Silver Silence (7 page)

Kane twisted out of Trent’s grasp and folded his arms over his flute. Spinning around, he kicked at the muddy road.

“Ah, that’s better,” Trent declared. “Now. If we’re all in agreement, let us proceed across the bridge. You fishwives may not have noticed, but the sun is sinking fast, and we are in danger of missing vespers. Not to mention the supper that follows.”

There was a general grumble of agreement. Rhys chuckled. Trent might be small in stature, but his outsized personality clearly held sway over his three larger companions.

Rhys’s amusement drew the giant’s attention. “Lads,” Howell said sharply. “Look about! We have an audience.”

The other men turned.

Rhys met Trent’s gaze first, with a slight nod. He then made eye contact with Howell, Floyd, and Kane in turn. “Well met, friends.”

Trent’s lips twitched, acknowledging Rhys’s deference to his position as leader, as well as the stranger’s quick assessment of the troupe’s pecking order.

“Ah, an audience,” he declared. He unshouldered his pack and handed it off to Howell. The dagger at his waist followed. Then he clapped his hand together and rubbed his palms. “How I do love an audience.”

Before Rhys could react to this statement, Trent took two running steps and launched himself into the air. Knees tucked to chest, he spun a graceful midair roll, landing lightly on his feet not two strides from where Rhys stood.

He bowed. “Trent Masterson, at your service.”

Rhys brought his hands together, clapping slowly as his astonished grin widened. “Well done, man! Very well done indeed. Will you require a coin for your efforts?”

Trent eyed Rhys appraisingly, then grimaced. “ ‘Twould be a waste of breath, I’m thinking. From the looks of you, you’re worse off than we are. I reckon I could not snatch an
as
from your lily white arse.”

Howell and Floyd guffawed at the poor pun. Kane only rolled his eyes. Rhys gave a diplomatic snort. An
as
was a common denomination of Roman currency. He dug into the small pouch hidden under his shirt and produced the coin in question. With a grin, he tossed it at Trent.

The little man snatched it from midair and tested it between his teeth. A broad smile broke over his face.
“Well, now! For another like this, we might be persuaded to sing a song as well.”

Rhys forced a laugh, but in reality, his anxiety was rapidly expanding. This scene in which he found himself did not feel right. Every tale he’d ever heard of the Lost Lands described the realm as misty and dreamlike. The midlands between earth and Annwyn were known to be vague and illogical. Time and form shifted constantly, without warning. This world—with its swamp, its mud, its ribald minstrels who spoke of Roman coins—was far too familiar for Rhys’s comfort.

Which begged the question: where, exactly,
was
he?

He had not the faintest notion. But Rhys was well used to finding himself in foreign places. He knew from experience that the first thing a stranger in a strange land wanted was an ally among the local populace. Or, even better, four such allies.

“Perhaps I might offer a song of my own, in the faint hope of regaining my meager coin.”

He slid his pack from his shoulder and unbuckled the flap. When he unfolded the oiled cloth inside, Kane’s eyes went wide as twin moons.

“By the Christos,” he breathed. “A harp. Are you a bard?”

“Aye.”

“God in heaven!” Trent’s shrewd gaze turned speculative. “Are you any good?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Then play, man! Let us hear your skill.”

Rhys’s lips twitched. “For an
as
?”

“For the satisfaction our pleasure gives you,” Trent said dryly.

Rhys laughed and plucked a short, complex melody. Improvising, Kane joined in with his flute. At the end of the piece, the pair took their bows amid the enthusiastic applause of the other men.

“Well done!” Trent exclaimed. “Indeed, I have never heard the like—your fingers are as golden as your hair—damn me, but I don’t even know your name. What are you called, man?”

“Rhys.” Rhys rewrapped his harp and stowed it in his pack.

Trent took his own pack and dagger from Howell. “Do you travel alone, Rhys?”

“Aye.”

“From where, might I ask? Your accent is none too familiar.”

