Memories of the Heart (23 page)

“Hah, my lord,” Ulrich triumphantly called out. “Did I not warn you to beware of the young witch's dark treachery?”

Tal's eyes went to black ice but he didn't respond. The evidence against Ceri and against her guardian was damning. However, there were curious, awkward facts which raised more serious questions about his rescuer's true motives.

Why, when initially describing Tal's captors to him, had Morton spoken only of Lloyd and not of Ceri? Why had the lord of Bendale first claimed that beyond Lloyd there were none among his captors of “particular distinction” only to later report of another's “most distinctive feature”?

Then, too, the fact that it was Ulrich, a traitor revealed, who was Ceri's vehement accuser gave Tal more reason to doubt the accusation's veracity.

*   *   *

When the massive fortress of Westbourne at last settled for a night's rest, the soft padding of bare feet climbing stone steps went unheard.

“Vevina, Vevina—” Tom softly called from beyond her alcove's curtain wall.

Folds of heavy cloth abruptly moved and Vevina peered out at her young visitor.

“What is it?” Vevina inquired first and then added another question which at this late hour was most unlikely to be true. “Has Lady Angwen sent for me?”

“Nay,” Tom hastily whispered. “I've come by my own desire to learn if there's anything I might do to aid Ceridwen's safe return?”

Vevina was surprised by this unexpected offer from the lord's squire. “I fear no one within these castle walls can help Ceridwen now.”

“But—” Tom instinctively moved a step nearer to the woman whose face alone was exposed by the slight gap between drapes. “I would gladly go beyond even the bailey's barrier if the deed would aid Ceri.”

Tom realized that Vevina was shocked by his desire to help to her niece. He was a little surprised by its depth himself. Although wishing it were possible to explain, Tom doubted Vevina could understand the weight of guilt he bore for having unjustly suspected Ceri of wrongs since his first sight of her in a Welsh cottage. That guilt was a burden grown heavier on coming to know Ceri was too compassionate to be responsible for the crimes she been accused of committing.

Sandy brows joining in a faint scowl, Tom inwardly admitted he'd even joined others in spreading rumors about dark powers supposedly wielded by Ceri. That action had stoked the heat of people's distrust into a bonfire which threatened to consume its innocent focus. To atone for his wretched folly, Tom was anxious to protect Ceri from the perilous flames of prejudice.

The boy's obvious sincerity soon inspired in Vevina a desperate plan for action. “Do you know where lies Grendel's Tor?”

“Aye,” Tom nodded. “I have visited the site more than once.”

“Then go again to that sturdy monolith and wait patiently beside it.” Vevina's appreciation for Lloyd's precautions increased.

Lloyd had promised to check the tor in the gloom before each morn's dawn for the sake of either being forewarned of possible troubles arising in Westbourne or issuing cautions against dangers being launched from Farleith. Now by Lloyd's own carefully laid plans Vevina could see him told of Ceri's plight.

“In the pale light of predawn Lloyd—” Vevina said. “The man wrongly described as Ceri's companion in the taking of Lord Tal, will show himself.”

“I will gladly go.” Although fully aware that the task must be undertaken in deadly earnest, Tom couldn't stifle the thrill of youthful excitement roused at the prospect of another secretive adventure. “But why? What am I to do?”

“Tell Lloyd about the taking of your lord and of Ceri's disappearance.” Vevina felt sure Lloyd would recognize the desperate need for him to take action as Ceridwen's guardian—and father.

“Make certain Lloyd understands the many dangerous accusations being lodged against the absent maiden. Tell him of everything from rumors of a spell cast to taking part
with him
in Lord Tal's abduction.”

As Tom nodded dim light from a distant wall sconce lent a glowing outline to his blond head. Then, without further word, he turned and soundlessly sped off on his mission.

Chapter 18

In a small glade deep within the shadowy greenwood stood an abandoned cottage now host to an odd array of uninvited guests—two men and their firmly bound female captive.

“You've erred in stealing me away from Westbourne. And for what reason?” Ceri doggedly posed the same question she'd asked repeatedly in the hours … or was it days … since being thrust into a bag and hauled away from Westbourne like garbage. So far her ploy of persistent questions had yet to succeed in even so little as denting her gaolers' stern masks.

