Anwen did not have to search out Steffan from among the hundreds of people spread out between the trees. Everyone huddled about roaring campfires as last of the daylight disappeared and the cooking pots simmered. Or they carried food and furs and cushions from the carts or took care of the horses. The camp was a busy place.
Despite the frantic activity, Anwen’s gaze was drawn to Steffan’s tall figure as he carried a metal platter heaped with stew away from the fires, his staff waving in an arc over the ground ahead of him.
He was finding a private place to eat.
She watched him tap against the trunk of a mighty oak, carefully navigate over the roots and move around to the other side. That was all she saw, for Igraine’s tent had been raised and the cushions and furs needed to be arranged inside before Igraine retired.
Igraine was pale from the day’s uncomfortable travel. She was quiet, too. Her gaze would flicker toward Gorlois, who was eating with his officers. She ate little.
It was not Anwen’s place to draw Igraine out. Anwen was the least favored and most frequently ignored of Igraine’s companions. The women Igraine sought for company and gossip must tend to her preoccupation, instead.
The matter was straightforward enough in Anwen’s mind. Igraine was married and a Christian. She would be breaking her own religious vows to take Uther as a lover, no matter how kindly she felt toward him. Gorlois would not like it, either. Even though Uther was the High King, and such a liaison would confer favor and power upon Cornwall and Gorlois, Gorlois was a family man. He loved his children and his affection for Igraine was immense. He was also a Christian and would be forced to defend Igraine and Cornwall, if Uther pressed his attentions upon her.
The liaison simply could not take place. Igraine must surely understand that. She was not a stupid woman.
Anwen sat alone on the chilly side of the fire, staring at the dancing flames as she ate, her thoughts shifting from Igraine to Steffan. He had not emerged from behind the oak. He clearly intended to stay there for the night.
He had not reacted to her Christmas gift. He had not sought her out to speak to her at all.
Such things happened between men and women, Anwen assured herself. She remembered now the gossip of the women, bewailing a man who moved on, discarding them after a single dalliance. It was the way of it. Men were not easily tethered.
Now Anwen could say she had been discarded, too. Upon reflection, it was to be expected. She had no dowry, her father was not a king or a lord. She had finally come to understand she would never be married. A continuing relationship with a man was even less likely. She simply did not have the womanly assets to hold a man. She was not pretty or young or accomplished in the way men appreciated in a wife. She sewed badly, the yarn she spun was always uneven and inclined to break. She could not weave good cloth, either. She would rather read books than tend plants and gather food…no, she would not make a good wife or companion.
It was therefore only reasonable that Steffan would not seek her out a second time. She had nothing to offer him.
Yet she found herself on her feet and moving across the campsite, anyway. She stepped around people and slipped through them, weaving a path toward the oak. The firelight played redly upon the wide trunk and she could see nothing but night shadows beyond it.
For the first time Anwen appreciated always being overlooked. No one would notice her cross the campsite, nor the direction she was heading. The gossips were blind to what she did now.
Trembling, Anwen moved around the oak.
Clearly, Steffan had spent his time since the carts had stopped collecting gear and bringing it here. He laid upon furs and more covered him. A small fire burned on the earth in front of him, and the oak guarded his back.
His staff rested against the tree, an arm’s length away.
He looked up as Anwen’s feet crunched on the frosty ground.
“It is only me,” Anwen told him.
“Only you smell as you do,” Steffan replied, sitting up.
Anwen settled on her knees in front of him, the fire warming her flank. “I will go if you want me to,” she said softly, speaking hurriedly. “Only, it occurred to me that you would not find me among everyone, if you had a mind to. So I came to you, to save you the problem…if it is a problem you want solved, that is.”
Her chest and throat hurt, and her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for Steffan to respond.
His sightless gaze met hers. How did he do that? It was as if he really could see her.
“The gods above…” he breathed. “You have such courage.”
She swallowed and made herself say crisply, “I am merely being practical.”
Steffan’s mouth pressed against hers and she lost the air in her lungs with a soft gasp, as he kissed her.
Then he drew back. His gaze was steady. “I will not compromise your position any further than I have.”
