There was no warning. No fumbling at the door, no tap of a staff along the cold stone corridors. Anwen only realized he was there when the door opened silently to avoid raising the alarm.
She was awake, even though it was late. It was the first night of their return to Tintagel. After days on the road, her bed was far too soft and warm. As the fortress grew silent, as the corridors emptied and everyone slept, her thoughts chased themselves in endless circles.
Even though her room was on the courtyard side of the tower, Tintagel was so silent and still she could hear and feel the waves crashing against the cliff the fortress was built upon.
The restlessness of the water matched her innards.
When the door eased open, Anwen sat up instantly. Her heart, which had not slowed for sleep at all, now accelerated beyond reason, hurting her chest with its wild beating.
In the moonlight, Steffan’s face was pale. He shut the door and leaned against it. “I shouldn’t be here,” he breathed.
“Yet you are.”
“I couldn’t…I should stay away.”
“If you think you must because of me, then you are wrong.”
He grew still. “Why do you say that?”
Anwen moved to where he stood. She didn’t touch him. Not yet, even though he was warm and her fingers tingled in anticipation of stroking his flesh. “No one cares about either of us, except for the letters I teach and the stories you tell. Why should we care what they think?”
“Igraine would not approve and we both must preserve her good will.”
Anwen could resist no longer. She pressed her hand against his chest, over the warm leather which covered it. “Then we will fail to inform her.”
Still, he did not move. “I feel…” She saw his throat work in the moonlight which spilled through the narrow window. “I’m being torn in two,” he breathed.
“Go, then,” she whispered. “Go on. Open the door and step out. I won’t stop you.”
He let out a soft exhalation and remained where he was. “I don’t know why I came here.”
“Yes, you do,” she breathed and kissed him.
His staff clattered as it came to rest in the corner of the room. He pulled her against him. His arm was a strong band around her, keeping her there. He held her face and took control of the kiss, making it deeper.
When he drew her to the bed, she went willingly, wanting the tiny sliver of happiness it provided.
AFTERWARD, WHEN THEIR HEARTS HAD calmed and their breath, too, Steffan raised above her, his gaze upon her face.
“You are in moonlight,” he breathed.
Her heart jumped. “How did you know?”
“I can…almost see you,” he breathed. His voice was hoarse with excitement, even pleasure.
Panic touched her. Anwen brought her hand to her face, shielding it. She tried to roll out of the light. He held her in place.
“No, don’t move!” he begged. “Let me see. Stay still.”
Anwen shoved against his shoulder. “No!” She sat up, sliding out of the silvery glimmer and out of his hold, pushing herself into the dark corner of the bed. She wrapped her arms around her and shivered.
Steffan didn’t move. He didn’t try to pull her back into the light. Because his back was to the window, she could not see anything but the stark plains of his cheeks and the shadowed hollows of his eyes. His jaw flexed. “That terrifies you…” he breathed.
Anwen tightened her arms. “I would rather you go on seeing me as you have painted me in your mind.”
“Why? You are not ugly.”
“I am!”
He shook his head. “I have explored every tiny part of your face. I have tasted it. I have run my hands over every inch of your body and felt you beneath me. You are soft and supple and warm, and nothing about your face would make any man look askance.”
“Not that any man looks in the first place.” Her voice was as strained as his had been a moment ago. “And do not say it is their misfortune. I know what I am.”
Steffan reached for her. His fingers swept over her elbow, then down her arm to her wrist. He took her wrist and pulled. Gently. “You can relax. The moment of clarity has gone. Even if you were in full moonlight, I would see nothing but the golden shadow that is you, now.” The bitterness in his voice surprised her enough that she allowed him to draw across the bed, and up against him.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
He shook his head. “It is not my lot to see. These moments of clarity are provided to remind me of what I have lost, so I don’t grow complacent or content.”
“Why should you not be content?” she whispered.
“I suppose…to remind me of my place,” he breathed and kissed her. “I need the reminder, for when you are in my arms, humility is the last thing I feel.”
She thumped his shoulder. “Do not jest like that. It is the worst sort of teasing.”
“I wasn’t teasing.” He kissed her again, stealing her response, making her forget the last few moments and the fear which had swamped her. She followed Steffan’s lead and let herself believe she was worthy of this simple happiness and joy.
In his arms, she was beautiful—as long as he could not see her.
THE LARGE GROUP OF ROBBERS had been desperate indeed to attack a well-armed and large contingent of King’s men. Hunger drove them to a vicious offensive only hours after Uther’s company had left Amesbury.
