The Knight Read online

  Rhys smiled at his mother, taking the hand that she wore the large amethyst on in his and caressing the ring on her finger.

  “That day is far away still, Mother. But I am honored that you have shared this with me now, at a time when I am in such awe of my family and filled with true gratitude to be amongst you all.”

  “Indeed, my son. I thought it the very best time to tell you as well.”

  “I have missed you, Lady Mother, you can never know how much,” he whispered. “May I take my tea with you tomorrow afternoon in your presence chamber? Just the two of us?”

  Mid-afternoon tea was a tradition from Boulogne that Irelli had kept up in the household. It was a comforting notion of home for Rhys, one that even Morgana had indulged him with when he was particularly homesick.

  “Oh, my son, I have missed you dearly too and you have changed so much. We shall have tea together but not tomorrow, you will be with your father and grandfather at Red Ditch and I am sure you will not return before the following morning. But the next day surely, I look forward to it,” she replied.

  Rhys rose and kissed her hand again before moving over to where his father sat. He knelt for Gwallawc’s blessing and wished him goodnight adding that he was anticipating the trip to Red Ditch in the morning. His father nodded his head and mumbled a goodnight. Exhausted, Rhys followed as Erasmus led the way upstairs to his bed chamber.

  Rhys collapsed exhausted in a large chair and sat there in silence as Erasmus carefully washed his hands and then his feet. The water was warm and scented with lavender but Rhys noticed little more than that. He must have fallen asleep because Erasmus had to clear his throat quite loudly to bring his attention to the mug of herb tea his grandmother had sent up for him.

  “It is chamomaela, it will relax you and soothe your muscles so you can rest deeper and wake tomorrow without any residual effect from tonight’s ale and wine,” Erasmus explained.

  Rhys drank as much as he could before he began to doze off again. The tea was delicious and smelled of a million apple blossoms which reminded him of Avalon. He put the mug down on the table and realized he had to stand to get undressed and get into his night shirt. He groaned at the thought of it. As soon as his head hit the pillow, Rhys was snoring. Erasmus smiled and quietly pulled the bed curtains closed around him.

  He dreamed of a wide field covered in deep white snow. There was nothing to be seen but snow, not a bush or a tree in sight and the air was still, without a chirp or a howl. He was walking toward something that he could not make out clearly. As he drew closer to it, he could see it was a flower, a bunch of flowers, alone in the fluffy white field. Slowly, Rhys kept walking toward it. When he reached there, the bright purple thistles opened their petals and inside the largest blossom was his mother’s amethyst ring.

  ***

  One day, four strangers came to the gates of Camelot. Standing on the parapets with Merlin, he looked down at them. There were three women and a boy of about fourteen.

  “Who are they?” asked Arthur.

  “The women are your half-sisters by your father, Uther Pendragon,” Merlin told him. “Two of them have come to make their peace with you. But the third, Morgause, is bitter. She seeks your downfall. I hoped never to see her in Camelot.”

  Then Arthur looked at the boy. “Who is he?” he asked.

  “You don't want to know,” Merlin warned.

  But Arthur insisted.

  “He is your son by that same woman. Your half-sister, Morgause. She was the woman who came to you that night. His conception was planned with evil magic. Whoever worked that magic will use him against you. He will betray you.”

  ***

  Mordred paced back and forth in front of the great chair that had been placed on the dais in the hall at Castle Ayr.

  It was his defector’s chair; from it he had made all his treacherous plans and commands so far. He hated that it was nothing more than a traitor’s throne for the moment. But time would change everything. He had always thought of himself as an enterprising man; even from his youth. Back then, he was constantly chided for being a bastard born of his father’s incestuous coupling with a half-sister. The truth of the matter was that as the years went by, the story hurt Mordred less and less; he had chosen long ago to use the hatred of others to fuel his self-determination and his purpose in life. Incidentally, that purpose was to destroy his father, King Arthur.

