Silver Silence (10 page)

A shadow moved to the left, at the edge of Breena’s vision. She swung her head in time to see the darkness materialize into the form of a man. He shoved past, his angry footsteps shaking the floor. It happened just as it always had, more times than Breena could count. Igraine’s eyes widened as the shadowy figure approached. He halted before her and raised his hand.

The man’s arm descended. Breena’s throat closed. She tried to move; she struggled to breathe. She could do neither. Blackness seeped into her vision.

And she was falling, falling, falling…

“Dear Christos! What has happened to her?”

“ ‘Tis just a faint, I think, my ladies—”

“Perhaps it is as my brother suggested. She carries a Saxon mongrel.”

Breena groaned, trying to make sense of the voices. Three women, talking at once. The cacophony of their speech only added to the pounding in her skull. She tried to bring her hand to her temple, but somehow could not figure out how to make the two connect.

“She’s waking,” a woman with a broad Celt accent said.

“But…who is she?” An utterly melodious voice uttered the question.

“Why, she is your own cousin! Lord Vectus’s daughter. Do you not recognize her?”

“Antonia? I thought…the Saxon raid…”

“She escaped. One of Gerlois’s knights found her. They arrived this morning.”

Breena struggled to fill her lungs.

“God be praised,” the lovely voice exclaimed.

“Poor thing.” It was the maid who spoke. “Only think what she must have suffered, if she is carrying a Saxon babe! ’Tis too horrible to contemplate.” Breena felt a light touch on her cheek. Then, as before, “She is waking, my ladies.”

With an effort, Breena opened her eyes. Three faces hovered above her. Bertrice, Igraine, and the unnamed maid.

“I am not,” she gasped through gritted teeth, “carrying a Saxon babe.”

Lady Bertrice’s pointed chin jabbed downward. “So you claim.”

“Bertrice!” Igraine admonished. “Surely fatigue and grief are sufficient cause for a faint.”

Bertrice sniffed. “I suppose.”

Breena sucked in a deep breath at last. Her lungs
spasmed. Black and red swirls blotted her vision. She felt the room fade…

Unsympathetic fingers tapped firmly on her jaw. “Antonia! Stay with us, girl!”

Breena opened her eyes, twisting her head to avoid Lady Bertrice’s blows. “Please. I am fine. Or I will be, in a moment.”

“Thank goodness.” Igraine smiled her relief. The effect was dazzling. “Do you think you can sit up, Antonia?”

She was lying on her back on the floor, though she hadn’t felt herself fall. She pushed herself up with one arm, wincing as the movement brought a stab of pain to the back of her head. Tentatively, she touched the lump blossoming there.

“Nesta,” Antonia said. “Bring Lady Antonia some wine.”

The maid rose and crossed to a sideboard. She returned a moment later with a silver goblet, which she pressed into Breena’s hand. Obediently, Breena sipped. The wine was passable. Better, at least, than the sour swill Myrddin had carried. She dared not drink much, though. Her waking vision had left her stomach churning.

Lady Bertrice harrumphed. “I hope that blow to her head did not addle her brains.”

The duchess laid a cool hand on Breena’s forehead. “I am sure it did not.”

“Well. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps she fainted from exhaustion. But she’d better recover quickly, if she is to be married.”

“Can you stand, do you think, Antonia?” Igraine asked gently. “Nesta, help Lady Antonia to the chaise.”

The ground lurched only once or twice as the maid helped Breena to a padded bench. A pillow was placed under her head, and Bertrice ordered Nesta to the kitchens, to fetch meat broth and bread.

“Is my cousin betrothed?” Igraine asked Bertrice after the maid had gone. “I had not heard of it.”

“She is not, as of yet,” Bertrice admitted. “But the duke believes it prudent she should have a husband within the sennight.”

“So soon? Why, she has just lost her family!”

“All the more reason why she needs a husband,” Bertrice countered. “Especially if there is to be a babe.”

“There is no babe,” Breena said.

“Humfph,” Lady Bertrice snorted. “So you say.”