“What could you possibly hope to gain by capturing me?” Ceri had maneuvered herself into an awkward sitting position atop the straw-filled pallet where she'd earlier been callously dumped. “I am neither a noblewoman worthy of ransom nor a serf bound to the land, one whose absence might cause leastways a minor measure of loss to Lord Taliesan.”

The two men assigned to guard Ceridwen were so alike they could be twins or leastways brothers. Each had lank, mud-brown hair crudely cropped at the shoulder, dull grey eyes, and badly pockmarked faces utterly bereft of expression.

Weary of vainly striving to win some slight response, Ceri sank back against the lumpy, straw-filled pallet despite the discomfort of wrists bound behind.

The two men exchanged a long-suffering glance. Their captive's comfort meant nothing to them. Not destined to survive her captivity, she was alive now only by deference to their master's order to wait for his direct command before doing the deed.

Ceri pretended to sleep and could hardly believe either her good fortune or the foolishness of the two unwelcome men when at length they both stepped beyond the cottage door, leaving her alone. Though her hands were confined, her feet were not—a fact which permitted the faint hope of escape.

Struggling to again sit upright, this time with as little noise as possible, Ceri's heart pounded with the desperate wish for success. Once sitting, she scooted toward the pallet's edge, placed her feet firmly on the hard-packed dirt floor, and fought to stand without free arms to aid her balance. It was a lengthy exercise and every instant was fraught with dread of her captors' too soon return.

Standing at last, Ceri looked toward the door through which her foes had gone but rejected it as a possible escape route. The two men were almost certainly no more than a few steps beyond, seeking fresh evening air to clear away the cottage's stale odor.

Taking careful stock of her surroundings, searching for an alternate way to freedom, Ceri found only one—a tiny, shuttered window low on the wall opposite the door. The portal's covering was in a badly deteriorated condition and plainly remained to place only by a luck which any stout wind would destroy.

With a series of brisk kicks Ceri slowly shoved her pallet across the floor to lay just beneath the window. Then by persistently bumping the shutter's outer edge with her shoulder, she succeeded in dislodging its rotting pieces to fall silently atop the pallet.

Heart madly thumping, Ceri bent down to thrust her head through the opening, wiggled her shoulders out after, and then relentlessly squirmed until her hips and legs followed. She landed head first in the tall swathe of weeds growing around the cottage's perimeter—a thankfully soft resting place.

Ceri's exit had been accomplished with precious little noise, but she lay motionless for long moments, straining to hear any sounds that might signal pursuit. There were none. Her heart had nearly returned to a normal beat when she rose to her feet. It was a task more easily accomplished here with the convenient support of the cottage wall.

From this site Ceri had few options save hastening into the nearest forest shadows. Once deep within the increasing night gloom of thickly wooded ground, she continued her flight despite having no notion of which direction that was. She was tripped repeatedly by exposed roots, twisted her ankle in a stumble-hole hidden by lush vegetation even in daylight, and her clothing was constantly caught on the unseen thorns amidst dense foliage. Still she moved ever onward without hesitation until …

Suddenly Ceri tumbled into a deep ravine impossible to see in the dark. Though shocked to find herself rolling in a bundle of skirts over the uneven, rocky surface certain to leave bruises, she firmly refused to make a sound. At the bottom of her fall lay not loose pebbles and stones but a boulder. Her head abruptly struck its unyielding strength after which no sound was possible. Ceri lay unconscious, half-buried in the cool embrace of deep grasses.

*   *   *

Having confidently led the way over the secret trails of a far distant forest, Lloyd stepped from its border to stand at the edge of a tilled field. Mabyn silently followed. Never before had she visited Castle Westbourne and wouldn't now but for the sake of her foolish, headstrong granddaughter.

To Lloyd's surprise, relief, and uneasiness they found the castle drawbridge still lowered and guards absent although night had fully descended. Why? Was it to allow the entire garrison to search for its captured earl that the fortress had been left dangerously unprotected?