  Everyone knew the story of his life; what they didn’t know was who had been behind it all along. And even when the suspicious circumstances of his conception had been revealed to Arthur, the king had made no effort to seek out the truth. Instead, he feigned ignorance in order to hide from his own guilt.

  Mordred remembered the day they had ridden to Camelot; when his Aunt Morgana had sought to plead with Arthur and Guinevere. But Mordred knew who had bewitched his mother and sent her to lie with her half-brother Arthur so that he would have an heir. It had been the Lady of the Lake and she had done so at Merlin’s request.

  “I will see them burn!” he suddenly shouted.

  The sounds of his rants echoed throughout the room.

  “Bring the cambion to me. I will speak with Anebos now. I know exactly what I need him to do so his time to get to work has arrived.”

  “Your Grace,” Anebos said, as he swept into the room and stopped before the dais, bowing low to Mordred. “How may I be of service-ssss?”

  Mordred cringed at the elongated sound of the creature’s hiss. It always unnerved him, making him feel as if he were speaking to an animal. It was a strange sentiment to have seeing as a cambion is really a being who is absolutely nothing. He is neither human, nor demon, nor alive, nor dead. Perhaps it was his essence of ambiguity that perplexed Mordred; whatever it was, he was uneasy around Anebos.

  “Go to Leicester and wait for Rhys of Gascogne, Richard of Dumnonia and that interfering Avalonian, Erasmus. It will be up to you to ensure that I am kept informed of their progress so that they can be stopped before they get to Keswick. There’s no way that we can risk another fiasco like the one Erandur and his ‘dark oafs’ orchestrated in Worwick’s Shire a few nights ago. The more people who see my forces walking the Earth, the more chances there are of word getting to Merlin. I wouldn’t be surprised if the boy’s father or grandfather haven’t already sent word to Arthur and Merlin.”

  “If they have, it will never arrive, Mas-sss-ter.”

  “Good, good. Anebos, if the Sons get too close to doing anything even remotely heroic… dispose of them. Immediately!”

  The cambion smiled.

  “Yes-sss, Mas-sss-ter.”

  Chapter Two

  The air was still very crisp when Anlawdd rode out of the stables with his son and grandson at his side.

  They wore heavy wolf fur riding coats over their warm long sleeves and hats pulled down low on their faces. Rhys’ stomach was still heavy with the hot sausages and poached eggs he had devoured at breakfast. He looked over to catch a glimpse of a broad smile across his father’s face. Rhys had become too accustomed to seeing the surly expression that always resided there, smiling was a rare occurrence for Gwallawc. He smiled to himself. It seemed that it was just as well that the family arms of all the Dumnonian nobles had a dragon on it since Rhys doubted that dragons could smile.

  The men of his line were all fabled to be proud and strong but Rhys did not see these qualities in his father. He saw a man whose happiness was culminated in the woman he had married, who allocated sentiment sparingly as if he felt he didn’t have enough love to share with anyone else but her. He saw a man who had a disturbingly one-track mind but was somehow still incredibly successful at everything he did. Most of all, Rhys saw a man who had lived many fruitful years, was a nobleman of the land, had a large healthy family and many tenants and holdings but was somehow still uncomfortable in his own skin. Anlawdd had once told Rhys to be proud of his family despite their claim to their heritage because his great grandfather had not dishonored Meleri ferch Llywelyn, R
hys’ great grandmother, by naming her son a bastard. He had given Anlawdd a prince’s name and a wealth of valuable properties; the only thing he could not give was the throne and his crown. But it was clearly a lesson that Gwallawc had not learned and a truth he had not yet made peace with.

  Being the son of a bastard was a hard life; Rhys knew this from the time he had spent up on the ramparts of Avalon with his chatty friend Ywain. Ywain’s mother had been a chambermaid at Avalon when she met Ywain’s father. The gentleman was young and full of affluence, he was highborn and handsome. The love affair was short but stirring and when the gentleman’s time at Avalon was over, Ywain’s mother and the babe quickening in her womb were unceremoniously left behind. The Three Sisters had kept her at Avalon and when Ywain was born she was allowed to keep and raise him there. The father was never asked to claim the child, so Ywain was named ab Na Ddyn, son of No Man, as tradition dictated. However, the Three Sisters had intervened and had called him Ywain ab y Llew, the Lion’s son, for the charge of Avalon’s coat of arms.

