The Once and Future Queen

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Clara O’Connor 2021

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Map © Laura Hall

Clara O’Connor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008407728

Ebook Edition © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008407711

Version: 2021-03-02

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part II

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part III

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgments

Author Q & A

Exploring the World of The Once and Future Queen

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Books by Clara O’Connor

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

For Mrs Fitzgerald, the first to suggest that one day I could do this

Ms Young, who lured it into being

And to all out there wondering if they can

Do it. One life to live.

Part One

Into the Abyss

I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me…

But there was time…

And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain,

staring into the abyss.

I do not know how long…

I could not count the hours, they ran so fast—

Like little bare-foot urchins—shaking my hands away.

But I remember

Somewhere water trickled like a thin severed vein…

And a wind came out of the grass,

Touching me gently, tentatively, like a paw.

— The Edge, Lola Ridge

Chapter One

Holy Isle, Anglesea

In the reign of Prince Llewelyn Glyndŵr of Gwynedd

The sparks from the pyres were released into the night sky, hundreds of tiny embers drifting up in the still winter darkness. So many pyres. The destruction that the sentinels had left in their wake was total, the mistletoe supplies gone, the groves badly damaged. The druids and those who had served them shed their bodies as their spirits lifted into the darkness. With Devyn.

He was gone. Here in his home, they had killed him.

I stood and watched while the druids prepared him, removing his clothes, exposing the hole in his chest that had ended his life. The rose and lakes he had tattooed over his heart were marred for eternity, the emblem of the Lakelands, my brother’s sigil… My brother had never deserved him. On his upper arm were the meandering curves of the Tamesis, ending in a Celtic symbol, a symbol of us. I had traced it over and over again; we had lost and found each other on the banks of that river. There our story had ended and started again. Now it was over, there would be no more chances. I could not follow where he had gone, not yet. I stayed by his side all day as the survivors and my brother’s men bustled about building the pyres, tending the dead and the injured.

Occasionally the moans of those who had survived the attack found their way to me, but mostly it was just Devyn and me. His dark curls hadn’t dried since he was pulled out of the waves. I tried to get the sand out but his locks had frozen, and my fingers didn’t have enough warmth in them to melt the ice after a while. They left him until last; I could feel them hovering, waiting to take him.

“I don’t have a photo.”

“What was that, lady?” came the tentative voice from behind me.

It was hard to breathe through my mouth – my throat felt constricted. I drew a breath through my nose and exhaled, which only called attention to the pressing weight on my chest. I didn’t have a photo of him. I pushed my fists into my eyes. Behind my lids flickered Devyn’s face: his frown when I said something that annoyed him, his laughter over a cup of coffee back in Londinium, his serious expression cracking at my teasing of his indulgent citified tastes, his single-minded focus in all things, his frustration when I refused to let him push me away, his determination to see me back in the land of my birth; his eyes studying my reaction as I took in his Griffin tattoo the first time, the look that waited for me to appreciate and finally understand what the position meant to him. I would never see his eyes again – that dark warmth had faded. The intense gaze dimmed forever. And I would never see him again.

Bloody Briton, why had he never let me take a photo? Not that I had a device to view it on out here in the Wilds anyway. I needed to take my fists out of my face. I was wasting precious time.

My next inhale expanded the pained void within me. Pulling my hands away, I lifted my face to the sky as I attempted to pull in air and not scream at the same time. Someone hovered closer, reaching out but hesitating to actually intrude. The concerned face of the young druid was barely visible, backlit as she was by the burning funeral pyres.

“Lady, we need to—”

“I know, I just want one more minute,” I cut across her. I traced my fingers along Devyn’s cheekbones, his arched brow, the peeking feathers of the eagle wings that spanned his back and curled slightly over his shoulders, not yet enclosed in the white cloth in which they had bound most of his body.

Hands helped pull me up until, in spite of my stiffened joints, I was upright. I shrugged them off, curling my fingers into my palms so hard that I actually felt something through the cold that had stolen away all feeling hours ago.

I felt lightheaded and too heavy to move as they wrapped him in the last strand of white cloth. Men stepped forward to lift him. I couldn’t see through the blur but I trailed after them. I needed another minute. Hands pulled me back as they lifted him onto the last remaining stack of wood and wrapped around me, keeping me upright. There was a keening sound that tore through the night as the torch touched the winter wood, and the fire blazed higher and faster than any of the others had.

