Despite everyone telling Morgan everything was all right, that there was nothing to fear, she knew they were lying. She knew her father was dead.
She had seen him in her dreams, rearing back off his horse, a great feathered arrow at his throat and the red, deadly spurt of blood. It was a true dream. She didn’t have many of them. They were as different from normal dreams as day was from night. What she had seen was true.
Morgan had learned to let adults fuss around her while she pretended. It was easier that way. While old Elen tugged at her dress and untangled her hair with mutters and curses for active children, Morgan instead reached out for her father and found him. He laid on a wagon, covered with a white pall blanket. The wagon rattled and shook as it followed the worn ruts to Tintagel.
He was nearly here. The gatehouse was just ahead of the horses pulling the wagon. Now, Morgan could hear the wagon and the horses not just in her mind, but with her ears, too.
“Mercy sake! Someone else?” Elen muttered, glancing at the window slit.
Morgan went over to the window. She climbed onto the edge of her bed, then onto the high end of the leg and balanced herself so she could peer through the window. She didn’t need to look out to see what happened next. Only, Elen would tell others she had seen without looking, if she didn’t pretend to watch.
The wagon came through the open gates and stopped in the middle of the yard. The captain who accompanied it—not Brithael, for Merlin had dealt with him—but Dwyn, who would one day be a great warrior, stopped his horse beside the cart. Dwyn swung out of the saddle and walked to where Morgan’s mother stood upon the steps into the keep.
Her mother raised her hand to her throat, her gaze upon the wagon.
The captain bowed low.
Her mother moved past him without acknowledgement. She went straight up to the cart and peered in. Then, with a hand which shook, she pulled the blanket aside and looked down at what remained of Morgan’s father.
It was only an empty husk. The sight of it did not distress Morgan, for her father now walked in places where he no longer needed his body. Morgan’s mother, though, gripped the side of the wagon, shaking so badly she could barely hold herself up.
Her women all hurried out of the keep and surrounded her and helped her back inside.
Morgan looked at old Elen. “The King will come for my mother, now,” she said. “You had best get my good gown out of the chest.”
Elen crossed herself, backing away.
ANWEN HAD NEVER BEFORE CLIMBED to the sentry ramp above the gates of Tintagel and looked out upon the breadth of Cornwall.
“They say you can see for ten miles, from here,” Steffan said, tucking her in front of him, which blocked the cold breeze coming off the sea.
“I can see for ten miles, at least,” Anwen said.
A guard glanced at her, startled, then at Steffan. He edged away, as if he expected an explosion.
Steffan chuckled and put his arm around her. “As long as one of us can,” he breathed and pressed his lips to her temple.
She let herself lean against him. “Is there a reason you made me climb up here?” she asked.
“I wanted you to see a horizon which was farther than a mile away,” he said.
“Or did you want me to see the spectacle which approaches?” Anwen asked, as she spotted the flash of metal and the dust of a large company of horses, far away.
The guards jerked to attention and shaded their eyes to see the approaching troop for themselves.
“That would be the King, I imagine,” Steffan said, his tone empty of any inflection. “Earlier than even I expected.”
“We should prepare for his arrival,” Anwen said.
Steffan’s arm tightened. “Not yet. I want to breathe this air for just a little longer.”
“The air is the same down there,” Anwen pointed out.
He shook his head. “No, it really isn’t.”
BY THE TIME STEFFAN LET Anwen climb down to the courtyard, the King’s troop were nearly there. Steffan pulled Anwen over to the corner of the yard, well out of the way of the household as everyone spilled out into the yard to greet the King.
The horses slowed for the narrow land bridge, crossing one at a time. The first through the arched gates was Uther. He sat upon his horse, his back straight, his gaze straight ahead. He wore the rich, embellished clothing of royalty and his helm was crowned.
“He does appear every inch a king,” Anwen said.
“It is a pity not every inch of him is kingly,” Steffan replied.
Anwen glanced at him, startled.
Then the second rider came through the gate. This man was tall, with thick black, long hair and no war helmet. “Long black hair, a big nose and a sharp chin,” Anwen said. “Black pennant. Do you know him, Steffan?”
Steffan sighed. “Lot of Orkney. The next man through the gate will be Urien, then. Blond hair, with silver rings, and eyes bluer than Uther’s.”
