Keeper of the Dream (15 page)

He sheathed his sword with a snap of his wrist and doffed his helm, tossing it onto the ground. He knelt and placed his hands between those of his liege lord’s, King Henry of England. His deep, strong voice spoke the oath of homage in return for the Lordship of Rhuddlan and all its dependencies, and for the Lady Arianna, daughter of Gwynedd of Wales, whom he would take as his wife.

He rose to his feet and received the king’s kiss of peace. Then his eyes lifted to the bloodred walls of Rhuddlan Castle, and a faint smile touched his taut mouth. Arianna sat beside the king, her heart thundering heavily, her chest feeling as if it would crack in two. She waited for him to look at her.

But he never did.

The golden mazer pulsed and glowed, beckoning….

“God’s death!” Arianna swore at herself for being such a witless nit. Of course the bowl would glow, for bright morning sunlight streamed on it through the open window. The pulsing was only an illusion, too, caused by the floating clouds reflected in the mazer’s shiny surface. She had no need anyway of magic bowls to reveal her destiny. She knew her future—today was her wedding day.

The mazer sat beneath the window, on the padded lid of a clothes chest. She hadn’t dared get close enough yet to see if it held water, but somehow she was sure it did. The thing had suddenly appeared in her bedchamber this morning. Either that God-cursed, traitorous squire had returned it while she slept, or it had magically appeared on its own. It was after all Myrddin’s bowl, she thought, at the same time sneering at herself for her susceptibility.

Arianna fingered the torque at her neck, then resolutely she turned her back on the mazer. As she paced the floor, her feet crushed the sprigs of mint scattered through the rushes, releasing a sharp clean scent into the hot summer air. On the great canopied bed lay the clothes
she was to wear for her wedding, a gift from her betrothed.

She smoothed her palm over the chainse of filmy saffron-tinted linen. In spite of her fear and uncertainty, she smiled as she thought of how the soft undergarment would feel caressing her skin. The pelisse itself was of the sheerest sendal, the color of spring poppies, and trimmed at the wrists and hem with ermine. Over the pelisse would go an elegant sapphire silk bliaut embroidered with gold, and with sleeves so long they swept the ground. Any woman would feel beautiful gowned in such splendor, she thought. Any man’s eyes would glow with love at the sight of such a bride.

But not the Norman’s eyes.

A tightness squeezed her chest as she thought of the joy she should feel on this, her wedding day. Dreams from her girlhood … She would try to do her duty as her father would wish it, but the thought of marrying the Norman filled her with fear and despair. He was such a hard man, ruthless and cruel, and he despised her because she was Welsh. How could there ever grow between them the kind of love that she had dreamed of for so long?

The cursed bowl …

Arianna could feel its power drawing her, beckoning. Slowly, she turned her head … The mazer glowed red now, like a clot of fresh blood, and throbbed as if it breathed. The knowledge trapped within the ancient drinking cup both enticed and repelled her. Afraid … She was so afraid. Her palm drifted up, pressing against her thudding heart.

She had no conscious memory of crossing from the bed to the chest, but suddenly she was before the window with the mazer in her hands. The smooth metal seared her palms and a torrent of heat, like the fire of a dragon’s breath, flooded through her body.

“Please, no …” she whispered. But the power pulled,
drew her. Down she looked, down into the bowl’s luminescent, whirling depths.

The water, red as a bleeding wound, spun and swirled, sucking her in. Fingers of a silver mist spiraled upward, wrapping softly around her mind. A blue-white flame flared before her eyes, then faded to a gentle radiance. She floated, floated on a sea of light … smelled hyacinth and marigolds, and wet earth steaming under a summer sun. A hot, moist wind caressed her face….

She stood on top a windswept hill, a bouquet of wild-flowers cradled in her arms. Above her a golden sun hung suspended in a sky of so vivid a blue it made her eyes ache. Yet within her there dwelled a choking grief suffocating her heart. She had lost him, lost him, oh God, she had lost him.

In the distance, something moved … a knight on horseback, riding toward her. Hope flared within her, sharp and hot and brilliant, like a spark off flint.

The fiery wind blew harder, searing the skin on her face. The perfume of the flowers tickled her nose. Closer he came, at a slow and easy canter. Tears blurred her eyes and she stretched out her arms. The wind snatched at the flowers, blowing them away in a swirl of purple and yellow petals.

He reined in halfway up the hill, dismounting. He looked up at her, tense and hesitant as if afraid to come farther, as if unsure of her, of her love, and the thought made her smile, for he was her man and her love for him was indelible and eternal He took a step toward her. Sunlight flared off his golden head, like a beacon on a black and storm-tossed night.

She was laughing, hysterical with joy, running down the hill, running to her one true love. His arms wrapped around her, hard and strong, and she settled into his embrace as if coming home after a long, long time away. His voice flowed over her, warm like the wind. I love you, Arianna, love you, love you …

She tilted back her head to see his face, the face of her beloved, but the hot ball of the sun blazed behind his golden head, setting it afire … melting the vision into red mist and swirling water and nothingness….

“No …” Arianna clutched at the mazer, trying to will the vision back into life. But the water within the bowl was flat, motionless. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she swayed on her feet. A bout of nausea cramped her stomach, but quickly passed.

She rubbed at her cheeks, surprised somehow to find them wet, though tears still streamed from her burning eyes. She felt a tightness in her chest, a sweet ache. Love … she hadn’t known what the emotion truly meant until now. Oh, she loved her parents and her brothers, loved them deeply. But not with the fierce possessiveness, the consuming hunger, that she had felt for the man in the vision. Her lips lifted in a trembling smile …
My golden knight.

