The Night Dance (11 page)

Bedivere coughed harshly into the sleeve of his tunic, and his chest ached with the effort. The nights spent on the dirty mat in the disease-infested alley of beggars had caused him to come down with congestion in his head and chest. He felt his forehead and determined that it was warmer than normal.

He could not let it stop him, though. Pausing at the town well, he drew up a bucket of water and poured it over his head, drenching his hair and clothing. It was not a proper bath, like the kind he’d enjoyed in a marble tub back in Camelot, but it was better than nothing and it was all he really felt capable of at the moment.

He needed to get back to the manor, and he had to do it before someone else beat him to the challenge. This contest posted by Sir Ethan was his chance to get inside the manor to see Rowena. He clung to the belief that she’d have him if he won the competition, and this was a prize beyond any measure.

As he walked down the road, he saw other men who seemed to be headed in the same direction. Some rode fine horses and were dressed richly.
Others affected a scholarly air, and still others were attended by retinues of servants who carried them aloft on fancy pallets. Bedivere tried to keep in mind that he was Sir Bedivere of the Round Table and not let himself become demoralized by his present state, but the fits of coughing that overtook him and the sweaty fatigue his illness induced did nothing to help his frame of mind.

He attempted to arrive at the manor before the others by cutting into the forest in hopes of finding a shortcut. He was an excellent navigator and was encouraged that he was making good time until he came over the hill just before the manor.

The forest was infested with men setting up camp outside the manor’s front gate. As he came closer, he saw Sir Ethan appear at the front gate and step out in front of it. There was immediately a rush of men who crowded around him. Bedivere hurried forward and made his way to the front.

“Thank you all for coming,” Sir Ethan spoke to them. He nodded at the gilded box he held. “I have here numbers inscribed on cards. I will hand them out and they will tell you the order in which you are to be allowed inside to test your wits in this competition.”

He opened the lid and took out his numbered cards. Bedivere stepped forward along with the others. A fight broke out between two men directly in front of him as one pushed ahead of the other. Bedivere seized the opportunity to work his way
around them and get to the head of the crowd.

When he finally stood in front of Sir Ethan, the man eyed him with disapproval. To Bedivere’s dismay, at that moment a fit of coughing overtook him, doubling him over.

“I am sorry for your illness my good man,” Sir Ethan told him when he had recovered and stood awaiting his card, “but I cannot risk having my household infected with whatever ails you. With the plague and pox so rampant in parts of our countryside, I simply cannot allow you to enter my home in your condition.”

“I assure you this is but a temporary ailment and will soon be done with,” Bedivere tried to persuade him.

Sir Ethan studied him as if struck by the way in which his knightly manner seemed at odds with his beggar’s appearance. Then another man shoved in front of him and Sir Ethan turned his attention to that man. Bedivere found himself jostled rudely to the back of the crowd.

Sweat was now gleaming on his forehead and he found it difficult to stand. Leaning against a tree, he gazed up at the window where he had thought he might have seen Rowena standing.

There, again, with the sunlight glinting off the window, he saw a figure with long coppery hair. This time, she raised her hand and pressed it against the glass. She saw him. He was sure of it.

He envisioned her face, those green changeable
eyes, and the sensuous curve of her lips. Pressing his cheek against the tree’s bark for its coolness, he felt his spirit lift from his body and he was, once again, on the boulder in the forest. And she was there, too.

This time they needed no words. He held her tightly, with his good hand firmly on the small of her back, as they kissed. He was no longer sick, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her. He felt the firm softness of her body pressed against his, and he burned to have her next to him, knowing that they were meant for one another in every way possible.

Another lifting of the spirit—and he abruptly opened his eyes. A darting glance to the window told him she was no longer there.

He found himself staring into the face of a man dressed richly in a cape of fur-trimmed red and gold brocade. Beneath it he wore a thick gold vest and black leggings. His boots gleamed with polish. “I will pay you a king’s ransom for that sword,” he said, nodding toward Excalibur at Bedivere’s hip.

Bedivere shook his head heavily, realizing that the fever and congestion were with him again. “This sword is not for sale,” he replied.

“Look at your condition,” the man pointed out. “I saw that Sir Ethan turned you away at the gate.” He produced a velvet pouch from beneath his elegant cloak. “Think what this could do for you,” he said, opening the pouch to reveal the sparkle of gold and precious gems. “With this you would not have to win
one of his daughters. You would have no need of her dowry. You could walk in and purchase the one of your choosing. And I suspect you have already selected the one you desire.”