“I do not—”

Igraine placed a hand on Breena’s shoulder. “Lie back, Antonia. Try to relax. You’ll feel better in a moment.”

“I’m fine,” Breena lied. She was not fine. The waking vision had frightened her badly. And the prospect of a forced marriage did not help.

The duchess pressed the forgotten wine into her hand. “Drink again. It will help with the dizziness.”

Breena accepted the cup. The piece had once been very fine; now the intricacies of the silverwork were worn almost smooth in places. More fading opulence. Remnants of a safer, more prosperous time.

Lady Bertrice addressed the duchess. “Nesta will soon return with refreshment. I trust you and Antonia will be all right until then? I am wanted in the kitchens. There is much to do before the harvest feast.”

Igraine nodded. “Go with the Christos, sister.”

The door closed on Lady Bertrice. Breena let out a long breath. For a moment, silence ensued as Breena and Igraine exchanged a long look. Breena wondered at Bertrice’s comments about the duchess’s weakness of spirit. Igraine did not seem melancholy at all.

But there was something odd about the duchess. Breena tilted her head. The white glow reappeared, clinging to Igraine’s head and shoulders. Igraine’s
Seer’s magic was stronger than Myrddin had led her to believe. And yet, Breena was certain Igraine could not reach her power. Dull silver strands flowed with the white, trapping it as if within a cage. The effect was so overpowering that Breena wondered if Igraine was aware of her power at all. There was some force holding it in check.

She wondered why Myrddin had not explained Igraine’s magic more fully. She understood much better now the task the old Druid had given her. Igraine had need of another Seer to protect her because her own magic could not.

Swiftly, hiding her lips with a feigned sip of wine, Breena murmured the Words of the joining spell Myrddin had taught her. She felt her power fly to Igraine. The link formed like a perfect knot joining two strands of silk. But if Igraine felt the connection, she gave no sign of it.

The duchess took Breena’s cup, and set it on a table. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Breena said. “I’m sorry to have caused such worry. I cannot think what came over me. I never faint.”

“You have good reason to feel fragile. You have lost your family. And now, you have the prospect of marriage to contend with.”

“There is no reason for me to wed,” Breena said. “I am not carrying a babe.”

Igraine’s hand rested on the chaise. “If my lord Gerlois has ordered you to wed, then wedded you will be. The duke does not often change his mind once he reaches a decision.”

The speech was delivered with an undercurrent of wretchedness. Breena felt a rush of concern for this sad, beautiful woman.

“Do you never question your husband’s decrees?”

“It is not my place to do so. A husband is the protector of his wife’s soul. It is a wife’s duty to obey her lord.”

The rote words were spoken in a whisper. Breena’s eyes searched the duchess’s face. When Igraine would not meet her gaze, Breena impulsively covered Igraine’s hand with her own.

The gesture lifted the edge of the duchess’s sleeve. Breena stared in shock at the ugly purple bruise encircling the delicate wrist. She inhaled sharply.

Igraine gasped and snatched her hand back. Standing abruptly, she shook her sleeve down.

“Igraine,” Breena said softly.

The duchess’s eyes met hers. The beautiful blue of her irises were shadowed with shame.

“Is it also a wife’s duty to bear the mark of her husband’s anger?”

Igraine reared back. “You overstep yourself, Antonia.”

“I think I do not. Does the duke abuse you?”

“He is my husband. My lord. It is his right.” The duchess rose and moved away. The discussion was over.

For now.

R
hys avoided the Aquila bathhouse, choosing instead to wash in the forest stream just beyond the farm’s barley fields. He had not relished the prospect of submerging his mangled back in a steaming hot bath. The thought of answering Marcus’s questions appealed even less.

He should not have come to the Aquila farm. He should have taken refuge on Avalon after his escape from the Roman army prison. But he had not. He told himself he’d dragged his battered body to Lucius Aquila’s gate because it was closer than Avalon. That was a lie. Though he’d first sought out the Aquilas at his grandfather’s command—to secretly gain information about a child Seer Cyric had sensed with his own Seer power—Rhys had gradually come to think of the Roman farm as home, and the Aquilas as his family.