The robbers fell upon the middle of the column, where the carts hauling food and supplies were, taking on anyone who stood between them and the carts. Ilsa had drawn her short sword instinctively, even though she wore no armor and was not upon her war horse. She had been riding upon a cart with Alun, Eren and Arawn Uther. She had learned that when the company traveled, it was always a good opportunity to spend time with the three.
While her children hid in the corner of the cart, Ilsa rose to her feet, drawing her sword. The first brigand was easily dealt with because he wasn’t expecting resistance or weapons from a woman. She brought the sword flashing from between the folds of her gown, to pierce his heart and stop him in his tracks even before his ax was fully raised.
He fell back soundlessly. Already another robber climbed onto the cart behind him. The man wore rags and his teeth were black stumps. The fury in his eyes at being challenged made him dangerous. Ilsa brought the sword up to the ready position.
Around her, she could hear the clash of sword against sword and other weapons, the cries of men and women. There were few women left in Uther’s entourage.
Ilsa ignored them. She did not wonder where Arawn was or how he fared. After eight years of campaigning, she had learned to starve her imagination until the fighting was done.
The man leapt at her. She could not afford to side-step him and deliver a blow that way, for the children cowered behind her. Instead, she angled the sword upward and as he moved into range, it was easy to punch the sharp tip in under his chin. His impetus drove the sword into his skull.
He grunted and twitched.
A third man she had not seen reached around the second and slammed his dagger into her belly.
The second man had sacrificed himself to secure her blade so the third could attack with impunity. She could not withdraw her sword easily.
She could withdraw the knife, though, for the fool had let go of the handle, grinning victoriously.
Ilsa gripped the hilt and pulled it out. The pain the movement caused was enough to snap her fully alert and aware, shaking off the shock of the blow. She flipped the knife and rammed it into his chest, just beneath the ribs, angling upward. After so many years of practice, she knew exactly where to aim.
Surprise showed in the man’s face. Then his surprise faded. So did his life. His eyes turned glassy as she watched.
Both bodies dropped, pulling her arms down. Pulling her down. For the first time, Ilsa was afraid. She was injured and unable to fight. Who would protect the food now? Who would protect her children?
She was already falling and couldn’t halt it. She had no strength left.
She folded with a sigh, sinking to the floor of the cart, her eyes closing. That was the last of the skirmish she remembered.
She returned to consciousness some time later—she didn’t know how long, although it was long enough for Merlin to have tended her wound. He was still bent over her, stitching the last of it, when she opened her eyes and groaned at the agony.
Merlin’s black-eyed gaze shifted to her face, then back to what he was doing. “Arawn is untouched. So are your children. You took out their leader. The fight ceased after that.”
Relief was a warm, expanding bubble in her chest. “And me?” she asked, her voice not much more than a whisper.
“You’ll live,” Merlin said, his tone dry.
A tent had been built quickly for Merlin to treat her—the walls sagged and daylight showed between the roof and the walls. It gave her privacy, though. She was grateful for that.
“You took on three of them, Ilsa?” Merlin shook his head. “Uther laughed when we told him. Even he only dealt with two.”
“I had no choice.” She hissed as pain flared in her belly. “I really will survive?”
Merlin hesitated. “Yes,” he said, his tone flat.
“What is it you will not speak of?” she insisted, for she knew that tone of his. Most mistook the tone for one of arrogance and authority. She knew Merlin used it to hide uncertainty.
Merlin picked up shears and snipped the thread. He dropped the sheers into a bowl and straightened. His gaze met hers. “You will live,” he assured her. “Only…there will be no more children, Ilsa.”
Ilsa’s thoughts floundered. Until that moment, she would have said she was quite content with the three children which fate had given her. Now, though, she felt the loss of other children she would never know. “Oh…” she breathed.
Merlin rested his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed gently. “Arawn waits to see you. Are you ready?”
She tried to sit up. His hand kept her still. “No, you must remain this way for a few days, to give the wound time to seal. No bending or stretching.”
“We’re travelling! I cannot stay here!” Ilsa thought of Uther’s drive to reach Venta Belgarum and permanent quarters for his army. He would be irritated if a wounded woman forced him to remain by the side of the road for days. “Uther will be mad,” she whispered.
Merlin’s smile was small. “I will deal with Uther.” He rolled down his sleeves. “I’ll send Arawn in.”