“I’m newly arrived from the north of Cambria,” Rhys smoothly lied.

“Gwynedd, do you mean? Ah, but that would explain both the lilt in your speech and the harp in your pack. A wild place, Gwynedd is, or so I’ve heard tell. But to travel all that distance, alone, with no sword on your belt? That, my friend, is as astounding as it is foolish.”

“I’m well skilled in the art of avoiding trouble. Besides, what thief would bestir himself to rob a poor minstrel?”

Trent spat in the mud. “Such perfidy is not above a Saxon sea wolf. But I suppose the raiders do not often venture as far north as Gwynedd. Here in the south, though, you’d be wise to find yourself a weapon. And some traveling companions. Are you headed to Tintagel for the festival? If so, you are welcome to join us. A harp would be a fine addition to our show.”

“Festival?” Rhys wondered how far this Tintagel might be.

“Never say you know nothing of Duke Gerlois’s harvest festival!”

“I am afraid they do not speak of it in Gwynedd.”

“Well, my man, ’tis famous in the west country. Seven days of feasting, all at the duke’s expense! Rich
and poor alike partake. This year, there’s to be a tournament among the knights pledged to Gerlois and his lords.”

“Knights?” Rhys asked.

Trent shot him an odd look. “Cavalry, man! Do you not know the Germanic name? Surely they are not so backward as all that up in Gwynedd.”

“I know the cavalry, of course,” Rhys murmured. The horsemen were the swiftest arm of the Roman military. This Duke Gerlois must be their general.

“ ‘Twill be a spectacle well worth the journey,” Trent said, squinting at the sun. “But for now, we’d best be across the bridge. The abbey bell will toll vespers any moment.”

Rhys nodded and followed the others. Trent fell into step beside him as they crossed the planks. “So what do you say, man? Will you join up with us?”

Rhys hesitated, considering what his next step might be if he failed to find Breena on Avalon. A large gathering might very well be the next logical place to look. “Aye, I might consider it.”

“What’s to consider?” Trent asked. “Why, half of Dumnonia will be at Tintagel. Think of the coin!”

“And the wenches,” cut in Howell, who was openly eavesdropping.

“And the food,” added Floyd.

“And the wenches and food,” repeated Trent. “All to be had for the small price of singing a verse or two in praise of warriors stupid enough to be slaughtered in battle.”

“Is Tintagel far?” Rhys asked.

“Much closer than Gwynedd,” Trent replied. “Five days by foot, if we set a quick pace. If the weather holds, we should arrive in time for the opening feast. What say you, man? Are you with us?”

Rhys was saved from answering by the group’s ar
rival at the gatehouse. Beyond, in the wide plaza, the soldiers Rhys had seen arriving earlier now stood in a loose knot, talking. A few of the island’s brown-robed inhabitants—monks, Trent had called them—hurried to and fro, eyes fixed on the ground. A scrawny lad drew water from a well.

Trent seemed well acquainted with the gatehouse attendant, greeting the man with surprising humility. “The blessing of our Lord Christos be upon you, Brother Fergus.”

“And upon ye, Trent.” The man’s lilting accent marked him a native of Hibernia, or Eire, as it was sometimes called. “May ye ever be worthy of our Lord’s mercy.”

Rhys was beginning to understand that this Avalon, like his own, housed a religious community. But these holy men honored not the Great Mother, but a god called Christos.

While Trent and the monk conversed, Rhys scanned the activity in the plaza. Dropping back, he spoke in a low voice to Floyd. “Where are the women of the community?”

The portly man’s face registered his astonishment. “Women? In a monastery? My God, man, are you insane?”

Rhys was taken aback. “You mean there are no women? None at all?”

“Of course not!”

“Not even in the kitchens? Or the laundry?”

“Nay, not even there,” Floyd confirmed. “The monks take care of their own needs.”

Howell met this assertion with a snort.

