Page 252 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Look at the lance in his breeches!”
“I warrant he’ll stab her and good,” said another.
“There’s no time,” Cael whispered. “Play the part of a besotted bride, and all will go as planned.”
“When?” she asked.
“You’ll know,” he promised, and then, what seemed a full eternity later, he finally released her, and then took her by the hand, a beloved lord performing for his audience.
“Please… forgive my lusty greeting. I am a man too-long deprived,” he said, and then he laughed, and leaned toward Rhiannon once more to say, “Forgive me.” But he pecked her on the cheek.
More cheers resounded, and now, at last, Rhiannon chanced to look at the dais where her mother remained seated, smiling very tersely. After a moment, she, too, rose from her seat. “A toast!” she shouted, her voice silencing the revelers. “To my beauteous daughter and her dutiful champion!” She tilted her head ever so slightly and smiled disingenuously. “At long last, a daughter of Avalon returns to Blackwood!”
“Hear! Hear!” echoed the crowd, and Rhiannon swallowed a knot of fear that rose to choke her.
Morwen was a master at mindspeaking. She could betimes read minds as well—did she know?
The absence of her mother’s voice in her head was heartening. But, if in fact the shackles effectively blocked hermagik, then it was still quite possible she could read the truth in Cael’s mind, no matter if she couldn’t read Rhiannon’s. Forcing her lips into a tremulous smile, her heart remained confused by the man whose hand she held.
Goddess, please!she begged. Wasn’t it impossible to kiss a woman so profoundly and not have some measure of feeling behind it? Could it be that Cael cared for her? After all these years had he discovered in his heart some measure of compassion for Morwen’s second eldest?
It was Cael’s turn to speak. “Friends!” he said, grinning proudly. “My lady and I—” He gave Morwen a discreet nod. “Willgo speak our vows in the privacy of our chapel, and then return… to celebrate alongside you.”
Another hearty round of cheers erupted.
Up on the dais, Morwen took this as her cue. She laid her glass of mead down on the table and made to join them. Still, her golden eyes slitted suspiciously, and Rhiannon’s heart prickled with fear.
“In the meantime,” Cael added, his voice carrying like thunder through the hall. “Please, stay! Enjoy libations.”
Without warning, he jerked Rhiannon’s hand very rudely, turning her so that they preceded Morwen into the courtyard. All the while smiling at folks, he spoke between his teeth. “Guard your words as I will mine. Endure the ceremony with a smile, and you will soon be shed of me.”
He lifted her hand to kiss it gently, and Rhiannon felt another prickle rush down her spine—only this time it wasn’t fear. But, nay, could it be anticipation?
And then a thought occurred to her…
Did he mean to collect her virginity before setting her free?
If he did not, would they still be wed in the eyes of the law?
Did she want a bedding?
Surely not!
Goddess, lend me strength, she thought. No matter what he said or what he did, Cael was still her mother’s ally, and simply by virtue of this fact, he was still her mortal enemy.
How in the name of the Goddess could she crave another shocking taste of his traitorous mouth?
Plagued with thoughts she ought not be thinking, she allowed him to lead her out the door, into the courtyard, and mindlessly toward the chapel, all the while her mother followed behind.
Chapter
Eight
The scent of decayed lilacs filled the courtyard.
Even as they trampled sunbaked blossoms, the perfume brought a sting to Rhiannon’s eyes. It was perhaps meant to be lovely, but the effect was cloying—an opinion clearly shared by the pinch-nosed prelate awaiting them inside the windowless sanctuary: No doubt he was incensed to be called from Abbey Dore to preside over a ceremony for “heathens,” only to suffer a megrim over the decor of this Roman-style chapel, with its arched entries, fat pillars and half-finished wooden apse.
Perhaps the church was meant to be grand in its day, but it was bleak now and hardly equipped to be used in modernity. With cracks in the mortared stone and a pocked and rubbled floor, it was not even so well-kept as the ivy-tangled courtyard that harbored her mother’s cauldron—aneglwysso much as this was, though its ceiling was not vaulted between pillars, but rather an open sky, and its altar was a pagan relic of bygone days. That, too, must have annoyed the Cistercian, judging by his downturned lips. She recognized his order by his robes—crude, undyed wool to proclaim his penury before God. His order also rejected the black robes of their fellows, and his shoeswere made of cowhide, not Cordoba leather. However, like most monks, he was tonsured—the crown of his head shaved, leaving a band of hair below his ears, to symbolize his crown of thorns.
