

With horror, Lynette realized that the tunic he wanted her to repair was the one he was wearing.

She didn’t realize she was backing away from him until her shoulders bumped against the shelf behind her. Her dismay must have shown on her face, for he paused with his knife belt in one hand, the tunic hanging loose from his shoulders. “You have nothing to fear from me, remember? You are not a Saxon.” He kept his voice down, so it would not travel beyond the curtain. The merrily clacking looms covered the small sound he did make.

She could see the tear in the tunic, now. It was where the shoulder met the arm, a long rip with tattered edges.

Cadfael fingered it. “I wouldn’t bother you with it, only the edges keep catching on my cloak and tear more each time I take off my cloak.”

It was a perfectly acceptable request, even reasonable. Lynette held out her hand. “Give it to me.” She did not move closer to him. The room was already felt too small for her comfort.

He nodded and took off the tunic and held it out to her.

Lynette stared at the undershirt he wore beneath. There was an identical tear in the wool, only not as long. The edges of the wool were unraveling.

Her heart beat faster. “How did you tear the tunic?” she asked. Her voice sounded remote.

Cadfael leaned forward slowly, as if he was trying to avoid startling her. He placed the tunic on the table and straightened, then looked down at the rent in the undershirt. “Knife, I think. I don’t quite remember. Perhaps a spear head? I came round after the fight was done, bleeding everywhere.”

The tunic and undershirt had no blood on them. They were washed and unstained.

She had seen her mother mending her father’s clothes many times in the past. Until this moment, she had never connected the mending with the making of the tears. Swords, knives, spears, arrows and the Saxons’ favorite, axes. There were more ways to kill and maim than there were ways to fix such wounds.

“I should stitch the shirt, too,” Lynette said, forcing volume into her voice. “Otherwise, the wool will unravel and you’ll have no shirt left at all.”

“I see.” He hesitated, then with quick movements, he stripped the shirt, too.

She might have stared at his heavy chest and thick arms, except her gaze was drawn to the angry red scar on his shoulder, right where the tears in his tunic and shirt had been.

He traced her gaze and ran the tip of his finger over the scar, from top to bottom. “Embarrassing, for the High King’s battle commander, no?”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Lynette said.

“I cannot afford to. This one was nearly my undoing. It was a good warning to keep up my guard. And my shield.” His smile was brief.

The silence that built reminded Lynette why they were both squeezed into the tiny room. She held out her hand for the undershirt and he dropped the soft wool onto it.

Unable to meet his gaze, she selected thread and a needle, then gathered up the stitches and loose ends of wool, tying them off so they would not unravel. The construction of the sleeve, with a square inset at the bottom, made her pause. She spread the sleeve to better examine it, her heart hurrying. “I know this style shirt. They don’t make shirts this way in the south. This is from the north.”

“True enough,” he said evenly. He had his arms crossed and leaned against the thick door frame. The leather leggings hung from tight hips. His stomach was flat and strong with muscles. So were his arms. The tendons flexed in them as she looked up. Was he clenching his hands, hidden behind his elbows? The expression on his face was smooth and neutral.

Lynette brushed her fingertips over the shirt sleeve, her eyes pricking with tears. Her throat ached with a sudden and unexpected longing to see the rugged peaks and valleys of home and to take in the crisp air.

Only, that would never happen. She would never return home, for one of the unspoken expectations of her time in Maridunum was that Gwilym would find her a suitable husband—a war duke or perhaps a king or prince if she was lucky. They would take her to their home, instead, and that would become her new world.

“There is a reason they make shirts that way, where I come from,” Cadfael said.

Where he came from? Lynette blinked her eyes rapidly to disperse the tears, then looked up at him. Her throat was too tight with tears to speak.

He nodded, as if she had spoken, anyway. “My wife explained it to me, once. The looms are smaller than they are here in the south, for lumber strong enough for a large loom is rare in higher plains. The shirts are put together with many pieces, instead of three large pieces, as they make them down here.”

Lynette nodded, for she had made dozens of shirts just like this. The sleeves were four pieces each, the body another four pieces, front and back. The seams made the garment stronger and warmer.

She kept her hands moving, repairing the tear. “Your wife made this shirt?” she asked when she could speak once more without revealing her upset.

“Not that one, no,” he said quietly. “There are none left now, that she made. Ygraine died many years ago.”

“I see. Ygraine…she came from the north, too?”

His answer did not come at once and she did not press him for it. Lynette focused on her stitching instead.

“There is a place in the north, that is so wild and so mysterious that some say it is where the gods walk,” he said. “The lake there ripples when there is no breeze. The mountains sing on certain days and there are crags the birds will not fly near. Men speak of giant white wolves who guard the doors to the underworld that a man might find there if he looks properly.”

Lynette shivered.

“Sometimes,” Cadfael continued, “the peaks are wreathed in mist and clouds and they seem far away and cold. Sometimes, though, they are clear and so close you have only to reach out your hand to touch them. The streams that run from those peaks are clear and cold. To drink from them makes a man courageous and a woman beautiful, so now all the women of the north are of a beauty unsurpassed, while the men of the north are sought as warriors who never fail.”

Lynette might have laughed at the tale he was telling, except that she had heard such tales all through her childhood. To listen to someone relate the stories now, as she worked on the shirt, seemed to take her back to the hearth where she had heard them all the first time.

“There is a mountain there that challenges the strength of a man,” Cadfael continued. “They call it Cader Idris. If a man dares sleep upon its slopes, he will wake either mad, or a poet. North of Cader Idris lies the grandest mountain of them all. Y Wyddfa, where giants walk. One of them smashed his hammer into the earth, a long time ago, for the rocks he threw up can still be seen, a stony crown scoring the ground. That is the land where Ygraine came from. I, too. Tal-y-llyn, on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil, where they say the gods linger still.”

The silence throbbed.

Lynette’s heart would not stop its heavy beat. “Did you sleep upon Cader Idris?”

Cadfael smiled, his gaze looking inward. “Once, long ago, when I was young and foolish. My friends challenged me and…well, I do not like to lose.”

“So, you are either mad or a poet.” Lynette had already decided he was a poet, for the spell he had just woven, when speaking of his home, had prompted visions of snowy peaks, clear running streams and the song of the wind playing across them all. The scent of snow in the air and farther west, the scent of the sea. When the wind was right, the smell of salt drifted across the land.

Lynette cut the thread and held out his shirt. “The circle of stones where the giant smashed his hammer. That is Bryn Cader Faner, yes?”

His fingers curled about the shirt. His gaze met hers, startled. “You know the place?”

“I do.”

The shirt slid from her fingers as he took it back. “You read about it, then. No, you heard it when men spoke of it, while not seeing you were there.” There was a teasing note in his voice.

“I grew up in Tomen y mur,” she replied.

His brow lifted. “At the feet of Y Wyddfa. They say that place is holy, that gods linger and whisper their messages and that is why the Romans abandoned their fort, there.” He busied himself putting the shirt on. Lynette reached for the tunic and smoothed the edges of the rent together before beginning to stitch it closed.

“Your father is Mostyn, then? One of Vortigern’s war dukes,” he said.

“You would know him, I think.”

“I do.” Cadfael tugged the shirt down, then inspected the repair. “A good man. A good fighter.” He frowned and his gaze came back to her. “I judged him to be violently loyal to Vortigern. How is it you are here?”

“With a Roman king?” Lynette finished.

“Well, yes.”

“My mother arranged it. Gwilym is her uncle.”

“I’m sure she has other uncles, ones who are in higher in Vortigern’s favor.”

“Yet she sent me here.” Lynette focused on her stitching, for she would not explain her mother’s reasoning to Cadfael of all people. In the south, with Gwilym’s people, you will not draw Vortigern’s eye, her mother had explained, the day she broke the news that Lynette would join Gwilym’s court.

“Then we are both strangers here, aren’t we?” Cadfael said.

Lynette looked up at him, noticing yet again the blue of his eyes. There was a strength in his face that said he had endured much and would bear more. “We are a long way from home,” she agreed.

He bent, bringing his lips to hers.

A proper lady would shrink back, out of his reach, Lynette told herself. A gentle woman would run as far from him as possible. A true lady would be horrified he pressed unwelcome attentions upon her. A lady would not have put herself in the position where he could.

She did none of those things. Frozen, she let him kiss her. Her heart squeezed and her breath caught as his mouth touched hers, for it was a gentle brush of his lips. For such a big man, a warrior, she would have expected a kiss from him to be as rough and harsh as any other man’s kiss.

He did not grind his mouth against hers, bruising her flesh. It was the lightest of kisses, barely there at all.

Yet her heart turned over and her breath escaped in a ragged exhale.

He pulled away from her, just enough so he could look at her. He seemed puzzled. The pulse in his neck jumped.

Lynette pushed to her feet and kissed him. There was no decision behind her action, only pure wanting. She would experience that gentle touch once more. She would taste him again. She would taste him properly.

She wound her arm about his neck, to help her reach his lips, for he straightened in shock. With her other hand, she steadied his face, feeling the rasp of whiskers against her palm. Her fingertips, though, smoothed over soft flesh.

She pressed her lips against his and breathed her delight into him. Holding herself against him like this, she could sense his rock-like strength.

Cadfael stirred. His arms came around her and he pressed her back until the shelves halted her. Still he moved, until the length of his body was against hers, holding her up. He kissed her, his hands about her face. It was still gentle, although there was no softness to this kiss. He plundered her mouth. His tongue stroked her lips and pressed inside, as his fingers stroked the flesh of her throat.

Lynette’s thoughts fractured and scattered. Instead, she became a purely sensory creature, absorbing the pleasure he gave her with the simple touch of his lips and the fine stroke of his fingers.

Until he groaned and grew still.

Lynette drew in an unsteady breath. Her whole body throbbed with the power of the kiss and she blinked, for the light in the little storage room was now overwhelming.

Cadfael stepped away from her. He held up his hands, his palms toward her. She understood. Stop. No further.

Silently, he picked up his sword and knife belt and his cloak, bundling them in one arm. Then he reached for the partially repaired tunic, too, and pulled it from the table, his gaze locked on hers.

Lynette wanted to protest that the mend was incomplete. Her voice failed her. There were too many emotions in his face and his eyes for her to understand all of them, although the one she did recognize stole her tongue.

Guilt.

He rammed the tunic on top of his cloak, turned and shoved the curtain aside, then strode from the room, across the bigger workroom, to the outer door and tore it open.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Lynette standing at the storeroom door, her heart racing, her body aching with unfulfilled need and her thoughts bouncing off each other.

The women all stared at her, their eyes big. All, except Vivian, who smiled and bent her head back over her work.

Chapter Eight

It was cold outside, more so than it had felt when he stepped onto the verandah and explained to the guard why he sought entry to the women’s workroom.

Cadfael shoved past the guard, back onto the tiles. The guard gave him a startled look, his eyes sliding down to the bundle in Cadfael’s arm.

Nothing had changed out here. Men still moved through their sword practice in disciplined ranks, their movements measured by older, more experienced warriors. Servants and slaves fed the pigs and goats. Grooms brushed down horses out in the sun, where their coats gleamed with good health and care.

In the far corner by the abandoned barrel, Mervyn and five men who looked to him sat on the edge of the verandah, their swords sheathed and cups in their hands. The minimum daily practice every man undertook as soon as he was strong enough to hold a sword in one hand apparently did not apply to Gwilym’s oldest son.

Mervyn had been sprawled in the same place when Cadfael emerged from the stable after seeing to Mars and crossed the yard to the women’s quarters. Mervyn’s eyes were bloodshot, yet his focus seem unimpaired by the wine.

After two days of avoiding the prince with curt excuses, Cadfael thought Mervyn now understood Cadfael did not want a petty princeling hanging from his elbow—not one with a reputation for cowardice, who wanted only to enhance his own reputation by lingering beside Cadfael, where he could catch Vortigern’s eye.

Cadfael would have to walk behind Mervyn and his men to reach his quarters. At this moment, he didn’t care. As he moved down the long verandah, his thoughts focused upon what had just happened.

Why had he kissed Lynette? He had never been tempted to kiss another woman, not since Ygraine had passed. He’d bedded plenty, both whores and willing maids, yet he had not kissed any of them.

He had not made a conscious decision to take the kiss. He had been moved by learning Lynette was of the mountains, just as he was. It didn’t explain why he had kissed her, though.

His heart thudded unhappily, guilt swirling in his belly and making his head hurt.

He ignored Mervyn when he reached him and moved along the verandah to the door of his borrowed room, at the furthest distance from the women’s quarters. He had his spare hand on the left-hand side of the door and was about to push it open, when Mervyn spoke, behind him.

“Look at him, tail between his legs. Can’t bed a woman, can’t even get his clothes back on before she tosses him.”

The other five sniggered obediently.

The thudding in Cadfael’s head exploded, spilling fury through his blood and wiping all thought.

He dropped everything he carried and leapt at the princeling, his hands reaching for the man’s throat.

The gasp of the others warned Mervyn, who spun and staggered to his feet, out of the way.

That was good. That was fine by Cadfael. He pushed off the edge of the verandah with his boot, flinging himself at the man. His shoulder rammed into Mervyn’s belly, forcing the air from his chest in a forceful grunt.

Mervyn landed on his back in the muddy yard. Pigs squealed and scurried out of the way. The men thrusting their swords into imaginary enemies spun on their heels, alerted.

Cadfael got to his knees, pushing himself up with his hands on Mervyn’s chest. He gripped one hand with the other and swung, the back of his fist connecting with the man’s jaw.

Mervyn grunted again and spat blood. He surged up onto his feet, his bloodshot eyes filled with fury.

“Get him!” the cry came from behind Cadfael.

Cadfael jumped to his feet and swung around. He grabbed the first throat that came within reaching distance and tossed Mervyn’s man back at the others. They fell into the dirt in a tangled heap.

Mervyn’s arm snaked around Cadfael’s neck, his fingers clawing for his throat.

Stupid.

Cadfael grabbed his wrist, ducked under the arm and moved around Mervyn, bringing his wrist up high against his back.

Mervyn cried out piteously at the pain.

“You know nothing of life, you pampered fool,” Cadfael breathed in his ear. “It is little wonder no woman will marry you.” He planted his boot in the small of Mervyn’s back and shoved hard.

Mervyn cried out again as he staggered forward, his hands out to break his fall. The lines of practicing fighters broke up, as they shuffled out of the way. They didn’t thrust out their arms to break their prince’s fall.

Mervyn sprawled in the dirt, his cloak up over his head and his tunic hiked to show soft white flesh above his leggings.

Cadfael turned about to face the other threat. The five were back on their feet now, with bloody murder in their eyes. They were more sober than Mervyn and that was also just fine by Cadfael. He tightened his fists and strode into their midst.

* * * * *

There was always a background noise of animals and men working out in the courtyard that passed through the stout door into Vivian’s workroom as a pleasant, soft hum that assured Lynette everything was as it should be.

A few minutes after she returned to her stool at Vivian’s table, shaking in the aftermath of Cadfael’s kiss, the hum was interrupted by cries of alarm.

Everyone paused, looking up.

Vivian went to the small window and looked out. “Oh!” The note of surprise was tinged with an emotion that Lynette thought might be amusement or satisfaction.

