The Shining City (35 page)

The central garth was filled with excited students, all dressed in their best. The predominant color was green, as befitted the celebration of the first day of summer. A few of the music students were playing flutes, fiddles, and guitars, and couples were dancing. Olwynne walked through the crowd, smiling and nodding to those she knew. Fèlice was dancing with a tall medical student and waved at her enthusiastically. Landon was seated on a step, writing in his notebook, occasionally splattering passersby with ink as he finished a word with a flourish. Then Olwynne saw Edithe, who called to her and tried to speak to her. Olwynne deftly sidestepped and went on. She only wanted to see Lewen.

She found him and Owein together in the square before the palace, drinking Merry May punch and watching the dancers. They rose to their feet at the sight of her.

“Look at ye, ye‟ve scrubbed up well,” Owein said. “Ye must be feeling better.”

“I feel grand,” she answered.

“Ye look grand,” Lewen said quietly, staring as if he had never seen her before.

“Grand as a goat‟s turd stuck with buttercups,” Owein said.

She ignored him, smiling at Lewen and holding out her hand. “Care to dance?”

“I‟m no‟ much o‟ a dancer—ye ken that,” he said, but took her hand and led her on to the dance floor.

Olwynne smiled and let him turn her, his hand on her waist. It was a warm night and the air smelled of woodsmoke and flowers. Paper lanterns hung from tree to tree in the garden, and from window to window all along the palace walls. Grey-clad servants moved unobtrusively here and there, carrying glasses of wine punch and plates of little honey cakes. In the center of the square, the Beltane bonfire still glowed, casting a warm light on the gaily dressed couples twirling all around it. Jongleurs amused the crowd with their stilt walking and fire eating, and a troupe of cluricauns showed off their tumbling tricks. A maypole had been erected near the high table, its colored ribbons still hanging loose.

Olwynne and Lewen did not speak, though it was a slow dance and they should have had breath enough. Olwynne let herself fall into a sweet trance, her head very close to Lewen‟s shoulder, the feel of his fingers burning through the fabric of her dress. She felt him heave a breath and glanced up at him.

“I‟m glad ye‟re feeling better,” Lewen said. He spoke awkwardly, and his arm on her waist was stiff.

Olwynne smiled at him. She felt she knew him better than even his own mother. He did not find words easy. The slick compliments that other men found so easy to say would never slide off Lewen‟s tongue. He was better with horses and falcons and dogs, creatures that understood slow, quiet movements and a strong hand. The deep connection he felt with the creatures of the field and the forest found their way out through his fingers as he whittled a scrap of wood into something so beautiful it astounded all who saw it. A shapeless lump of wood became a running horse, a dancing girl, a charging stag. Arrows flew true, javelins always found their mark, and his bowls and cups were perfectly balanced, a pleasure to hold and use. Plants under his care flourished, maltreated animals grew sleek and tame, and people in general felt comfortable and at ease without realizing why. All this Lewen did without words, for he spoke seldom and never without thought, and never ever with the honeyed ease of the courtiers with their long ringlets, their feathered hats and velvet doublets, their oiled and perfumed beards.

He did not dance with their graceful ease either, his back stiff and his brow furrowed as if he was mentally counting his steps. Olwynne thought, with a little upturn of her lips, that if he was ever admitted to the ranks of the Yeomen of the Guard, it would be for his strength and steadiness, his skill with the sword and the bow, not for his ability to dance a graceful set, like the green-clad guard now holding Bronwen so close on the other side of the dance floor. She recognized the guard as the soldier who should have been the Green Man. He was glaring down at Bronwen as if he wished to strangle her, while she spun and twirled about him as easily as a flower on a long green stem, her gauzy skirts gleaming silver in the moonlight.

The sight of Bronwen dancing stirred a deep unease in Olwynne. A shudder ran over her. She pressed closer to Lewen, who bent his brown head over hers. “Is all well?” he asked. “Ye shivered.”

She looked up into his eyes, which were dark and intent, and for a moment could not breathe.

She nodded dumbly, and his mouth relaxed, his eyes crinkling.