Bedivere straightened warily and, with a warrior’s instincts for danger, his hand went for Excalibur’s hilt, preparing to pull it from its scabbard. Who was this man? “How do you know these things?” he challenged.

The man smiled slightly and continued without answering the question. “What good is a dead man’s sword to you who wants no more of fighting and knightly battles? Why cling to it when it could buy you what your heart truly desires?”

The man pulled one of Sir Ethan’s cards from the pocket of his cloak. It had the number one inked on it. “I will add this to the price,” he continued. “It will get you into the manor and the fortune I pay you will do the rest.”

Despite his suspicions about this man, Bedivere couldn’t stop himself from envisioning what a fortune could do for him. He could have a manor of his own, one worthy of Rowena. They could live there without care. Sir Ethan would never turn him away if he arrived arrayed in kingly fashion.

The man was correct that Excalibur could help him attain what he most desired, Rowena. He might never find this Lady of the Lake, might spend the rest of his life searching for her to no avail. Why not sell Excalibur and get what he wanted?

He began to unbuckle his belt, which held the sheathed sword.

The man held the pouch and the card out to him.

Bedivere took off the sword and scabbard, but then stopped. He remembered the trusting expression on Arthur’s face when he had commissioned him to return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.

How could he betray his promise to Arthur?

He’d promised his king. He’d promised his dearest friend.

He was—still and always, though no one else knew it—Sir Bedivere, the last knight of the Round Table, whose code of honor insisted that a promise was a sacred trust.

He fastened Excalibur back onto his belt. “Thank you for your offer, but I cannot accept it,” he said with some remaining reluctance. It hurt to decline, no matter how honor-bound he felt.

The man put the pouch and card back into his cloak and angrily drew a sword. “I have been reasonable,” he snarled softly with silky menace. “If you will not sell me the sword I will fight you for it.”

Summoning what strength he could call upon, Bedivere gripped Excalibur and drew. Blade clashed against blade as the two men fought fiercely. The man slashed a tear in Bedivere’s tunic. Bedivere returned the blow with a piercing thrust to the man’s side.

The moment Excalibur touched him, the man burst into a flame that was sucked downward into the Earth.

Astonished, Bedivere leapt backward, clutching Excalibur. He recalled his fight with the rock soldier. At the time he had thought he had simply run across some malevolent forest spirit. But now he realized that some powerful sorcerer or sorceress was aware that he carried the dead king’s sword and was determined to take it from him.

He now understood why Arthur had been so adamant that he return the sword to his kinswoman. Its magic must be more powerful than he had even realized if dark forces would go to such lengths to attain it. He would need to be vigilant at every moment until it was safely delivered.

The effort of the battle he’d just fought combined with his sickness suddenly overtook him. Leaning heavily against a tree for support, he slid down its side until he was sitting on the ground, drenched in feverish sweat.

A man on horseback stopped in front of him. “You appear unwell,” he observed. “Can I offer you transport back to town?”

He glanced back to the window where he had seen Rowena. He couldn’t yet stand to be parted from her nearness. “I thank you, but no,” he declined, appreciative of the kind gesture. “Why are you leaving?”

“Although these others are all camping out, I have no time to wait around for my chance,” he explained as he took one of Sir Ethan’s cards from his vest. He dropped it down onto Bedivere’s lap. “Have it if you
like. It’s sure to move you up the line.” Without a further comment, he rode off through the woods.

Bedivere turned the card over in his hand. The number two was inscribed upon it.

What luck! He had a chance now, but would the challenge thwart the man who went before him? What if the first man won his Rowena away from him? Bedivere was sure she would be the sister who was chosen. What man could resist her?

What would he do then—fight the man for her? How could he justify battling another honorable man to steal his fairly won prize? How could he bear not to?

He could only fervently, deeply hope that the rival who would go before him would fail.

The next night Eleanore sat on her bed and watched as the first man in Sir Ethan’s competition entered the bedchamber with a slight swagger, clomping in with heavy boots. An involuntary rush of excitement surged through her. He wasn’t bad looking, with thick blond hair and broad shoulders.

She found herself sitting up a bit straighter, the better to display her womanly assets, only to notice that several other of her sisters, each of whom sat on her own bed, were doing the same.