  At least I have my name, Rhys thought, and I can name my ancestors on all four sides back by at least four generations, maybe farther with my grandparents’ help. He immediately decided that when he returned from gathering the sons at Keswick, he would start working on an illustration of their family tree. He remembered Anlawdd telling him that a person’s lineage was like the four corners of the earth deriving the quadrants on a compass. Without all four corners clearly marked, one would easily lose the way. Rhys silently hoped that his father would find his way back.

  “Red Ditch, ho!” Anlawdd shouted as they crested a high hill and looked over into the deep valley.

  It was a beautiful sight. Red Ditch was just west of the edge of the Worwick highlands, seated in a sunny vale. Rhys had always wondered why his family had not built a house here before, a place where they could repose during the warm months and enjoy the sun instead of freezing well into every summer at Kenilwurt. The horses scaled the ridge’s narrow track carefully on the descent and as they got lower into the valley, their warm clothing steadily began to come off.

  Hats, riding cloaks then shirt sleeves were all packed away into their saddlebags one by one as they rode down the hillside. They stopped at the lake to water the horses and stretch their saddle worn legs. Anlawdd stripped off his fur lined gloves and handed them to Rhys, who handed him back a pair of smooth kid skin gloves putting the fur ones inside his grandfather’s bag. Rhys dipped into his own bag and changed his as well. He hurried over to his father to assist by removing the man’s heavy coat which was draped over the back of his saddle and handing him his riding gloves. He grunted as he took them from Rhys and handed him his warm ones. Rhys packed them away for him and returned to his horse, mounting again without a word.

  “We have arrived in very good time, Father,” Rhys finally said, almost choking on his words.

  “Yes, we have,” his grandfather replied quickly. “I do hope to find the hall at a farther state of completion than I did last time.”

  “Indeed, Father,” Gwallawc interjected. “I think that the words I had with Sir Arris last visit should have made certain of that.”

  “Ah, that is true,” Anlawdd replied. “You have always been an excellent intermediary with the holdsmasters. They always seem to get your meaning, Gwallawc.”

  He grunted his reply. Even at such a great compliment Rhys noticed his father’s nonchalant response. He shook his head and reined in his horse to signal that he was ready to go. All three rode out together again.

  When they arrived at the site, Rhys was astonished. He vaulted from his saddle and ran to help his grandfather down. He looked out over the construction site to see the brick makers firing the perfect clay rectangles and the bricklayers carefully constructing an immense oven in the area where the kitchen would soon be standing. He walked among the maidens who were kneeling in the soil deftly planting the seedlings and suckers that would eventually be the kitchen garden on his approach to the house. The structure butted up against a high cliffside which had been chiseled away to create stone blocks for the construction as well as solid stone floors for the rear of both stories of the house.

  Woodworkers were perched high above on scaffoldings constructing a vaulted ceiling over what Rhys guessed would be the great hall of the house. A double staircase was complete at the rear of the hall and Rhys could see bricklayers working on the walls of at least five sets of chambers, two on each side of a central hall and the entry to the fifth at the end of it. Each set of chambers comprised of its own fireplace, water closet, presence chamber and privy chamber.

  The structure was not as grand as Kenilwurt Hall but it was certainly not the cottage he had been led to believe it was. Rhys suddenly grew suspicious. He whirled around to see his grandfather and father standing arms folded over their chests looking at him, they were both smiling broadly. He was frightened to see his father smiling; on his face it was an odd expression, but his grandfather’s smile was wide and easy. Rhys walked towards them tentatively. Sensing that there was some formal news to be delivered by the two of them, he knelt first for their blessing. They each in turn touched the top of his head then he rose to look at them. His grandfather spoke first.

