Page 10 of The Bear's Heart
My shiver of disgust was impossible to suppress. The only upside to being handed over to Cadwy was that it would take time– time in which Arthur might come to my rescue.
I had to do something to stave him off. “So you are a believer in that prophecy,” I said, with as much steely scorn as I could muster, my heart hammering in my chest. It was an enormous effort to keep the shaking out of my voice. “A believer in magic and fate– someone who thinks the future can be written, long before it happens.”
His black brows came together in a heavy scowl.
Before he could reply, I went on. “If you believe that, then know that Arthur is the chosen one– the Pendragon who will save the kingdoms of this island from the Saxon menace. Not you. Nowhere in that prophecy is the tin-pot king of the Isle of Frogs ever mentioned. Just by seizing me you cannot change words that have already been spoken.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “If you believe in that prophecy, and that it is I who hold the secret to Arthur’s power, then taking me yourself will not give you that power. It won’t be you that leads the armies of the Dux against the Saxons. It will be you lying dead at my husband’s feet, your kingdom of the Summer Country forever a part of Dumnonia once again.”
I held his gaze, unwavering, my hands clenched at my sides to stop them shaking. Every cell in my body screamed out in fear as I balanced on a knife edge.
Further inspiration came to me, and I drew myself up taller, lowering my voice for impact. “I am the priestess of Ynys Afallon, sent to this world by Gwynn ap Nudd, Lord of the Otherworld.” I groped for words that would sound authentic enough to make him believe me and fear to touch me. “The power of Afallon resides in me and can only be used to help the Pendragon protect the lands of his people.” Confidence crept back into me as I recognized uncertainty in his eyes. He might be a king, but he was evidently as superstitious as the ordinary people of Britain. “You are a nobody. Power cannot pass to you.”
A shiver that he transformed into a shrug ran through his body. “Kelwyn, Gorsedd,” he snapped, and they hurried forward. “Take the Lady Guinevere to the place of safety we have prepared, and lock her in.” He glared, fury bubbling near the surface.
I schooled the triumph out of the gaze I returned, locking it away inside. The power of my words had saved me today from the proverbial fate worse than death, and that filled me with confidence and scorn for this man.
“I need to think,” he said angrily, and turned away.
*
The prison wasa small and windowless thatched house beside the hall, with a door that opened outwards, which they could bar with a solid oak beam set in iron brackets. Kelwyn seemed apologetic as he ushered me inside, but Gorsedd’s rough face was set in stony dislike. The door closed behind me, and the bar thumped into place as they locked me in. I was alone.
The fire burning in the small hearth made the interior smoky and unpleasant, but at least it was warm. A single torch smoldering on a wall post only added to the smokiness of the air, making me wonder about the likelihood of developing breathing problems if I were left in here too long. The atmosphere made that of the hall appear positively beneficial.
The guttering torch light revealed a single bed in one corner and at the opposite end of the room, a table with a rough stool. In a corner sat the latrine bucket. As prisons went, it appeared to be quite well equipped. I sat down on the bed, which felt lumpy, and put my head in my hands.
I’d managed to put off the awful prospect of being raped by Melwas, which I was sure had been his intention, but what would he decide to do now? It was too late to release me. By now, Arthur would have been made aware of my kidnapping and would be scouring the countryside for me. Hopefully Drustans didn’t have a fractured skull from that blow, and Arthur could be relied upon to find where I’d been taken. But would he arrive in time to save me from whatever fate Melwas had planned?
I finally gave in to the fear that had been threatening to overwhelm me for most of the day. As I allowed my tears to fall, I kept my sobs as quiet as possible in case anyone was listening outside the door.
Chapter Five
After the firstmorning, I was allowed out of the prison during the day. They provided me with a gown to wear instead of my tunic and braccae, and I was put into the care of an elderly woman. She came to my prison on the day following my capture, with a servant bearing the gown, some porridge and a flagon of weak ale. I sat at the table eyeing her with suspicion as she watched me eat. Something about her thin face felt familiar, but what it was escaped me.
White hair stained dirty yellow by smoke hung in a wispy plait to her waist. A face scored by deep wrinkles held faded blue eyes filled with a palpable sadness. Her own dress hung loosely, as though once she’d been a bigger woman, and her back was rounded in a knobbly hump. That, along with the wrinkles and the hair, betrayed what must be her great age, but when I asked her later she told me she was not yet sixty.
After twenty-four hours without food, I ate the porridge in a hurry, scraping the bowl clean. They’d not bothered to feed me the night before, whether out of spite or just out of simple forgetfulness, I had no idea.
“Thank you,” I said, getting to my feet and then pausing. The old woman was half a head shorter than me, and the servant had left. Overpowering her would be easy, but then what? I’d still be inside Dinas Brent, and the servant and a guard were probably right outside the door. So instead, I held out my hand to her. “My name’s Gwen.”
She looked at me, a furtive expression on her face, before timidly setting her scrawny hand in mine. “Olwyn.”
I smiled, determined to make her my friend. I was going to have need of any I could recruit.
“Do you know what Melwas intends for me?”
Her eyes widened in fear. She shook her head hurriedly and snatched her hand back as though I’d bitten her.
Compassion rose in my heart, and I used the tone I’d have tried on a child. “It’s all right. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone what you say. I don’t mean you any harm.” She must be some old retainer of Melwas’s, maybe a slave, although surely her grubby dress was made of too fine a wool for that.
She took a step closer, glancing toward the firmly closed door. “You need to do as he says,” she whispered, each word crystal clear in the quiet of my prison. “Don’t cross him or make him angry. He…he has a temper.” She was very well spoken. Not a slave then, nor even an old retainer. Possibly the wife or widow of one of his older warriors?
“I’m your queen,” I whispered back, assuming she was right in thinking someone might be eavesdropping. “It is he who must obey me, and he who should be fearful of my anger.” I drew a deep breath and stood up taller. “And right now I’m very angry.”
Olwyn laid her hand on my arm. “I know what you are,” she whispered. “But here that doesn’t count. This is Melwas’s kingdom…and Melwas’s stronghold. You’re a long way from your husband now, and far from safety. Be warned by one who knows– do not test his temper. He may not kill you, but there are ways to punish a woman who crosses him.” She drew up the loose sleeve of her gown revealing her forearm, its skin puckered like crinkled paper. It was the scar from a terrible burn.
“He did that to you?” The question came on a hiss of breath.
She nodded mutely, and pulled the sleeve down to cover the scar.