“Hello, ladies,” he greeted them pleasantly, grinning and glancing from one to the other, no doubt selecting his prize. “I hear you’ve been naughty girls.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Eleanore teased flirtatiously.

He grinned even more widely than before, and his hungry expression made a hot blush rise in Eleanore’s cheeks. “Indeed, I
would
like to know. Your father has told me to keep a sharp eye on you and find out where you’ve been going.”

Right then Mary scurried in followed by two serving women, one carrying a basin and pitcher, the
other holding a stack of towels. “Right this way, Lord Liddington,” she said authoritatively as she led him into the small room adjacent to the bedchamber. “We have made up a bed for you, and the maids have brought your washing needs.”

Mary noticed the lingering glances Lord Liddington was sending Eleanore’s way and frowned. “I’m sure you recall Sir Ethan’s warning regarding any improper advances toward his daughters,” she reminded him firmly.

“I most surely do,” he assured her, rolling his eyes at Eleanore before Mary pulled the heavy drape and hid him from view.

She stood in front of the draped doorway with her arms folded like a protective lioness. “Get dressed for bed, girls,” she ordered crossly.

Mary had made it known that she did not like this whole idea. Men did not belong in a bedchamber with young women, not even next door. She’d had her bed carried into the room in order to act as chaperone. But that only seemed to put her further out of sorts. Eleanore guessed that she already missed the privacy of her own bedchamber.

When the girls were dressed in their nightgowns and were settled under their covers, Mary pulled aside the drape that separated Lord Liddington’s sleeping area.

Eleanore peeked over her pillow and could see him straddling the chair next to his bed. He caught
her eye and smiled. She returned his smile but pulled it into a frown when Mary glowered at her warningly.

“Rowena, come away from that window and get into bed,” Mary barked.

Eleanore didn’t like the way Lord Liddington followed Rowena’s every move as she crossed the room to get into bed. With the moonlight behind her, a person could see her whole form through that nightgown. Couldn’t she have worn a thicker one?

“Now I will be lying on my bed with my eyes closed, but I won’t really be asleep,” Mary told them all. “My advice to you girls is to stay put and present your slippers in perfect condition in the morning. In that way you’ll bring things back to normal and make this whole troublesome business of strange men in your bedchamber go away.”

A mouse scampered along the baseboards and Mary hurled the pillow from her bed at it. “Get out of here, you pest.” The mouse disappeared into a hole and Mary picked up the pillow. “I don’t know if we’re overrun with mice or if the same one keeps pestering us. It’s not as though you can easily identify one from the other.”

“That one looked like it had a cut in its side,” Eleanore observed. “Maybe it had a battle with a cat. From now on you’ll be able to tell if it’s the same one.”

“Yes…well…sleep now, girls,” Mary said as she lay back on her bed fully clothed.

The light stayed on in Lord Liddington’s area.
Eleanore peeked above her pillow and smiled at him again. She counted the minutes until Mary began to snore. The sisters knew Mary was a sound sleeper. Through the years they’d gone to her room to rouse her when one or another of them was sick in the night, and they had found it impossible to wake the snoring woman. They were counting on her deep slumber this night.

Once her thunderous snores became regular, Eleanore reached under her bed and found the jug of cider Ione had taken from the kitchen earlier. Into it, Eleanore had poured the contents of a silken packet containing a mix of some powder with finely chopped herbs.

The night before Eleanore had asked her stag escort for a concoction to induce deep, deep sleep, and he had gone away and returned with this packet. He had shown her how to mix it in a liquid-filled cup until it was totally dissolved.

Reaching under the bed again, she pulled out two goblets. She threw off her blanket and slid out of bed. With one deep breath to steady her nerves, she sauntered over to Lord Liddington and pulled the drape over the door closed behind her. “Hello, Lord Liddington,” she said.

“Call me Edgar,” he replied. He sat back in his chair and appraised her merrily. “What have you got there?”

“I thought we might share something to drink,
Edgar,” she said, setting the goblets down on the nightstand beside the basin and pitcher.

“No wine for me,” he replied. “I must stay sharp and see what you bad women are up to.”

“It’s only cider,” she said, offering him the open jug to smell.

He took hold of her outstretched arm and drew her toward him. Wrapping his other hand around her waist, he pulled her down so that she was sitting on his broad leg, his eyes twinkling at her.

Eleanore couldn’t help but respond to him. She caught a scent of pine on his clothing and it stirred something within her. She found that she was inclined to lean up against him seductively, a move he gladly allowed.