  “Rhys ab Tywysog, only son of Mucuruna de Gascogne and Gwallawc ab Tywysog, sixth grandson of Irelli de Melusin and Anlawdd ab Tywysog, you have attended to the life the Giver has sent to you and you have done so wisely in the eyes of your Elders. As your cousins, your uncles, your father and your grandfather before you, the dawn of your coming of age has arrived on this eve of your eighteenth year so, as the eldest living male of our family line, it is indeed very special to me to be here with you now, the youngest male of our line.” He paused to retrieve an exquisite iron helm from a young blacksmith standing behind him and as he brought it forward Rhys could see it was a dragon’s head like those which hung in the great halls of all Dumnonian houses.

  There was an ancient bronze one mounted over the threshold at Kenilwurt Hall. His stomach flipped over in anticipation. He looked up at his father and saw that Gwallawc had not taken his eyes off his face throughout Anlawdd’s speech.

  Anlawdd cleared his throat and continued, “I stand here to witness the granting of a Dragon’s Cave to my youngest grandson, and I pass the honor of the blessing to his father, Gwallawc ab Tywysog.”

  He handed the helm to Gwallawc and took a step back. Rhys’ father took the huge dragon’s head from him and moved to stand before his only son.

  “I stand before my only son to grant him his Dragon’s Cave on this the eve of his eighteenth year among us. From henceforth, he will always have a cave in our land to rest his head, a cave to take his bride and in which to rear his children. Mae'r ddraig yn gartref i aros!”

  Everyone on the construction site had stopped their work to watch the proceedings and had now taken up his father’s chant.

  “Mae'r ddraig yn gartref i aros! Mae'r ddraig yn gartref i aros! Mae'r ddraig yn gartref i aros!”

  Rhys looked around at them and blushed deeply. He took the helm from his father and fell to his knees again. His father touched his right hand to the top of Rhys’ head and then helped him to his feet.

  He said, “Do not be embarrassed by their cries, Son, they are your tenants now, your liegemen. In times of trouble it is they who will surround you and shield you and it is your duty to ensure they are provided for year after year. That justice is done in their lands and peace reigns here continuously.”

  “Yes, Father,” he replied.

  “You are a man now, my son,” he continued. “You have your own home and must now make your own mark on the land as I do and as my brothers do and as your grandfather does.”

  Rhys faced the crowd of workers again. He was moved by their eager faces.

  “Thank you Father and thank you Grandfather,” he said, raising the helm high above his head. “You have honored me by presenting me with my own place, my cave. When it is complete it will truly be
worthy of a son of the house of Ddraig.”

  Applause erupted from all the workmen and maidens that had gathered closer to hear the ceremonial exchange of words between the men. Rhys turned and suddenly embraced his father, wrapping both arms around him tightly and was surprised to feel his father’s strong arms enclose him in their tight circle.

  That night, all three men camped beneath the open unfinished ceiling of Rhys’ Great Hall with the eyes of the gods twinkling down at them. There was already no moon in the sky and the lake was as black as the night itself. As he carefully climbed the scaffolding around the main hall staircase, Rhys gazed over the black water with awe. When he got to the first floor landing, he looked out over the lake and imagined the breathtaking reflection that would ripple over its surface during the full moon. His heart sank as he thought of how the moon had reflected on the surface of the Everlasting Pool as he had waited for Naida a few mornings before. Slowly he climbed down and as he nestled into his warm sleeping furs, the vision seemed emblazoned on his minds’ eye.

  That night Rhys dreamt of Naida for the first time since he had left Avalon. In his dream, they sat under a flowering apple tree in the gardens of Avalon, sharing their family histories just as they had at the Everlasting Pool a week before. It was night and Naida was talking about her mother and the sad story of how she and her two sisters were the only remaining faery of their line left in Eon. Her face was illuminated by the bright light from a full moon shining in the sky above them. Her violet eyes had welled up but she had allowed only one single tear to spill over before wiping the rest away quickly. Her round face was smooth and white and glowing from the wash of moonlight.