Her exclamation was a signal. The other women all surged to the window behind Vivian to peer out.

“Isn’t that Cadfael? That’s him, who just left here, yes?” Olwen asked.

Lynette’s heart, still hurrying, shot skyward. She pushed away from the table and hurried to the door, not bothering to squeeze in for a tiny glimpse of what happened outside. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the verandah.

There were dozens of men gathered in a tight circle, in the opposite corner of the courtyard. Whatever they were standing around was the source of the noise.

Abruptly, a portion of the circle broke apart as men hastily stepped out of the way. Through the opening, two men staggered. One—Cadfael, she realized with horror—had a hand about the throat of the other as they stumbled into the center of the courtyard.

Slaves and servants and other household members, including Ninian’s women, were pouring out of other rooms of the house, to stand on the verandah with their hands to their mouths, their eyes wide.

The man Cadfael attacked fell backward and went down with Cadfael on top of him, both hands settling around his neck. Lynette could see the man’s face now. It was Gruen, one of Mervyn’s favorite lieutenants.

Gruen, who likes to use his fists when a woman he beds doesn’t meet his satisfaction. The warning given to her by another maid whispered in her mind, now.

As Gruen and Cadfael landed, another two men ran and threw themselves upon Cadfael’s back, as the spectators moved to gain a better view. Dilwyn and Elis, both Mervyn’s men. They pummeled Cadfael’s back and head and shoulders. Cadfael didn’t seem to notice.

It was only when they both hauled on his arms, that his grip around Gruen’s neck loosened. They yanked Cadfael away. He landed heavily on his back.

Instantly, all three of them—Dilwyn, Elis and Gruen—piled on top of him.

Lynette drew in a shaky breath. Three against one!

Apparently, other men in the courtyard did not like the odds, either, for a mutter of dissatisfaction emerged from some of them.

The three attacking Cadfael paid no attention. They had him down on the ground and were pounding him with their fists.

Mervyn himself pushed through the surrounding men. His nose was bloody and his cloak had been torn away. His tunic was smeared in mud. He held his dagger in his hand. There was a hard, determined light in his eyes as he pushed at the backs of his officers, trying to squeeze in between them.

Lynette started forward and halted with her arm about the verandah post. There was nothing she could do. Mervyn would kill her as quickly as he would Cadfael.

The watching men, soldiers all, didn’t like it, either. Folant, the king’s most senior officer, a short man with iron gray hair and wise eyes, strode up to the struggling men. He had his sword in his hand. With a curt, low word, he gestured to his men.

Dozens stepped up around them and dragged each man away. Mervyn’s men didn’t go easily. They kicked and protested loudly. Mervyn writhed like a rabbit in a snare, screaming. “Let me at him I say! He insulted me! My father will kill all of you if you don’t let me go!”

Folant was unmoved by the threats.

Lynette pressed her hand to her mouth. Cadfael lay on the ground, not moving. There was blood on his undershirt, for he wore no tunic and no weapons.

Folant gestured. A slave ran up with a bucket and tipped the water over Cadfael. He stirred and groaned.

Folant bent and offered his hand, which Cadfael took and hauled himself slowly to his feet. The two spoke in quiet tones, their words not reaching Lynette. Folant looked amused.

Cadfael turned and trudged toward the stables. His hair, his clothes, dripped red-tinted water.

Lynette dug her fingernails into the post, forcing herself to stay where she was despite her inclination to hurry after him and check he was not badly hurt. She recalled his raised hands. Stop. Enough.

He would not welcome her attention.

Her heart skittering with more than the tension of the moment, Lynette made herself turn away and go back into the workroom, instead.

Everyone had returned to their seats. The weavers were fussing at their looms, setting up their shuttle races once more.

Vivian’s stool was empty.

Lynette made a fuss of settling her gown about her ankles as she sat down, which allowed her to look at every corner of the room. Vivian was not in it. She had used the chaos in the courtyard as a distraction and had vanished. Likely, she was going to see to Emrys.

That left Maela and Lynette at the small table, the other four at the bigger tables and the three weavers at their looms. Maela did not comment on Vivian’s vanishing.

Mabyn giggled. “Whatever did you do to the man, Lynette? He stormed out of here and immediately set to with Mervyn and his men.”

Olwen shook her head. “That Gruen is a nasty man.”

“Elis is not much better,” Iva said. “Whatever the black one handed out, they deserve it, I say.”

Now that Vivian was not here, Maela hunched over her embroidery, her head down. The parting of her hair on the top of her head was neat and smooth. Lynette stared at it, wishing the other women would cease speculating about Cadfael. They didn’t understand, they had no idea what drove him…

“Let me arrange your hair, Maela,” Lynette said loudly, standing up.

Maela lifted her head, her blue eyes widening. “My…my hair.” Her hand came up to rest over the end of one braid. “Is there something wrong with my hair?”

The other women did not rush to explain. Lynette didn’t want to be the cruel one to point out how Maela’s braids marked her as Saxon and kept Celts and Britons at a distance. Instead, she moved over to the cupboard where the brushes and pins and ornaments were kept and pulled out the small basket and brought it back to the table.

As Lynette sorted out pins and ornaments, Maela took in the hair arrangements of the other women. Mabyn, with her curls piled high and bound with a strip of fine, soft linen. Olwen, who raised her hand to her hair and pushed at the coil at the back, the soft curls about her face brushing her wrist.

Maela turned back to the table. She examined Lynette’s hair, with the high knot and the curls tumbling down her back. “I see,” Maela said softly. “Perhaps…yes, Lynette. You are kind to offer.” She picked up one of her braids and put her fingers about the end of the thong holding it in place. She hesitated, then with a sharp tug, she unraveled the thong, then quickly separated the strands.

While Maela worked on the second braid, Lynette brushed out the first. Maela’s hair was soft and thick. The braids had imparted a series of kinks and waves that would serve just as well as the curls that some women put into their hair with warm pokers.

Maela stayed still as Lynette brushed and curled and pinned.

The looms started up again. They made sporadic, uneven clacks. From the corner of her eye, Lynette could see the other women were watching with avid curiosity as she transformed Maela’s hair.

Olwen came over to the table and placed a wire crescent there. “Here, this will do well in her hair.” The crescent had a series of pretty blue stones wired along its length. With most of Maela’s hair caught up on top of her head and the thick excess trailing down behind, the crescent could secure the locks at the front.

Maela’s hands were tightly fisted in her lap. If she had worn braids her entire life, then it would take courage to abandon them. She was not a stupid woman. She understood what it meant. Yet she was submitting to the change.

“The braids would be good for traveling, especially in the way you traveled to get here, like a soldier,” Lynette said, attempting to ease her discomfort.

“My goodness, yes,” Iva added. “I had not thought of that.”

Maela shifted on the stool. Her discomfort was growing. She drew in a breath. “Cadfael is such an angry man, isn’t he?” she said, her voice overly loud.

She was changing the subject.

Lynette frowned.

“Is that why they call him the Black, do you think?” Mabyn asked.

“He has reason to be angry,” Lynette said stiffly.

“He does?” Olwen said, her surprise lifting her voice.

Lynette chided herself. She had been indiscreet. Now, though, she must continue. To refuse would rouse their curiosity. They would prod and tease and ask inappropriate questions of the men and perhaps of Cadfael himself, if she did not.

“His wife and son were murdered by the Saxons,” Lynette said. “Burned to death in their house, after the Saxons were finished with them.” That much, she did not have to explain. Everyone had heard the stories of what Saxons did to unarmed and helpless women and children. “No one tried to stop them. Not a single British soldier came to their aid. The entire village was raised.”

“No one helped? Not at all?” Mabyn asked, her voice high with distress.

Lynette’s heart thudded. She could still see Cadfael’s face as he had related the story. His distress and deep anger. The pain in his eyes. “No one helped,” she said grimly.

“When was this? Where?” Olwen demanded.

“I don’t know when, exactly. It was many years ago. Cair Dain, the village was called.”

Maela gasped. She yanked her hair out of Lynette’s grasp and surged to her feet, to spin and look at her. “Cair Dain?” she repeated.

“Yes, that is what he called it,” Lynette replied.

Maela’s face drained of color. Her freckles stood out, as her skin took on a grayish cast. “Danum,” she whispered. Her eyes turned up and closed.

Lynette lunged and caught the girl as she crumpled.

Chapter Nine

“What is Danum, anyway?” Olwen demanded as the women cleared the worktable of their sewing. She helped Lynette lift the limp Maela to the table. Mabyn slid a folded cloak beneath the girl’s head.

“It sounds Latin,” Mabyn said, staring down at Maela’s still figure.

“Perhaps it was the Roman name for Cair Dain?” Lynette suggested.

“The Saxons use the Roman names for places,” Iva said. “They won’t use our names. Might rot on their tongues if they do.”

Maela stirred and moaned. Then she rolled over and pushed herself up on one arm. Her face was still devoid of color. She hung over her arm, her head down.

“Careful, she’ll vomit,” Mabyn said.

A bowl was thrust beneath Maela’s head. She clutched it, breathing hard. After a long moment, she sighed and sat up properly. She pressed her forehead into her bent knees. She trembled.

“What do you know about Cair Dain?” Lynette asked her, settling her hip on the edge of the table so she could face the woman.

Maela lifted her head. Her loose locks spilled around her face. “I had forgotten about Danum. All these years…until just now when you said the name. Then I remembered. It meant nothing when I was young. Now, though…” She swallowed. Her eyes glittered with sudden tears.

Everyone else remained perfectly still, as if they were afraid to interrupt her.

Lynette wanted to shake her and demand she tell her everything, at once. Instead, she waited, as everyone else did.

Maela wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I was…I could not have been more than ten. Perhaps only eight or nine. There was a meeting in my father’s hall. A secret meeting, I think. My father and a Saxon delegation.” She swallowed. “They were giants. Hairy, filthy beasts and they smelled…”

The woman shifted uneasily. Talk of Vortigern and Saxons together tended to do that to the strongest man.

Lynette glanced at them impatiently. “Everyone has always known Vortigern invited the Saxons here. This was years ago, she said. Be quiet and let her finish.” She looked at Maela. “Go on. You were at that meeting?”

“My mother was there. She was…she spoke Saxon, of course. And she spoke our language. The Saxons did not. She translated for my father, for he spoke only a little Saxon and didn’t want to be misunderstood. My mother put me in a corner and told me to stay still and silent as a mouse. I was too young to understand, but I was…” Maela glanced around the room. “I was afraid of my father and I didn’t want him to see me there and get angry, so I stayed silent as my mother insisted. The men talked, back and forth—it was slow because my mother had to explain what each had said to the other. I heard everything they said at least twice and often four times over. I think that is why I remember it so clearly.”

“Remember what?” Olwen breathed.

Lynette glared at her.

Maela frowned. “You must understand…it meant nothing to me then. I didn’t know the Saxons were our enemies. I didn’t even know they were Saxons. They spoke my mother’s language, that she had taught me as our secret language. I thought they were merely interesting. Smelly, but interesting.”

Olwen shifted impatiently.

Lynette wanted to do the same thing, although she contained herself. Maela was talking herself through the memory, putting it together even as she told them. Reinterpreting the events now she was an adult with a wider world view. To hurry her would not help.

Maela looked at her knees. “The Saxons…I suppose the one who did all the speaking must have been Hengest. He demanded payment for something. They kept talking about the north. And the Picts. They argued over numbers.”

“What sort of numbers?” Lynette pressed.

Maela pressed her hands to her face. “Towns and villages,” she said, her voice muffled. She pulled her hands away and looked at Lynette. “They argued over how many towns and villages.” Her throat worked. “They agreed on one town and ten villages, then settled in to argue about which ones. Caer Dain was one—Hengest called it Danum and my father called it Caer Dain. Afterward, Hengest went away. He was very happy.” Her shoulders shook and she covered her face again. “My father gave them a town and ten villages to pay for them driving the Picts back north of the Wall. My father.”

The silence that gripped the women was complete. They all stared at Maela, their horror open upon their faces.

Lynette couldn’t remember getting to her feet. She stared down at Vortigern’s daughter, sickness swirling in her belly.

Olwen caught Lynette’s arm and squeezed it. “You cannot tell him,” she said quickly and urgently, her voice low. “What point is there? It was years ago, just as you said.”

Mabyn nodded. “There is no point stirring up the past.”

“It isn’t the past for Cadfael,” Lynette said, her voice hoarse. “He still lives it, every day. He deserves to know who is truly to blame for Caer Dain.”

Iva, who was older and often an unexpected source of wisdom about men, said, “He won’t thank you for telling him.”

“He’ll kill you,” Olwen said flatly.

Lynette nodded. “He might. Though, I couldn’t live with myself if I don’t tell him.”

She moved over to the warp winding racks next to the looms and plucked her cloak from the peg and threw it around her shoulders.

No one tried to stop her leaving.

* * * * *

The rain that had been threatening all morning began as Lynette picked her way across the muddy yard. Rain fell in big drops, as if a god had tipped a bucket upon them.

Under the eaves of the stable, four of the grooms stood shivering, their arms around themselves.

“Why don’t you go inside?” Lynette asked them as she shook the rain from her cloak and hair.

“We dare not,” the oldest said and shivered again. “He’s in there.”

Lynette frowned. She pushed the leather covering the door aside and ducked into the stable. It was a tall, large building, with an owl roosting at the end of the roof beam and doves fluttering during the day. The floor was a thick mulch of hay, refreshed daily. Dozens of stalls ran up and down each side of the back end of the stable. At the front, where the big doors opened to allow the entry of hay carts and wagons, there was an exercise and grooming area. Normally the grooms lingered here, where it was warmer than outside thanks to the beasts kept in the stalls.

Lynette moved through the corridor between the stalls. There did not seem to be anyone in the stable at all. A horse moved at the front of the building, snorting softly. All the others were still and silent.

The rain drummed on the roof overhead.

Her heart worked weakly. The illness still clutched her. She suspected it would not leave—not for a while, at least.

One of the last stalls was empty. There was something hanging over the low wall that separated it from the next stall. As she drew closer, she recognized it. It was Cadfael’s undershirt, clean now and hung to dry. Beneath it was a bucket half-filled with water that he would have used as a wash tub.

She took a few more steps toward the opening into the exercise area. Now she was closer, she could hear the constant swishing sound of a brush against hide, moving fast.

Lynette paused, as fear grabbed at her throat.

He’ll kill you.

She closed her eyes. Better to turn and go back to the workroom. Cadfael had gone this long without knowing the truth. What would it serve now to tell him?

Only, she would want to know. If the Saxons had ever navigated through the mountains to strike at her family, she would want to understand why it had happened. She would want to know every event that had built up into that terrifying conclusion.

Especially, she would want to know it wasn’t mindless bad luck that the Saxons had happened upon her town and taken a fancy to the few riches to be found there. If they had been directed to raid her parent’s town, she would most certainly want to know, for knowing made a difference.

With a deep breath, Lynette pushed herself into taking the last few steps that would bring her into the exercise area.