My knees were on the ground. That terrible howl finally stopped as my head was buried in wet unyielding leather. Sobs tore through me, doubling me over in their strength, and I was helpless against them. My mouth was torn wide by the raw pain that tried to escape in a never-ending gush.

I won back control and struggled to my feet in the sand, pushing away the intruder in my space.

Numbly, I watched the fire. The flames licked up into the sky, flickers of blue and green and orange. White smoke lifted into the night, obscuring the stars. The tang of sea salt mixed with woodsmoke as the flames consumed the bodies that had once held people we loved.

The blaze mostly hid the shadow of the body contained within, and after a while it started to crumble in on itself. In Londinium, bodies were cremated in a building created for the purpose. When it was all done, a neat little box of ashes was issued to be disposed of as the family decided.

What did they do out here in the Wilds once it was over? Did they just let the sea come in and take what was left? Was that why they built the pyres on the beach? Or should I take the ashes home to his father, or to Conwy or Carlisle? Where would he consider home? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. Devyn was the one who was supposed to guide me. He was the one who always explained how things worked out here beyond the walls. I should never have left. If I had stayed in Londinium, he would be alive. All these people would be alive. How would I tell Rhodri? His father had waited so long for Devyn to come home, had believed he was still alive long after everyone else had thought him dead… and now he was.

The fire burned down lower and lower.

Gideon ventured closer again. I flinched as his hand touched my shoulder. Everyone had gone inside, the pyres had burned down to glowing embers, but once I left this beach that would be it.

“Don’t touch me.”

I felt him leave. My brother sat waiting further up the beach, his heavy cloak drawn around him. He was watching me. He too had stayed by me all day – such a display of familial concern. Now he was worried, now he realised what Devyn had meant to me. Now, when it was all too late.

“Come.” My brother’s voice disturbed the night. “It’s over.”

I didn’t respond, didn’t have the energy.

“It’s cold, you must come in,” he spoke again.

What did I care? The heat from the pyre had long since faded.

Firm hands took my shoulders and started to pull me up.

“No.” I tugged away. Who was Rion Deverell to tell me what to do or where to go? I was done with being told what to do. All my life I had done what was asked of me, what my parents wanted, what my society wanted, what Devyn had wanted. Where had it got me? My parents weren’t even related to me and at the first sign of trouble had turned their backs on me; once I wasn’t their obedient step up into society, I was no longer their daughter. The society whose code I had followed, whose prince I had promised to marry, that society had had its own plan all along, had stolen me from my murdered mother in order to use my magic, abilities I didn’t even know I had until Devyn turned up. And Devyn, he had been the greatest liar of them all: he had fulfilled his destiny, lured me here with promises of love and family, and now I was alone. He was dead, dead because I had insisted he marry me despite the fact he had repeatedly pulled away from me. If Rion Deverell had just let us be, we would still be in Conwy, Devyn would still be alive, we wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be alone.

“You did this,” I said, whirling out of his arms. “Get away from me.”

Rion faced me in the night, his expression unreadable.

“You must come in,” he repeated, ignoring my accusation.

“No,” I said, turning back to the smoking embers on the sand.

“Get up.”

I ignored his order.

He sighed deeply.

“Have sense. It’s the middle of winter, you’ll freeze out here.”

“I don’t care.” I couldn’t feel the cold. I couldn’t feel anything right now. If I just left them to it, would he continue to have this conversation with this body? Could I just drift away to where people would stop bothering me?

“Gods! Get up, girl, or so help me I will drag your arse inside.”

The great Rion Deverell, faultless King of Mercia, swearing at a grieving girl. What would people say? I felt his hands take hold of my upper arms to carry out his threat.

“Let go of me,” I uttered in a low voice, “or I will—”

“What? What will you do?” he said tiredly. “What did you do today? Nothing. Heir to our mother’s power and you did nothing.”

I had done nothing.

When the sentinels had held Devyn and Matthias had killed him in front of me, I hadn’t done a thing. I was supposed to be powerful but I hadn’t been able to do anything. The drug had worn off now; I could sense that much. But even if my blood hadn’t been laced with the drug that suffocated my powers what could I really have done? It had all happened so fast. I hadn’t even thought to call it, had been frozen in fear, my only thought to get to him, to do as they asked… It had been over before I’d had time to think.