It hurt. It hurt more than she had braced herself for. Anwen let her eyes close and her mouth tremble. He would see none of her agony. She held her teeth together so she did not make a single sound which might betray her.
“Do you understand, Anwen?” Steffan added. “Igraine is Christian. She would not look upon—”
“Of course I understand,” Anwen said, using the same crisp tone. She got to her feet. “I said I would go if you wanted me to, and so I shall. I apologize for disturbing your rest.”
She hurried away, her heart throwing itself against her chest.
“Anwen!” Steffan called behind her.
She didn’t stop. As soon as she was among the other people around the fires, he would never find her, for she would be invisible once more.
ILSA FOUND BAN AND HIS smaller company of men off to one side of the large royal host preparing to leave Amesbury at first light. Ban’s normally handsome face was drawn in lines of weariness which had grown steadily deeper over the last few weeks.
He held Ilsa in a long, warm hold, then took her letters. “Of course I will deliver them to Elaine, and Evaine, too,” he said, tucking them in his belt pouch. “It will be my great pleasure.” His breath blew frost into the air.
Ilsa patted his arm. “It will do you good to go home,” she said gently.
“Home…” he muttered. “It will be like starting all over again,” he added, with a hint of bitterness.
“Will you tell Elaine about…” Ilsa hesitated. “The child?” she finished.
“I must,” Ban said, his bitterness rising and twisting his voice. “If Elaine is not able to bear a child, then this bastard will be my heir.” His mouth turned down.
A horn sounded, gathering the host, warning them to be ready to ride. Ilsa wrung her hands. “It has not all been wasted time,” she told him quickly. “We have done great good here, Ban. Uther will not forget that. Britain will not. There is peace, the first in years and years. You can be proud of that. So can Elaine.”
Ban scanned the company as men climbed onto their horses in response to the warning. “If this is what peace looks like…” He blew out his breath. “There was more glory in war,” he said shortly.
“When your son and true-born heir sits upon your knee, at your hearth, with Elaine by your side, you will appreciate peace,” Ilsa assured him.
“I hope so.” He swung up onto his horse. “We fought for seven years. There must be more we fought for than petty squabbling among bored kings.”
The second horn sounded, forcing Ilsa to turn and run for her horse, before the company moved off. There was no time to say more. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could say to counter Ban’s disillusionment.
She could only hope that Elaine’s arms would comfort him.
GORLOIS’ LARGE COMPANY HAD BEEN on the road for several hours and the sun had burned off the last of the mist, when Igraine gathered her hems up in one arm and jumped from the cart while it was still moving.
Igraine dropped her gown and smoothed it down, waiting for Anwen to reach where she stood. She gave Anwen a small smile, her full lips turning up at the corners. “I thought I might walk for a while. It could not possibly be any more uncomfortable than another day upon the cart.” She turned and matched Anwen’s pace.
Anwen hid her mild irritation. She had been walking alone, which let her think. A night of heavy thinking had left her tired and still without hope. She was still dependent upon Igraine’s goodwill and always would be. Things had returned to exactly where they had been through all the long years.
“This ground is rather rough, isn’t it?” Igraine commented.
Anwen glanced at Igraine’s slippers. “We can walk on the grass at the edge of the road,” she suggested.
“Yes, that might help.”
They edged closer to the side of the road, which let Igraine walk on the softer growth, while Anwen continued on the dirt which had been compressed by traffic into a flat, frozen path. The sun had burned off the frost which had left it white and glistening. Now it was merely a dark, damp route through the trees.
Walking along the side of the road put them out of listening distance of anyone on the carts which moved beside them.
Igraine glanced at the cart she had been traveling in, which was now farther ahead than they. “What did you think of Amesbury, Anwen?”
“I didn’t see much of it,” Anwen admitted. “The standing stones are majestic, of course.”
“A fitting tribute for Ambrosius, and for the leaders who died at Vortigern’s hand.”
“Indeed,” Anwen said. “Did you meet Merlin, my lady?”
“I did.”
“Is it true he is taller than any man alive? And his eyes spark fire?”
“You didn’t see him at the standing stones?”