Anwen gasped, as a man matching Steffan’s description trotted through the gate. He jumped down with a flex of his muscled body, smiling. His smile looked as though he might laugh at any second.
Both men joined Uther, who had removed his helmet. As they waited, more men arrived in the yard.
Igraine moved out into the yard. She wore her most elegant gown and jewels sparkled at her throat and ears and wrists. She was gloriously beautiful.
She sank into a deep curtsey before Uther and signaled to Morgan and Morguase, who stood behind her, do the same.
Everyone who had trailed out behind Igraine also sank down before the King.
Uther gestured for them to stand again.
Igraine rose, straight and slender.
Uther glanced at Lot and lifted his chin.
Lot’s eyes narrowed. He was looking at Morguase.
Anwen drew in a breath which hurt. “No! He cannot. Morguase is barely thirteen…!”
Steffan caught her arm and held her on the spot. “Now we come to it,” he said softly.
“Come to what? Steffan, he is giving her to Lot!”
“It will tie the northern lord to Uther,” Steffan said. “It is politically expedient.” His voice was the same implacable, inflectionless one he had used every time he had spoken of Uther. His fingers tightened. “Watch Igraine,” he said softly.
Anwen peered at the Duchess.
Igraine’s face was the same pasty gray color it had been when she had learned of Gorlois’ death. Her chin trembled. Her eyes were large and glittered with unshed tears. Her chin remained up, though. She made not a murmur of protest.
“Oh, Steffan, poor Morguase! Lot is inspecting her now. He is actually walking around her, looking from all sides.”
Steffan’s jaw rippled. “That matches what I have heard about Lot over the years.”
Anwen gasped again, for Urien had stepped forward and dropped down to speak to Morgan. He laughed up at her, cajoling her.
Morgan stared back at him. Then she moved backward and without looking, reached for her mother’s hand and clung to it.
Anwen felt a fierce surge of pride in the little girl.
Urien laughed and got to his feet. He shrugged and patted Uther’s shoulder.
Uther looked around the yard. The wagons and carts which had accompanied him were moving into the yard now. One of them turned in a full circle so it faced the gate once more. The back opened.
Uther waved toward it. It was a signal.
Two Christian sisters stepped down from the back of the wagon and walked over to where Morgan stood with her mother. One of them held her hand out to Morgan.
Anwen drew in a shaky, painful breath. “No, he would not…!”
“Tell me,” Steffan breathed.
“Two sisters of the Church. They’re here for Morgan. Uther is taking Morgan away from Igraine, too.”
Morgan shrank back against her mother.
Igraine stood like a marble statue while her tears slid down her face. She said nothing.
Uther made a low comment.
The sisters bent and picked Morgan up, one with her arms around Morgan’s waist, the other containing Morgan’s kicking legs.
Morgan screamed and struggled. In that silent courtyard, her screams were as piercing and heart-rending as they were when they sounded in the dead of the night.
Igraine took a half step forward. Uther’s gaze met hers and she halted. Then she closed her eyes.
While Urien and Lot turned to watch the sisters overcome Morgan’s struggles and push her inside the closed wagon, Uther stood with his gaze straight ahead. Anwen saw him swallow and with swooping sensation, she realized he liked this arrangement no more than Igraine.
Anwen turned and pressed her face against Steffan’s shoulder, so she did not have to watch. Morgan continued to scream, even as the wagon rolled back through the gate and across the narrow bridge and Anwen shivered.
“This is Igraine’s price,” Steffan said, his voice reverberating in his chest, against Anwen’s cheek. “This is the price she must pay for her choice—Gorlois and her daughters and the guilt she will carry for the rest of her life.”
“It’s our price, too,” Anwen said, as hot, aching tears scalded her cheeks.
Steffan sighed. “Yes, ours, too.”
ANWEN COULD NOT BEAR TO watch Uther take Igraine back inside the fortress where the rest of his entourage and the household would witness him publicly claim the Duchess of Cornwall as his queen.
When Steffan made no move to follow everyone inside, she was grateful. Instead, he picked up her hand. “Come with me,” he murmured and walked across the yard with his staff tucked under his arm. He knew Tintagel well enough he did not need to tap his way around, and Anwen would warn him of any out-of-place objects which might trip him up.
“The stables?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“It seems appropriate,” he said, his mouth turning up at the corners. His hand tightened on hers. “Uther can have his audience chamber. Once, I would have resented that such grandeur could not be mine. Now a stable with fresh straw and warm air seems as refreshing as the wind which blows in from the sea.”