Cadfael was brushing his stallion, as she had suspected. He was bare chested and his back had more scars than his front. Scars she had seen in plenty. The bruises, though, looked vicious. They were already emerging and were an angry, intense purple.

The stallion saw her and threw up his nose, warning his master.

Cadfael whirled, the brush in his hand. His chest rose and fell. The scowl was firmly in place.

She lifted her hand, just as he had done, palm out. No words came.

Cadfael wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Did you come to tell me how foolish I am? Because I am aware of that, thank you.” He turned back to the horse.

“Is that why you scrub your stallion’s hide so hard? Because you feel foolish?” Tell him! she raged to herself.

Cadfael had the brush raised once more. He hesitated, then patted the horse’s withers with his other hand. He dropped the brush and tossed it into the corner. Then he stalked to the door where she stood.

Lynette shrank back.

He rolled his eyes at her and bent and picked up his tunic from the pile of cloth sitting on the floor. His cloak was there and his knife belt. His sword leaned against the wall.

Cadfael shoved his arms into the tunic. There was a soft, ripping sound and he paused. With a sigh, he finished putting it on and glanced down at the enlarged tear. His bare arms looked odd. Every man Lynette had ever known always wore a long sleeved undershirt beneath their tunic. In winter, they would wear more than one.

“Why are you here?” Cadfael demanded of her.

Tell him.

Lynette swallowed. Her throat clicked. She swallowed again. “I heard something…” Her voice was scratchy.

Cadfael laughed. “In the way you have, when men don’t see you.” He bent to pick up his belt and paused, his gaze on her. He straightened. “Your face is pale. What is it you heard?”

Tell him. You must tell him.

“About…Caer Dain.” She could not lift her voice much above a whisper.

Cadfael’s face closed in. His eyes shuttered. It was like watching a storm roll across the sky, the black cloud covering everything and turning day to night.

Cadfael the Black.

“What of it?” He spoke softly, but she trembled anyway.

“Maela,” she made herself say. “She was there, Cadfael. She heard it all and she has no reason to lie or make something like this up. It makes terrible sense once you know. It explains why no alarm was raised…”

“Maela was at Caer Dain?”

“No, no, she was there when her father…oh, God, Cadfael…” Lynette gripped her hands together.

Cadfael stood still, his gaze not moving from her face. “What of her father?”

“He arranged it! Caer Dain was payment for the Saxons pushing the Picts back to the north!”

It was as if he did not breathe. As if he had been turned to stone. Cadfael stared at her. Through her. For dozens of heartbeats he held still. Absorbing it.

Lynette couldn’t move, either. Fear locked her into place, holding her feet to the ground.

“Vortigern…” Cadfael whispered. His eyes squeezed shut. He shuddered.

He took a single step closer to her and Lynette shrank back. The rough planking of the wall halted her, while Cadfael still moved in wavering steps. He reached for her…no, past her and down.

With a strangled cry, he pulled his sword from the scabbard and whirled, brandishing it. He quivered, looking for any enemy, as the one he wanted to confront was not here. The blade whistled through the air.

Lynette’s fear closed her throat down. Her chest ached for her heart worked far too fast. She should turn and run but couldn’t move. Her legs would not obey her.

Cadfael spun again, bringing his sword up high—the attack position. He saw her and paused, the sword quivering. His eyes widened, as if seeing her there was a surprise to him.

The sight of her had made him pause.

Lynette made herself move. Toward him.

Cadfael held still, breathing hard, the sword over his head.

Lynette reached up to his right arm and pulled on the elbow, which was as high as she could reach. It was like tugging on a tree branch. There was no give in it. Yet his arm lowered. Slowly.

She brought it down until she could reach his fists. She separated the left from its grip on the sword hilt, then pushed the right hand and his sword down by his side.

The beats of her heart were so close together they melded in one hard, painful spike in her chest. She was still afraid, although now she knew what she must do.

She raised up on her toes and took his face in her hands.

Cadfael’s gaze met hers. His breath escaped in a hard exhale. He knew what she intended to do, too. He did not stop her.

She kissed him, pressing herself against his tense body. He held every muscle taut, locked by fury he could not give vent to. Even his lips were unresponsive. They were warm and soft, though. Lynette kissed each one, then stroked them with her tongue. She pressed inside his mouth.

His sword dropped to the earthen floor with a muffled thud against the hay. His hands came around her waist, gripping it. He lifted her and carried her backward until her back was once more against the wall, making her gasp.

Cadfael pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss was hard. Relentless. His big body pinned her to the wall while his lips covered her face in tiny kisses and caresses before capturing her mouth once more. His tongue drove into her.

Lynette could do nothing but accept everything he did to her. His body was too heavy and her own was weak. The fear that had made her limbs useless dissipated, to be replaced by a hot longing. She trembled with it, willing to do wherever Cadfael demanded of her.

In her heart, she knew Cadfael was using her to vent his anger. It was not a conscious choice he had taken. She had forced it upon him and given him no other way to express the horror and the rage he must be feeling. For that reason, she made no protest or attempt to push him away.

Besides, she wanted it, too. Even if he took her in anger, she wanted it.

He pushed away from her enough to let his hands roam over her. Nothing was spared. He traced the curve of her breasts, the shape of her hips, the sway of her back. The long line down to her knees. Then even farther. He bent and she drew in a sharp gasp as his hand curled around her ankle.

For a moment, his hand lingered. His thumb stroked her flesh, with nothing between them.

He stroked her leg, climbing higher and raising her dress as he went.

Lynette clutched at his shoulders, the rush of heat in her limbs, the throbbing between her thighs, weakening her.

He cupped her buttock and untied his leggings with the other hand. Lynette pushed them down his hips, exposing the jutting length of him. Then he picked her up and pressed her back against the wall and separated her knees. She wrapped her arms and legs about him, as he slid into her in one deep, smooth stroke.

For a moment, they held still, sampling the sensations of being joined.

Then Cadfael grasped her hips and thrust. Even his taking of her was hard and deep.

Lynette closed her eyes as her pleasure climbed. This was not the gentle touch she had imagined, yet her body responded as eagerly as if it had been. She clung to him as he drove into her, her breath coming in shallow pants.

Before her pleasure could peak, Cadfael came with groan that seemed to tear his throat and grew still.

Lynette shook, her exquisite need hovering with desperate intensity.

Cadfael put her back on her feet, his body withdrawing. For a moment he held her, until she could stand for herself.

It was ever this way, Lynette reminded herself. Cadfael was a man. What man ever cared for ought but his own pleasure?

She bent to pick up her cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the floor beside them and turned to go.

Cadfael caught her hand. “No.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

He picked up his own cloak, not letting go of her hand, then tugged her gently across the exercise area. He walked backward, the leggings only just clinging to his hips, his gaze on her face, as if he was afraid that if he looked away, she might bolt.

And she might have, Lynette admitted. For now, the deed was done, she felt flat…even sad.

Cadfael led her to the pile of hay in the corner and stood her next to it. He raised his hand, the long forefinger extended. “Do not move,” he murmured.

Then he turned and spread his cloak upon the hay.

Her heart pattered hopefully.

When he was done, Cadfael kissed her, then swept her gown and shift up the length of her body and pulled them over her head, stripping her in one movement. He drew her down to the cloak on the hay, his mouth and hands already exploring, stroking, exciting her.

He did not take her again, until after she had cried out her own pleasure, her body straining, driven to the peak by his ministrations.

This second time, their pleasure was mutual.

When he kissed her after, it was as gentle as she had thought it would be.

* * * * *

Cadfael spread her cloak over her, got dressed himself, then opened the big door at the end of the exercise area. Maridunum was visible through the sheeting rain, although Lynette suspected it was not the town that Cadfael stared at.

She wrapped the cloak about her and went to him. “I would ask what troubles you, but I know the answer.”

He pulled her against him and kissed her temple. It was an absent-minded gesture. “For years I have thought the Saxons to be my only enemy. They are a faceless mob—there is always more of them and I knew I would spend my life fighting them and never win. Now, though, my enemy has a name and a face.”

Vortigern.

Lynette shivered. “You cannot think you will kill him. He is the High King, surrounded by warriors. You would die if you tried.”

“I had not even thought that far,” he admitted. “I have served him all my adult life. I am not so faithless I can consider him my master one moment and plan his murder the next. For now, all I can think of is…who do I serve? Not Vortigern—never again will it be Vortigern.” He added, his voice soft, “I am lost in the wilderness.”

“Why must you be lost?” Lynette asked, keeping her tone reasonable. “Your life can have meaning and purpose even without someone to serve. You just said there are always more Saxons. There always will be, no matter who you serve, or even if you do not. They are the real enemy.”

“Yes…” he said slowly. “Yes, perhaps you are right.” He picked her up and carried her back to the hay.

Chapter Ten

Cadfael did not let her go until the first light of the next day brightened the stable and the grooms knocked timidly on the door, testing whether it was safe for them to enter and not have Cadfael take off their heads for the intrusion.

Lynette slipped past the grooms, her cloak wrapped tightly about her and her hood up. She crept along the verandah and into Vivian’s chamber. As her favored companion, Lynette shared the room with Vivian and her divan was larger and softer than Vivian’s other women enjoyed in their shared quarters, next door.

Men thought the presence of a second woman in the princess’ room would repel male attention for both women. Vivian and her women did nothing to dismantle their illusions.

Vivian was awake, lying with her head on her arm, her body relaxed and posed as if she was asleep. By merely closing her eyes, she could feign sleep, if anyone checked on her. She didn’t move, although her gaze followed Lynette to the other couch. “I told them in the dining hall that you had a headache.”

“Thank you,” Lynette murmured. “I was…”

“I know who you were with,” Vivian replied.

Lynette dropped her cloak on the end of the bed. “Do you also know why? Did you see that in your visions, too?”

“See what?”

Lynette sat on the side of the divan. “The other women did not tell you? About Maela?”

Vivian sat up, too. “I got back just before dinner,” she said. “There was no time and Maela was…” She looked up. “Maela did not wear her braids at supper, nor her veil. She wore earrings. Mabon could not keep his hands off her. Everyone watched them while they had eyes for only themselves. It was a happy meal. Is that what you mean?”

“No, although it pleases me that Mabon appreciates his wife’s changes. Maela has courage, Vivian. I did not realize before now that sometimes the smallest steps can take more courage than that of a warrior facing battle.”

“Yes, she does have courage,” Vivian said. “Tell me what happened with Maela while I was gone.”

Lynette told her as the daylight grew and the sounds of people stirring and starting their day increased.

“Cadfael is a man without a master, now. In his heart, at least, although Vortigern still thinks Cadfael is his to command,” Lynette finished. She hesitated. “I still do not understand why you did not see this. It reaches up to Vortigern himself. It is not the small things you said you no longer see.”

Vivian studied her hands for a long moment. “Seeing the future is not like seeing this moment right now. It is not a complete vision. Sometimes it is not even a vision at all, just something I know, as I know my own hand—when a moment before I didn’t know. It is that certain and that specific. I saw that you and Cadfael would come together. I did not see how it would happen, for the how is unimportant. That you are together is.”

Lynette unpinned her hair. She would have to brush it and re-pin it with new ornaments before appearing at the breakfast table, or someone would surely notice that it was arranged as it had been yesterday. “I don’t know that we are together, as you say. Perhaps this single night was all he desires.” She pushed away the despair that thought generated. “He said nothing about the future.”

“Because he is uncertain of his own future,” Vivian replied. “You just took that from him. Men are creatures of habit, Lynette. You must give him time to adjust to a world that has shifted and changed in a heartbeat.”

“I suppose you may be right.”

“And you must bring him to the hermit’s cave, later today,” Vivian added.

Lynette lowered her arms. “I must? You mean…you want Cadfael to learn of Emrys?”

“I want Cadfael to speak to him. That is why the gods put Cadfael in your path. That is why they ensured that Maela would be here to tell you of Vortigern’s treachery. How else could a man of Cadfael’s faithfulness be swayed, other than hearing the truth from the lips of Vortigern’s own daughter? Now, because Cadfael trusts you, you can bring him to the cave.”

Lynette shivered. Vivian’s eyes were blank, far-seeing. Her voice had taken on a musical cadence. It was as if Vivian had gone. Another power used her body to speak through her, to arrange the future as it wished.

Then Vivian blinked and rubbed her temple, breaking the spell. “I do hope they have hot wine with breakfast this morning. It’s cold.”

Lynette opened the chest that held Vivian’s dresses and lifted one.

“No, it must be the white dress today.”

Lynette dug for the white gown. It was a simple gown, with no embellishments, a plain neck and narrow sleeves. She placed the gown on the divan next to Vivian, then turned to changing her own clothes and fixing her hair.

“You must wear your brown dress,” Vivian said firmly, when Lynette lifted the russet one and shook the herbs from its folds.

Lynette hesitated. She wanted to wear this dress because the color reminded her of Cadfael. Although, if the gods really were working through Vivian to arrange things as they must, then who was she to argue with them? She shrugged and pulled out the brown dress.

Calling it brown made the dress sound dull and ugly, although it was neither. The fabric had been woven somewhere on the continent and brought to Maridunum by a ship from Brittany. The long length had been intended for Vivian. Vivian had gifted it to Lynette, saying it was not her color. The rich, deep brown material had a softness that made one want to stroke it. It draped and clung with pleasing folds. In different lights, it took on different shades. Lynette had embroidered the neck and sleeves with a gleaming gold thread that had been discovered at the bottom of a chest in the workroom.

Now she put on the dress and smoothed it over her hips and thought that Vivian had been right. She felt pretty in this dress.

Cadfael will like it, her mind whispered. She pushed the thought aside. There was no point in mooning over a man who had not spoken of any commitment or future. The night had passed. It was daylight now.

“Wear my amber necklace and earrings, too,” Vivian told her.

“I could not!” Lynette protested. The amber and gold necklace and earrings were the most precious of Vivian’s jewelry. They had been a part of her family’s estate for generations. The amber had been dug from the deepest mine in Britain. It had then been worked into the necklace and earrings, it was said, by Macsen Wledig’s smith—the same smith who had forged his famous sword.

“You can and you will,” Vivian said. She shook her own simple dress into properly hanging folds, then opened the tiny chest that held the jewelry and carried it over to Lynette and held it out to her. “You praise Maela for her courage, yet it has not occurred to you that your own courage surpasses hers…and mine.”

“Me?” Lynette said, reaching automatically for the necklace.

“Olwen was right to say Cadfael would kill you for delivering such news. Most men would slaughter the messenger of such tidings. Yet, knowing that, you still confronted him.”

Lynette stared at her, puzzled. “I did not think of it as courage. It was just something that must be done. I was afraid, the entire time.”

“Exactly,” Vivian told her and patted her cheek. “Hurry up. I want some wine, so I can wake up properly.” She glanced out the window. “For this will be a day of days,” she whispered.

Lynette shivered again.

* * * * *

Thanks to the run of events yesterday, Cadfael had not eaten since breakfast that day. Now it was breakfast time again, his belly cramped in deep protest, forcing him to hurry as he washed and dressed. For the first time since he had arrived in the south, the water in his morning wash bowl did not have a film of ice over it.

It would be a warm day.