He began planting small kisses along her neck as he stroked her collarbone. “Tell me, my lady, where have you and your sisters been going at night?” he murmured seductively to her. “Tell me so that I might marry you and we can do more of this in the privacy of our own home.”

Eleanore was enjoying his touch and his offer tempted her. She saw herself with him, alone, embracing and kissing, their bodies pressed against one another for endless moments without interruption.

Then she thought of what she would be losing: her nightly dances on the underground island with its mystery and luxury. She pulled away from him
slightly. “Let’s have some cider,” she suggested. “My lips are parched.”

“We can’t have parched lips,” he agreed with a chuckle as he poured the tainted cider into the goblets. “You need lips that are moist and kissable.”

She took the cup and pretended to drink as he drained the contents of his goblet. “This is good cider,” he commented.

“Have more,” Eleanore offered, refilling his goblet. She noticed that a dull, unfocused look had developed on his face as he drank the second cupful in one long gulp.

After he’d finished, he grabbed her around the waist with both hands. “You are the most
boo-ti-awful
creature I haf ’ere seen,” he said, his words now badly slurred. “An’ ah mus haf ye.”

With surprising strength, he tossed her lightly onto the bed behind them and stood, regarding her hungrily with bleary eyes. In the next second, he lunged at her on the bed, knocking her flat against the mattress—and began to snore noisily.

Eleanore was pinned under his heavy, inert body, unable to free herself. “Sisters,” she hissed, afraid to wake him. “Sisters, help!”

She heard a scuffling of feet and her sisters appeared, giggling by the bedside. “I see that he found you irresistible,” Isolde teased.

“I think he’s cute,” Mathilde said.

“Don’t be idiots,” Eleanore scolded. “Roll him off me.”

They were able to lift him enough so that Eleanore could slide out from underneath. He didn’t even sputter as they shoved him, and they had no fear that he would awaken. Eleanore covered him with a blanket and left him there to sleep.

She put on her slippers and grabbed a lantern as the others pushed the bed aside. One by one they descended into the opening in the floor. Looking wistfully over her shoulder at Edgar, Eleanore followed them down into the dark tunnel below.

She could not stop thinking about Edgar, Lord Liddington. Although he was a nobleman, there was an earthy quality about him that had strongly appealed to her. He’d said he’d marry her too. It flattered her that she was the one he would have chosen and made her like him even more.

All thoughts of Edgar flew out of her mind, however, as they came into the glowing cavern and Morgan’s enchantment once again took hold of them. Her nightgown transformed into an opulent, jeweled ball gown and her long hair twisted itself up into an elaborate coif of braids and ringlets.

The six golden barges appeared in the middle of the glittering lake and silently approached. With their minds clouded by Morgan’s enchantment, the sisters welcomed the sight of the stag princes, seeing them only as dashing figures who would usher them off to a night of dancing and frolic. They were liberators, come to free the girls from the drudgery of their daily lives.

After they had enjoyed another night of fun, they
returned at dawn and cautiously approached the opening in the floor.

Isolde was at the head of the line. She raised her head over the floor, peering around the room, then she ducked it back under. “Mary is still snoring, but I don’t hear Lord Liddington.”

“Do you see him?” Eleanore asked.

Isolde checked. “No,” she reported.

Eleanore wondered what they should do. If the sleeping potion hadn’t held and Edgar had managed to rouse himself, she didn’t want him to catch them coming up out of the floor—although now that the effects of the enchantment were wearing off, she realized that she wouldn’t have minded entirely if that happened.

“Blow out your lights,” she instructed her sisters in a low tone. “Go up quietly and check if he’s still in his bed.”

Nodding, they doused the lights and proceeded to climb out of the opening. Moonlight pouring through the bedchamber window made it possible for them to see where they were going.

Eleanore was just lifting herself over the floorboards when she heard Isolde’s terrified yelp. She, along with her sisters, hurried to Isolde’s side.

Edgar lay on the bed, flat on his back and no longer snoring. His ruddy face had grown unnaturally pale. “He’s dead,” Isolde whimpered.

Eleanore shoved past her and shook Edgar’s shoulder violently. “Edgar!” she shouted frantically. “Wake up!”

She thumped his chest with her fists. “Wake up, Edgar!” she shouted more loudly into his ear.

When she still received no response, she jumped back, her hand over her mouth in horror.

Isolde had been right. He was dead! She’d killed him!