Page 38 of The Road to Avalon
The door to Archfedd’s room swung open. Wearing just her long undershirt, she stood rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What’s all that banging about?”
Maia appeared behind her, similarly clad. “Milady?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
Merlin went to them. “Your mother needs you, Archfedd. Get dressed. Maia, fetch hot spiced wine. For shock.”
Archfedd grabbed Merlin’s sleeve. “What is it? What’s happened?” Her voice rose in panic. “Is it Father? Tell me.”
“Not your father,” Merlin said. “Llacheu. Maia, take her and get her dressed, then fetch that wine.”
Archfedd’s eyes went to my face. She must have read the truth in it. “What happened? How? An accident? What?” Her voice rose in fear.
“Murder,” I said, surprised I could form the word. “Someone has murdered your brother.”
From inside the Hall came the sound of men arriving. Carrying something. My hands went to my ears. I didn’t want to listen. That wasn’t my boy’s body thumping onto the trestle table.
Archfedd’s wide-eyed gaze went to the door. “What? Is he inthere? Have they brought himhere?” She made a start toward the door, but Merlin let go of me and grabbed her arm.
“No. Not yet. You can’t see him like that.”
“He’s my brother!” Her voice rose in a wail. “He’s my brother!” She crumpled against him, and he wrapped her in his arms as she burst into tears.
Over her head he looked at Maia, who’d just returned with the wine and set it on the table. “Take her. Leave the wine. Get the Princess back into her room and keep her there. I’ll see to the Queen.” He almost shoved Archfedd into Maia’s capable hands, and Maia, holding her close, ushered her back to her room. The sound of her sobs rose to the sooty rafters.
As the door shut behind them, Merlin heaved an unsteady sigh.
We had only a moment’s respite. The door into the Hall banged open and Arthur came in, his face waxy pale. He strode to the table where Excalibur lay in her tooled leather scabbard, picked it up and drew the sword.
The lamplight flickered over the sword’s damascene blade, making it ripple like water, as he stood staring down at it for an eternity.
At last, he raised anguished eyes to mine. “I’ll kill whoever did this with my own hands.”
I nodded, my own heart breaking– for him, for me, for Llacheu, that glorious, handsome, brave young man, gone, extinguished, no more. “Someone needs to tell Ariana.”
“Oh God,” his voice cracked. “I’d forgotten her.” His left hand went to his forehead, pressing against the skin. “My head aches. I-I can’t…”
I went to him, but he waved me back with a frantic hand. “No. If you do that, I shall break.” He shook his head. “And I must not. My son was murdered, and I must find the killer.” He drew a deep breath, perhaps to steady himself. “When that killer lies dead, I will mourn. But not until then.”
“And Ariana?”
“Let her sleep in peace a little longer. She mustn’t see him like this. Let Bedwyr hide his… wound.” His voice cracked with emotion and tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. He dashed them away on his sleeve.
I ached to take him in my arms. “Who-who could have done this?”
He shook his head, looking down as his fingers ran along the blade in his hand. “I don’t know.” He raised his eyes from the sword again. “But whoever it was won’t get away. I’ve sent orders that no one is to be allowed out of the gates. We’ll pen this bastard up inside our walls and I’ll have my revenge on him if I die in the process.”
I shivered. Was I the only one thinking back to the scene two days ago when Amhar had professed his hatred for his brother?
Chapter Seventeen
They laid Llacheu’sbody out on one of the trestle tables in the Hall. Bedwyr and his apprentice healers stripped and cleaned the body– no such thing as preserving forensic evidence for us. Bedwyr stitched up the gash in Llacheu’s throat and the apprentices dressed him again in clean clothes, ready for burial and for the fortress to pay their last respects. Dead bodies couldn’t be kept hanging around long in summer.
Archfedd, Arthur and I went in first to see Bedwyr’s work. That wasn’t Llacheu lying there. What had made him who he was had gone, flown far away, his handsome face waxen from lack of blood, as were the still hands crossed on his chest.
Arthur stood in silence for a moment before bending to kiss his son’s cold cheek, his face drained of expression. Like an automaton, I did the same, then Archfedd bent, her eyes red and puffy from crying, and pressed her lips to his skin.
I couldn’t take my eyes from my stepson’s face. Dark lashes brushed those pale cheeks, hiding eyes from which the light had fled. A scarf about his neck concealed his wound, and his hair had been washed clean and combed back from his smooth forehead with loving care. Was this how Arthur would look when he was dead? I swallowed the lump in my throat and bit my lip. I wouldn’t think about that. I wouldn’t.