Gwilym had not appeared when he reached the hall. Cadfael found a seat at one of the secondary tables. After yesterday, he would likely not be welcome at Gwilym’s. He stood, waiting for the king’s arrival and watched the last of the household hurry in. The promise of warmth in the air put a smile on many faces and the chatter in the room was light and carefree.

He could feel the same lightness in himself. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, which was odd, because the truth about Vortigern should have had the opposite effect.

The inner sanctum door opened and Gwilym and his queen, Ninian, entered. Behind them came Vivian, in white…and Lynette.

Sound roared in Cadfael ears as he watched Lynette walk over to the Princess’ table. The roaring stole his hearing and made his heart slam against his chest. He pressed his fist against the table, propping himself up, as the strength drained from him. Lynette seemed to glow with her own golden, warm light and he could not look away from her. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time.

She had left his side only a short while ago, to return to the palace before it stirred with the coming day. Cadfael told himself it was an uncomplicated parting, one of many he had experienced over the years. People came together and parted afterward. It was the way of things.

Only now, as he saw her again, did Cadfael recognize the emptiness in his chest that had been growing since then. He had ignored the emptiness, telling himself he was merely hungry and that the promise of a warm spring day was the cause of his lightness of spirits.

Gwilym settled in his chair and everyone sat, forcing Cadfael to sit, too. He could not see her properly over the heads of his neighbors, save for a glimpse here and there of her brown curls, or the curve of her cheek. Sometimes, the slender column of her neck. He had pressed his lips to that soft flesh.

Cadfael had no appetite. He ate mechanically, purely for the energy it would give him. He could not finish the bowl. He wanted the meal ended and the king gone so he could leave without causing more offense. He wanted the sanctuary of his room and a moment to draw breath and think.

As soon as Gwilym rose to his feet and turned from the table, Cadfael lurched to his and hurried from the room. He dared not look toward the Princess’ table. If he did, he would be anchored here.

He closed the door to his room and threw himself on the bed he had not used. He put his hand to his chest. It ached.

With a snarl, he sat up and pummeled his knee.

She was not his. She could not be his. Lynette was the daughter of Vortigern’s war duke. To win her hand would require crawling on his belly to Vortigern, to gain his permission. By her actions yesterday, Lynette had made that impossible.

The tap on his door was firm and loud. Only his men knocked with that sort of authority.

With another curse, Cadfael got to his feet and ripped the door open, ready to send the man, whoever he was, away with a few choice insults for his poor timing.

Lynette stood there, her willowy figure upright, her shoulders square. Up close, Cadfael could see that the dress she wore was of some fine, foreign material. She had on her cloak, too, and a veil pinned to her hair was tucked into it. She was dressed for travelling abroad.

Cadfael drew in a shuddering breath at her unexpected appearance.

“I have a request to make of you,” Lynette said. She spoke calmly, yet the base of her throat, next to the handsome gold and orange necklace, pulsed with a fast beat.

“Me?” Cadfael said blankly.

She glanced behind her, then met his gaze once more. “Would you come with me and not question where we are going? Can you do that?”

“Why would I?” Cadfael asked.

If she were a normal woman, she would in some way remind him of last night and imply he owed her a return favor.

Lynette did not soften her pose or smile knowingly. She did not smile at all. “There is someone you must meet,” she said instead.

“Where?”

“Up in the hills.”

He did not think it was possible for his heart to thud any harder, yet it jumped and squeezed. “The hills,” he repeated, thinking fast. “This is to do with the Princess, then? Her mysterious secret?”

Lynette showed the first open sign of emotion. She bit her lip. Doubt was gnawing her. “Yes, this is about Vivian’s secret,” she said. “She has said all along she would explain herself to me later. Now, it is later. Only, Vivian has said you must be there, too.”

“Why?”

Lynette frowned. “I don’t know.”

He tapped the door frame he was gripping, thinking. “You don’t know, yet you will still do what she says?”

“I am sworn to serve—”

“You and I both know that is not why you do this,” Cadfael injected.

Lynette hesitated. “Vivian says this matter is…important.”

“You trust her enough you would follow her blindly into the hills?”

Her fine chin came up. “I do.”

Cadfael reached for his cloak, grabbed his sword and knife, stepped out and shut the door.

Lynette’s eyes were large. “You will come with me?”

He held the cloak out to her for her to hold while he fastened the belt and sword belt with practiced motions. “I don’t trust your princess. I don’t know her. You, I trust.” He took back the cloak. “You say it is important.” He stepped back. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Eleven

Vivian was waiting in the next valley, as agreed, sitting motionless upon her mare, her black hair shining in the warm sunlight. She wore no veil and no cloak and her hair spilled down her back bereft of pins and ornaments.

There was nothing of the privileged princess about Vivian this morning.

Cadfael’s stallion, Mars, merely cantered next to Lynette’s pony’s gallop, although they both covered the ground quickly.

Vivian nodded when she saw Cadfael. “You have questions. I promise they will all be answered before you return to Maridunum.”

“I am here because the lady Lynette asked me. I no longer care about your secret, Princess,” Cadfael said stiffly. “I have greater concerns than you, today.”

Vivian’s gaze turned inward. “Those concerns will be touched by this, too.”

Cadfael’s lips parted. His back straightened as he examined Vivian.

Lynette had grown used to Vivian’s other-worldly manner when in the grip of her Sight. She had forgotten how strange and unsettling it could be to others. She touched Vivian’s wrist. “If you want Cadfael’s cooperation, you should stop scaring him.”

“I’m not afraid,” Cadfael said stiffly, offended.

Vivian stirred. “Then I must try harder,” she replied, picking up her reins.

Cadfael started, his eyes widening. Then he laughed and turned Mars to follow her. Lynette fell in beside him.

They said nothing on the way to the cave, not merely because traveling anywhere was risky. Vivian’s white figure ahead of them made it seem wrong to speak. Vivian didn’t turn her head to gaze around or check on them. She rode with her head up and her back straight.

Even when the slope increased and the horses slowed to pick their way carefully up to the cliff where the cave was located, Vivian still did not look down. Her gaze was on the flat cliff above them. From here, the cave could not be seen.

Cadfael, Lynette noticed, had his knife sitting loose in its sheath. He scanned the countryside, alert, his eyes narrowed with caution.

When they reached the shelf in front of the cave, Emrys stood at the mouth of the cave, waiting for them. He looked far different from the wet and ill man they had helped into the cave. He stood as tall as Cadfael and as wide in the shoulders. His black hair was shorn short and he had contrived to shave, so his face was free of stubble. It made his black eyes and brows stand out.

He wore a tunic that Lynette recognized as one of Gwilym’s, a fine garment with braided embroidery and beads on the neck and sleeves. The undershirt sleeves were blue, matching the embroidery.

His cloak was furled and hung down his back, out of the way.

Vivian went to him. He touched her shoulder. It was a simple touch, yet Lynette sensed there was much unspoken behind it.

Cadfael set a rock on Mars’ reins and turned to face them. Lynette moved up beside him.

Vivian stepped away from Emrys and held out her hand toward him. “Cadfael, Lynette. You stand before Ambrosius, son of Constantine, brother to Uther and the true High King of Britain.”

Lynette caught her breath, shocked. She heard Cadfael’s soft gasp.

Emrys—Ambrosius—gasped, too. He turned to Vivian. “You knew? How long have you known?”

“I have always known,” Vivian said, her voice calm. “You have been in my future since I was young. Now, the future is here. Things are moving, Ambrosius. You are the last piece.” She nodded toward Cadfael. “You perceive his value. Talk to him.”

“Vortigern’s battle commander?” Ambrosius said. “Yes, I know who you are,” he told Cadfael, in response to his start. “We are not ignorant in Brittany,” he added dryly.

“I am no longer Vortigern’s,” Cadfael said stiffly. “And now, I begin to understand why.” His scowl fell into place. “I may be adrift without a master to serve, but that does not mean I will fall in with the first one to come along.”

Ambrosius nodded. “I would be suspicious of you if you did trade your allegiances so easily. You must surely have heard of our plans for Britain, Cadfael.”

Cadfael laughed. It was a dry sound. “Children’s stories I’ve heard, yes. Rumors that Ambrosius would come and save us all from the hell on earth we suffer. How Ambrosius will throw the Saxons back to where they came from, then depose Vortigern and stand over his body. How you will win lasting peace…” Cadfael grimaced. “Wistful wishes, all of it.”

“And yet, those are exactly my plans,” Ambrosius replied.

Cadfael’s eyes narrowed. “Peace is impossible,” he said flatly. “Not while a single Saxon stands upon this island. They abide by no treaties, they break their word whenever it suits them.”

“You have failed to remember childhood stories,” Ambrosius told him. “I will throw out every last Saxon, even if I spend the rest of my life doing it. I will win peace for Britain, Cadfael. I promise you that.”

“How?” Cadfael said. “It is impossible.” Yet there was a sliver of hope in his voice. He wanted Ambrosius to convince him.

Lynette moved over to where Vivian stood and let the two men face each other alone. They were the same, Cadfael and Ambrosius. They were both seasoned warriors, even though Ambrosius was younger. They wore authority like a cloak, giving them confidence to speak firmly and hew to their beliefs.

“For twenty years, we have been preparing for the time when I can return to Britain and take it back for myself,” Ambrosius said. “Much can be done in twenty years, Cadfael. Soon, the day will come to sweep across the channel, but that day is not yet here. I have slipped into Britain a number of times over the years, to keep my finger upon the pulse. I talk to leaders loyal to me—and you may be surprised by how many there are.”

Cadfael shook his head. “Gwilym…” he muttered.

“Gwilym,” Ambrosius said in agreement.

“Then Mabon’s quest was doomed before he arrived. Gwilym will never fight for Vortigern,” Cadfael said.

“Mabon’s quest may have failed, although Gwilym’s did not,” Ambrosius said. “Vivian has kept me apprised of the doings in the palace. You may well find Mabon a changed king when you return to Calleva. He does not know I am here, only that there is an alternative future for Britain. Gwilym has made him question his choices.”

“He has been moody for days,” Cadfael admitted. His blue eyes were narrowed. He was thinking hard.

“Would you sit and talk with me?” Ambrosius asked. “Inside I have wine and a warm fire. I would like a chance to paint for you a picture of the future as I see it. If you agree that it is a good future, you can help me make it happen. You could be of immense help, Cadfael.”

“As Vortigern’s battle commander,” Cadfael guessed.

“That role would be mere lip service,” Ambrosius replied. “I don’t know what has happened that has broken your faith in Vortigern, but if you return to his service as my agent, you will be able to serve Britain in a way that Vortigern would never have provided.”

“You want me to lie, to hide my true self.”

“For the greater good—and you would not have to lie,” Ambrosius said. “You have always worked to save Britain, have you not? You will continue to do that.”

Cadfael laughed. “You have guessed wrong, Ambrosius. I do not serve Britain. I have not, since Caer Dain fell to the Saxon hoards. My only wish, all I have worked for since then, is to destroy every last Saxon that stands on this island.”

“Then we have that in common,” Ambrosius replied. “Vortigern is not my enemy. However, he does stand in the way.”

They locked gazes.

Cadfael nodded. “I will drink your wine,” he said. “Before I do, though, you have another’s loyalty to secure.”

Ambrosius frowned. “Whose?”

Cadfael nodded toward Lynette. “The lady, there.”

Lynette was too surprised to speak.

“I do?” Ambrosius asked. He sounded amused.

Cadfael’s scowl appeared. “Do not dismiss the notion because she is a woman, Ambrosius. Lynette is the reason I stand here. I would not be here but for her arrangements and her beliefs. She is a powerful, hidden asset you would do well to appreciate.”

Ambrosius turned his gaze upon Lynette. She wanted to shrink back behind Vivian, who stood calm and still next to her. The man’s gaze was direct. Speculative. His gaze shifted to Vivian, then back to Lynette. “It is true that women have an indirect and subtle influence that men often forget. I have been reminded of it these last few days.”

“Women will have a role in your future and the future of those that come after you,” Vivian said. Her voice was distant, as were her eyes. “In the great affairs to come, their efforts will help shape a kingdom…such a kingdom that poets will tell of it forever.”

Lynette shivered.

Ambrosius did not seem alarmed by Vivian’s prophecy. “I am just a man,” he said, his gaze still on her. “I know nothing of futures and kingdoms. I merely want to rid Britain of its enemies so we can live in peace. Will you help me with that, lady Lynette?”

Even Cadfael watched her.

Lynette squeezed her fingers together. “I might,” she said truthfully, “only it seems to me that once Vortigern has been dealt with, you will be High King, facing the same problems as Vortigern. Why would you be any different from him? Some say he is cruel and ruthless because they are the only tools that work.”

Ambrosius frowned.

“The peril of asking a wise person for truth,” Vivian said quietly, “is that you may not like the answer.”

Lynette gripped her hands even more tightly. “I am not wise. I only ask because I have seen Vortigern’s manipulations destroy the lives of good men.” She didn’t look at Cadfael. Ambrosius and Vivian both knew who she was thinking of. “I do not wish to help a man who will be just another Vortigern.”

Ambrosius’ frown cleared. “It is a question I would consider fair, coming from a man. It deserves a full answer. Come and drink with us, lady Lynette. Decide for yourself.” He stepped aside and waved toward the cave.

They went inside.

* * * * *

At first, the ride back down into the river valley was as silent as the journey to the cave. They rode three abreast, their horses rubbing withers, comfortable with each other, while the riders stared at the ground, thinking.

Lynette recalled the conversation with Ambrosius, over and over, her heart beating faster than normal. It was hard to resist the appeal of Ambrosius’ vision for Britain. Peace and time for families to build homes, grow food and raise children. Time for those children to live to old age and die in their beds, having led fruitful lives.

Only, did he mean it?

Lynette stirred. “Is Ambrosius a good man, Vivian?”

The princess stirred from her own thoughts. “They call him the last Roman, for he shares the values of the greatest emperors of old—”

“I do not care what your Sight thinks,” Lynette interrupted. “I want to know what you think. He says one thing now. Will he still think that, when he sits in the High King’s chair and we are no longer of use to him?”

Cadfael laughed softly.

Lynette turned her head to glare at him. “It is a fair question,” she said. “You would hate it if you helped him win against Vortigern, only to see him let the families of other Britons be hurt like yours was hurt.”

Cadfael’s chest rose and fell. Then he shook his head. “I laugh, only because you asked the exact question I have been asking myself since we left the cave. I swore allegiance to Vortigern and have come to regret that I did not ask myself that question before I did.”

“The past is done,” Vivian said. “It is right that you question your decisions now. While most of Britain blindly follows Vortigern, you are making choices. And yes, Lynette, he is a good man. I know that in my bones, because my Sight gives me that assurance. If you choose to help, then you will be doing it with faith that Ambrosius is all you wish him to be.”

“Just trust him,” Cadfael breathed.

Vivian smiled. “You have come to trust Lynette in only a few days. Why?”

Cadfael scowled. “Her actions have demonstrated she can be trusted.” His jaw worked. “And because my heart tells me I can,” he added, his voice low.

Lynette’s chest ached.

“And what does your heart tell you about Ambrosius?” Vivian demanded.

Cadfael’s frown smoothed away. “That he is a good man,” he admitted.