Lloyd regretted the time limits preventing further investigation but knew they must continue with their own plan. Still, he would remain wary to stand prepared for any eventuality.

After climbing wooden exterior steps, Lloyd took the reluctant Mabyn's hand and laid it atop his upraised forearm to formally escort her through the tunnel and into the great hall.

From the center of the high table, Taliesan was the first to notice the new arrivals. Vevina had been right when assuring him that Lloyd would come back for Ceri's sake but neither of them had expected Llechu's wise woman to return with the Welshman who'd escaped from Westbourne's dungeons.

“Welcome to my castle,” Tal's voice carried easily above the dull roar common at most evening meals and instantly directed the attention of everyone in the vast chamber to the pair standing in the tunnel's arched opening.

Heart pounding in her throat, Vevina watched from near the end of one long line of lower tables as a dangerous scene began to unfold.

Lloyd was initially surprised to find Lord Taliesan seated in his place of honor at the center of the high table. But surprise quickly shifted to a dawning recognition of the answer to why the castle seemed to have been left unprotected.

Plainly he had been expected and the way cleared for his return. However, by the reaction of guardsmen seated at lower tables, it was clear that they hadn't been advised to expect his arrival.

Benches scraped over plank floors as warriors abruptly shoved them back to rise with drawn daggers held firm in their hands.

“Hold,” Tal thundered. “They're my
guests
and by my command will come to no harm in this hall.”

Piercing gaze slowly moving from one man to the next, Lord Taliesan didn't speak again until all had settled in their seats once more. He waited for indistinct grumbles to fade into silence before returning his attention to the newcomers with an order.

“Advance and share the purpose for your journey to Castle Westbourne—despite the dangers you surely know await.”

As the two natives of Llechu began to move forward Angwen couldn't restrain her indignation. Her seething resentment erupted before the pair of uninvited guests could reach a point below the dais.

“Tal, you
can't,
you must
not
welcome this creature, this witch responsible for the unnatural deaths of both your brother and father!”

“'Tis
not
so!” Strange eyes flashing with dangerous bolts of silver, Mabyn immediately and heatedly rebutted the lady of Westbourne's accusation. “You begged a spell to bind your unmet groom to you. Merely did I grant my princess her fervent desire.”

Not only was Angwen frustrated by this unexpected confrontation but hideously aware of being woefully ill-prepared to argue its details now while suddenly the focus of every eye.

“And warn you I did of a price to be paid…” Mabyn boldly moved closer to the dais. Peering directly across a table draped in white linen, she solemnly delved into Angwen's gaze and found the poorly hidden alarm within its depths. “It was you who chose to ignore the caution I advised.”

“But death?” Angwen cried out, her anguish exposed. “You said nothing about that price meaning death to those I loved.”

“I couldn't warn of something unknown.” Mabyn's tone startled Lloyd. Never had he earlier heard from her any hint of this gentle regret.

“That there's a price for every gift given is a certainty,” Mabyn slowly added. “But for a spell as powerful as the one cast for you even I have no sure way of predicting the nature of what cost will be called forfeit.”

“You didn't know my firstborn son and my husband would die?” Angwen bitterly scoffed.

Mabyn slowly shook her head. “What I know of your elder son's death is that it was an unfortunate but foolish accident—one in no way influenced by my spell. How could it be?” Mabyn demanded. “The boy consumed none of its potent seeds.”

Angwen felt as if she'd been landed a stunning blow. 'Struth, how could Mabyn's spell have struck down her son without his having partaken of its be-charmed seeds? Worse, how could she have allowed bitterness to blind her to this glaring fact? This revelation which should've calmed her antagonism for the one who had provided the seeds aggravated it instead. Indeed, it increased fourfold for having been publicly made a fool.

“But my husband did,” Angwen flashed back in self-defense. “By your direction I saw one of them deposited in either a favorite dish or drink every day for a decade and more.”

“Aye,” Mabyn instantly agreed. “And yet the seeds didn't kill Lord William.” Before the other woman could argue, she made a dispassionate statement that shocked her listeners with its unspoken meaning. “Nor did he die by the hand of either friend or foe.”