Curse of the Celts Clara O'Connor (new reading txt) 📖

very interested to examine one up close. They don’t use them out here,” he said, referring to the Britons, as he always did, as they, as other. “Apparently the cuffs just drop off upon marriage. He thinks it’s a contract charm and he’s fairly certain that the marriage doesn’t have to be to each other. Once the contract has been completed by one of the parties, the cuff is released.”

“He wasn’t suspicious of you asking him that?”

“He had no reason to be.” Right, because as men of science, discussing possibilities about how things worked didn’t necessarily mean there were ulterior motives. If only all people worked like that.

“No.” Devyn had heard enough.

“The druids in Anglesey won’t know you,” Marcus reasoned.

“It’s not about the druids. I will not defy my lord in this,” Devyn stated.

Marcus’s green eyes met mine. He was as good as his word. He had found a way, and now all I had to do was persuade Devyn. Marcus would be ready.

Devyn observed the look between me and Marcus and his mouth set in a flat line.

“I’m telling you, it’s over,” he said resolutely, blocking me so I could feel nothing of him as he strode from the room.

“We’ll see about that,” I shouted to his retreating back. He had explained why Rion couldn’t forgive him, and he was clearly torn in two by his divided loyalties. He loved me. He had shown me that enough times now. But he was also sworn to serve Rion, and persuading him to publicly humiliate his king would be next to impossible. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The bonfire to celebrate midwinter lit the courtyard from early evening, and from my window high up in the castle I could see out across the town and countryside where more fires glowed. I leaned against the cold granite wall, which cooled my heated skin. I felt exhausted as I emerged from yet another day hiding in my room. Despite the days spent cooped up in this castle doing nothing, my energy felt lower than it had when we were on the road.

In the days leading up to the beginning of the Yule festivities, Devyn was a ghost. He haunted the shadows but made it impossible for me to engage with him. He would slip away at any attempt to try to talk him round.

This morning I had felt strangely off and utterly defeated, merely curling into the warmth of my blankets against the icy winter air and wishing for the comforts of home. There was no point in getting up. Devyn continued to avoid me, the castle’s inhabitants wore me out with their whispers every time I walked past, and there was no chance of being allowed outside the castle walls. I had managed to convince the maid who came to stoke my fire that I was feeling peaky so couldn’t attend the dawn service to greet the Solstice and she had all too readily brought me my breakfast, delighted to be of service. I’d hardly touched the unappetising porridge and barely nibbled at the edge of the griddle cakes that I normally enjoyed, and this had earned me lunch in bed too.

I’d finally managed to pull myself out of bed at Marina’s urging when she and Oban arrived to deliver the creation he had made for me. Marina was in an odd mood and disappeared quickly, leaving me with her brother as he made the final adjustments to the beautiful dress. The sounds of laughter and music and the smell of crackling woodsmoke wafted in from outside.

I entered the celebration on Marcus’s arm – an oddly familiar role. The stage might be different, but our roles within it were strangely fixed. A harpist had arrived from across the sea to celebrate the feast at Conwy. I’d never heard a harp before, and my mind snagged on the sweet ribbons that floated melodically on the air. The notes were haunting and lonely. Even as other instruments joined in, I could feel the winding central tenet of the music as if it was always set apart, intrinsic to the tune but never entirely of it.

This feast was in my honour, apparently, and as Marcus moved me from group to group with his usual natural ease, I felt observed and judged. I looked the part – the velvet dress was divine, moulding and flowing around my body in all the right ways. Its intricate cut and painstaking embroidery were a testament to Oban’s artistry. My hair was plaited and left long, and a gold circlet was placed around my crown to denote my status.

The room was festooned with holly boughs heavy with red berries, which Marina, fountain of all kinds of new knowledge, had told me was the sign of a long winter. There was also some precious mistletoe dangling over the doorway where we had entered. Marina had also informed me that this was a traditional decoration. With so many ill who needed it, to have even this small amount being used for this purpose was an extremely decadent gesture. Yet Llewelyn had some put over the doorway anyway, allowing everyone to walk underneath and have its blessing of love for the year bestowed upon them. Yay.

I had been forced to stand under it for longer than most, as Llewellyn toasted my return and the impending nuptials.

As our genial host, he had swirled me out onto the dancefloor when the music picked up, the beat of the drums and the tempo of the music proving a temptation impossible to ignore for many guests. For a moment, I was in the arms of the only other person under this roof whom I knew to be as frustrated as I at Devyn’s fate. I let my mask drop, allowing myself to become one with the music, and followed his light-footed lead.

When the tune ended, he thanked me and bowed deeply.

“Prince Llewelyn, I will do what I can to help Devyn.”

He raised