That had been three days ago. Ilsa had spent the night in the tent, with Arawn at her side. She didn’t know what Merlin said to Uther. There was no explosion of curses heard across the camp, which normally alerted everyone to Uther’s irritability.
On the second day, as soon as it was fully light, the tent was struck around her. She was lifted onto a pallet on the back of a cart. The day of travel was extraordinarily taxing even though she did nothing but sleep and rest. The jolting of the cart made her body throb and pulse.
Merlin checked her that evening, once the men had built the tent around her once more. He looked grave. “This day of travel has not done you any favors,” he said mildly.
Ilsa already knew that, for the throbbing had not faded.
Merlin shook his head. “Complete rest it must be. I will speak to Uther again.”
This time, Ilsa heard Uther’s bawled complaints when Merlin broke the news. They were too far away from the tent for her to distinguish words among the explosion, although hearing Uther’s irritation told her the matter was a minor one. If she had been in grave peril, she suspected Uther’s temper would not have been roused at the prospect of delaying the journey for days.
It allowed her to sleep.
She woke to find Arawn sleeping next to her and her children ranged on the other side of the tent. Content, she returned to sleep.
The next day had passed in sleep, too. Merlin made her drink concoctions that let her drift, her thoughts unanchored by day-to-day concerns.
This morning, though, she was properly awake. Everything hurt…only now, the injury did not hurt as much as it had at first. The deep throbbing had gone.
The sound of strident commands outside the hastily erected tent stirred Ilsa with a jerk.
Arawn’s hand tightened about hers. “It’s only Uther. He insists upon seeing you,” he said, smoothing her hair back.
“Oh…” she whispered. Even that much movement hurt.
Arawn got to his feet. He pulled the furs and blankets he had been using out of the way, as the tent flap opened.
Uther ducked under it and straightened. He nodded at Arawn and stood over Ilsa, peering down at her.
Ilsa met his gaze. “It wasn’t done to spite you, my lord.”
Uther’s mouth quirked up. “No, you have far more effective ways of putting me in my place, madam.” He crouched, bringing himself closer. “Arawn has argued that I should leave you here and move the army on to Venta Belgarum. We could be there by nightfall if we start at once.”
Ilsa glanced at Arawn, startled. Arawn’s gaze was steady. “My men would stay with us,” Arawn said. “They are numerous enough to keep us secure. After dealing with the last band, word will have passed up and down the road. No one else will bother us.”
“Merlin insists you not travel for at least five days more,” Uther added. “I can see from your pallor that he is not exaggerating. As much as it pains me to deprive myself of one of my best and most able contingents of men and their leaders, I will agree with Arawn’s suggestion.”
He glanced at Arawn. “I will leave Merlin here to tend Ilsa until she can travel. Merlin has no fear of traveling alone—he can hide in plain view and no one would dare attack a magician, anyway.” His eyes rolled. “He can join me in Venta Belgarum once you can travel again.”
Arawn nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” His tone was one of deep gratitude.
“We join you in Venta Belgarum,” Ilsa amended.
“No, Ilsa,” Arawn said quietly.
Uther’s brows came together. “Arawn has argued strenuously that this is a sign that his service to me and to Britain is at an end.”
Ilsa caught her breath. “My lord?”
“We have not seen Lorient in eight years, Ilsa,” Arawn said softly. “Our children have never seen it.”
Uther glanced at him. “I, too, have not seen Lesser Britain in all that time,” he said mildly.
“It was only ever a place of retreat for you,” Arawn said, his voice growing strident. “It is my home.”
Uther lifted his hand. “Enough, Arawn. You convinced me last night. You and Ilsa should return home.” His tone turned bitter. “Just as Ban and Bors and Ector and Pellinore have.”
“Britain is peaceful, Uther. You don’t need us,” Arawn said.
“Britain’s High King does not need the King of Brocéliande, his mighty queen and his men, that is true. I, though, will miss your friendship and your counsel.” Uther drew in a breath and let it out. “I would have liked to have you there for the coronation, although I will not put Ilsa at greater risk simply to soothe my feelings.”
He turned to her, then bent and touched her forehead. “I remember you covered in mud, arguing your claim to a deer was stronger than a king’s. We have come a long way, have we not?”
Ilsa’s eyes prickled with tears. “You will make a great king, Uther. Ambrosius would be proud of you.”
Uther nodded. “Until we meet again, then.” He straightened and gripped Arawn’s hand. “Fare well.”
Then with a whirl of his cloak, Uther turned and strode from the tent.