Anwen jerked awake when the screaming started.
She sat up, her heart racing. From the stairs came the distant sound of people murmuring in shock and surprise.
“What is that?”
“Little Morgan again. Another nightmare.”
The screaming did not end. The note of terror in it sent a cold wave through Anwen. She gripped the furs. She could not go to the girl. Not now. She could not leave her post.
Her heart ached as she waited for someone to comfort Morgan and tell her the dream was not real.
The screaming did not cut off when someone woke Morgan. Instead, it died away, as if the girl had run out of breath. Sobs floated up the circular stairs, rending Anwen’s heart and twisting her gut. The sobs were quieter than the screaming, which allowed her to hear distant thunder.
Horses. Many of them.
She glanced at the big window. The sky was lighter. Dawn was near.
The lamp, which had been lit when she fell asleep, had guttered and died and was now stone cold.
Anwen made her way through the pre-dawn gloom to the small window on the other side of the tower. The window overlooked the yard and the cliffs on the other side of the bridge.
The sky to the east was pale with light, although she didn’t need the light to see the cavalry which approached. They carried torches which streamed flames as they rode at a great pace, sending up a cloud of dust which hung in the air behind them.
There were many torches, enough to light the two dozen horses and the men who rode them. They were still too far away for Anwen to see any detail except one.
They all wore white cloaks.
Anwen turned and stumbled across the chamber to the big door she had slept against and hammered her fist on it. “My lady!” she called as loudly as she dared. “It is I, Anwen. I must come in!”
She pushed the latch down and opened the door slowly. “My lady?”
Igraine stood at the courtyard window, wearing her fur-lined robe. She turned as Anwen entered. Her face was stricken.
Anwen stepped in and shut the door behind her.
A flash of movement and ruffle of cloth drew Anwen’s attention to the other side of the room. The King swung the black, disguising cloak around his shoulders. His sharp gaze met Anwen’s. “Cornwall men?”
She nodded.
The rattle of horse hooves across the land bridge was loud. A shout sounded from the guards on the gate as they demanded an explanation before they opened the gates.
Uther picked up his sword belt and buckled it around his waist, under the cloak.
“Hurry,” Igraine urged him as the gates opened. Their heavy creak and thud was familiar.
Someone—a woman—screamed. More people babbled, their tones hysterical.
Anwen’s gut clenched tighter. She hurried to the secret door and yanked it out enough to grip the edge, then hauled it open.
Uther came up behind her and peered down the stairs as he loosened his sword.
Anwen jumped as a loud thudding sounded, farther down the stairs and around the curve and out of sight.
Uther cursed and pulled his sword. He turned back to the room. “Igraine, come here.”
Igraine moved to his side. He kissed her, the kiss hard and short.
The thudding at the bottom of the stairs halted and excited voices lifted.
Uther let Igraine go, turned and plunged down the stairs, his sword raised.
Anwen watched until he disappeared, then struggled to shut the door once more. Igraine leaned against it, too, helping her.
They were both breathing hard when it was shut at last. Anwen unhooked the wall hanging and let it fall. “Go back to bed,” she whispered. “You’ve only just woken and are wondering what the fuss is about. Go on.”
Igraine nodded and stripped the robe from her. She picked up the thin chemise from the floor beside the bed and struggled into it as she climbed into the high bed. She pulled the furs up around her. As she put her head on the cushion, the bed chamber door jumped and shivered as someone hammered on it.
Anwen hurried over to the door and opened it a crack. “What on earth?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “You’ll wake the lady!”
The soldier on the other side of the door was unshaved and splattered in blood. “We must speak with her! At once! There is grave news.” Another armed man stood at his shoulder, looking just as gory.
“Where is Brithael?” Anwen demanded. “Why is he not bringing news?”
The man scowled. “Open the door, woman. It’s not your place to delay this news.”
“I think not,” Anwen replied, even though she trembled at the man’s impatience and irritation. Would he try to force the door open? “It is my place to protect my lady.”
“It’s all right, Anwen. I am awake,” Igraine said, behind her. “Let the man in.”
Anwen glanced behind her. Igraine stood calmly in the middle of the floor once more, the robe draped about her and firmly tied closed.
Anwen opened the door and stood out of the way. The two men stalked into the room, their hands on the hilts of their swords. They saw Igraine and halted. The first bowed. “My lady, I bring the gravest of news.”
At the open door more people gathered, including Igraine’s women who still wore sleeping robes. Some of them were crying.
Anwen’s chest tightened. Her throat, too.
The man standing in front of Igraine licked his lips. “Earlier in the night, my lady, your lord husband directed us to sally forth and attack the King’s army where it camped. He wanted to weaken the forces before the King arrived to lead them.”