Kane landed a subtle kick to the giant’s shin. “Whatever vulgarity you are thinking, Howell, pray do not speak it. Or we are like to find ourselves sleeping in the swamp.”

“My comrades and I humbly request shelter for the night,” Trent was telling Brother Fergus. “We journey to Tintagel for the festival.”

“Sure and many are the travelers who have sought shelter at Glastonbury in the past fortnight. Why, we are blessed to have Bishop Dafyd himself in residence. His litter arrived not an hour past.”

It was this Bishop Dafyd’s aura, then, that Rhys had seen shining from the depths of the litter. Rhys was not surprised to discover that the man was spoken of with respect.

Trent nodded sagely. “His blessed grace journeys to Tintagel’s festival.”

“Aye, to lend much-needed piety to his brother’s revels. Else many weak souls would be drawn into sin by the pagan customs of old, and damned to hellfire.” The monk shook his head. “I suspect ’twould be best to ban the festivities entirely. But Duke Gerlois is loath to disappoint the people of Dumnonia.”

“That dilemma is why my men and I have traveled so far to attend,” Trent said solemnly. “If a festival there must be, then may the entertainment provided be offered to God’s glory! My troupe sings the loftiest of hymns, and we stage scenes from the life of the Christos. God willing, our art will save many souls from Hell’s fires.”

“ ‘Tis a miracle,” Rhys heard Howell whisper to Floyd, “that Trent’s tongue does not split in two under the strain of his lies.”

“May God shower his mercy on you lads,” Brother Fergus declared.

A bell began a low, mournful tolling. At once, all activity ceased. Every man in sight streamed toward the archway.

“Vespers.” Brother Fergus gestured Trent and the others to proceed in the same direction. “Bishop Dafyd
leads the community in prayer. Please, advance to the chapel.”

The troupe passed under the archway, entering a smaller courtyard dominated by the square bell tower. They joined the queue at the entrance of the tall building beside it. They soon found themselves in a large, barrel-vaulted room thickly packed with bodies.

A dozen or so monks gathered at one end of the hall, around a stone altar. The holy men had dropped the hoods of their brown robes, revealing closely cropped hair and shaved chins. Rhys quickly scanned the group for signs of magic, but found none. The bishop had not yet entered.

A handful of chairs faced the altar. The seated occupants were richly dressed.

“Nobles,” Trent explained. He nodded toward a short, dark, bearded man. “Lord Clarence of Tregear. The sallow-looking young one is Lord Maddock of Bolerium. They are bound for Tintagel as we are. No doubt they, and Bishop Dafyd, will take the sea route, and arrive well before us.”

Soldiers, monks, and servants filled the rear of the chapel. The poorer travelers jostled cheek by jowl in the rear. Rhys tugged at the collar of his shirt. The chapel was not meant to hold so many bodies. The heat was prodigious; the odor even worse. And the evening prayers had not even begun.

The monks began a chant. The entire assembly, save for the nobles, knelt. With a sigh, Rhys followed suit. And waited for Bishop Dafyd to appear.

T
here’s the lad. A pretty one, isn’t he?”

Rhys stiffened, then relaxed. The Celt halfway down the tavern table could not possibly be talking about him. His illusion was firmly in place. Anyone who looked would see a man of two-and-twenty, not a boy of fifteen.

In the early days of his exile from Avalon, he’d kept to the wilderness, but soon realized that was not practical—he sought Druids, not solitude. He had to go where they were to be found. But there were many places a very young man could not venture except with extreme care.

This was one of those places. A rough dockside tavern on the banks of the River Thamesis, in the Roman provincial capital of Londinium. Before Rhys had dared enter, he’d fashioned a disguise of sorts. A spell of illusion, woven from the Words of the Old Ones.

He’d added seven years to his age, broadness to his chest, and a beard to his chin. Illusion-making was a skill Rhys had just begun to master; his magic this night was tenuous at best. If anyone looked too closely, Rhys very much feared his illusion would crumble.