Vivian nodded. “Don’t trust Ambrosius, Cadfael. Instead, trust your own instincts. In time, Ambrosius will prove through his actions that your instincts were good.”

Lynette breathed out the tension in her chest. Hope soared in its place. Like Cadfael, she felt that Ambrosius was a good man. Only time would prove her right.

Cadfael lifted himself up, to look over Mars’ head, into the valley spread below them, the river winding through it like a silver thread. “There is something happening in the palace. See? There are far too many men in the courtyard, moving about.”

From here, Lynette saw the people in the courtyard as dark dots, moving about the tiny rectangle outlined by red tiles. Cadfael was right—there was far too much movement in the courtyard for a warm afternoon. There were no new ships at dock and not likely to be until the morrow, for the tide was out. A new ship did not generate this degree of activity, anyway.

Cadfael urged Mars forward. “It can only be important news that spurs them,” he called over his shoulder as Mars broke into a gallop.

Vivian and Lynette followed on their slower ponies, falling behind even though they moved as quickly as possible.

“Could they know about Ambrosius?” Lynette asked quietly.

“They would storm the cave, if they did,” Vivian replied. “This is something else.”

“You don’t know what it is?”

“The ordinary affairs of men are not always visible to me.” Vivian’s voice held a note of annoyance.

“Why do you frown like that?” Lynette asked, as they slowed to pick their way down the steep path to the valley floor.

When Vivian didn’t answer at once, Lynette risked a glance at her, away from the path ahead. “Vivian?”

Vivian sighed. “I have not been able to see anything for two days now.”

“That is…unusual?”

Vivian grimaced. “I am more blind than a man whose eyes have been plucked from his head.”

It was not a reassuring answer.

Chapter Twelve

As they drew closer to the palace, the frenzied activity and shouting grew clearer. There was nothing to tell them what the panic was about, so Vivian and Lynette cantered into the yard, their ponies blowing heavily from the run.

They watched from the back of their ponies, trying to make sense of the scene. The old harvest wagon was being loaded with barrels. From the size and daubs of paint on the barrels, there was both water and food.

Lynette spotted Mervyn and his men bent over saddlebags on the edge of the verandah, sorting through them. Mervyn looked wildly happy.

Her heart fluttered uneasily. “Vortigern has called for war?” she whispered to Vivian. “A general call that no one can refuse?”

Vivian shook her head. “It is too soon for that.”

Her ringing tone of certainty made Lynette shiver.

Vivian pointed. “Look, Mabon’s men are preparing, too.”

“There is Mars, tied up to the post in the corner,” Lynette added. The verandah post was the closest to Cadfael’s room. The stallion had his head down, in a bucket that would contain either oats or water, Lynette guessed.

Vivian held her hand out as one of the youngest of Gwilym’s men hurried past, carrying a heavy saddlebag. “Aled, what is the alarm? What happens here?”

He dropped the bag and gave a short bow. “A messenger arrived an hour ago, my lady. The Saxons have laid siege to Calleva. King Mabon rides as soon as can be and we’re to go with him!” His unlined face flushed with pleasure. “We’re to go to battle!”

Lynette gasped and turned on the saddle pad to look at Mars again. His saddle had not been removed, nor his harness.

Her heart thundering, Lynette saw Cadfael emerge from the room he had been using. He was carrying heavy saddle bags. He slung them over Mars’ back.

Her chest tightened and her belly cramped.

Vivian swung down to the ground and took both ponies in hand. “I will see to them,” she said. “Go and speak to Cadfael.”

Lynette nodded. Her body was stiff with tension. She contrived to slide to the ground. She made her way through the preparing soldiers and stepped up on to the verandah. It was the longer route, although with the swirl of men and horses in the courtyard, it would be quicker to move around the edges.

There were still people rushing into and out of rooms, carrying supplies and weapons, forcing her to halt and let them pass, while her heart beat climbed higher.

Cadfael re-emerged from the room as she approached that end of the verandah. He shook out his cloak as he moved toward Mars, then slung it over his shoulders. He halted and looked down at his hands as he pinned it.

Lynette halted at the post where Mars was tied. Her throat locked. She couldn’t speak.

Cadfael looked up. His eyes narrowed. “Lynette…”

“I heard,” she said. Her voice emerged hoarse. “You ride to battle.”

His fists tightened. “Three days, it took to reach here. We’ll return in two and kill horses under us to get there, for Calleva won’t stand a day more than that.” His throat worked, as if he was preparing to say more. He remained silent.

She nodded. “Do you have enough food for the road? Is there anything else you need I can fetch?”

“Fall in!” Folant cried, in his battlefield-trained bellow.

The hysteria kicked up a notch, as men leapt to secure bags and packs, don helmets and gloves and pull themselves up onto their horses.

Cadfael unhitched Mars and turned him to mount. “I have everything I need.”

Lynette drew in a shuddering breath as he settled himself on Mars’ back.

Behind her sounded tramping feet. She whirled to see Mabon and Gwilym step out from the main hall. Mabon was dressed for the road. Gwilym was not. He was too old to ride to war.

Maela was beside Mabon and also dressed for riding, only she did not have her hair in the usual braids. As she stepped down to the earth and crossed to where a groom held her horse for her, Lynette saw she had indeed braided her hair for riding. It was a single thick, long plait down the center of her back.

Maela’s gaze found Lynette on the verandah. She smiled and nodded.

Lynette nodded back, her heart squeezing. She turned to face Cadfael once more. His place was at the top of the column, by the king, although he had not moved Mars toward the file of soldiers forming behind Mabon and Mervyn. He studied her, instead.

“You must go,” she urged him, even though she longed for him to stay.

He gripped the reins, squeezing them.

“Move on!” Folant bellowed.

Horses snorted as they stepped into motion. The cart carrying the water and food creaked as it rolled forward.

“Cadfael!” Mabon called, as the head of the column reached the gates.

Cadfael kicked Mars into a trot. He was leaving.

Lynette clutched the post, shaking with the power of everything she had not said.

It was a shared night. That was all. She gripped the post, holding herself up. Remember it for what it was.

Mars reached the gates as Mabon and Mervyn moved through…and halted.

Cadfael turned him around. “Lynette!” He held out his hand.

She pushed herself into motion, running across the courtyard and gripped his hand. Cadfael lifted her up into the air and onto the saddle pad in front of him. He dropped the reins and gathered her in his arms. His blue eyes were heated, filled with unspoken words.

He kissed her long and deep. When he released her, Lynette gripped the folds of his cloak, fighting not to burden him with her heart. “I should have repaired your tunic,” she said, instead.

He touched his lips to hers, lightly. “I have more reason now to hate Saxons, than ever before.”

“Then you must go and fight them.”

“Yes.”

She smoothed his cloak and rearranged the folds. “Don’t get any more holes in the tunic.” Her eyes ached with impending tears and she blinked, pushing them away.

“I’ll try not to. Lynette…”

“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t say goodbye.” She kissed him, her arms around him, ruining the set of his cloak once more. Then she forced herself to slide to the earth and step away.

His gaze met hers. “Until we meet again, then.”

“Yes. Until then,” Lynette lied, knowing no such time would come.

The last of the cavalry passed through the gate while the household that remained stood on the verandah watching them go. Cadfael turned Mars and slipped between the last horses and the groaning cart, then galloped up the length of the line to the top and moved into place.

Once the cart was beyond the gate, Lynette moved through them and stood just beyond to watch the company move down the hill to the river, then along the river path to the old Roman road. There, they picked up speed. As the hills hid them from view, they galloped, their two-day ride begun.

Chapter Thirteen

Ten weeks later.

Vivian sank back onto the stool she had risen from and gasped heavily.

Lynette lifted her head, alerted by the sound. Vivian’s face, normally a fine white color, now was almost translucent. Sweat dotted her temples.

The women in the workroom looked up at the sound she had made, curious and puzzled.

Lynette dropped her sewing and gripped Vivian’s arm. “Come with me,” she said and hauled her to her feet. “Breathe,” she whispered as she pulled her over to the storage room. She pushed Vivian into the little space and snapped the curtain shut behind them, then reached over the sagging woman to grab the wooden bowl they used for mixing herbs and thrust it under Vivian’s head.

Vivian gripped the bowl and retched into it.

Lynette winced, for the noise would travel out into the workroom. Everyone woman out there would recognize the sound of another woman vomiting for no apparent reason. They would know the truth because of it.

When she was done, Vivian put the bowl on the worktable and sank onto the stool next to it with a tired sigh. She put her hand on her belly and looked up at Lynette. “You know, then.”

“Sooner than anyone,” Lynette told her. “You have missed two cycles and now you are sick. Your dresses are tight across the breast, too.” She reached for the dried lavender on the shelf, crushed a handful in her palm and dropped it into the bowl. It would mask the smell a little. “I have told no one, although everyone out in the workroom knows, now.”

Vivian nodded. “I would have been discovered eventually.”

Lynette hesitated, then said; “There are ways to deal with it. Herbs and other compounds can interrupt—”

“No,” Vivian said flatly. Her fingers spread across her stomach as if she protected the babe inside.

“You only pay lip-service to the Christian god,” Lynette pointed out.

“It is not the Christian god who concerns me. No, Lynette. This child must be born.”

“Then send a letter to Brittany,” Lynette said, dropping her voice low. “He will marry you, if he knows.” She didn’t have to speak Ambrosius’ name. They both knew who she meant.

Vivian shook her head. “He must do his work undistracted. There is nothing more important than that.”

“Not even you?”

Vivian’s smile was small. “I am a tiny speck on a spoke of a great wheel. I am nothing.” She frowned. “Do not think to go behind me and write to him yourself, Lynette. I forbid it.”

Lynette gasped, for Vivian had never before given such an intractable order. “I don’t understand,” she whispered angrily. “You know what your father will do to you when he finds out. The whole matter can be resolved happily with a single ship to Amorica…”

Vivian’s smile was understanding. “Then what?” she asked. “He comes tearing across the channel, before his plans are finished, before the time is ripe. To force him to commit before he is ready will ensure his defeat.”

“You could go to him,” Lynette said. “Even if your father does not agree to it, there are free ships that would carry you across and you have money…”

Vivian shook her head again. “Word will reach Vortigern that I am there. It will tell Vortigern where my father’s loyalties truly lie. The High King will attack and my father will perish, or he will come to his rescue, before he is ready.”

Lynette considered her. “You are not even going to try to reach him, are you?”

“No.”

“Not even for the sake of your happiness?”

“I am happy,” Vivian said, sounding surprised.

“Don’t you…miss him?” Lynette asked, driven to the question by her own aching heart, which had not eased in the long weeks since Cadfael had left.

Three weeks after the company had dashed to Calleva to counter the Saxon siege, Mervyn and his brother and their men returned. They were injured and weakened but they held their chins up, for victory had been carved from almost certain defeat.

“The Saxons outnumbered us three to one,” Padrig told everyone at dinner the night of their return, his voice ringing with pride. “We beat them back, step by step, until finally, they broke and ran.”

At Mabon’s request, Mervyn and his soldiers had lingered in Calleva, combing through the countryside surrounding the town for remnants of the Saxon horde. They patrolled through the villages that lay even closer to the Saxon border, their presence visible and constant.

They returned to Maridunum when it was clear the Saxons would not try to press the issue again.

Mervyn had got his taste of war. He had a scar on his cheek to prove it. He was a quieter man after his return, although he still drank as heavily as ever and was inclined to quick and unreasonable anger over small matters.

Lynette listened carefully to any description of the battle and the aftermath, searching for news of Cadfael. She did not need to ask after him, for even Mervyn’s soldiers spoke of Mabon’s most senior officer with admiration.

Padrig, on the first night back, had glanced around to check his older brother was not within hearing distance, then dropped his voice. “If not for Cadfael and his determination, the men would have broken and fled, at the end of that first day. He stirred them to drive against the Saxons one last time when there was no glimmer of hope. I think the Saxons knew that, too, for they relaxed and that was how we caught them off guard, just after the sun had set.”

Further news about Mabon’s commander did not emerge, until Lynette happened to hear Folant chatting with Gwilym by the fire one night. “…headed out to patrol up and down the borders after we left. Even if the Saxons thought to try something after we left, they would think twice about taking on Vortigern’s black one.”

Then Cadfael had not lingered in Calleva. He was on the road, moving from village to vulnerable village.

As far as Lynette knew, he patrolled still. No word reached her from Cadfael directly. Even if he was of a mind to, he could not write to her.

She tried to put him out of her thoughts. Dalliances of this nature were naturally short. She told herself that with time, his memory would fade. Only, the memories did not fade. They grew stale from mental fingering yet stayed firmly lodged in her mind, to intrude when she was not concentrating.

Lynette busied herself with work. There was always more of it than a soul could do. She drove herself to complete more and more. It was the height of summer and vegetable crops were ripening. Harvesting and preserving took the efforts of the entire household and the mild summer days made the outdoor work pleasant. Everyone acquired tans.

There was always more than enough sewing to do and Lynette kept herself occupied after sundown with needle and thread.

In bed at night, though, she had nothing to distract herself from the memories. There were so few of them to begin. How could she be attached to a man she knew so little about?

Only, she did know him. She knew his heart and soul and mind. Yes, there had been few days, but there was a rich depth to every moment she had shared with him.

That was why she knew he would not come for her. His ambition lay to the east and the Saxon Shore. Fighting Saxons was his life and there was room in it for nothing else.

The bleakness of her summer days flickered through her mind as Lynette studied Vivian, waiting for her answer.

“Do I miss him?” Vivian repeated. She laughed. “Does it matter? It isn’t my fate to be wed and settled.”

“As usual, I cannot gainsay you,” Lynette said, with a sigh. “I am just a woman. The matters you deal with are not for me.”

“Be thankful,” Vivian said, her smile fading. “The Sight is a perilous gift…if it is a gift at all.” She stirred. “The wheel is turning as it should, Lynette. Let this play out.”

Lynette unhappily agreed. She opened the curtain and the two of them stepped out into the big room. Lynette spotted the pile of unattended linen on the end of the big table. “Where is Elaine?” she demanded.

Everyone looked around, surprised.

Olwen stirred. “She left, as soon as we heard…” She pressed her lips together, glancing at the storage room.

Lynette met Vivian’s glance.

“The wheel turns,” Vivian said.

* * * * *

It did not take Elaine long to spread the word. Shortly before the noon meal was announced, Gwilym’s man servant, Ban, stepped into the workroom and told Vivian the king expected her to attend him at once.

Vivian put down her embroidery and went with him, while everyone else tried to settle into their work once more, Lynette in particular.

After a while, Mabyn said softly, “I wish they’d call the meal. I’m starving!”

With a start, Lynette realized the hour was growing longer. The sun had already moved away from the narrow window. She had no appetite though.

Murmurs and low conversations were building up, out on the verandah. People were coming in from the fields and gathering on the verandah, waiting for the meal to begin.

The workroom door opened and Ban stepped in once more, looking about the room. He was a short man with silver hair and colorless eyes that stared. “Lady Lynette, the king wants you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lynette jumped. “Me?” she asked Ban.

Ban didn’t nod or speak. He simply waited.

