Castle of Dreams (44 page)

“You must be careful with these and not break
them,” she cautioned her guards.

“We will,” promised one man, who promptly
broke his promise by dropping the basket he held when a tiny white
form dashed across the cave floor.

“Merciful God,” the man swore, crossing
himself, “what kind of beast is that?”

“It’s only a cat,” laughed another soldier,
the leader of the men-at-arms. “Don’t you know white cats bring
good luck with them?”

“I don’t like cats,” the first man
replied.

“Her name is Gwyn,” Meredith said. She was on
her knees, picking up the jars the man had spilled in his fright
and piling them back into the basket. “Here you are, nothing is
broken, but do be more careful. I think that’s all I will need from
this chamber.”

She picked up Gwyn, placed the loudly
protesting cat into a basket with a lid, and fastened the lid
securely with a leather thong. This basket she would carry herself.
She took from the meager personal effects in the outer room only a
shawl that had been Branwen’s, soft and fluffy and pale mauve as
the misty summer hillsides. It had been made by a woman whose sick
child Branwen had cured. Meredith also took a book that had
belonged to Rhys. She could not read it, it was in a language she
did not know, but Rhys had treasured it, and so, for his sake,
would she.

She looked around the cave one last time,
resolutely pushing into the back of her mind peaceful memories that
threatened to reduce her to tears. There was no time for crying,
for she had to get back to Thomas. But first she had one last duty
here. She spoke to the leader of the guards.

“Seal up the cave,” she said, and stood very
straight and still, watching dry-eyed as they did her bidding, and
that part of her life ended.

It did not take long. Rocks were plentiful,
and the men piled them up in the narrow fold of rock just outside
the main chamber until the opening was full. Meredith knew the
birch and ash saplings that grew close by the entrance would soon
become thick and cover the mouth of the cave so no one would find
it.

It began to rain as they trudged back to
Afoncaer. They were a strange procession: four heavily armed men,
each bearing two or three large baskets, most of those baskets
topped by bunches of half-dried herbs, and a young woman in a loose
grey robe, her scarf slipping off her bright red hair as she
struggled to balance her own load of herb and medicine-filled
baskets plus a bulkier basket from which came long, anguished
meows.

“Why don’t you just leave that thing behind?”
asked the man who did not like cats.

“I can’t. Gwyn is the best medicine of all.”
Meredith replied, thereby convincing the man that she was quite
mad, and causing him to mentally thank Heaven this woman was the
problem of the Lord of Afoncaer and not his own.

They straggled back into Afoncaer, the
men-at-arms enduring bravely the joking comments of their comrades
at both outer and inner gates. They deposited their treasures on
the tables and shelves of the newly completed and well-scrubbed
stillroom, and then Meredith, after sending one of the men to the
kitchen to ask for a bowl of cream, took a vial of medicine and her
last basket to the lord’s private chamber, where Thomas still lay
in heavy, feverish sleep.

“He is weaker,” said the serving woman who
had been sitting with Thomas while Meredith was gone. She eyed the
basket Meredith held, which shook as its occupant scratched at the
lid. An angry howl came from the basket and the woman jumped back.
“What’s in there, Meredith?”

“Something I think will help Thomas. Pour out
a half-cup of wine. I’ll put this vial of medicine in it and we’ll
spoon it into him. Meanwhile, I’d better set Gwyn free.” She knelt
by the fire and opened the basket. Gwyn, suddenly quiet, sat
looking about in a dazed way, then jumped out and began prowling
about the room. Meredith laughed at the serving woman’s
expression.

“Thomas is fond of the cat,” she explained.
“I thought it might help his recovery to have it nearby.”

“Aye,” the woman agreed, understanding. “When
I was young, my brother had a puppy. It slept beside him every
night.”

Meredith now turned her entire attention to
Thomas. He did seem weaker. His breathing was more difficult and
his skin was hot and dry. She sat down on the edge of the bed and
began to feed him the potion of wine and medicine she had mixed. He
choked on the first spoonful, but then began to swallow, though his
eyes remained closed. She kept at it, spoonful after spoonful.
There was fennel in it, and mint, and other herbs to soothe him and
to lower his fever. She asked the serving woman to lay hot stones
at Thomas’s feet and bring more blankets to pile atop his small
body.