“I‟m sorry about your toes,” he said. “I‟m a terrible dancer.”

“Nay, ye‟re fine, really,” she said, and cursed herself for her own inept tongue.

“It must be all the sword practice,” he answered.

There was a long moment of silence.

“So do ye like my dress?” she asked, spreading her skirts and giving a little twirl before coming back into the curve of his arm.

“Aye, indeed. Ye look very bonny,” he answered quietly.

The music came to an end, and he gave a grave bow and said, “Thank ye for the dance.”

“Ye will no‟ go another round with me?” Olwynne said, masking her disappointment with a smile.

He shook his head. “I do no‟ feel much like dancing, I‟m sorry. I‟m sure ye‟ll have no shortage o‟ partners, though, so pretty ye are looking tonight.”

“I‟d rather dance with ye,” she said, moving closer to him.

He smiled, rather wistfully, and moved away. “It feels all wrong, me being here, dancing under the stars, when Rhiannon is locked away where she canna even see them.”

Olwynne wanted to shriek in vexation and jealousy; she wanted to cry,
Never say that name to me
again!
But she smiled in sympathy and said, “O‟ course, I‟m sorry, it was thoughtless o‟ me. It‟s just that I‟m feeling so much better and it is such a beautiful night . . .”

“It is bonny,” Lewen replied, looking up at the two moons that wheeled together close to the soaring spires of the Tower of Two Moons. One moon was red, one moon was blue, but the light they cast on the intricate mosaic of twigs and leaves was silver-bright.

“Would ye rather walk in the gardens?” Olwynne asked.

Lewen looked back at her in surprise, then nodded. “Aye, I would. . . . But would ye no‟ rather dance?”

“The night is young. I can dance again later,” she said. “Come and tell me how Rhiannon is doing.”

Eagerly he led Olwynne away from the dance floor. She stopped one of the lackeys and seized a decanter of the Merry May punch and two glasses from his tray. Made from goldensloe wine, strawberries, honey, fermented lime, and woodruff blossoms, the punch was an intoxicating brew and often blamed for any babies born nine months after the lighting of the Beltane fires.

Olwynne was certainly hoping it would work its usual magic, but to make sure, she had an extra ingredient to add.

Shielding the decanter from view with her body, she hurriedly uncorked a vial she carried in her reticule and let one, two, three drops slide down its long translucent throat, dripping down to dissolve into the heady wine punch within. It was the honey of the golden goddess flower, a powerful aphrodisiac from the fens of Arran, that she had purchased at great cost on the black market only that afternoon. They said it could not fail.

Lewen turned and glanced back at her, and her heart swelled with longing for him. She tried to keep the intensity of her desire from showing in her face, and she must have been successful, for Lewen took the decanter and glasses from her with his usual quiet courtesy and directed her down one of the paths, his fingers just touching the small of her back.

The paths were lined with tiny candles in paper hoods, with more paper lanterns hanging in long chains from tree to tree. They wandered along the paths for some time and came at last to a small grove where a fountain softly tinkled, and there was a bench where they could sit and talk.

Lewen spread out his cloak for Olwynne to sit on, so her skirts would not be stained with moss, and then sat beside her, the scent of the night jasmine climbing the arbor adding to the enchanting smell of Olwynne‟s nosegay.

The splashing of the fountain, the tiny glow of the candles, and the warm play of the breeze in Olwynne‟s hair was all very pleasing and romantic. Olwynne could only wish Lewen would not keep worrying about his wild satyricorn girl and talk about something else instead. As long as she was prepared to listen, he was prepared to talk, though, and she realized with a pang of guilt that Lewen had been feeling very alone in his loyal defense of his lover. He was questioning her now about the procedure of the courts, and Olwynne, who, like all the prionnsachan and banprionnsachan, had been made to study law at the Courts of the Inns, did her best to answer him. Whenever she could she refilled their glasses, until her heart and loins ached with the warm glow of the wine, and the decanter was empty.

At last Lewen said, with an effort, “I‟m sorry, I must be boring ye to death. Would ye like me to take ye back to the square now?”