This tavern had been a dangerous waste of time. The patrons were sailors and thieves. To a man, they were hairy, ugly, and stinking, without a single spark of magic among them. Rhys would have been better
served making his bed in the forest outside the city. At least the animals in that place were predictable.

“He’s got a lily white arse, I’ll wager,” the ruddy Celt sailor was saying.

“I’ve got first go at him,” warned his Roman companion, a thin, cruel-looking man with a long scar across his bald head. “I hope he’s worth the
quadran
I paid.”

The object of the pair’s attention was the slave boy who had just emerged from the kitchens. The lad, who could not have been more than eight years old, carried an armful of peat for the fire. Upon hearing the sailors’ remarks, he froze. Raw terror washed over his face.

Rhys’s stomach sickened. Life in Avalon had at times been very hard, but he’d never imagined the misery that lurked beyond the sacred isle’s shores. The young slave’s master had sold him for the night, willing or no. The lad knew what pain and degradation were in store for him—indeed, he’d probably suffered the same before. Yet he was powerless to stop what would happen. Rhys felt a rush of aching sympathy.

Then he blinked. A shimmering blue glow of air magic bathed the lad’s head and shoulders. The slave boy possessed latent Druid magic. His power was more than strong enough for Avalon.

The lad dropped the blocks of peat by the hearth and scurried back in the direction of the kitchen, no doubt hoping to put off his ordeal. It was not to be. The bald sailor snatched him up by the scruff of the neck. “You’ll come with us now, boy.”

“Please, sirs, nay
—”

The ruddy man backhanded him across the face. “Shut up.”

Rhys rose as the pair hauled the lad out the door and into the street. Dropping a coin on the table, he hastened after them. But what could he do? He could
hardly fight two hardened sailors bare-handed. And yet, he could not allow this evil to take place.

He found the trio in the stinking alley beside the tavern. The Celt held the boy. The Roman was untying his breeches, eyeing the lad with an avid expression. The boy twisted, and kicked, and earned a cuff on the ear for his defiance.

Rhys enhanced his illusion, adding years to his face and richness to his garb. He was now a prosperous merchant. Upon further consideration, he added the illusion of a sword at his belt. He did not think the false weapon was very convincing, but then, the night was dark.

Doing his best to project a confidence he did not feel, he hailed the sailor. “Stop. Stop now.”

The bald man looked over at him, a sneer on his face. “And who might you be, to issue such an order?”

“This slave’s new owner,” Rhys said. “I bought him not an hour ago.”

The lad’s eyes widened.

“Did you? Well. Old Marcellus did not say anything of it when he sold us the use of this whelp for the night.”

“I have his papers right here.” Rhys hoped they would not reach for the scroll in his hand; it was nothing more than magic and air. “Now give him to me.”

The Celt did not release his hold on the lad’s thin arms. “But we paid good money for him!”

“And we mean to receive our due,” his companion said. “We’ll give him up when we’re done with him. Not a moment sooner.”

Rhys placed his palm on the hilt of the sword that was not really there. “How much did you pay to use him?”

A calculating light gleamed in the bald sailor’s eye. “A
denarius.”

It was a blatant lie. The man could have bought far more than a sniveling boy for that price. But Rhys’s tenuous illusions would never hold up to a fight, if it came to that.

“Very well,” he said, fishing in his money pouch. He tossed something in the ruddy man’s direction.

The Celt released his hold on the boy to catch it. The lad darted behind Rhys’s back. The Roman snatched the coin from his companion and tested it between his teeth.

He smiled broadly. “Take him. We’ll find us another. Perhaps two.”

The pair trod down the alley, toward the tavern door. Rhys looked down at the trembling lad. “What’s your name, lad?”

The boy sniffed. “Penn, sir.”

“Well, come on, then, Penn. Let’s get out of here.”

He did not move. “Did ye truly buy me from Marcellus?”

“Nay,” Rhys admitted. “I am stealing ye from him.”