Anwen dropped her gaze to her feet. She hadn’t been looking at the stones. “No,” she admitted.
“Merlin is a normal man,” Igraine said. “Although he is younger than I expected. He is tall, but no taller than any other man. Uther is just as tall…although they are blood kin.”
“Then Merlin has red hair, too?”
Igraine shook her head. “Uther’s cousin, Ilsa, has the same red hair, but no one else in their family.” She glanced along the road, toward the head of the column. “Uther is the only man.”
Anwen sensed Igraine was not speaking of hair color now. She said carefully, “Uther, the High King.”
Igraine pressed her lips together. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh.
“Of course, Gorlois has red hair, too,” Anwen pointed out.
“It is fading now,” Igraine said. “As he grows older.”
Anwen hesitated. “As he is your husband, surely it does not matter? Gorlois has many admirable qualities. He is fiercely loyal to the High King.”
Igraine flinched. She stopped walking, forcing Anwen to turn back to face her. Igraine’s face worked. Her hands trembled. “God help me, Anwen,” she breathed, so softly Anwen barely heard it. “I cannot stop thinking about him! Even now, all I can see is his face. His eyes. The…the passion there.” She put her hand on her belly, her fingers spread.
Anwen glanced around uneasily, to see who noticed that the Duchess had halted and appeared to be stressed. She took Igraine’s arm. “Keep walking.”
Igraine obeyed.
Their steps were slower than before, although they would not draw attention, now.
“You must let this go, my lady,” Anwen said firmly. “You know that as well as I do. As a Christian…”
Igraine sighed. “I have prayed for guidance. None comes.”
Anwen shook her head. “You need none. The facts are simple, my lady. If you indulge yourself in this, you will tear the kingdom apart, just when Ambrosius and Uther put it back together again.”
“I know that,” Igraine said. “I know it all too well. I am not a vapid woman, yearning for romance and adventure. I was raised to consider the political side of everything. I know it is impossible. Yet I cannot rid myself of the memory of him. It is as though, now I have seen him, I can see nothing else. If I was permitted by the Church to believe in magic, Anwen, I would say I have been bewitched.”
She spoke quite seriously.
“You must keep that to yourself,” Anwen said quickly. “There are many others who do believe in witchcraft and they would not look kindly upon a woman of your rank professing to be the victim of a spell.”
Igraine chewed at her lip thoughtfully. Her gaze shifted to Anwen. “Of course, you are right.”
Anwen relaxed. “I am sure Yvette and Mary told you the same thing, when you explained it to them.” Yvette and Mary were Igraine’s closest companions, the ones she trusted with everything.
Igraine shook her head. “I dare not tell them,” she said, her voice low. “They have husbands, and an indiscrete word, perhaps to entertain their husband…it would be the ruin of me.”
Anwen let out a deeper breath. At least Igraine had enough sense left to be cautious.
“Have you never yearned for a man, Anwen?” Igraine asked, her voice still soft. “Do you not know even a little of what I am feeling?”
“I do know, my lady,” Anwen said stiffly. Truthfully.
“Ah…” Igraine said, sounding both surprised and satisfied.
Anwen’s heart ached. She kept her gaze down.
“Then we have something in common, after all,” Igraine added.
“Something else,” Anwen corrected her.
“Oh?”
“Anwen! Anwen!” The cart which Morgan and Morguase rode upon had drawn level with Anwen and Igraine. Morgan waved fiercely. “Look at the rainbow, Anwen! See it! And it hasn’t rained at all! It’s just there!”
Anwen glanced at the rainbow on the horizon, painted upon black clouds. “It means there is rain where the rainbow is, Morgan. Or mist or fog, or moisture in the air.”
“I would not have known that,” Igraine admitted. “All it takes is damp air?”
“And sunlight,” Anwen added.
Morguase leaned against the side of the cart, her chin on her hands. “I’m bored,” she said, pouting. “I want Steffan to give us a lesson.”
“I don’t know where Steffan is,” Anwen told her.
“He’s in the cart five up from ours,” Morgan said instantly. “Tell him to come and teach us, please?”
Anwen smiled. “This is supposed to be a holiday for you, Morgan.”