“Nay, I‟m fine,” Olwynne said. “I‟m enjoying the peace o‟ the gardens. Listen! Can ye hear that nightingale? It feels like an age since I last heard one.”

“Me too,” Lewen said, and they listened for a while in silence. The leaves murmured quietly, and they could hear the distant sound of the fiddles and flutes.

Olwynne sighed in pure happiness.

“Ye‟ve no‟ been well,” Lewen said with contrition, “and I have no‟ once asked ye how ye are feeling. I‟m sorry.”

“Hopefully ye feel no need to ask because ye can see with your own eyes that I am well,”

Olwynne said, wishing she was better practiced at the arts of flirtation.

The candlelight slanted warmly across his cheekbone, and she saw his cheek curve as he smiled down at her. “Indeed, ye do look well. I‟ve never seen ye look so . . . so glowing.”

Olwynne felt her cheeks grow warm with pleasure. She looked up into his intent eyes, then dropped her gaze at once. She could smell the scent of the flowers, rising heady and warm from her body, and taste the sweetness of the wine on her tongue.
Kiss me
, she begged him silently.
Kiss me now. Please . . .

But Lewen turned his head away and said awkwardly, “Which is why ye should no‟ be sitting out here in the gardens with me, but enjoying yourself at the party. So fine ye are tonight, ye‟d be the belle o‟ the ball, if ye just tried.”

“With Bronwen the Bonny sharing the dance floor? I think no‟.” Olwynne was icy in her

disappointment.

“No‟ everyone is drawn to the Banprionnsa Bronwen like a moth to the flame,” Lewen said impatiently. “I am sure there are many young lairds and courtiers there tonight who have no wish to be burned by that fire.”

“Happen so, but I am no‟ interested in any o‟ those silken fools,” Olwynne said.

“No, I suppose that‟s true,” Lewen said, grinning down at her. “All ye‟ve ever wanted is to learn the Craft, is that no‟ right?”

He spoke affectionately, but the words caught Olwynne on the raw. “That‟s no‟
all
I‟ve ever wanted,” she cried. She reached out and seized his hand, meeting his startled gaze with a fierce intent gaze of her own. She saw the sudden comprehension in his eyes and felt him instinctively retreat, but she would not let him go. Holding him fast, she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. For a moment he sat still, frozen with surprise, then he wrenched his mouth away.

“Olwynne!”

She would not let him speak. She kissed him again and, her heart hammering, fearfully touched his tongue with hers. At once he leaped back. “Olwynne, what . . . I canna . . .”

She seized his hand and slid it within her bodice, crushing the flowers so their scent sprang up in a heavy, dizzying wave. His other hand, trying to hold her off at the waist, flexed instinctively but he would not succumb, pushing her away, wrenching his hand free. The flimsy material tore, and she heard his breath founder. Her bare breast felt cold at the absence of his hand.

“What do ye do? Olwynne, ye ken I canna . . . Rhiannon . . .”

She stopped the hated word with her mouth, almost swooning as emotion flooded through her.

Still he resisted, holding her away with both hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his mouth swollen. Again she bent to kiss him, holding his dear face with both her hands, her bare breasts pressed against the warm skin of his throat and chest.

“Nay, Olwynne,” he murmured against her mouth. “I canna . . . really, I canna . . .”

She hung heavy against him, not allowing him room to breathe or protest. She felt him harden against her, and put down her hand to touch him, very briefly. “Olwynne,” he sighed. “Nay . . .”

But his legs spread involuntarily, and she rubbed her hand against him more boldly so that he moaned. “Olwynne . . .”

Still she would not speak, all her will and desire focused on him. He could not retreat far, the vine-entangled wall of the arbor holding him fast. She kissed his mouth, his jaw, his throat, the soft skin under his ear. Whenever he tried to murmur a protest, she stopped his mouth with her own. Meanwhile her hand was busy at his laces, fumbling and tearing, trying to unknot them.

She could feel his body‟s response to her clumsiness, and pressed her own body more closely