Lynette put her sewing down and brushed down her dress and checked her hair. Then she nodded at Ban. He turned and moved to the door and pulled it open. Unlike with Vivian, he did not wait for Lynette to go through. He stepped through first, forcing her to follow.

Her heart pattering, Lynette trailed after the little man. There were many people on the verandah. Most of the household, in fact. They all turned to watch her walk behind Ban.

Murmurs passed through them as they followed her progress to the main hall door.

The big doors stood open, yet no one attempted to step inside. Ban, though, did not hesitate. As everyone separated to make room, he moved through them and turned into the room.

Lynette paused just inside the door, adjusting to the light and taking stock of the room. The tables had not yet been put up, not even the king’s high table. Gwilym sat in his big chair at the end of the room, with the family’s trusted officers and advisors spread around the edges. Even Ninian was there, although she did not sit in the chair next to the king. She sat on a bench someone had pulled out from under the tables, by the windows. Her face was strained.

Folant was there. Mervyn and Padrig, too.

Elaine stood by the king’s chair, a proud expression on her face.

The middle of the room was empty except for Vivian, who stood in the center of the clear space, the focus of everyone there. Her chin was up.

Ban pushed viciously at Lynette’s back, making her stumble into the middle of the room.

Vivian didn’t look around.

Gwilym stirred. “Folant,” he said shortly.

Folant didn’t smile as he moved toward her. “Lady Lynette, you are the princess’ favored companion. I am sure you can supply us with the answer Vivian will not give. Tell us the name of her bastard child’s father.”

Lynette tried to stand as tall as Vivian did and keep her chin up, although her knees shook. “I don’t know.”

Folant’s eyes narrowed. “You understand, I am sure, the delicacy of this matter?”

“Delicacy?” she repeated, puzzled.

“Who the father is will determine how the king proceeds.” Folant moved around her. Lynette turned to keep him in view. She didn’t like him being behind her.

As she turned, she saw that everyone outside the room was pressing up against both open doors, watching avidly.

“If the man is a poor beggar,” Folant continued, “then the matter is merely a hiccup. We find him and…well, deal with him. He is no threat to the king. Do you see?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“On the other hand,” Folant continued, still circling about her, “If the man is some nameless warrior, the concern shifts to whom he owes his allegiance. Perhaps a marriage can be arranged. It would be a poor match for a daughter of Gwilym, although it would solidify a relationship with the father’s lord, if the lord is of appropriate affiliations.”

He meant if the lord was not too deeply in Vortigern’s pouch, Lynette interpreted for herself. A lord of Roman stock.

“Then there is the possibility that the father is a king or a duke himself.” Folant smiled. It was a strained expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “A far better match for the princess, assuming he is suitable. If he is not—if he is, say, an ambitious man, there is a good chance that when he learns of the child, he will come to claim a dowry. That would not be good.”

“But…Mervyn is the heir…” Lynette whispered. Her mouth was dry and her throat clicked.

“Quite apart from the insult apparent in that any man managed to bed the princess while none of us noticed,” Folant growled, ignoring her murmur. “She is surrounded by women, day and night. That brings into question the quality of her companionship.”

Lynette couldn’t swallow. It hurt too much. So did her heart. “I don’t know who the father is,” she said, straining her voice to lift it higher than a whisper. “She did not tell me. I only learned she was with child this morning…”

“Then you are ignorant of her dalliance?”

“She has had no dalliance. I swear it,” Lynette said.

“Cleary, she had at least one,” Folant shot back. “I know you have the name, Lynette. Tell me and this will all go much easier.”

She trembled. Gwilym was watching her with narrowed eyes. Mervyn looked angry. “I don’t know,” Lynette whispered. It was no good—she could not get her voice to rise above the whisper. It hurt too much.

Mervyn swore. “This is taking too much time,” he said, striding out into the open space. He unbuckled his belt and flexed it, standing before Vivian.

Folant sighed. “Mervyn, I am dealing with this. That is not necessary.”

“Tell us who it is, sister,” Mervyn demanded.

Vivian didn’t even turn her head to look at him. She kept her gaze ahead.

Mervyn swung his arm. The belt whistled and snapped against Vivian’s leg. She gasped, but gave no other reaction.

Her mother, though, jumped to her feet. “Gwilym, order him to stop!”

Gwilym waved her away. He watched Mervyn with narrowed eyes. He was an old king, although he was not soft. He would risk damnation of his soul to get his answer.

Mervyn smiled, recognizing that he had implicit permission to continue. He swung the belt again, this time connecting with Vivian’s other thigh. She gave a soft hiss.

Her lack of reaction challenged Mervyn. He pulled off his furled cloak to free his shoulders and settled into his work. The belt snapped out over and over again, hitting her arms, her back, her buttocks, her legs.

Lynette curled her hands into fists and tightened them, her nails digging furrows into her palms. She flinched each time the belt landed.

Then the belt caught Vivian in the side of the knee. She crumpled to the floor, her knee unable to hold her anymore. Mervyn instantly struck her back and along her legs. He was sweating, now, and swinging the belt with all his might. The cracks it made against Vivian’s skin sent shudders up Lynette’s back.

Vivian cried out and rolled over to protect her back, her arms up. She curled up her knees.

“No, stop this! I beg you!” Ninian cried. She threw herself across the floor to crouch over her daughter, protecting her.

Everyone sucked in a breath of shock.

Ninian threw up her arm, as Vivian had. “She will lose the baby if you continue this…this madness!”

Mervyn lowered the belt. He was panting. “Perhaps that’s best,” he murmured. His face was red, which made the new scar stand out darkly.

Another soft gasp greeted his statement.

Ninian crossed herself and twisted to look at Gwilym. “Husband…please…stop this. In the name of God in his heaven, stop. She is your daughter.”

Gwilym raised his hand. “Perhaps that is enough, Mervyn. It is clear she won’t tell us. Not if she hasn’t screamed the name by now.”

Mervyn looked disappointed. He scowled at Vivian and his mother. “She won’t tell, but this one will.” He lunged, moving fast and gripped Lynette’s wrist.

She cried out, surprised. Mervyn ground the bones in her wrists with his grip. He hauled her over to where Vivian lay and slapped the belt against Lynette’s thigh.

She moaned, shocked at the pain of the blow. The belt had barely made contact, yet the point where it had touched her skin burned.

Mervyn swung the belt again. “You know what I want to hear. Tell us the name of the father and I will stop.”

“I don’t know!” Lynette screamed. She looked around the room, for a sympathetic face, for someone to step in and stop this. Folant, whom she once thought a sensible man, merely crossed his arms, watching with interest.

“Then I will stir your memory,” Mervyn told her. The belt snapped out again. This time, her wrist. She cradled it, breathing hard.

Lynette would never be able to properly relate the next few minutes in their entirety. She lost track of the blows. The pain they imparted joined together to form a shrieking agony that ran from her toes to her head. She sank to the floor, her eyes weeping tears of pain, her arm up to protect her head.

Instead, Mervyn attacked her back. She arched and cried out, then brought her arm around protect it.

The belt whistled again. The side of her face grew instantly numb, while the bones behind her skin pounded.

She dropped to the floor, her face shielded, sobbing. She couldn’t help it. The pain was too much.

Vivian laughed. It was a soft sound that grew in volume. It was a mad sound.

The belt grew still. From under her arm, Lynette could see the puzzled expressions everyone wore as they watched Vivian laugh.

Vivian pushed herself up on one hand, her laughter tapering to nothing. She wiped her eyes. “You are all so worried about the father! As if he might be any man! Oh my Lord, you are such fools!”

“You will explain yourself, daughter,” Gwilym said. His voice was icy.

Vivian sat up. “I thought to spare you and mother,” she told Gwilym. “Yet you refuse to believe me when I say the father cannot possibly be a threat to you.”

“Why is that?” Gwilym said, in the same soft, dangerous tone.

“You leave me no choice. I must shame myself to relieve your anxiety,” Vivian said bitterly.

Lynette didn’t have the strength to lift her head and look at Vivian’s expression. She sounded sincere, though.

“You are already shamed, daughter,” Gwilym replied.

“I warned you,” Vivian replied. “In the spring just gone, during the nights of the full moon…do you remember? The moon was larger than we have ever seen it. When it lifted above the horizon, it was blood red. Everyone said it was a sign.”

Lynette poured all her will into lifting herself from the floor. She propped herself up, her head hanging. From the corner of her eye she saw many people making the sign of the cross. Others were making far older signs. Strong signs, to ward off magic.

“It was the first night of the moon when he came to me,” Vivian continued. Her voice dropped into the cadences that poets used when they told their tales. Vivian certainly had her audience as captive as any bard. No one moved, not even Mervyn, who watched her with narrowed eyes.

“He was the most handsome man I have ever seen. He glowed. Light shone from him as if the sun was held inside him. It dazzled me and it frightened me. At first, I would not let him come near me. He spoke with a wonderful voice, though, and reassured me.

“On that first night he merely spoke to me. I did not discern what he wanted. He said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever chanced upon and that he only wanted to spend time with me.” There was a note in Vivian’s voice that told Lynette that this part of the story was true.

Others nodded around them. They believed her, too. After all, the entire household had watched Vivian bewitch men with her beauty for years.

Vivian glanced around the room, measuring her audience. “After that first night I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. He had spoken—only spoken, just as he had said. He kept his word. I thought he was a good man…if he was a man. Only, I was unable to tell anyone about him. It didn’t occur to me that he had laid a spell upon me.”

More mutters and more strong signs against magic, carefully hidden from their pious queen.

“On the second and third nights he appeared in my room, shedding his glorious silver light everywhere. My lady, Lynette, did not see him. She slept as the dead do until morning. On those nights, he laid with me.”

The mutters this time were stronger. Gwilym’s kingdom was nominally Christian, although in times of trouble, folk called upon the older gods for help. Vivian used that primeval instinct to convince them she spoke the truth.

“On the third night, after he had…afterward,” she amended with a coy hesitation, “when I would speak with him and learn more about him, for I thought myself in love with him…that was when he disappeared, right before me. He and his light were gone.”

The muttering was spreading. “I knew then,” Vivian said, lifting her voice, “that I had laid with no man at all. Yet I could still tell no one. I did not even remember him until just now, when Mother invoked the name of God…and my tongue was suddenly free.”

At this, there were many more crosses made than older signs. Vivian had involved her mother’s God to avoid conclusions of heresy and witchcraft. A man wreathed in silver light, who she only remembered when someone appealed to God would keep everyone from thinking of devils and darkness.

Ninian shrank back from her daughter, continuously crossing herself.

Mervyn threw out his hand. “Father, you don’t believe this, do you?”

Lynette swiveled her head carefully, feeling the ache from blows that had reached her neck. She assessed the room. It didn’t matter what Gwilym believed. These people believed Vivian’s story. They were nodding and talking quickly. Some of them even looked pleased.

“Father!” Mervyn cried, moving toward him. “I beg you, do not accept this ridiculous tale. She is lying!”

Vivian leaned toward Lynette, her lips close to Lynette’s ear. “You must run.”

Lynette looked at her, startled. “And leave you to face this?”

Vivian shook her head. “I am safe. They will not dare touch me now. Only, they will want to punish someone for this. You know what men are like. You must go. Now, before they recover from their surprise and pull their wits together.” She pushed on Lynette’s arm.

Lynette wasn’t sure she could move. It hurt too much.

“Do you want to die?” Vivian said, her voice low and forceful. “Go!”

Lynette pushed herself into motion. It did hurt. Each shift and flex was agony…although she was able to move. She glanced around. The door at the back of the room was near. Folant stood by the public door and Mervyn pleaded with his father.

Lynette rose to her feet and took a step, grimacing. Her body shook. Another step. A few more. She pushed through the ring of people and pulled at the door handle. No one paid her any attention. They all watched Mervyn implore his father to not believe his sister.

The door swung open. Lynette stepped inside, her heart booming in her chest, adding more pain.

Shuddering, her breath wheezing, she hurried down the dark passage. There were no windows, just a few candles along its length, that fluttered and died whenever a door was opened along its length.

Lynette was familiar with the corridor. In the dark, she ran her fingers down the wall to guide her. At the far end was a blank wall. She felt over the wall until she found the lever and unclipped it. The wall wavered open a few inches and fresh air fanned her face. The ancient postern door would have been used by the Romans who owned this house as a backdoor escape if enemies came through the front door.

No one had ever thought to question why there was a passage running down the back of the house, connecting rooms that were already accessible via the verandah. Vivian had wondered, though. She had found the answer. The postern door was a secret she had shared only with Lynette.

Lynette stepped out and breathed deeply. It still hurt to breathe, although now she was moving, the pain was receding a little—enough to let her continue. She reversed the lever which closed the door, then tucked it back inside. With the door closed, it looked like a blank section of wall, identical to the rest of the house on this side.

Her feet picking up speed, she moved through the trees, heading uphill. Like the townsfolk, she would head for the hills in this time of trouble.

It was a hard climb, for the undergrowth beneath the trees had reached mid-summer’s full growth. She didn’t dare use one of the worn paths where she would be easily seen. She just had to make the summit of this first hill and she would be away safely.

Branches slapped and scratched her and the undergrowth pulled at her dress. She was wearing light indoor shoes and twigs and pebbles bit into her soles.

Lynette was close to the top of the first hill, the steep one right behind the palace, when she heard shouting.

“Then where did the bloody woman go?” That was Mervyn’s voice.

Someone answered him in a lower tone.

“We’ll look in the hills first. She can’t have got far. That fat pony of hers is still in the stable. Hurry up.”

Her heart squeezed and climbed. Panic was a silvery thread in her veins. They would pursue her! She was on foot and Mervyn’s war horse had been bred for speed as well as stamina.

The fear pushed her onward, making her hurry despite the claw of vines and leaves.

She burst through into clear land, the turf cropped close by sheep and goats. Shepherds and goat boys brought their flocks into the hills for the sweeter grasses. Ahead was the path that most of the household used to scramble up the first steep slope.

The last time Lynette had escaped into the hills with someone following her trail, she had wanted him to find her. She had been on a horse and used the path where the prints would be clear and easy to find.

Now, though, she must hide her trail. She was on foot and her soles were light things, leaving little imprint behind. That would help.

Mervyn, though, was a good hunter. He had turned to improving his hunting skills when his father refused to send troops to Vortigern’s wars, taking out his frustrations upon the deer and boars and wild fowls.

Lynette skipped across the sandy path and moved up the hill behind it. She would be exposed until she reached the top and must move fast. The path took the easiest slope to the top. The direction Lynette took was far steeper.

Scrambling for footing made her legs and back ache. Her breath came faster.

She reached the summit just as the thud of hooves sounded on the path, far below. Lynette threw herself up the slope and rolled behind a clump of heather, to lie and watch.

Mervyn and Padrig galloped along the path, risking their stallions’ necks. Mervyn’s big hunting bow was strapped to his horse, the top of it jutting up behind him.

Lynette waited until the two had passed beneath her, then she could wait no longer. Once they reached the summit, they would cast about for a direction to follow across the valley.