He put the staff against the door of the tack room and drew her into the room and over to the bench. He put his back to it and picked up both her hands. “I have been a complete fool, Anwen.”
Her heart jumped. “You are the last man anyone could accuse of being foolish.”
“Which makes my error all the more stupefying,” he said.
Anwen drew in a shaky breath. “You were wrong about Uther?” she guessed.
He tilted his head and his eyes widened a little. “Yes. How did you know?”
“You have not cursed his name when you speak of him, yet the admiration in your voice is gone. Before, you yearned for everything Uther and his army had once given you.”
He sighed. “That is where I was foolish. I wanted my old life back, Anwen. I wanted everything I had lost when the Saxons took my sight. I wanted the glory and the company of great men and everything I said when I stood here this day and told you I was leaving Tintagel.”
“You’re coming back again,” she breathed, in a long sigh.
“Oh, I’m still leaving,” he said.
Her heart jumped again.
“Only, you’re leaving with me, this time,” he added. “That is, if you will have me.”
Her trembling made her voice shake. “Leave Tintagel? I’ve never lived anywhere else. Where would you go?”
“Where would we go,” he amended. “Wherever we wanted,” he added. “I have no stomach to serve the King anymore. If Uther follows the practice of most leaders, he will distance himself from everyone who had anything to do with last night. It means Igraine will dispense with your services, too.”
Anwen frowned. “Both us did our duty even though we didn’t want to! Why would they discard us?”
“Because every time they saw us, they would be reminded of their guilt. It is the way of it, Anwen. Be thankful it is so, for it will give you a freedom you’ve never had before. I have a mind to travel. To see…well, to visit, the places we have only read about, you and I.”
“How would we live?”
“When I request I be released from his service, Uther will be overwhelmingly generous,” Steffan said, his tone dry. “Igraine will do the same. We will have enough between us to travel far and wide. And when we have nothing left, we can teach or write letters and read them for those who cannot.”
Anwen shivered. Steffan must have sensed it, for he pulled her against him. “I know it seems frightening for you, to leave the only place you know and move about a strange world. It is what I do every single day, Anwen. I must grope and explore. When I first lost my sight, I was terrified. Now, I can tell you it makes life interesting in a way you cannot understand just yet. You will, though.” He lifted her chin and bent his head toward hers. “Say you will,” he breathed, his lips brushing hers.
“I will,” she whispered and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss lengthened and deepened, until Steffan let her go long enough to pick her up and carry her over to the fresh pile of straw.
ONCE THEY WERE AWAY FROM the fortress and no one could hear them, the nuns slapped Morgan’s face every time she screamed, until her face was swollen and her throat raw. She knew, though, that to stop screaming would be the same as giving in to them. She continued to kick at them and scream, despite their blows, which grew heavier as the journey lengthened.
It was dark when the wagon stopped and the door was wrenched open. A huge man with a ring of iron keys on his belt reached in and plucked Morgan up by the arm. He thrust her under his monstrous one and clapped his filthy hand over her mouth.
He carried her into a stone building which was far bigger than Tintagel and far colder and darker. He walked for what seemed like miles, through corridors which echoed and down stairs to a room which dripped with dampness.
A single lamp burned fitfully and smelled of rancid pork.
The monster used the keys on his belt to unlock an oak door with bars in it. He tossed Morgan inside, onto old, moldy straw. There was nothing else in the tiny room but the straw. Not even a light.
He slammed the door shut and locked it. Then he peered through the bars. “Here yer stay, ‘til you learn some humility.” He brushed the keys across the bars, making unmusical notes.
As he left, he extinguished the lamp, plunging the cell into darkness.
Morgan pushed herself into the corner and wrapped her arms around her and sat shivering. Her face throbbed where the nuns had slapped her. Her throat ached. It hurt to swallow.
That was not the greatest hurt. Oh, no.
Morgan rocked in the dark, toting up the offenses which had been delivered.
Lot, who had stolen her sister. Igraine, who had not fought to save her. Uther, who had delivered this upon her.
Oh, and the base cause of all her misery. “Arthur,” she said softly to the dark.
Arthur, her bastard half-brother, who would be born at Christmas. Because of him, she had been brought here.
One day, she would deliver the same terror and pain upon him and his kin.
One day.