Page 60 of The Bear's Heart
Morgawse and I leapt to our feet. Simultaneously, we turned to one another and embraced. I planted a kiss on her soft cheek. Arthur was coming back. He’d won, and Cadwy was in retreat. I should have had more faith in the history of the Dark Ages, the myths and the legends.
We ran past Caswallan down the path to the gates. Six warriors stood in the farmyard, their horses’ heads hanging in exhaustion, a crust of white sweat matting their dark coats. The men had removed their helmets and were gathered around the water trough, taking turns to dunk their sweating heads under the water while their mounts drank, and standing up to let it run down their necks and over their roasting bodies.
“My husband?” I cried. “Is he well? Was he hurt?”
Their heads turned and I recognized Bedwyr, his short brown curls plastered to his head with water, his face covered in dirt and dried blood that might or might not have been his own. His eyes and teeth showed very white amidst the grime.
“Milady Guinevere,” he started, with a weary bow. “King Arthur will be here shortly. He’s not hurt, save for the battle bruises we all have. The day went well. Our losses were not great.”
I ran past him to where the farm gates stood open. In the distance, a plume of dust hung in the air between the orchard trees, sparkling with the shimmering of sunlight on metal. Ignoring the stares of the farm workers, I ran down the track toward it.
Arthur rode at the head of the column of riders, his helmet and shield hanging from his saddle horn. Beside him rode Cei and Merlin. All three of them, their horses, and all the mounted warriors behind them, were covered in a fine layer of cloying dust that had stuck to their sweaty bodies.
Arthur saw me coming. A look of joy suffused his face as he swung himself down from his horse. As I ran into his arms, he swept me off my feet and into the air, planting a kiss on my lips before setting me back on the ground. A ragged cheer went up from the men behind him. I’d almost forgotten I was their lucky charm.
Taking a step back, I looked him up and down to reassure myself that Bedwyr had been telling the truth. He was filthy, covered in dust and blood from head to foot, but from the reception he’d given me, it couldn’t be his own blood.
“Come on,” he chided me with a wide grin, “we’re all in dire need of food and drink and hopefully a bath.”
I looked beyond him. Cei and Merlin both appeared intact, so my world was whole again. Cei gave me a nod and Merlin made a mock salute, smiles of success on their tired and dirty faces.
Arthur and I walked back to the villa hand-in-hand, leading his horse, me very content that he appeared to have forgiven me for stowing away amongst his soldiers, him just happy to be back. His hand, warm in mine, served as a remedy for all the sorrows I’d been feeling. Now that he was back, everything would surely be all right.
Inside the farmyard, the soldiers dismounted and began the routine of tending to their horses. A farm hand took Arthur’s and Cei’s, and another took Merlin’s, and all four of us walked up to where Caswallan and Morgawse were waiting by the gate into the inner garden courtyard. Arthur clasped hands with his host before turning to his sister.
“Morgawse.” With a smile of relief, Arthur took her in his arms and held her close, his face against her hair. “I thought we’d never see each other again.”
Behind them, standing just inside the garden, Morgana fixed her dark gaze upon me, ignoring the look of longing Merlin was giving her.
The black cloud of jealousy and suspicion rose up in me again, unbidden. Was that hug from Arthur a fraction too long? Was she more pleased to see her brother than she should have been? If I was going to pay attention to some of the legends, it was impossible to disregard the ones I didn’t like.
Morgawse kissed his dirty, stubbly cheek, and he released her.
I moved closer to him and slipped my fingers through his, with just a hint of proprietorial ownership.
Caswallan pushed the garden gate open wider, and I saw Morgana had gone. “You look like you need to visit our bath house, my Lord Arthur,” he said.
We followed him through the garden, me hanging on tight to Arthur’s hand, feeling the calluses against my own much softer skin. All around us, the scent of roses filled the air, butterflies fluttered in the bushes and heat shimmered over the clay roofs of the villa. I never wanted to let go of him again.
A single scream split the hot summer air.
All our heads turned. Melvina came running out of the bath house. Her dress was dripping with water and covered in blood. One hand covered her mouth as though she were afraid she would vomit.
The day stood still under the burning sun, as we halted, immobilized by shock. Cold fear clamped around my entrails and all the joy of Arthur’s safe return was sucked away. Even the blackbird who’d been singing in the bushes fell silent.
Then the spell was broken.
We all ran toward her. She staggered to a halt under the shade of the colonnaded walkway, leaning her weight on one of the cool pillars, her breath coming in heaving gasps. Caswallan went to her, but she waved him away almost angrily when he tried to take her in his arms. With a wavering finger, she pointed at the gaping bath house door.
The men ran inside. I followed. Someone was lying on the tiles beside the plunge pool in an oddly unnatural position, legs akimbo, wet gown and hair spread red about her. I stepped closer, drawn inexorably to see who this was. Ummidia’s eyes gazed sightlessly up at me, strands of wet hair plastered across her waxen cheeks. At first I didn’t realize what I was looking at, and then it suddenly became clear. My stomach heaved. Unwillingly, my eyes slid toward the water.
In the plunge pool two bodies floated in a red sea, their hair spread about them like seaweed. Albina and Cloelia. On the side of the pool, a puddle of watery blood covered the tiles where Melvina had pulled Ummidia out. But it was too late, all three were dead.
I remembered what Ummidia had said to me about her defiled daughters.They’d be better off dead. And I knew without question that she’d brought her almost catatonic daughters here and slit their wrists for them. They’d probably gone without resistance. And now it was too late. Too late.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They were allquite dead. Arthur and Merlin waded into the water and pulled the girls out, but every shred of life had left them. Their limbs hung loose, like broken marionettes, and their wet hair, that had haloed them in their watery grave, clung like clammy weed to their bloodless faces.