She turned and looked across the shallow valley herself, picking out her route from rocky patches to trees, to clumps of bushes, through anything that would hide her from their view. The challenge now was to reach the other side of the valley without being seen. From there, while they cast about for signs of her direction, she could move freely.

Lynette ran.

She had no cloak, her shoes were light and she wore no veil, for she had been in the privacy of the workroom when Ban had come for her. Her dress one of the finest linen gowns she owned, chosen this morning because the day had promised to be hot. That promise was being fulfilled now. The sun beat down on her head and back. She could feel her hair pins loosening as she ran. The elegant back knot would not last with this energetic movement. When she had a moment, she would pull all the pins and braid it to keep it out of the way.

At each disguising tree and bush, Lynette paused to recover her breath and look for Mervyn and Padrig. She was fortunate that Mervyn did not have his big dog, Birr, with him. Like many of Mervyn’s dogs did, Birr had disappeared one night in early summer and had not been seen since. Lynette considered it telling the man was incapable of holding the loyalty of a dog.

She made the crest of the next hill and paused behind a gnarled oak to check behind her.

Mervyn and Padrig were quartering the far side of the valley, looking for her trail. When they found it, they would come for her quickly. Now, though, she had a little time. Lynette eased over the summit of the hill, keeping trees at her back whenever she could.

On the other side of the hill, she ran once more. She kept her pace slow, so she could maintain it. She avoided open spaces and used rocky ground whenever it was available.

The afternoon stretched on.

At the top of another crest, Lynette paused for a longer rest, eyeing the sun. Until the sun went down, she would not linger anywhere for long. If she made it to the night, then she would pause to consider her options. For now, she must stay ahead of Mervyn.

Beneath her, at the lowest point of the valley, was a copse of willows she remembered.

Lynette stared at them, vexed. She had veered south and was now not far from the coast. Instinctively, she knew that to be caught between Mervyn and the coastline would be a trap. Perhaps, though, she could use the unintended swerve as a form of misdirection. Mervyn would presume she was trying to reach the easier footing the shore provided. Or he would think she was heading for Lecarum, the next town to the east of Maridunum.

She had not caught sight of Mervyn and Padrig since the first valley, when she had watched them casting about for signs of her. However, she did not for a moment wonder if he had given up and gone back to the palace. She had only to recall the fury in his eyes as he’d wielded the belt to guess he would continue the chase for the rest of the day.

What she counted upon was Mervyn’s preference for the good things in life. He liked his wine and he liked eating. He’d had no time to pack food and drink. She hoped that when he got hungry enough and the setting sun told him dinner would be ready at the palace, he would tire of the chase and return home.

Lynette bolted for the willows. Already, her throat was contracting at the thought of drinking from the little waterfall beyond them.

Instead of rounding the willows as she had before, she pushed inside the copse. Her progress was immediately hampered by vines and creepers and thick undergrowth. She patiently stepped around and under and through. The last of her pins were snagged and yanked from her head and her hair came loose. She stopped long enough to tear a strip of linen from her sleeve and braid and bind her hair to hang down her back.

Then she pushed on. If Mervyn did find her trail into the willows, then he would guess she would move directly through them to the other side. He would search that side of the copse to pick up her trail once more. Lynette bent her direction to the right, to emerge where the stream ran closest to the trees. She could hear the trickle of water already.

She waited at the edge of the willows for a long moment, listening carefully. Birds chirped and crickets clicked… no other living thing made a sound.

Lynette moved out to the creek and laid down and drank until she thought she might be sick. She rested for a moment or two, then drank again. She had nothing to carry the water with her. She had to take her fill now.

Then she tucked the hem of her gown into her belt and stepped into the water and waded upstream. She clambered over slippery rocks and was wet from head to toe, which was refreshing. It also meant she could not step out of the stream until she was far away, for she would leave a trail that the worst hunter in the world could follow. If she stayed in the water long enough, though, Mervyn would never find it.

The stream ended at the top of the valley, among mighty oaks. Lynette stepped out of the shallow rivulet the stream had become, then moved up to the crest before shaking herself off and taking stock.

The sun was lowering toward the horizon. It was growing late. Lynette looked around, deciding on a direction. It should be the unexpected one. She had tried to make Mervyn think she was heading for the coast and the villages and towns along it.

Heading deeper into the hills, where there was no one, made no sense.

Lynette therefore turned to look to the north and the endless vales there. Far to the left was a summit she recognized. The hermit’s cave. It would be empty now. There would be wood for a fire and water in the spring. Perhaps, even a scrap of food left behind.

The cave was closer to the river valley than she liked, which perhaps meant it was the ideal place to head. Mervyn would not expect her to circle around and come back to the Maridunum valley.

And tomorrow, she might be able to sneak into town and steal a horse, or find passage on a ship…

It would take a long time to reach the cave. It would be thoroughly dark, with only the moon to guide her once it rose. That might also work to her advantage. Mervyn would, she hoped, give up once the sun sank. If she kept moving after dark, he would never find her.

* * * * *

Lynette reached the cave long after the quarter moon had climbed high above. She was tired beyond belief, her thoughts drifting erratically. Only the notion of warmth and water kept her going. Otherwise, she might have dropped where she stood and slept out in the open, despite the risk.

It was black in the cave. Not even the moonlight penetrated. Lynette felt ahead, her hands out, her heart thudding. When she stubbed her toe on the rocks around the fire pit, she oriented herself. A step or two to the right and she found the sleeping shelf. Then, around the walls to the slender tunnel at the back where she had found the firewood.

She patted the logs in the dark, feeling for one with the most bark to peel for kindling and came across a pile of softness and warmth… She snatched her hand back, her alarm pushing her heart into her throat.

Nothing moved. There was no reaction to her touch.

Carefully, she put her hand out again and found the softness once more. She explored it with both hands.

Fur…and braid. And here, a button.

Ambrosius had left hers and Vivian’s cloaks behind, folded neatly.

Lynette took them back to the shelf and shook them out. She laid on one, pulled the fur over the top of her, pillowed her head on her arm and slept instantly.

* * * * *

The numbing blow of a heavy-handed slap across her face woke her. Lynette cried out, disoriented and blinded by the flames of a torch held close to her face. She threw up her hand to shield herself.

“Get up, slut,” came the growled command.

Mervyn’s voice. They had found her. Against all expectations, Mervyn had trailed her through the night.

He grabbed her arm and hauled her off the shelf.

Lynette moaned. While she had slept, her body had stiffened and now every limb felt like iron. It hurt to move.

Mervyn gave her no choice. She found her feet and straightened, wincing.

Padrig stood by the mouth of the cave, another flaming torch in his hands. He glanced out into the night, then around the cave with nervous, jerky motions. “Let’s go, brother. We have her.”

“Relax,” Mervyn told him. He bent and thrust the torch among the old coals and leftover wood in the fire pit. It caught and the flames jumped. He dropped the torch on top, to burn. Then he turned to consider Lynette.

He looked tired and dirty. The anger in his eyes canceled both. What drove his fury? What had pushed him to follow her trail at night, as he had? He would have had to walk the trail, bent low with the torch ahead of him in order to not miss any sign. What would make a man so determined?

“I could take off my belt and begin where I left off,” Mervyn said, his tone conversational. “Or I might use my knife. A slice here. A cut there. Or you could save yourself from all of it by telling me what I want to know.”

Lynette trembled. She had vastly underestimated Mervyn. She had misunderstood.

Only, he misunderstood her, too. “Even if I knew, I would not tell you,” Lynette said. She kept her voice low so he could not hear it shake. “It would not be my secret to reveal.”

Mervyn hit her. The blow came without warning. His fist shot out, smashing into her jaw. Her head snapped to the left and her teeth crunched together. Bright pain flared and she tasted blood. She had bitten her tongue.

Lynette swayed on her feet, bent over with her hands on her knees. Her head rang. She could hear nothing. She spat the blood onto the fire, breathing hard. “Why do you care who the father is?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and muffled because of the buzzing in her head.

Mervyn’s hand slid under her chin and lifted it, raising her so she was standing once more.

Her heart pounded.

Mervyn’s smile was small and nasty. “Why do you care? You are a woman. These things are beyond your ken.”

“I have no interest in such matters, of course,” Lynette lied. “If you explain it, then perhaps I might understand why I must betray the princess.”

Mervyn rolled his eyes. “You are stupid, woman. Any man would grasp the problem immediately.”

“Yes, I am ignorant of politics,” she agreed, with a modest simper.

Mervyn came closer. “I would have the father’s name now. I have no intention of waiting for him to arrive in Maridunum and claim the throne for himself, no matter who he is. The crown is mine.”

Mervyn, Vivian’s little brother. He had lived his entire life with the knowledge that whoever wed Vivian could supplant his claim if they were strong enough or of sufficient rank.

As Lynette chided herself for not seeing this before, Mervyn sank his fist into her stomach. She had no time to brace herself. He drove deep, stealing her breath and knocking her off her feet.

Lynette sprawled in the dirt, a moan pushing out of her. She had no breath to spare to scream.

“Mervyn!” Padrig hissed, at the entrance. “We can’t stay here. This place is haunted.”

“Oh, just shut up your whining, will you?” Mervyn spat. “Go outside if you’re that afraid.”

The toes of Mervyn’s boots stopped in front of Lynette’s nose and she struggled to bring an arm up to protect her face.

“You will tell me,” Mervyn hissed, bending to speak in her ear. “There is no one here to stop me, this time.”

With supreme effort, Lynette found the air to speak. “You will kill me once I do.”

“Oh, I will kill you anyway,” he said, his tone cool. “You are not leaving this cave, woman. I can make it quick and clean, if you tell me now. If you do not, then death will be slow to arrive and the time between will make you wish it would hurry.”

He picked up her arm, the one protecting her face. She winced, waiting for the kick.

Instead, a quiet snick sounded. Cold metal pressed up against the side of her finger. She shuddered at the touch and tried to pull her arm away. Mervyn held her arm still. The knife didn’t move.

“Tell me,” he crooned. “Tell me, or you lose your finger, first.”

Lynette wept, her fear driving her to it.

She clung to the single fact that might sustain her. She would not tell Mervyn the name of Vivian’s child’s father, because the future of Britain depended upon it remaining a secret. Vivian had told her so and she trusted Vivian.

If Lynette could remain strong until the end, she would help save Britain.

So she closed her eyes and waited for the pain to come.

From the entrance to the cave came a soft thud and a tired sigh.

Mervyn let her arm go. “You!”

“Dogs and children hate you, Mervyn. Do you think wearing a crown will make people love you?”

Cadfael. It was impossible, yet it was his voice.

Lynette struggled to roll over and prop herself up. She looked up.

It was Cadfael, in the flesh. He stood in the mouth of the cave, his cloak furled over his shoulders. His sword and his knife were in his hands. Dawn light showed pale in the sky beyond the cave. With the light behind him, his face was lit only by the weak flames, yet his eyes seemed to blaze with a fire of their own.

He was dirty with the dust of the road, his boots splattered with mud, his chin bristling with russet whiskers. To Lynette, he had never looked more glorious than he did in that moment.

Mervyn rounded the fire, putting it between him and Cadfael.

Cadfael stepped over Padrig’s body, stalking inexorably toward Mervyn, undeterred by the flames.

“You can’t touch me!” Mervyn squeaked. “I am a prince!”

“I am not here,” Cadfael said softly. “Lynette will swear to that and Padrig didn’t see me at all. The ghosts of the hermit’s cave were your demise, Mervyn. You should go to your grave knowing that few will mourn your loss.”

“You would kill me for nothing?” Mervyn shrank backward as Cadfael stepped right over the fire.

“You can call it nothing if you want,” Cadfael told him. “You harmed a woman. An innocent. Death is the least you deserve.”

Mervyn must have seen the implacable intention in Cadfael’s eyes and realized he could not talk Cadfael out of it. The smaller man fumbled for his sword and lunged at Cadfael, the blade out.

It seemed to Lynette’s pain-clouded eyes that Mervyn cooperated with Cadfael. Cadfael stepped closer to the man, brushing the sword away with his own. Mervyn lifted his chin, exposing it. Cadfael thrust the knife into the soft skin beneath.

Mervyn’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened.

Cadfael yanked the knife out.

Mervyn fell heavily to the ground and didn’t move again.

Barely before the body landed, Cadfael whirled away. He threw down the knife and sword and hurried around the fire to where Lynette lay. He dropped beside her and picked her up gently and settled her on his lap.

“You are here…” she whispered.

“Barely in time, but yes.” He brushed tendrils of her hair away from her face.

“I don’t understand. How is it you are here?”

His lips touched her temple. “You have led me on a merry chase this night. Actually, you led Mervyn on the chase. I merely followed where he led me. It didn’t occur to him that a hunter can also be the hunted. When the fools pushed into the night carrying torches, I could have left Mars to follow and slept in the saddle for all the challenge it became.”

“You followed them? Why?”

“To find you. Folant told me what had happened and gave me the direction. I knew it would be impossible to find you unless you wanted me to. You grew up in the mountains. You know how to use the countryside to hide. So I followed Mervyn instead. When I saw the trail swing to the north and head toward the river, I knew where you had gone and I could safely close the gap.” He closed his eyes. “I was nearly too late. A moment longer…”

Lynette raised her hand to rest it against his chest and assure herself he really was here. Pain flared at the movement.

She felt soft cloth beneath her fingers and the warmth of his body below that. Her fingers caught against a raw edge and she smiled. The tear remained. He had not found another women to do that service for him.

“I still don’t understand,” she confessed. “How did you know to come to Maridunum at all? It all happened so fast…no word could have reached you in time. How did you know I would need help?”

He grew still. Wary. She could feel it in the way his chest and belly tightened.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice low. “I knew nothing at all until I arrived at the palace and found it in an uproar and Folant told me where I would find you. I came to Maridunum for you, Lynette. I couldn’t stand my life a moment longer without you in it.”

Lynette’s heart came to a shocked, numb halt. She stared at him.

Padrig stirred and groaned.

Lynette clutched at Cadfael, fear blooming. “I thought he was dead!” she whispered.

Cadfael laid his fingers against her lips and shook his head. Then he got to his feet and lifted her in his arms and carried her outside.

The dawn was painted red and the day grew brighter. Cadfael climbed down from the shelf in front of the cave to where he had hidden Mars. He put her on Mars’ back and gripped her knee as she swayed. “Can you sit by yourself?”

“I think so.”

“Only for a while. I will take care of Padrig, then take you…somewhere. Then we will talk.”

“Just promise you will return to me,” she whispered.

He kissed her. “I will return to you, my lovely Lynette. If for no other reason than that you sit upon my horse.” His smile was warm. “Although there are a thousand other reasons and I will name them, one by one, later.”

She shivered as he hurried away.

Chapter Fifteen

From the hermit’s cave, Cadfael rode north at an easy pace to spare Mars, as the sun rose even higher. It was the unexpected direction, he explained. It was also the opposite direction from where Maridunum lay.

When a small river halted farther progress, Cadfael lifted Lynette to the ground and put her back against a mighty oak that hung over the water. He made a fire on the bare ground, in front of her. Then he boiled water and tended her wounds.