Still, he had not shown the Aquilas his back. Only slaves and criminals endured the
flagellum.
He was not a slave, and he had no wish to explain the crime that had led to his arrest. He had said only that he had been ill. That was true enough.

The morning air was brisk. He stripped off his shirt, but left his breeches on. The scabs on his back itched terribly; he wished he could apply a salve, but the wounds were too difficult to reach on his own.

Cold water would help. The first shock on his heal
ing skin brought a gasp. A moment later, all he felt was blessed relief. He waded to the deepest part of the stream. Crouching, he let the water run over his scabs.

It was too cold to stay there for long. Reluctantly, he dunked his head, scrubbing his hair with clean grit scooped from the streambed. Standing, he shook like a dog. And froze when he heard the small, feminine cry behind him.

Pollux.

He turned slowly. She stood on the shore, her herb basket anchored to one hip. Her free hand covered her mouth; above it, her blue eyes were wide with shock. Thanks be to all the gods in Annwyn he had not shed his breeches.

“Breena,” he said unsteadily. “I did not know you were here.”

The color had leeched from her face, making her freckles stand out like dark pebbles on white sand. Her dress was old, her feet bare. She looked more like a Celt wood sprite than a half-Roman girl of ten winters.

“Rhys,” she whispered. “Your…your back. What happened?”

He absolutely did not want to answer. He also knew there was no escape from Breena’s curiosity. With a sigh, he waded to the shore. He bent to retrieve his shirt while he considered how much of the truth he could safely tell her.

He decided to start with the obvious. “I was flogged.”

“With a
flagellum.
You were…arrested?” She swallowed. “Condemned to die?”

She was far too intelligent for someone so young, Rhys thought wryly. He shrugged into his shirt, trying not to wince as the fabric slid over his scabs. “Aye.”

“That is why you lost your harp,” she said. She had been most distressed when he’d arrived without it. He’d told the Aquilas only that it had been stolen. Again, true enough.

“I’ll make another one,” he said. And quickly, too, for without a harp to play, he would not eat.

“Why…why did they arrest you? Was it a mistake?”

Aye, it was a mistake, but not in the way she meant. He’d been beyond careless in casting magic too close to the Roman fortress at Londinium. A soldier had seen Rhys emerge from an illusion and had immediately sent up a cry. Scant moments later, Rhys had found himself arrested and charged with Druidry. Three brawny soldiers dragged him before their centurion, who had pronounced Rhys’s sentence with little ceremony. Forty lashes less one, and burning at the stake at dawn.

The
flagellum
was in itself an instrument of death. Multiple strips of leather, the ends tied with bits of metal and broken glass, flayed skin from muscle with ruthless efficiency. Rhys had borne only the first few blows in silence. After that, his screams had attracted a crowd.

But he could not tell Breena any of that.

“Aye,” he said. “A mistake.”

“And when they discovered their error, they let you go?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He’d gotten out of the mess the same way he’d gotten into it—with illusion. When the soldiers had opened his cage at dawn, he’d been simply—not there. Hidden by magic, he’d crawled away during the confusion of their search. But, again, he could not tell Breena. Not without admitting he was Druid. The Aquila family did not know of his magic.

“Roman legionary soldiers do not admit their mis
takes,” he said. His tone was harsher than he intended. “I managed to escape before they could kill me.”

“Oh!” Her voice cracked. She looked down, and toed at the muddy stream bank. “I…I am sorry…that the…legionaries treated you so cruelly.”

He cursed himself as a heartless brute. “I mean no disrespect to your father,” he said quietly. “He is a legionary I am proud to count as a friend.”

She raised her head. “It must have hurt,” she said. “So badly.” Her blue eyes filled with tears.
For him.

The back of his throat hurt. In the days following his escape, he’d lain in the forest, burning with fever, wondering if he would survive. He’d craved a word of sympathy; there had been none. He’d told himself it did not matter.

He had lied.

“It did hurt,” he admitted.