They had sailed away unhindered while he was lying in my arms. Useless, I had been useless.

I stared at Rion. Was this my fault? I had brought Devyn here and then I hadn’t been able to protect him. I should have been able to protect him.

My brother lifted his hands out to me.

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “I didn’t mean… just please come inside, for your baby’s sake if not for your own.”

I nodded dumbly. I had forgotten about the baby inside me. Would the cold hurt her? The disconnection I felt, the pain that had clawed at me earlier, did she feel these things through me?

“The ashes,” I said as I started toward him.

“What?” he asked. Perhaps my voice was too low. My throat felt oddly raw.

“I want to take his ashes home.” Wherever that was. The hollowness inside me grew.

“I’ll see it done,” he promised, his hand going to the small of my back. I stepped away, beyond his reach, but followed as he led me to one of the houses still standing in the middle of the village.

There were several people inside sitting around the empty wooden table: long-robed druids and leather-clad warriors, and Gideon in his stained Midwinter finery. They all looked up as we entered. The room felt warm, the fire in the hearth small compared to those that had blazed all evening out on the shore.

Rion indicated a bed in the corner of the room before he spoke quietly to a warrior who exited to do his bidding. I didn’t want to sleep, but I didn’t want to speak with the sombre men and women who sat huddled around the table in the middle of the room.

An older druid brought me a cup of something warm and set it beside the bed with a small nod. I didn’t want it. I felt heavy in the heated room, but it was too much effort to take off my cloak, so I lay down.

Words drifted over from the occupied side of the simple dwelling. Worry over the mistletoe, loss of the dead, concern at the Empire travelling so deep into their territory, consternation that their weapons had worked so far north, basic tech though it had been. The words swirled around the room in a tangle, knotting around them all. So many threads around the golden-haired King of Mercia, to whom they all looked for answers. Gideon’s eyes came my way time and time again. What did he want? What did he see?

I turned over, putting my back to them. I closed my eyes and saw Devyn’s face, the moment when Matthias struck him imprinted on my shuttered lids. He had promised me he would always be here for me.

I felt again his body growing cold in my arms, the draining away of his life as the druid spoke words releasing the spirit of the Griffin. I opened my eyes and stared at the dark shadows playing on the wall. The words being exchanged in the room washed over me. I couldn’t think about it yet. It was too much.

“Without the mistletoe, many will die this season,” one of the druids was saying.

“There are no reserves?”

“Not here. Thankfully, half of it was sent to Conwy immediately after the harvest to be dispersed at Yuletide and there are other sites with some stores. That should last for some time, but after that we will need to source more until the next harvest.“

“Why did they take it?”

People were ill in Londinium too. It wasn’t just here in the Wilds that people had magic in their blood. In the city, too, people were sick and dying fast. Nothing and no one were able to prevent it, except for Marcus.

Marcus, who had come with us, whose father was still alive, had betrayed us. We thought we had escaped the reach of the council, that Devyn had triumphed in returning me home. But we hadn’t beaten them. They had given us up, allowed us to leave so we would bring Marcus deep into enemy territory. Marcus, who now knew everything. It had been Marcus’s idea to come to Anglesey, and no coincidence that the sentinels were here when we arrived. No. He had delivered us here.

How stupidly gullible. The praetor had engineered a similar deception when they had first caught Devyn, releasing him to see where he led them. Praetor Calchas had let him go a second time, but they had never planned for it to be permanent. The realisation trickled into my slow-moving mind. On setting us free, my return had already been set in motion and Devyn had been poisoned, not expected to last until midwinter. With him gone they would have expected that I would docilely return to the fold.

The man I had thought my friend, who had accused me of selfishness, of only seeing the world through the spectrum of my own needs – he had done this. He had planned it all. If it hadn’t been for the surprise arrival of Gideon and Rion, I would now be halfway to Londinium.

“How did you know to come after us?” I asked as I turned back to the room.

The conversation stopped. A moment passed before Rion answered.

“Gideon found a note in your room. In it you said goodbye, that Marcus wanted to go to York now, and that you were leaving with him. I wouldn’t have followed,” he said, looking at the silent, scarred warrior, “but Gideon told me that it did not match what you had told him, which was that you had promised to return. Why bother telling me the story about York if you were actually going to Anglesey to marry?”