Laughing out loud, she hugged herself and twirled around on her toes. Love. There was love in her future. Love and a golden-haired knight …

And marriage to a man with raven-black hair and hard, gray eyes, a man who despised and rejected her. A man who had said,
I’d rather take the castle without the bride.

Disappointment, like the sudden swift thrust of a sword, stabbed at her chest. For a single, panicked moment she thought of running away; she even half-turned toward the door. But duty was as much a part of Arianna as her dark hair and green eyes. Her father had pledged her for Gwynedd’s honor. If the marriage failed to take place the truce would end, King Henry would invade Wales again, and this time he might succeed. Her land would be lost to the greedy Norman conquerors; her people enslaved. Weighed against that, her own happiness was worth nothing.

But still, still … the fierce, incredible love she had felt while held fast within her golden knight’s embrace, as
his voice washed over her, saying the words, those wondrous words. I
love you.
… It would be worth almost anything to live that single moment out of time, that moment when she ran down a windswept hill and into the arms of the man she loved.

The door swung open with a creak of its hide hinges. Edith marched in bearing an armful of towels, followed by a pair of varlets struggling under the weight of a tub filled with steaming, lemon-scented water.

“Milady, there is much to do, much to do, indeed,” the maidservant said. “Here ’Tis almost terce. We’ve only a little over an hour left to prepare you for your wedding.”

Arianna turned her head aside, blinking hard, as she fought back tears, for she would not disgrace herself by weeping in front of a servant. She looked out the window. The bailey below was already filling with cotters and villeins, herdsmen and burgesses—all the people of Rhuddlan and the
cantref
of Tegeingl who had come to witness their new lord’s wedding.

It occurred to her that the people within the bailey had divided themselves according to how they lived. The Welshery—sheep tenders and herdsmen who dwelled up in the hills—had grouped together on one side of the yard. On the other congregated the Englishry, who lived in the towns and farmed the fertile lowlands. By law, all these people owed their allegiance and their service to the Lord of Rhuddlan, whoever he might be. But from the Welsh side of the bailey animosity, suspicion, and hatred crackled in the air like summer lightning.

The Welsh were a poor people, as evidenced by their dress—drab-colored tow-cloth leggings and tunics of coarse wool. So it was not surprising that the two men in gem-bright samite bliauts would catch Arianna’s eye. They stood apart within the shadow cast by the malting house, talking together, but with their eyes constantly shifting, their hands on their sword hilts. One was tall and whip lean, with skin bronzed by the sun and tawny hair
docked in the front like a priest’s. The other was much older, middle-aged, with meaty shoulders and thick thighs corded like barrels, and long metal-gray hair that hung lankly about his shoulders.

Arianna knew these men. They were her cousins Kilydd ap Dafydd and Ivor ap Gruffydd, castellans of the neighboring
cantrefi
of Rhos and Rhufoniog. These
cantrefi
were part of the dower lands Arianna would bring with her upon her marriage. Her cousins would be allowed to remain as castellans of her lands, but only if they swore allegiance to her husband as their liege lord. Thus, they were here today not only to witness her wedding but to offer homage to the new Lord of Rhuddlan. But Arianna could tell by the way they held themselves stiff and aloof, dark scowls marring their faces, that to them a session on the rack would be preferable to giving homage to a Norman.

Just then, as if she had willed them to, both men turned and looked up toward the hall. She was sure they saw her at the window, but when she lifted her hand in a greeting, they remained unmoving. She could almost feel their fury, scorching across the yard like a grass fire. It was if they blamed her for the state of affairs that had brought them here to Rhuddlan on this day, to kneel before its Norman lord.

Slowly she let her hand fall, fighting off fresh tears as a tight, burning ache filled her chest. Suddenly she felt so alone, so very alone.

“Milady, your bath is ready.”

Arianna was about to turn from the window when she noticed something odd. A pale had been erected on the lists where the tournament had taken place the week before. As the peasants streamed toward the castle from the countryside, many herded cows, bulls, steers, and oxen into pens, which were already filled to near capacity with the bawling, lowing beasts. Around the pale stood a dozen knights in full armor, doing nothing but watching.

“Why do you suppose they bring their cattle to Rhuddlan?” she mused aloud.

“ Tis the fine they be paying, milady,” Edith said. At Arianna’s confused look, she added, “The fine Lord Raine has imposed upon every Welsh household, be they villein or free, because of the raid. They are to make up for the cattle what was stolen from him.”

Three days before, the restless King Henry and his conquering army had left, taking the high road back to England. No sooner had the dust of their passing settled than a mysterious group of horsemen, wearing black hoods over their faces, had raided Rhuddlan’s cattle. Within an hour there hadn’t been a bawl to be heard or a tail hair to be found on the lord’s demesne. At the time, Arianna hadn’t been able to hide her pleasure at seeing the Norman usurpers made to look such fools. She also had a suspicion as to whom had been responsible for the raid. It was just the sort of trick her roguish, risk-taking cousin Kilydd would play. He was perfectly capable of swearing homage to the Norman usurper with one hand while raiding the man’s cattle with the other.

Except the trick would turn out not to be so amusing to the herdsmen of Tegeingl if this were true, if they were the ones being made to pay the price. “But I thought no one knows who did the raiding,” she said.

Edith shrugged. “It was Welshmen who raided, so it is Welshmen who must pay the fine, so my lord says. All Welshery be one and the same. Milady, please … your bath water cools.”

But Arianna continued to stare at the growing herd, at the peasants driving their cattle into the pens and then turning away with heads bowed and shoulders slumped. Rage filled her at the unfairness of it. That this man, this Norman knight who could only rule with a mailed fist, would punish a whole people for what one man had done. Her hands, lying on the sill, curled into fists as she remembered how she had tried to convince herself that she could
be an obedient and submissive wife to such a man. Well, she could
not.
She refused to accept injustice such as this.