It was a surprise to Lynette that she had a split lip and that Mervyn had laid open her brow with his first blow. She had not noticed the blood, in her panic and fear. Later the ache in her bones from his blows and her exertions yesterday had masked the minor cuts.

As he worked to clean her skin and inspect the cuts, Cadfael told her what he had left behind in the cave.

“I knocked Padrig out again. I hung Mervyn by his feet and drew a sign in the dirt below his head that everyone knows is the devil’s. Where you had been laying, I poured a line of ashes shaped like you. Then I waited outside the entrance for Padrig to stir.”

“Oh dear…poor Padrig,” Lynette murmured. “He was terrified of the ghosts.”

“I used that fear,” Cadfael said grimly. “He stirred, got to his feet and looked about the cave. He let out a scream that would induce panic in a rock and ran from the place. His face was whiter than snow and his eyes big and round.” He sobered. “Padrig is a good man and he’ll be a better one not living in Mervyn’s shadow.”

He got to his feet and dropped the bloody rag he had been using into the fire. He delved into his saddlebags again. “Hungry?” he asked her.

Lynette did not think she would ever be hungry again. Yet her belly swirled and gurgled loudly.

Cadfael laughed. “Me, too.”

He made a simple porridge with ground oats, hot water and dried fruit. Lynette ate carefully, her lip throbbing, using the only spoon. Cadfael ate with his fingers, scooping the oats from the bowl they shared.

As the bowl emptied, Cadfael grew restless. He stirred and got to his feet. He put more wood on the fire. He repacked his saddlebags. From his profile, Lynette could see his eyes were narrowed, deepening the lines at the corners.

“Cadfael,” Lynette said, to catch his attention.

He lowered himself to the ground in front of her, staring at her toes, in their now-ragged slippers. “Any other man would just take you away.” His voice was low. Strained. “A man would consider you his by right of conquest. I cannot bring myself to that. Not with you.”

Her heart lurched. “You do not want me?”

“I want you to want me,” he breathed, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “I like it better when you are free to think for yourself and act accordingly. That is why I came to Maridunum. I wanted to ask you if you would consent to be mine.”

“Yours?”

“My wife.” His gaze was steady. “For nothing less will do. I love you, Lynette. I have spent the last…all of summer, refusing to believe it. I did not think I would ever love again. You, though, have given me love and hope that there is a chance yet for a better life. Because of you, I have found purpose beyond the mindless slaughter of Saxons. I would be a fool to not grasp that with both hands.”

Lynette drew in a breath that shook.

“Please say yes,” he added, his voice low.

“Oh, Cadfael, of course I say yes,” she breathed. “Had I known you wanted my agreement, I would have walked to Calleva to give it to you. I believed you considered that night to be just…just a night…”

He kissed her, halting her words. The kiss deepened. Sweetened.

Until Lynette gasped in pain and he tore his mouth from hers, his brow etched, his gaze on the wound in her lip. “I hurt you…”

She cupped his jaw, feeling the rasp of whiskers against her skin. “Mervyn hurt me. I truly thought I was about to die. You have given me my life back.”

He kissed her palm. “You have done that for me.” He sat back on his heels, took her hand and stroked it. “Until I rode into the middle of the hysteria in the palace yesterday, I assumed that if you said yes, we would return to Calleva. Now, though, that isn’t possible.”

“Because everyone will believe the ghosts killed me in the cave.”

“Yes.” He got to his feet. “Only Folant saw me in the palace yesterday. Everyone was too panicked to take note. So only Folant knows I was in the area. He will put it together. He will guess what happened in the cave was my doing. If I have the measure of the man, I predict he won’t say anything. He will let everyone accept it was spirits or devils who saw to Mervyn.”

“Folant didn’t want to hurt me,” Lynette said, remembering the king’s hall. “He explained it to me instead. He tried to convince me I should tell the truth, instead of beating it from me.”

Cadfael nodded. “He was concerned about you. He sent me into the hills because he could not go himself. He can’t raise a hand against Mervyn. I, though, am not sworn to Gwilym and was free to act. Folant could not push me out of the courtyard fast enough.” Cadfael patted Mars’ nose. The stallion snorted and nudged him for more.

“If we can’t go to Calleva because everyone thinks I am dead, then where can we go?” Lynette asked.

Cadfael patted Mars’ nose thoughtfully. “It was a coincidence that I came north, but perhaps it was fate that pushed us this way.” He looked at her. “Vortigern sent word at mid-summer. He wants me to return to Deva.”

“That is what Ambrosius asked you to do,” Lynette pointed out.

“And it has sat ill with me all summer,” Cadfael admitted. “I cannot stomach the idea of serving Vortigern, not even to help Ambrosius. The secret would sour in me.”

Lynette understood. Cadfael was a straight-forward man. Secrets and hidden purpose did not suit him.

Cadfael gave Mars one last pat and dropped his hand. “The idea came to me as we rode this way,” he said. “There are pockets of Roman Britons all through the north, right under Vortigern’s nose. They are overlooked, tucked away in the mountains and the wilds. Only, I know those mountains. I am familiar with every by-way and secret road. I know the people there, for they are mine. I want to return there and gather them, with no subterfuge and hypocrisy. When we met, we speak openly of Ambrosius and his ambitions and swear publicly to serve him. When Ambrosius is ready, the north can rise up to support him.”

Lynette considered the idea. “It is a good plan,” she said. “I think even Ambrosius would approve.”

“Then you will write and tell him that?” Cadfael asked.

“I will teach you to read and write and then you may tell Ambrosius yourself.”

Cadfael’s smile was warm. His eyes were heated, with more than lust. “Let me take you home, Lynette. Back to the mountains…back to where you belong.”

Chapter Sixteen

Ynys Gybi (The Holy Isle), Gwynedd. Three years later.

The abbot refused to direct them, until Cadfael lowered his hood and told him who he was. Cadfael’s name was known in the north. While most knew him as Vortigern’s former battle commander, there were more people every day who were privy to his true allegiance to Ambrosius.

Abbot Ifan was one of the latter, for his smile was small and knowing. “Your work is known to God, my son. The lady you seek is walking on the promontory.” The abbot bowed toward Lynette. “Go with God, my lady.”

She nodded in return.

They made their way through the monastery, passing monks and lay craftsmen rebuilding the damaged sections. This island and the monastery had been invaded and destroyed by every enemy known to Britain, more than once. Yet the monks clung to the island, for it was considered a holy place. A powerful place. The more enemies fought to have it, the more powerful it became.

Right at the tip of the island where the sea smashed against the cliffs with a thunder that smothered the cries of the gulls hovering hopefully over the rocks, they found her.

“Go to her,” Cadfael said and gave Lynette a gentle push.

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for this.”

His smile was warm.

Lynette walked right up to her, her footsteps masked by the waves. She reached out and squeezed Vivian’s arm.

Vivian whirled. Her eyes widened. Then they filled with tears and she pulled Lynette against her and held her tightly. “I knew you could not be dead! I wondered if I was merely wishing, but in my heart, I knew!” She let her go and glanced at Cadfael, who bowed briefly. “He came for you…”

“He saved me,” Lynette said. “If not for him, Mervyn would have cut me into small pieces to learn who fathered your child.”

“Then you are wed. Praise be.”

“And I am a mother,” Lynette added. “A boy.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “And perhaps a girl, at the winter solstice.”

“You work openly for Ambrosius now?” Vivian asked. “How did you manage that and not have Vortigern descend upon you with his blade drawn?”

Lynette thought of the terrifying days she had spent in Cadfael’s house, waiting for his return from Deva. “Cadfael confronted Vortigern and told him what he knew about the deal Vortigern made with Hengist. One town and ten villages. In return for Cadfael’s silence, Vortigern released him from service. Cadfael let him believe he was returning to the land of his youth, to be a farmer. And he does farm. Sometimes.”

Vivian laughed.

“Your baby, Vivian…”

“Myrddin Emrys,” Vivian replied. “He grows like a weed. He is his father in every way, Lynette. Oh, if you could only see him. Only, even the Abbott’s tolerance would not extend to hosting a bastard. My coins extended his good will to me alone.”

“One of the brothers who writes to Cadfael about Vortigern’s movements mentioned you were expected, that you would be staying a while. A retreat, he called it.” Lynette raised her brow. “You were never committed to the Christian god. Has something changed?”

“I think I am the one who changed,” Vivian replied. “There is a comfort in praying for a world of peace for all men.” She hesitated. “My Sight has gone, Lynette. I have been blind since Myrddin was made.” Her smile was weak. “It is as if I was given the gift long enough to bring him into the world, then it was taken back.”

“The gods gave you the future, though. You know what is to happen—you have not forgotten what you told me?”

“I have forgotten nothing of what I was permitted to see,” Vivian said gently. “Including the role you and Cadfael will play. You have been put on that path already. Now, the wheel turns by itself, with no need for a guiding hand. The pieces are in place.”

“Pieces? You mean, Cadfael?”

“And Myrddin.”

“Your son? He is only a few years old. What could he possibly do?”

“You forget. The future I have seen stretches from this moment out to all possible moments to come. I have seen the death of kings, the rise and fall of kingdoms and the end of civilizations. I have walked upon shores that are not yet known to man.” Vivian’s gaze turned inward, not with the featureless other-driven stare that Lynette remembered, but because she was recalling the memory of visions, not the visions themselves.

Her voice, though, rang with the conviction of someone utterly sure of themselves.

“Myrddin will become one of the greatest men to walk this earth, in this time and all others,” Vivian said. “He is already known as the one born of no man. His Sight will see farther than mine ever did. He will not be a king. He can never be that. Instead, he will be a maker of kings. The most powerful king of this age will be his to command. He will teach, advise and shape Britain so that generations will know peace and prosperity.”

Lynette shivered, from more than the frigid wind blowing off the sea.

Vivian smiled. It was the smile of a mother. “The world will call him Merlin and say he is a powerful magician. I will go to my grave thinking of him only as my son and be proud of what I made.”

The sea roared next to them while Lynette absorbed the power of Vivian’s prophecy.

Then Vivian looked around her with a frown. “It is dreadfully cold out here. Let’s go inside and talk. I would like to get to know the man you saved. Come along.”

“The man who saved me,” Lynette corrected her, taking her arm.

“If you insist.”

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The next book in the Once and Future Hearts series.

Dragon Kin, Book 2.

Will she become the cursed king’s fifth dead wife?

In Lesser Britain, drought grips the land, forcing Arawn, King of Brocéliande, to take a fifth wife, hoping she will be the mother of his firstborn, whom the prophecy says will break the curse and save his people.

Ilsa, daughter of a wood cutter, is brought to Lorient to wed the cold, distant Arawn, terrified she will become the king’s next dead wife. There she learns about the true High King of Britain, Ambrosius, and his brother Uther, who build an army to take back Britain from the Saxons and Vortigern the Usurper.

Can Arawn find a way to save his people and the land that supports the future Pendragon? Will Ilsa break the curse?
___

An amazing amount of detail to the time period. Love Romances

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About the Author

Tracy Cooper-Posey is a #1 Best Selling Author. She writes romantic suspense, historical, paranormal and science fiction romance. She has published over 90 novels since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favourite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award.

She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book Of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, and a SFR Galaxy Award in 2016 for “Most Intriguing Philosophical/Social Science Questions in Galaxybuilding” She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she taught romance writing at MacEwan University.

She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey

For reviews, excerpts, and more about each title, visit Tracy’s site and click on the cover you are interested in: http://tracycooperposey.com/books-by-thumbnail/

* = Free!

Vistaria Has Fallen

Vistaria Has Fallen
Prisoner of War
Hostage Crisis
Freedom Fighters
Casualties of War
V-Day

Scandalous Scions

(Historical Romance Series – Spin off)
Rose of Ebony
Soul of Sin
Valor of Love
Marriage of Lies
Mask of Nobility
Law of Attraction
Veil of Honor

Once and Future Hearts

(Ancient Historical Romance—Arthurian)

Born of No Man
Dragon Kin
Pendragon Rises
War Duke of Britain
High King of Britain
Battle of Mount Badon
Abduction of Guenivere
Downfall of Cornwall
Vengeance of Arthur
Grace of Lancelot
The Grail and Glory
Camlann

Romantic Thrillers Series

Fatal Wild Child
Dead Again
Dead Double
Terror Stash
Thrilling Affair (Boxed Set)

Scandalous Sirens

(Historical Romance Series)
Forbidden*
Dangerous Beauty
Perilous Princess

Go-get-‘em Women

(Short Romantic Suspense Series)
The Royal Talisman
Delly’s Last Night
Vivian’s Return
Ningaloo Nights

Blood Knot Series

(Urban Fantasy Paranormal Series)
Blood Knot
Southampton Swindle
Broken Promise
Vale
Amor Meus
Blood Stone
Blood Unleashed
Blood Drive
Blood Revealed
Blood Ascendant

The Sherlock Holmes Series

(Romantic Suspense/Mystery)
Chronicles of the Lost Years
The Case of the Reluctant Agent
Sherlock Boxed In

Beloved Bloody Time Series

(Paranormal Futuristic Time Travel)
Bannockburn Binding*
Wait
Byzantine Heartbreak
Viennese Agreement
Romani Armada
Spartan Resistance
Celtic Crossing

Kiss Across Time Series

(Paranormal Time Travel)
Kiss Across Time*
Kiss Across Swords
Time Kissed Moments
Kiss Across Chains
Kiss Across Deserts
Kiss Across Kingdoms
Time and Tyra Again
Kiss Across Seas
Kiss Across Worlds

The Kine Prophecies

(Epic Norse Fantasy Romance)
The Branded Rose Prophecy

The Stonebrood Saga

(Gargoyle Paranormal Series)
Carson’s Night
Beauty’s Beasts
Harvest of Holidays
Unbearable
Sabrina’s Clan
Pay The Ferryman
Hearts of Stone (Boxed Set)

Destiny’s Trinities

(Urban Fantasy Romance Series)
Beth’s Acceptance*
Mia’s Return
Sera’s Gift
The First Trinity
Cora’s Secret
Zoe’s Blockade
Octavia’s War
The Second Trinity
Terra’s Victory
Destiny’s Trinities (Boxed Set)

Interspace Origins

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
Faring Soul
Varkan Rise
Cat and Company
Interspace Origins (Boxed Set)

Short Paranormals

Solstice Surrender
Eva’s Last Dance
Three Taps, Then….
The Well of Rnomath

Jewells of Tomorrow

(Historical Romantic Suspense)
Diana By The Moon
Heart of Vengeance

The Endurance

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
5,001
Greyson’s Doom
Yesterday’s Legacy
Promissory Note
Quiver and Crave
Xenogenesis
Junkyard Heroes
Evangeliya
Skinwalker’s Bane

Contemporary Romances

Lucifer’s Lover
An Inconvenient Lover

The Indigo Reports

(Space Opera)
Flying Blind
New Star Rising
But Now I See
Suns Eclipsed
Worlds Beyond

Non-Fiction Titles

Reading Order

(Non-Fiction, Reference)
Reading Order 2017*

Copyright Information

This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey

All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

FIRST EDITION: May 2018

Cooper-Posey, Tracy
Born of No Man…/Tracy Cooper-Posey—1st Ed.

Romance—Fiction
Historical– Fiction