Igraine’s face was already pale. Now it turned the color of whey. “Gorlois is dead?” she breathed.
Anwen hurried to Igraine’s side and took her arm, to steady her.
“Yes, my lady. I’m sorry,” the soldier said. He hesitated, as Igraine swayed.
“Get out,” Anwen said. “You’ve brought your news. Give the lady some privacy. Go on. Out!”
The soldier flinched and bowed again, then hurried out of the room, collecting his companion with a jerk of his head.
The women tried to push their way into the room as soon as the soldiers passed. Anwen shook her head and they hesitated. She flung her hand at them, in a signal to remove themselves, as Igraine moaned softly beside her.
The door shut with a loud click of the latch. Anwen walked Igraine to the bed.
“No, no, not there…” Igraine protested.
Anwen took her, instead, to the great chair. Igraine sank into it, trembling violently. She gripped her hands together as if she would pray, but said in a choked voice, “Merlin lied to me! He said no one would suffer for this! He lied! Oh my dear God…” She rocked on the chair.
Anwen stood at the window, putting her back to Igraine to give the woman a little privacy, and watched the sky lighten. Far below, muffled by the boom of the waves against the cliffs, she thought she heard a hint of steel against steel, and wondered if she imagined it.
AS THE DAWN BIRDS BEGAN their twitter and chirping, Steffan detected the beat of a galloping horse approaching the camp from the west.
He put down the box of tools he had been carrying for the surgeon, while the man stitched and bandaged and otherwise treated the wounded soldiers. Instead, Steffan listened to the progress of the horse, while men moaned around him.
Cornwall and his men had struck an hour ago, while soldiers snored about their fires. It had been a short, sharp clash. Steffan listened to it, his staff at the ready, although the skirmish had not come near his position on the western edge of the camp.
Then the cry had gone up. “The Duke! The Duke is dead!”
Abruptly, the Cornish troops had withdrawn, taking their wounded and dead with them, including Gorlois.
The single horseman thundered into the camp, not stopping for the sentries.
“The King!” someone cried. “The King is here!”
Steffan felt his way through the wounded men, toward the King.
“Where is Steffan?” Uther shouted.
His heart skittering uneasily, Steffan turned his head. “Can someone guide me there?”
A hand gripped his sleeve. “This way,” came the gruff growl.
He was led to where Uther stood.
“My lord?” Steffan said.
“I just heard,” Uther said abruptly. He grasped Steffan’s sleeve, too, and pulled him away from everyone else and lowered his voice. “Gorlois is dead. The stupid fool tried a surprise attack. Against my men!”
“I heard it happen,” Steffan said. “A stray arrow caught him in the throat.”
Uther made a growling sound. “This must be managed quietly now. No word of the night’s adventure can escape.”
For the first time, Steffan noticed the odor of fresh blood coming from Uther. “My lord, was there trouble at Tintagel?”
“Yes,” Uther said flatly, anger making his voice tight. “Damn Merlin and his mighty schemes. If we had just waited a few hours more I could have claimed her…” He broke off. “You know the people in Tintagel, Steffan. You must go there—take my horse, it’s fresh enough. Talk to those involved. Make sure they know to stop their tongues.” As he spoke, Uther drew Steffan farther from the camp.
A horse snorted, close by. Steffan raised his hand and felt the stallions’ neck beneath his fingers. He slid his hand up to the bridle and grasped for the reins. “Where is Merlin?” he asked.
“I know not and care less,” Uther said. He was already moving away. “Ride, Steffan! The horse knows the way.”
Steffan eased himself into the saddle and soothed the prancing stallion with pats and murmurs. He was fresh, for it was only two miles to the fortress from here. The scent of blood from the camp was unsettling him.
Steffan stowed his staff under the saddle cloth, against his knee. He grasped the reins and turned the horse to face west and the sea, which he could smell from here—even though no one believed he could. He kicked the beast forward. The stallion leapt eagerly into a great gallop.
The only warning Steffan had was a whistling sound. Something large—a branch the width of a man’s wrist, most likely—slammed across his middle and knocked him out of the saddle. He landed heavily on his back, his breath shoved out of him by the impact. He tried to breathe as his stomach cramped and his back throbbed.
Thick, foul-smelling fingers gripped his throat. “Think you can just dance back into the King’s favors, eunuch?” The fingers squeezed.
“Madog, wait…” Steffan croaked.
“It should be me running Uther’s favors,” Madog growled. “I know how to make women shut up, right enough.”
Steffan tried to speak again, as alarm crashed through him. He scrambled at Madog’s hand, trying to lift it away from his throat.
Madog gave a curse. A weight slammed into Steffan’s temple and he knew no more.