“He’ll be too warm. He looks half smothered
already,” her assistant objected.

“We must keep him warm. If he suffers a chill
now he will surely die,” Meredith replied. On either side of the
bed stood a brazier on a tall tripod. Meredith added extra charcoal
to each, hoping to warm the room even more.

As she worked, she was dimly aware of Gwyn
investigating every corner of the room, until the bowl of cream she
had ordered arrived, whereupon the cat lapped at the bowl’s
contents as though starving, and then, having finished the cream,
established herself squarely in front of the fire and began to wash
her ears.

Meredith wiped charcoal dust off her hands
and sat on the edge of the bed again. She brushed the golden hair
back off Thomas’s flushed forehead, and he moaned.

“Meredith?” She had to bend close to hear the
fragile thread of sound. “Uncle Guy?”

“You are safe at Afoncaer,” she assured
him.

“Brian?” The voice was weaker now.

“All is well, my dear, except you are ill.
Put all your thoughts toward getting better.”

He lapsed back into a half-conscious state,
and Meredith stayed with him until Reynaud appeared.

“Is there any news of Sir Guy?” she asked.
The cleric shook his head.

“Not yet. Will you go to the hall to eat? I
will gladly stay here while you do.”

“No, thank you, Reynaud. I don’t want to
leave Thomas. You could bring me a few things from the stillroom,
if you will.” She told him what she wanted and thanked him for
preparing the stillroom for her use. When he had brought her
supplies, and she had mixed another dose of medicine in wine and
fed it to Thomas, she sat on a stool, leaning against the bed,
holding his small, hot hand in hers. Her head drooped against the
covers. Her thoughts began to drift, and after a while she
slept.

She was awakened by a soft and insistent
sound in her ear, and by a movement. Thomas’s hand was sliding out
of hers. She opened sleepy eyes to see white fur insinuating itself
between her and the boy, stretching out gracefully along his side.
Thomas’s hand dropped onto Gwyn’s sleek back. The cat continued
purring, the monotonous vibrations lulling Meredith back into the
warm, sweet oblivion of sleep.

Sunlight was streaming in around the edges of
the shutters when Meredith came fully awake. The first thing she
saw was Reynaud, kneeling by the side of the bed with his head
bowed. Meredith pushed herself onto her knees.

“Thomas. Reynaud, he’s not—?” Terrified, she
felt for Thomas’s hand.

“See for yourself.” Reynaud raised his head.
“I am giving thanks, Meredith.”

Thomas’s eyes were closed but his breathing
was normal, and in place of the previous day’s feverish flush there
was now the faintest tinge of pink in his cheeks.

“I think he is recovering,” Reynaud said
cheerfully.

“Yes, he is.” She assessed Thomas’s
appearance with experienced eyes. “It will take time before he is
completely well. The distress of spirit he has suffered has
affected him as much as cold and imprisonment, perhaps more.”

“We will keep him safe here, in this pleasant
room, and by the time he is well enough to leave it, perhaps his
uncle will have returned. You have done Sir Guy a great good,
Meredith.”

“I have done it for Thomas.”

“Of course.” Reynaud smiled. “But I think the
lord of Afoncaer was in your thoughts, too.”

She met his pale blue eyes, weak, Guy had
once teased him in her hearing, from too much poring over books and
parchment building plans and long lines of numbers. Those eyes did
not look weak now. They saw too much. She became aware that she and
this odd clerical architect were kneeling side by side, both their
elbows on Guy’s bed, almost touching.

“I think,” Reynaud said softly, “you have
found a worthy lord, and he a most remarkable lady.”

Before she could find a suitable answer,
there was a movement in the center of the bed.

“Meredith?” Sky blue eyes peered at her
beneath a tumble of golden hair. “Why are you praying over me? Am I
dead?”

“Thomas. Oh, Thomas, you are alive, not dead.
You are going to live.” She threw her arms around him and hugged
him as hard as she could.

“He will soon be dead if you do not let him
go,” came Reynaud’s dry voice at her shoulder. “If you smother him,
Meredith, you will undo all your good work.”