I absorbed this. I had been such a fool. Marcus had planned everything, had deceived us all along. Had he ever really thought his father dead? Had it just been another part of the lie he told us? The betrayal swirled in my brain until it too sank down into the numbness that filled me.

I carried Devyn’s ashes back to Conwy.

How different the outward journey had been – the road a path bathed in moonlight, brimming with hope. I had thought all my dreams were about to be realised. I was going to hold Devyn’s hand in front of a druid in an oak grove with waves lapping the shore and open starlit skies overhead. Instead a nightmare had awaited. The grove had been laden with dead bodies, not petals, and my intended groom had died in my arms. And yet I was married, though not to Devyn. The dark twist of fate tore a self-derisory laugh out of me, surprising both me and the warrior riding alongside me.

I supposed it was odd given the broken, grieving thing I had been yesterday. Today, I felt as though everything had happened to somebody else; none of it was part of my life. I was just unaccountably carrying a bag that contained all that was left of Devyn Glyndŵr. He had spent his whole life worrying about me, looking out for me, protecting me. Now he was gone, and it was as if he had never existed. Apart from my being here, riding along the coast of Cymru. If he had truly never lived would I now be in Londinium, preparing for a day of shopping and lunch, fussing over my darling husband, the wonderful Dr Marcus Courtenay? I suppose I would, and that version of me was probably happy, perfectly content, playing at life as a grown up until she did her duty and popped out the requisite children.

I also had a child, I remembered hollowly. How would I raise one out here? Did these people send their children to a school like citizens?

Of course, they did, though I supposed as a lofty royal my child would have a tutor – like Rion and Devyn had had Callum when they were young.

Marcus might be back in the city already. I had no real idea how long it took to sail down the coast of Cymru, around the awkward toe of the island, Bronwyn’s ancestral home of Kernow, and along the underside until they came around and entered the Tamesis back into Londinium. Would they creep back in quietly or arrive with a great announcement and be hailed as heroes? There was the small inconvenience of Marcus’s recent trial and labelling as a traitor to the city, but I had no doubt that Praetor Calchas would be able to explain that all away as part of the grand plan to steal a cure from the natives.

They would have to get Marcus a replacement bride. The void I had left would be hard to fill. Where would they get a new woman with so much magic in her blood to provide babies now?

Would my daughter have much power? She would certainly inherit mine. The power of the Lakes was inherited directly through the still unbroken matriarchal line. Unlike me, she would be trained in it from the beginning. She wouldn’t stand uselessly on the shore while people she loved were killed. Drug or no.

Conwy rose up as imposing as ever, its grey granite walls a deterrent to all aggressors. If we had been here, we would have been safe. There were subdued throngs of people in the courtyard when we entered through the gates. News of the sentinels’ attack on the Holy Isle would have preceded us. Dry words, conveyed by a messenger, not the kaleidoscope of blood and fire and bodies and violence that it had been.

Many people crowded the courtyard. Llewelyn would have called the townspeople in behind the castle walls when news of the attack reached him. Now, here they all stood, gawking at our arrival despite the heavy freezing rain. Did we look the part, the small group of smoke-grimed warriors and bloodied druids trailing in after the tragic King of Mercia and his newly recovered sister? What was my role? Was I still seen as the beloved Lady of the Lake returned to heal the land anew, or was I now reviled as the betrothed of the man who had caused the slaughter of the holy folk and stolen their medical supplies? Was Devyn part of my story to them, the disgraced Griffin, childhood friend of Rion Deverell, the Oathbreaker who returned with the resurrected lost lady? His role in the story was done – did they care that he would play no further part?

Did they know that my own path ended with him? I didn’t know the road ahead. Where did I belong now? I had no home. Where did I go from here?

Hands reached around my waist and I blinked, realising that everyone had dismounted while I sat on my horse in the middle of the courtyard. I limply allowed the giant hands to lift me from my seat to the ground, holding carefully on to the bag that was hooked across my shoulder.

My body was small beside Gideon’s and for a moment I almost succumbed to the urge to lean in. To hide from all these people. There was deep silence as they watched us all, the surviving druids in their bloody, dirt-stained robes, the warriors with their martial gear soiled by pyre building, never having raised so much as a sword.