“Does it still?”

“Nay. It…itches. Fiercely.”

“Oh!” She bent her head, sifting through her basket. “I have plantain. And I saw more, just upstream. I’ll make a cold poultice. That should help.” She pointed to a flat rock. “Sit down over there, and take off your shirt. I’ll be back in a trice.”

She smiled through her tears and scampered away. Rhys watched her go, a smile touching his lips. The little lass was as practical as she was good-hearted and impulsive. Slowly, he sat on the rock and pulled his shirt over his head.

She returned with a great handful of broad green leaves, which she wet in the stream and crushed between two flat rocks. He hunched forward; she knelt behind him. With great care, she spread the leaves over his back. As she’d predicted, the itching soon subsided.

His heart healed as well.

Four days came and went, in which Breena learned very well what Lady Bertrice meant when she’d muttered about Igraine’s “moods.” Breena found herself in sympathy with Gerlois’s sour sister. After just four days, she felt like muttering, too.

After Breena had so unwisely pressed the subject of Gerlois’s abuse, the duchess seemed to fade from the world around her, retreating into herself like a turtle into its shell. Igraine moved slowly, spoke little, and ate only when Nesta or Breena coaxed or threatened. During the times when Breena sat with her, she tried everything she could think of to break through the icy wall Igraine had constructed. Nothing worked.

She did not know what to do, other than count the moments until Myrddin arrived. Igraine’s luxurious sitting room in the tower was little more than a prison. Lady Bertrice and Nesta came and went, but Breena was not permitted farther than the roof terrace, or the atrium garden. Gerlois’s sister feared Breena’s red hair would lure men into sin.

At night, Breena tossed and turned in Lady Bertrice’s narrow closet. The silver vision intruded, more distinct than before. First came the signs—falcon, shepherd, spilled wine, a pane of cracked glass, a bloodred moon. Then Igraine’s face, clearly visible now. Her silent scream as her attacker struck. The man’s visage remained shadowy, but Breena recognized his shape and manner. It was Gerlois.

The day preceding the opening of the harvest festival dawned clear and cold. Preparations for the great feast, which was to take place the following evening, were well underway. Breena watched the activity in the castle forecourt from the window in Igraine’s solar. The duchess had not spoken a word since Breena had so unwisely pressed her about Gerlois’s abuse. Breena could not even reach her through the link of magic they
shared—when she cast her senses toward Igraine, it was as if she hit a stone wall. Breena had thus far done nothing to gain Igraine’s cooperation in her own rescue.

The tournament for her hand, to take place in two days, loomed large in her thoughts. She could hardly think for worrying about it. She needed help. She needed Gareth.

She scanned the forecourt, and the mainland beyond, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Perhaps Myrddin had arrived in Tintagel village. Perhaps he and Gareth were already together, plotting a way to free Breena and Igraine from the tower. If only Breena knew more!

At noon, Nesta arrived with a tray of flatbread and cheese, and a pitcher of wine. Breena coaxed Igraine to the table by the window. When the duchess was seated, Breena returned to the sideboard to help the maid.

“It has been four days. Does the duchess often withdraw from the world for so long?” she whispered. “How long might this last?”

Nesta bit her lip. “It happens often enough, when something has upset her. But it has been quite some time since she’s left us for so long. Not since her babe died last winter.”

“Do you think the loss has something to do with her melancholy?”

“Oh, aye, to be sure. Childbed melancholy sometimes lingers, even when the babe thrives. Often ’tis worse when the child dies.”

“Was the babe stillborn?”

“Nay. She was born live, but weak. The duchess even put her to breast. Perhaps it would have gone easier if she had not.”

“The child was a girl?”

“Aye. My lady called her Morgan. The duke was
sorely displeased. He expected an heir. He would not even look at the little lass.”

Breena darted a glance at Igraine. The duchess sat like a statue. “How long did Morgan live?”

“Two days. On the morning of the third day, when I came to attend my lady, I learned she had died in the night.”

“How sad,” Breena murmured.

Igraine stirred. “She did not die. She did not.”