She laughed, releasing Thomas onto his
pillows, and brushing away happy tears.

“You rescued me,” Thomas said. “I remember.
Where is Uncle Guy?”

“You may as well know,” Reynaud told him when
Meredith hesitated. “Your uncle has gone to Tÿnant to attack Sir
Walter.”

“To avenge Brian and Branwen? I remember
that, too.”

“And because Walter stole you away and would
not let you come home to us,” Meredith added. “But you are safe now
and we won’t let anyone harm you.”

“Gwyn is here.” Thomas stretched out thin
fingers toward the cat, who rubbed her head under his hand,
purring. “You brought Gwyn to me, Meredith.”

“I thought she would cheer you.”

Thomas was basically a healthy youngster, and
he recovered rapidly. By the next afternoon he was up and walking
slowly about Guy’s bedchamber, though Meredith would not let him go
out of the room.

“It’s too cold and damp for you to walk to
the great hall,” she said. She did not add that she and Reynaud and
Captain John had all agreed, Thomas was safer in the easily
defended keep should Walter mount a surprise attack on Afoncaer in
hope of regaining his lost hostage. Meredith slept on a pallet by
Thomas’s bed each night, secure in the knowledge that two guards
stood just outside the door.

She was pleased with Thomas’s progress, but
as the hours and then the days passed she became more and more
worried about the lack of news from Guy.

“He should have sent a messenger by now,” she
said to Reynaud.

“We will hear when he has something to tell
us,” Reynaud replied, and she marveled at his patience.

Two more tense days went by. On the afternoon
of the fifth day after Guy’s departure Meredith heard shouts and
looked out the eastern windows.

“What is it? Can you see anything?” Thomas
had been sitting in Guy’s big chair by the fire, wrapped in furs
with Gwyn on his lap.

“Armed men on the castle road. A wine-colored
banner. Thomas, it’s Sir Guy. He’s come home.”

There was no controlling Thomas. She managed
to keep him well wrapped and warm, but he insisted on joining her
at the unshuttered window to watch his uncle ride into the inner
bailey in triumph.

They saw Guy at once, clearly unhurt, leading
the procession. Directly behind him came Geoffrey, also unharmed.
Walter fitz Alan was wrapped in chains, tied to his saddle, and
surrounded by armed guards. A little behind Walter, Lady Isabel
rode with her chin defiantly tilted at a proud angle. She was
unbound but heavily guarded. At her side, Father Herbert was
mounted upon a mule. Thomas, straining to see out the window,
exclaimed at the sight.

“Meredith, please tell the guard at the door
to this room that I don’t want to see Father Herbert. He refused to
help me when I was held prisoner, and now I know he will come in
here and try to convince me to plead my mother’s case with Uncle
Guy. I don’t want to see my mother, either.” Thomas’s young voice
was choked with emotion.

“In spite of everything. I think your mother
does love you, Thomas.” Meredith said gently. “She allowed us to
escape,” she reminded him.

“And then set Walter’s men on us!”

“We don’t know it was Lady Isabel who did
that. It could have been the guard, Roger.”

Thomas began to cough. Meredith insisted he
leave the open window and return to bed. She covered him well and
made him drink a cup of the hot herbal brew she kept simmering over
the fire. Then she went back to the window to close the shutters.
The late autumn afternoon was growing chilly and the wind through
the unglazed window could only harm Thomas.

“That’s odd,” she murmured.

“What are they doing?” her charge asked.

“They aren’t going into the great hall. They
seem to be entering this building. Thomas, stay where you are.
Promise me that, and I’ll go down and see what is happening, and
soon as I can, I’ll come back and tell you everything.”

Thomas had barely spoken his oath to remain
in bed before Meredith was out the door and running down the
circular stairs. She could hear voices below. She reached the first
floor, and, following the voices, entered the wardroom, where the
men who guarded the keep were quartered. She found Guy there with
Geoffrey and Reynaud, the three prisoners from Tÿnant, and a few
guards. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into
Guy’s arms, so happy was she to see him. She knew he would not
welcome such a public demonstration of her feeling for him, so she
stayed silently at the edge of the room, watching, contenting
herself with the sight of him.