Morgan’s smile was angelic. “Learning things is fun.”
Morguase’s pout deepened. “Mother, please tell Anwen to fetch Steffan. I want a story.”
Igraine glanced at Anwen. “Perhaps, to distract them…?”
“There is no room on the cart for him,” Anwen pointed out.
“He can walk alongside,” Morguase said quickly.
“He cannot see where he is walking,” Anwen said, hiding her impatience.
“He can keep one hand on the cart,” Morguase said.
“Go and fetch him, Anwen,” Igraine said, her tone firm. She lifted her hems and hurried along the road to catch up with her cart, caught hold of the railing and jumped onto it with a graceful movement.
Anwen was left standing on the side of the road, alone as she had wished, only now the fragile acceptance she had formed was shattered.
THE DRIVER TAPPED STEFFAN’S SHOULDER to draw his attention. “There be a lady walking beside the cart,” he said in a scratched voice. “On your right.”
Steffan turned his head in that direction. People would not speak to him if he didn’t appear to be looking at them.
“Oh!” the driver said, startled. “Oops! Careful there, lady.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Anwen said breathlessly.
It sounded as though she was on the cart itself. Had she leapt on to it?
“Steffan, I’m sorry to intrude, only the girls and Lady Igraine are asking for you. Morguase wants a story and Morgan wishes to learn something. Can you jump off the cart without seeing? Or should the cart stop?”
Steffan frowned. Her voice. What was it about her voice? It stroked his spine with soft fingers.
“Steffan?” Anwen repeated.
He stirred. “A story?” he said, keeping his voice even. “I can give them a story.”
“I should stop the cart,” the driver said, alarm building in his voice.
“There’s no need,” Steffan told him.
“You can’t jump!” the driver cried.
Steffan pulled up his feet and got to them and reached for the side of the cart. It was hip-high, made of undressed timber, the bark dry and flaking. He swooped his hand toward the front end of the railing and gripped the edge. “Anwen?”
“I’m here.”
“The road is flat here?”
“Flat enough,” she assured him.
He nodded and tucked his staff under his arm, and swung himself out of the cart and sideways, onto the road. It was a heavy landing, because he didn’t know where the ground was, exactly, although he had braced himself for the shock of it.
“Oh!” Anwen exclaimed, as he heard someone land beside him.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he told her. “Rest on the cart—sit where I was.” The cart groaned and rumbled as it went past them.
“I will have to guide your hand to the side of the cart the girls are upon,” Anwen said. Irritation colored her tone. “There is no room for you to sit upon it. You must walk beside them.”
Steffan considered it. “Is there room on the road for me and the cart?”
“Yes.” She gripped his wrist. “The cart comes. I will put your hand on the side.” Her voice came from behind him now. How close was she? The soft fingers played upon his spine one more time.
She extended his hand.
“Steffan! Steffan!” Morgan’s voice, excitement lifting it high.
All Steffan was aware of was her fingers upon his flesh. He thought he could feel the heat of her behind him. It might have been just the two of them, once more, twined upon the straw….
“Now,” Anwen breathed, her voice low and something jumped in Steffan’s middle.
She pulled on his arm and his fingers brushed wood railings. He had the sense to grip them and let himself be tugged into walking forward, his pace matching the cart, his heart climbing from his chest.
“You did it!” Morguase cried. She clapped her hands.
For a frightening moment of near panic, Steffan fought to stay on his feet and not be dragged along. Where was Anwen? Was she still behind him? Had she remained still and was now far behind?
Where was she?
Morgan patted Steffan’s hand. “Breton today!” she demanded.
“No, Latin,” Morguase insisted, for she was more familiar with Latin and didn’t have to work so hard to understand it.
Just as the cart was pulling Steffan along, the girls’ demands hauled his thoughts back to the mundane and the ordinary. He grabbed it and held on, making himself recall simple Latin phrases he could teach the girls, plus the stories which went with them.
This is as it will always be, he told himself as the lesson progressed. This simple life is all that is left for me.
And before the abject protests could properly form in his mind, he shoved them aside and concentrated on the lesson, instead.