“But…why? Do ye…mean to use me as those men wanted?”

“Of course not.” In his utter shock at the lad’s assumption, Rhys lost his hold on his illusion.

Penn’s eyes went round. “Why…ye are not a merchant at all! You’re hardly even a grown man! How
—”

“Magic. Illusion. I’ll explain later. “Now
move,
lad!” Rhys gave the lad a shove in the direction of the forest. “It will not be long before those two bastards realize that
denarius
is nothing more than a bit of glass.”

“Sorcery!”

Bishop Dafyd’s eyes blazed with zealous light. His
flaccid jowls trembled. The priest’s ranting showed no sign of abating, even though the twilight glow in the chapel’s narrow windows had long since faded to black. He punctuated each sentence with a rap of his hooked staff against the flagged stone floor. Rhys’s knees, protesting their long contact with the cold stone floor, had long since gone numb.

“Sorcery is the gravest threat to man’s salvation. The power of the sorcerer is unnatural. Perverse! It is the might of demons. Seductive, its talons sink into a weak man’s soul, bringing disease and infection of the spirit. The miserable mortal becomes Satan’s instrument on earth—”

Dafyd’s oratory was compelling; he held the larger part of his audience entranced. Kane’s expression was rapt. Floyd’s eyes were glassy, as if he had fallen into a trance.

“—magic fouls all it touches, and sends even righteous men into the embrace of the dark prince. Yes, my sons, beware the sorcerer, and his whore, the witch. Their souls are black, fit only for agony in the fires of Hell—”

Rhys slid a glance in Trent’s direction. The small man’s face was a careful blank. Howell, in contrast, wore an outright scowl. At a subtle nudge from Trent, the giant ducked his head.

Rhys wondered at the audacity of the bishop, to condemn the very power he himself possessed. Was Dafyd afraid one of the monks, or a nobleman, might rise up to undermine his authority with his own magic? If so, he needn’t have worried. Rhys was the only other Druid present in the chapel. He noted with some relief that the bishop did not glance his way. If Dafyd were sensitive to Druid auras, as Rhys was, his gaze surely would have been drawn to Rhys.

The air in the crowded room was almost unbear
able. At dusk, the monks had lit scented torches on the altar. They did not burn cleanly. Sweat and other, fouler bodily odors melded with the stink and smoke of incense to fill the chapel with a thick haze. Rhys imagined the miasma rivaled the foulness of the Hell the bishop described with such passion.

How much longer could the man go on? Surely this had to end soon.

“—the righteous man must be vigilant against evil, for Satan bears many faces—”

Rhys shifted his gaze to the tall monk who stood just behind Dafyd’s left shoulder. While the other monks wore brown, this one alone wore black. The man was never more than a few steps from the bishop.

“—beware the murderer, the fornicator, the adulterer. The thief. Those who do not honor the Lord’s church—”

Of all the monks, only the black-cowled acolyte had not dropped his hood. The edges of the thick fabric drooped forward, shadowing his face.

“—my sons, you must not rest your vigilance, not even for an instant! Guard against lust, against the sins of the flesh, for evil so often comes to a man in the guise of woman. The female soul is weak. She is easy prey for Satan, who ever seeks to drive men from the path of righteousness. She is the devil’s handmaiden, eager to snare a man’s soul for her master—”

The bishop’s words were like insects tracking filth over Rhys’s skin.

“—temptress. Woman is ever eager to defile a holy man’s soul. For this reason, God has given man dominion over woman. A woman may reach salvation only through the guidance of her lord and master. A man must guide a woman under his care with a firm hand. He must chastise her often, and sternly, if she is to have any hope of seeing heaven—”

Gods. Rhys felt like plunging into the nearest spring and washing until he was red and raw. He tried to imagine Gwen’s reaction to the idiocy spouting from Dafyd’s mouth. He imagined his sister would have a few choice words—and a spell or two—with which to chastise the bishop.

He lowered his gaze, smothering a snort.

