The Magic
by
Virginia Brown
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-912-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-949-0
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 1996, © 2019 by Virginia Brown writing as Juliana Garnett
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, in July 1996
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Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Knight with sword © Vladimir Nikulin | Dreamstime.com
Medieval Woman in fairy stream © Captblack76 | Dreamstime.com
Frames of medieval style © Lightmood1 | Dreamstime.com
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Dedication
To Lisa Higdon, for love and hours of patient listening.
To Amelia Bomar, for going to Wales and bringing back tons of great stuff—and sharing it—and to her daughter Allison Lee for a love of medieval magic.
To Lisa Turner, for rescuing me as always with her own special herbs and magic.
And last, in memory of Sir Reginald Puppytoes, who gave me fifteen years of loyalty and love. You’ve left behind an empty space, Reggie, but I know you’re where the sun is always shining, the grass is always green, and the squirrels are always just a little bit faster.
To My Readers
To lend an air of authenticity to The Magic, I chose to include words and phrases that would have been common to the characters, but confusing for us modern readers. Instead of interrupting the flow of the story, I provided a glossary at the end of the book with definitions. They are in chronological order as they appear in the story. I hope it adds to the enjoyment!
This is a reissue as noted in the front of the book, but the basic plot remains the same save for a few added details. I wanted to expand on the motivations for both main characters, and add a bit more danger and sense of urgency to their story. If I succeeded, please let me know!
The magic of the spring returns
When flowers in painted meads unclose,
And man on earth’s new face discerns
A smile of sympathy for those
Who see in love a restful thing,
A banquet for the famishing.
—Walter of Chatillon, Twelfth Century
Chapter One
England, 1192
“DID YOU HEAR THAT?” A mailed knight jerked nervously at the reins of his mount and cast quick, furtive glances into the gloom. Mist had begun to rise like smoke, drifting along the ground in vaporish wisps. It was too quiet—too ghostly in the dim, dusky silence of the forest. Tangled tree branches of ancient oaks formed a high ceiling overhead, as ribbed and vaulted as a French cathedral. Diffused sunlight pierced the tight-knit canopy of new leaves in thready streamers to light the narrow road, a hazy contrast to the air of expectant darkness looming beyond.
A faint tinkling sound like tiny bells carried on the wind. It faded so swiftly Rhys ap Griffyn wasn’t certain he heard it. He pulled off his helmet to listen; light gleamed on blond hair, catching in thick strands dampened from the weight and heat of his helmet. Gray eyes narrowed as he surveyed the road and dense weald around them. Nothing stirred. No sound but the muffled thud of hooves on soft ground and the clink of harness disturbed the sudden hush.
The mailed knight rode closer to Rhys, looking around anxiously. “Did you hear it?”
Sir Brian was as full of superstition as an old woman. It would never do to let fear take hold of him. Rhys shrugged. “I heard only the wind.”
“Nay, this was different. It was strange. Like . . . faerie bells.” Brian glanced around the road nervously. His back stiffened, and one hand tightly gripped the loop of leather reins. His mount danced fretfully, pulling at the bridle’s bit.
One of the foot soldiers muttered uneasily, and Rhys sought to forestall more mention of faeries. “I heard only soldiers’ footsteps and the sound of hooves on deadfall.”
It was an unfortunate choice of words. Brian blanched, face paling beneath the noseguard of his helmet. “Do not look behind us, for the footsteps will be those of dead men.”
Losing patience, Rhys nudged his mount close and spoke low so only Brian would hear. “There are no footsteps of the dead. You frighten the men with such talk.”
Freckles stood out like splotches of mud against the pale skin stretched taut over Brian’s cheekbones and nose. He was past hearing sense. “‘Tis Lá Bealtaine. We shouldn’t be out. Spirits roam on the borderline eve between spring and summer, when it’s not one season or the other.” He paused to suck in a deep breath. “It’s a borderline hour, neither day nor night, the time when the faeries and spirits roam most freely.”
Several of the soldiers within earshot glanced around, gripping weapons as if to fight the spirits. Silently cursing Brian’s superstitions, Rhys leaned on the pommel of his saddle to gaze at him with open amusement. “Big as you are, do you think the Tylwyth Teg will be strong enough to carry you with them, Sir Brian?”
One of the Welsh archers laughed, although it sounded strained. Another said tensely, “Vsbrydnos.” The Welsh name for “spirit night” rippled through the ranks of Welshmen and only baffled the English soldiers and knights, yet they responded to growing anxiety with low murmurs.
Rhys settled his helmet atop his damp hair. “The spirit night will not harm us. Nor will the Tylwyth Teg.”
“In Ireland,” Brian said darkly, “we call them the Daoine Sidhe. And it’s been said about more than one man that the faeries captured him.”
“Pah! ‘Tis more likely wayward husbands invented excuses for angry wives,” Rhys said. “Claiming capture by the faeries would be enough to convince almost any goodwife that her husband was detained beyond his will.”
