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brought her to Wydehaw.
He was not gentle."
"Then he's the dead man in this. Owain!" Morgan turned and called out to his
captain. A large, rough-looking man answered, rising immediately from his
place by the fire. "Mount up the men. We go to
Wydehaw."
"Wait." Dain put a restraining hand on his friend's arm. "Come alone. We'll
talk after you've seen her."
Wariness in his blue eyes, Morgan hesitated before he spoke. "You ask a lot,
dear friend, for a Welsh prince, even a poor one, to enter a Marcher castle
without his men at his back."
"If 'tis necessary, I'll be at your back," Dain promised. "But I rather doubt
anyone will know you're there, unless you make your way into the great hall
and announce yourself at supper."
"What's this then, conjurer?" An imp's grin returned to Morgan's face. "Do you
spirit us inside your tower with the wave of a rowan wand?"
"If I could but find the right switch, I would," Dain said, one eyebrow arched
in emphasis to the sincerity of his wish.
Morgan lifted his hand to make a warding sign, then he caught himself and gave
Dain a shamefaced smile.
"Sometimes you frighten me, Lavrans. I wonder that you do not frighten
yourself with all your dabbling and inquiry into things better left alone,"
Morgan said, though he could no sooner judge what his friend had become than
what his friend had once been. If not for Dain's protection, he would have
been as lost to God as his friend, his faith stripped from him by the mortal
transgressions and dark arts of the Saracen.
"Tell your men to keep camp," was all Dain said. "You'll be here at least
until the morrow. And don't worry, Morgan. The way into the tower isn't by the
casting of spells, though you may wish it were before we're there."
"What's this, then?"
"I've found another entrance through the lower chamber."
Morgan grimaced. "That's a rank place."
" 'Tis the sulfurs I use for the alchemy."
"Very rank sulfurs," Morgan grumbled, though he smiled in forgiveness. 'Twas
what he always gave
Dain, forgiveness, for deep in his heart he feared God never would and deeper
still, in a place he hardly dared to look himself, he feared he was to blame
for the darkest of all the acts Dain had committed in
.the name of survival, those that had allowed the Saracen to reach deep into
Dain's core and change him from the stoic warrior he had been into the
dangerously sly and clever mage he had become.
No, he could not judge. He could only forgive and be grateful he hadn't seen
the half of what had transpired 'tween Dain and Jalal al-Kamam, for the half
he had seen haunted his nights.
"Christ's blood."
"Don't touch her," Dain warned, and Morgan curled his fingers away from
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Ceridwen's face into a fist.
She lay on Dain's bed, nestled into the pillows and quilts, the sunlight
streaming down upon her slight form through the glazed window. Edmee's gentle
touch was apparent in the tidy braid she'd fashioned out of the maid's thick
mass of curls. Even so, separate strands floated cloud-like around the small
face.
"Where is the butcher who dies for this?"
" 'Tis not as bad as it looks, Morgan. She will be scarred, but most of what
you see is physick, not blood. The bruises will fade." Dain moved aside the
neck of the clean chemise Edmee had put her in and checked the stitching on
her shoulder. He sensed Morgan's stance grow even more rigid as the ragged
bite came into view. "This, too, will look better with time," he said. His
finger lightly traced the double crescent incised on the pale curve of skin.
She was well and truly marked. The bite wound would heal, but would never be
discreet. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water.
"And the rest?" Morgan asked.
"You can assure hen lord that with luck she will not be lame."
A low, guttural curse came from the man. "The Prince of Gwynedd may be
appeased with so little, but I
must take more than luck and assurances to Caradoc."
"More?"
"Ragnor." The name was spoken without mercy.
Would ease the maid's life too, if the beast was taken away, but Dain doubted
D'Arbois would relinquish the knight. Other methods would have to be employed.
"You are not called the Thief of Cardiff for naught, Morgan. Steal him if you
want him." Taking care not to awaken the maid, he drew the damp cloth across
her shoulder, cleaning away the previous night's dressing. A mouth, especially
one as rotten as Ragnor's, was more likely to leave a festering wound than
a dagger. When the bite proved free from infection, he turned to the finer cut
framing the side of her face.
A shout arose from outside, the noise accompanied by the sound of many horses.
"Better Ragnor's head than mine," Morgan said, stepping back to the window's
embrasure to stare down into the bailey.
"Are you sure it needs be someone's head?"
"With Caradoc, nothing less than blood will suffice, the more the better."
Angry curses and the crack of a whip mixed with the sound of a horse's scream.
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