Curse of the Celts by Clara O'Connor (most romantic novels .TXT) 📕

great hall was not unoccupied when I got there, despite the early hour. Lord Rhodri was in his usual fireside seat with Bronwyn in the deep chair opposite him, her slight figure curled up under her cloak as if she had been there all night.

“Good morning,” Rhodri greeted me, as I helped myself to the little round cakes, which Meg had told me were called griddle cakes, that sat piled on a platter on the long table. I frowned at him; he didn’t look well enough to be out of bed already. I took the smaller chair to his side as I wolfed down my breakfast, gratefully accepting the warm herbal tea he poured for me from a cast-iron kettle that sat on the wide hearth.

I blew on it gently before taking a testing sip; the flavoured water wound its way down my body, warming as it went. There was a tang of apples in my nose as I sniffed the cup with my next sip. The crisp, clean smell was as enjoyable as the heat of the cup itself as my fingers wrapped around it.

“Thank you,” I murmured. Devyn’s father looked exhausted, his face at once pale and flushed. There were deep hollows under his eyes. Marcus had assured me his treatment was working, despite appearances to the contrary, the lingering symptoms a result of how much longer he had suffered with the illness than those Marcus had treated in the city.

“No sign?” I asked softly, not wanting to wake Bronwyn.

He shook his head wearily.

“They’ll be here soon,” I assured him, and he nodded as if comforted, though he had no way of knowing that I had some reason for my confidence that his son was indeed on his way and not already passed on from this world.

We sat in silence for a time, watching the flames flicker and glow on the logs that burned in the open fire. The fire was three times the size of any I had ever seen in Londinium. Burning wood was a luxury in the city; there were enough logs in this fire that the cost would feed a poorer family in the stews for a month or more.

I wondered where Marina and Oban were now. Devyn had risked a lot to help them. I wondered how many more he had helped during his time in Londinium while he was watching me, trying to ascertain if I was indeed the infant this man had abandoned. An abandonment so profound and far-reaching that it had ruined his family’s name for ever.

I had only known Lord Rhodri a couple of days, but what little I had seen of him reminded me in many ways of Devyn; he cared deeply for his son and he treated those around him with respect and care. Gideon had said that as Griffin he had been the greatest warrior in the land. Why had he deserted the revered Lady of the Lake? A woman whose life was his to protect. Devyn had given up everything, had risked his life for years in the hope of finding a child he barely knew. He had not been afraid for himself for a single moment in the arena. His only thoughts had been about me. I couldn’t understand how this man, two decades ago, had been such a lesser version.

“Tell me about the Griffins,” I said, before I realised I had intended to speak.

Tired eyes met mine, a sadness so profound in them that I had to blink against the tears that welled in mine in response.

He closed his eyes and was silent for so long I began to think he had fallen asleep.

“The Griffin,” he corrected softly. “There is only one. I am the last. Where did you hear that term?”

“Bronwyn used it to refer to you.” I frowned. “And Gideon uses it when he talks about Devyn.”

His lips thinned.

“York,” he spat.

Rhodri was less than happy at Gideon using the term, seeming to concentrate his dislike of the family in general on Gideon in particular. He had said that he was the last…

“Devyn does not inherit the name from you?”

“The Griffin is the title given to the lady’s protector. He would have inherited it –” he paused “– but there is no longer anything to protect.” He sighed. “Do they teach you much of our legends behind the walls?”

I shook my head. I knew a little about the Griffin but the weight of the term out here implied that there was more to it than Devyn’s brief explanation in Londinium had suggested.

“Then let me tell you of the legend. Many centuries ago, the land was ravaged by war. A young man called Arthur Pendragon sought to unite the land in peace.” He looked up for confirmation that I at least recognised the name. Satisfied, he continued. “Nimue, the Lady of Avalon – a mystical isle – gifted him two great prizes: a sword and her sister, Guinevere of the Lake, as his bride. The lady married Arthur, and together with his druid Merlin they made him High King of the land and peace was known, for a time. Amongst his knights was one who was more skilled, stronger than all the rest, and Arthur made him the protector of his lady wife. Unfortunately for us all, this knight and Guinevere fell in love, and Arthur, in a rage, had them both killed. Nimue cursed Arthur’s poor treatment of her sister and dark days fell upon the land.

“The various Briton tribes – the Mercians, Umbermen, and Anglians – fought invaders on all sides for centuries – the Romans, the Saxons, the Northmen, the Normans – as well as each other. Many of these peoples settled, integrated, but the Romans wanted complete dominance and so generation after generation spent their lives fighting the might of the Empire. And the Empire was winning. By the time that concerns us, many centuries after Arthur, Kernow was overrun, Anglia too, the people of Cymru hid in the