“You mock me,” Sir Brian said irritably when several of the men laughed. He glanced around, tugging off his helmet. Sweat plastered his red hair to his head. Splinters of light filtered through the roof of leaves, providing enough illumination to see the narrow road, but in the trees beyond, it had grown darker. Looking back at Rhys, he complained, “We should have lingered at the inn in the village. The maypole was lifted on the green, and there is to be feasting and merrymaking.”
“And winsome maids to go a’maying with—perhaps to get lost in the woods with while picking whitethorn flowers?” When Brian flushed, Rhys took advantage of the moment. “Nay, I know your way with the ladies. If we’d lingered, we’d not leave Wytham by Saint John’s Eve, nor reach Coventry in time to meet Owain’s messenger.”
“Aye, there is truth in that.” Brian turned his mount on the close road, his mood lighter.
He moved to replace his helmet, but his horse gave a shrill whinny and half reared, huge hooves thrashing in the air. Leaves shuddered as the animal backed into a hawthorn hedge thick with white flowers and thorns, and Brian cursed loudly as his helmet fell to the ground, rolling out of sight.
Suddenly all the horses began to plunge and snort, throwing the knights into turmoil. When his own stallion threw up his head and snorted, Rhys drew his sword and adjusted his shield. He’d been too long a soldier and knight not to trust the instincts of his warhorse.
Brian’s sword flashed in the gloom, as did those of the other men. Some muttered curses, others offered prayers as they tried to calm their mounts without being unhorsed. Footmen drew their swords in a clang of steel. Then one of the men gave a shout.
Rhys looked up. The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning, and he fought his horse to a standstill before he was able to focus on the object of this terror. His blood chilled.
In the middle of the road just ahead stood a small figure, wreathed in shreds of mist as if newly sprung from the very ground. Flowing robes of deepest purple completely draped the motionless form. Rhys made the sign of the cross over his chest, an instinctive ward against evil. A light peal of derisive laughter emerged from the cloaked apparition. Discomfited, he ignored the spurt of irrational dread and regained control of common sense.
He curbed his plunging mount and spurred forward a few steps. “Move from the road,” he ordered in English. Instead of immediately yielding, there was the sound of more amusement and a brittle tinkle like tiny bells.
“In nomine Patris,” Sir Brian moaned, crossing himself in a clink of chain mail that was echoed by the others. “Confiteor Deo omnipoténti, beátae María semper Virgini . . .” His prayer faded into silence.
Rhys lifted his sword; a runnel of sunlight skittered along the wicked edge of the blade. Light reflected from chain mail and shield in erratic sparks. It was warning and threat. He sought a conciliatory tone. “Seek the safety of the verge, ere you be trampled.”
Another laugh drifted toward him. Open denial of his authority. He could not see the face as the hood was pulled too far forward, leaving only a dark blur beneath. A spur to his horse or a quick thrust of his sword would remove the obstacle, yet he hesitated.
“. . . beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptíste,” Brian wheezed, inviting panic.
Enough. He risked rampant rebellion from his soldiers if he did not prevail, for they would scatter through the weald like crows. He would pluck this miscreant from the road.
He kneed his mount, but Malik only pranced nervously, tossing his head and snorting instead of charging. Rhys swore, uncertain if he was more angry or amazed at the horse’s refusal to obey a command.
Finally, the figure moved. One arm lifted slowly. A small hand was barely noticeable beneath the flowing garment. Rhys saw only a deep shimmering green on the underside; no weapon was visible in the folds.
The horses grew still, and an unnerving hush descended upon the forest road. Tiny bells chimed in the wind, and from the shadows of the hooded cloak came words in an exotic language Rhys had never heard—high, soft, and mysterious.
His horse shuddered, sleek black muscles rippling as the head stretched toward the source of the song. Rhys nudged him to move closer, but with a jangle of curb chain and bridle bit, the great head shook hard enough to whip the long mane about in a stinging brush. It wasn’t until the figure spoke again that the stallion calmed, but the words were smothered by Brian’s droning Latin prayer.
“. . . sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus sanctis, et tibi pater . . .”
Sir Brian’s confessional entreaty grated on Rhys’s uncertain temper. Devil, faerie, or enemy, this creature could not be allowed to make a mockery of him.
Clenching his teeth hard, he ordered, “Move from the path, or be ridden over. I have no time for foolishness.”
A snort of unfaerielike laughter greeted his command, and a gust of wind blew, shaking tree limbs and bells. His eyes narrowed. No mystical faerie bells, just the wind.
“. . . quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et ópere . . .”
“Cease, Sir Brian.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder in exasperation. When he turned back, the purple robe glided toward him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Nay, this was no reckless man barring the road, but a woman. There was a fluid grace and fragility to the dainty form that could not be achieved by any man he’d ever seen. It was almost as if this were a faerie on winged feet.