“—beware, my sons, for a woman imperils a man’s soul. But woman is not the worst threat to salvation. Of all the evil that surrounds us, there is none so foul as those sorcerers of old—the Druids.”

Rhys’s head jerked up.

“—at the time of the birth of the Christos, in a humble stable in Judea, Druid vermin crawled thick in Britain. They once defiled even this holy island, this blessed ground to which the holy Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail of the Christos, which even now lies in the very earth beneath our feet, feeding the red waters that flow from the Chalice Well—”

Gods in Annwyn! This Christos of which Dafyd spoke could only be the Carpenter Prophet revered by the Druids of Avalon. Rhys did not know who this man Joseph could be, however. According to Druid teaching, a mysterious woman known only as the Lady—Rhys’s own many-times great-grandmother—had brought the Grail of the Carpenter Prophet to Avalon. While the Lady’s male descendants, like Rhys, were very strong in magic, it was the Lady’s direct female descendants—her Daughters—who inherited the vastness of her power. In Avalon, Gwen and Clara, and now Gwen’s female child, were Daughters of the Lady.

“—the filth of the Druids once defiled this holiest of islands. The scum of their existence was scoured from this holy place by the holy brothers, Faganus and Deruvianus, blessed saints of the Christos. But do not be so
simple as to believe our ancient enemy has faded from this land. No. A Druid walks among us still, brazen in his evil. This Satan’s servant whispers blasphemy into the ear of Britain’s high king—”

What was this? Rhys’s heart thudded. He shifted on the flagged stones, straightening so as to get a better view of Dafyd. A sharp pain shot up his knee to his thigh.

“—the Druid Myrddin! King Uther professes to be a servant of the Christos, but how can that be, when he takes counsel from a foul Druid? I promise you, if our king persists in his folly, God will punish all of Britain! Yes, our shores are battered by godless Saxons. But the real enemy attacks from within. I tell you, unless a true man of God sits upon the throne of Britain, every soul in the land will be cast into hellfire!”

The bishop’s sermon went on for some minutes longer, as Dafyd elaborated upon the qualities of an ideal king. And though he mentioned no name, Rhys had the idea every man in the chapel knew perfectly well of whom the bishop spoke. And what of this Myrddin, advisor to the high king called Uther? Might he be Breena’s abductor?

At last Dafyd fell silent.

“About bloody time,” Howell grumbled.

Kane glared at him. Howell snorted, and the youth’s lips pursed.

A monk whom Trent had identified as the monastery’s abbot now ascended the single step to the altar. He bowed to Dafyd before turning to face the worshippers. Arms lifted, he raised his voice and sang in a language Rhys was fairly certain was Greek.

“Kýrie eléison, Christé eléison, Kýrie eléison.”

More prayer ensued, this time in Latin. Rhys added his own silent prayers that the end of the service was near.

He let out a long breath between his teeth as the monks made their final bow to the altar. Dafyd, followed by his gaunt hooded attendant, was the first to exit the chapel.

The monastery’s dining hall was a utilitarian space, devoid of decoration save for a large wooden cross hanging above a raised platform. Several noblemen, Dafyd, and Glastonbury’s abbot were already seated at a table on the dais, which was covered with a pristine white cloth. Rough plank tables, unadorned, served for the rest of the crowd.

Rhys and his companions filed past a table laden with bowls of thin stew, hunks of bread that were only slightly stale, and rinds of too-fragrant cheese. Rhys accepted his portion, along with a cup of ale, from a round-faced monk with a pleasant smile.

“They’ve meat at the high table,” Floyd grumbled as the troupe elbowed their way to an empty bench. “And wine.”

Rhys looked down at the gruel in his bowl and shrugged. “I’ve eaten far worse.”

Floyd sighed. “So have I, more’s the pity.”

“Chins up, men,” Trent said as he slid into his seat. “In less than a sennight’s time we’ll be rolling fat in Duke Gerlois’s bounty.”