Breena’s head whipped around. Nesta all but flew to her mistress’s side. Dropping down on her knees, she chafed Igraine’s hand.

“Please, my lady, do not think on it.”

The fog had fled from Igraine’s eyes. “Morgan. My daughter. She did not die. She did
not!”

Breena moved closer. “Why do you say that?”

Nesta shot Breena an apologetic glance. “She often went on so in the beginning,” she murmured. “It will pass.”

Igraine’s gaze clung to Breena’s. “Gerlois wanted a son. When he came into my room, and saw our daughter at my breast…he flew into a rage.”

Breena sucked in a breath.
Gods.
What had Gerlois done?

“He took her.” Tears ran down Igraine’s face. “He took her away. But he did not kill her.”

Breena’s arm went around the older woman’s shoulders. “I am so sorry. Nesta, please. Bring your mistress some wine.”

Nesta rose, frowning, but moved to the pitcher on the sideboard.

“You believe me?” Igraine asked, her voice low.

“I do.”

“Then you are the first.”

Nesta pressed a goblet of wine into Igraine’s hand. Igraine took a few sips, then placed the vessel on the table.

“Leave us,” she said to Nesta. Her voice was steady.

“My lady! You have not eaten.”

“Antonia will attend me. I am sure there is much for you to do in the kitchen.”

“But Lady Bertrice—”

“Go, Nesta.”

“Do not worry,” Breena told the woman. “We will be fine. If Lady Bertrice is displeased, I will speak with her.”

The maid gave a reluctant curtsy and withdrew. Breena took a seat and covered Igraine’s hand with her own.

“You cannot stay here, my lady. Not if you truly believe your husband stole your daughter away.”

Igraine’s laugh was short. “Of course I must stay. How can I leave? It pleases Gerlois to keep me locked away in this tower. I am to provide him with an heir. That is my only purpose.”

“You cannot believe that. To my mind, you owe the man nothing. He beats you, he tore your babe from your arms—”

“He is my husband.”

“He was never meant to be your husband. You were promised to Uther!”

“Yes,” Igraine said slowly, “I was. But that was a very long time ago.”

“You loved Uther. You danced with him only months ago, in Caer-Lundein.”

Igraine stiffened. “I had no choice. He all but dragged me from my chair at court. I went because…because I have known Uther forever. He is a distant cousin. He fostered with my uncle, King Erbin, as I did. He was such an arrogant boy! But we were great friends, the three of us.”

“Three?”

Igraine sent Breena an odd look. “Myself, Uther,
and Geraint, Erbin’s son. But surely, you know that, Antonia? Geraint was your own kin as well.”

“Of course,” Breena said quickly, though she had no idea of whom Igraine spoke.

“Uther and Geraint were as close as brothers. They were like puppies, constantly snapping and wrestling, but they loved each other deeply. And I loved them both. Geraint was like a brother to me. But Uther…my dreams of him were not sisterly at all.”

Igraine raised her head, and seemed to stare intently, but Breena knew she saw nothing but the past. “I am older than Uther by three years. An eternity when one is young. When we first met, I was taller than he. Even after he became much larger and broader, I never missed a chance to remind him that I was his elder.”

Breena smiled. “How did he respond?”

Igraine laughed. It was a musical sound. “Absurdly! He’d fall to his knees at my feet, and tell me…and tell me he meant to wed me, so he might stay forever humble.” Her smile faded. “We began slipping off alone together, whenever we could. My old nurse, Vivian, aided our mischief. I promised myself to Uther when I was seventeen, and he fourteen. But even at such a young age, he was so strong, and so very confident.”

“Did King Erbin not consider it a good match?” Breena asked. “I cannot think why he would not. Uther was the king’s brother.”

“Erbin would not entertain the notion. He thought Uther too young, and too wild. He wanted the tempering of age, my uncle said. I vowed to wait for him. Less than a year later, Uther joined Ambrosius’s knights and rode to war. Barely a month later, the Saxons struck Llongborth. Geraint died defending the town. King Erbin was stricken with grief.”