Curse Brian’s talk of elves and faeries—he had little patience with such superstitions. Life had taught him much harsher lessons than to believe in enchantment. It was not magic that ruled men’s fates, but the might of the sword.
A full score of knights and soldiers awaited his response. Squires and followers straggled behind. Wind rustled tree branches overhead with an eerie clacking sound, then it grew very still. No birds chirped; no normal forest sounds could be heard. Mist crawled along the ground, rising slowly, curling around the specter.
“Why do you block the road?” he demanded, switching from English to French. “We would pass.”
A sudden wind eddy lifted a spiral of dry leaves into the air in a slight whisper, and the figure stepped forward. A graceful lift of one hand pushed back the hood of her cloak. Rhys stared at her.
She was beautiful. Faerie-fragile and as luminous as moonlight on dark water, the maid staring up at him with a faint smile left him speechless. Lustrous hair, black as a raven’s wings, straight and shining, fell around her face, and her eyes—Jésu, but her eyes were as deep and dark as the night. She stared directly at him, and he was caught by the intensity of the eyes holding mysterious promises in their depths.
For what seemed like hours but in truth could only have been a moment, he stared into that liquid gaze. Until she broke the spell.
“Greetings, fair knight,” she said in soft, perfect French. “I bar your path only to warn you. The bridge ahead has been washed away, and is not easily seen until too late to stop. I thought you should know of the danger.”
“God’s mercy on you for the warning.” He cleared his throat and gestured with his sword. “Did we frighten you?”
Soft laughter was accompanied by the tinkling of tiny bells as she shook her head. The movement dislodged a skein of her unbound hair; it fell in a gleaming ribbon over one shoulder nearly to her waist. She was close enough now he could almost touch her.
“Nay, brave knight. I was not frightened. Were you?”
“Frightened? By a wisp of a maid? Do you think we are children?”
“I thought perhaps you would fear the Beltane Eve, as many do.”
Sweet Mary, but she was bold to taunt him with a subtle, feline smile and sly words. “I fear naught,” he said shortly.
“Is that so? Courage is always needed in these fearsome times.” She took a step to one side, scattering shreds of mist that curled up around her like smoke. The teasing smile still played at the corners of her mouth.
Provoked, he said, “Times would be fearsome indeed, if the king’s knights were to fear a simple maiden in the midst of the road.”
The maid paused. Her gaze was eloquent and rich with scorn. “Yea, English knights are valorous indeed, as courageous as the king is said to be. Yet I’ve heard that Richard slaughters children.”
Rhys swung his shield over his shoulder again. A gleam of sunlight caught the metallic edge and flashed into his eyes. Blinking, he looked back at her. He could hardly deny it when it was true, but it didn’t sweeten his temper to be reminded of it. “Are you Richard’s enemy?”
The air grew radiantly bright. A thin shaft of light speared the gloom to fall directly on the maid’s face. She waved an imperious hand, and the sunlight shifted from her eyes as if commanded away.
“
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” Brian choked out, striking his chest with a mailed fist, and Rhys turned to give him a quelling glance.
When he turned back, the maid had faded into the shade of an ancient hawthorn; snow-white flower petals trembled delicately. Shadows darkened, obscuring all but her voice. “I am no man’s enemy. And I fear no man.”
Rhys blinked again, and the dwindling sunlight disappeared with a startling swiftness, as if an oil lamp had been doused. Staring into the black void, his first instinct was to call her back. “Demoiselle—you should not be alone in the night.”
Faint laughter drifted back on a sudden gust of wind. The sweet scent of hawthorn blended with a vaguely familiar, intriguing fragrance. In a trice, Rhys dismounted to follow her. His spurs clinked softly as he stepped into the tangle of trees.
Brian flung himself from his horse, catching up to Rhys to tug frantically at his mantle. “Nay, Rhys—do not. If you follow her, she will take you into the faerie world, and you will never escape.”
Rhys shook his arm loose impatiently. “Do not act a fool, Brian.”
But when he moved deeper into the trees where the maid had disappeared, he saw no sign of her presence. No broken branch gave indication of her passage. Only the faintly familiar whiff of fragrance remained as a teasing reminder. A gust of wind caught a slender branch that swayed toward his face, and he put up a hand to grab it. He grasped a handful of hawthorn flowers and swore softly when a barb found its way through the metal links of his gauntlets to prick him. No one could just disappear like that, like—like mist.
Brian nudged close to him, his voice rough with fear. “I cannot say if the maid was elf or faerie, but whatever, she has frightening powers.”
“Do you think she summoned the dark?” Derision hid his own misgivings; he knew not what to believe. “She’s only a simple maiden warning us of danger ahead. If she has any sense, she’s wise enough not to become too friendly with roaming knights.”
The Magic Page 1