“Did you not say you marked it well? By all the saints, Brian, I begin to think you wine mazed.”
“Nay, m’lord, I’ve been searching for you. We thought ill had befallen when we couldn’t find you.”
Rhys jerked at the ties of his loosened braies. Damn the ache. “I only went to bathe at the pond—” He broke off suddenly and looked up. “My armor and helm. I left them there.”
Brian stared at him strangely; Rhys caught the glimmer of fear in his eyes. “Why do you stare?” he demanded.
“We found your armor and helmet by the pool earlier.” Brian swallowed heavily. “‘Tis near midday, and we despaired of finding you. You’ve been with her, haven’t you? The Elf Queen? Did she try to lure you away with her?”
Rhys said tightly, “I fully intend to check the wineskins when I return to camp. I’ve a notion they will be much lighter than when I left.”
When he went to move past him, Brian caught his arm, his voice hoarse. “‘Tis said that time is lost when one dances with the faeries. Sometimes, men never come back at all.”
Rhys pulled away, caught between irritation and chagrin. “Faerie? Are you entirely mad? More like a merchant’s daughter, is my guess.” He drew in a deep breath when Brian’s face flushed as red as his hair, and said more calmly, “Time may have passed more swiftly than I thought, but forget that prattle about elves and faerie queens.” He had no intention of admitting they had danced like children at a May festival. Brian would again leap to the conclusion that he’d been dancing with faeries. He shook his head. “I was with a maid until you frightened her away, although I confess I do not know how she fled so quickly.”
Brian’s gaze had moved past Rhys to the thick branches of a hawthorn, then riveted on a nearby copse of trees. He made a strangled sound and croaked, “Look, the trees! Oak, Ash, and Thorn—’tis the faerie triad. Your maid is a witch who has turned herself into a hawthorn to escape.”
Claims of faeries were bad enough; accusation of witchcraft was dangerous. “Devil take you, Brian. She is no faerie or witch, but a comely maid.” He gave an impatient motion of one hand. “She’s gone, and it may be for the best. We’re near twenty leagues from Coventry and will have to ride swiftly to make up the time I’ve wasted here. A hard ride should cure any more talk of elves. Cease with seeing dragons behind every bush and gobelins under all the bridges.”
Brian didn’t reply, but Rhys was well aware of his fear and disapproval. It didn’t help to realize how much time had, indeed, passed while he was dancing in the glen. Midday sun shone brightly when they reached camp, and his men looked at him strangely, as if fearing that he bore the taint of the faerie world.
Even his Welsh squire, steadfast Morgan, who had been sent to him by his father from Wales, looked at him askance as he held out Rhys’s missing mail and sword. This disapproval he deserved. It was bad enough to be thought in dalliance with a faerie, but for a seasoned knight to abandon his mail and sword without a thought for his own safety bordered on idiocy.
“Bring my horse,” he said as he took his armor and sword from Morgan. “We ride for Coventry. Inform the foot soldiers they are to wait in Wytham for our return. We make faster progress on horses.”
Morgan slanted a glance toward the sun in the noon sky but wisely did not offer any comment beyond a murmured “Ie, m’lord.”
Rhys readied his armor. Brian silently aided him in donning his mail, his very silence as telling as any accusation. Ignoring him, Rhys buckled on his sword as Morgan brought up his mount. It was one thing to dally with a winsome maid; it was dangerous to ignore duty and his new responsibilities. No knight or soldier willingly risked his life for an unfit leader. If he was to meet Owain’s messenger in Coventry in three days’ time, he must make up for time lost. Yet he did not regret the hours spent dancing in a meadow. It had reminded him that life did not have to be all hard edges and battle. There were things worth fighting and dying for besides a full purse and another man’s code of honor.
Mounting his sleek black horse, he spurred him forward. Dirt clods flew from Malik’s hooves in spattering arcs. Hoofbeats sounded like thunder. His men struggled to keep up with the relentless pace he set to reach Fosse Way, the ancient Roman road that led to Coventry. It was a hard pace meant to reassure his men of his purpose, yet did not ease the sharp memory of the maid who had slipped away.
“SO,” ELSPETH SAID as she stuffed washed and dried clothing into a leather bag, “you danced with him. Is that all?”
A flush heated her face before Sasha could avoid Elspeth’s quick stare. It seemed to her that the old woman had the Gift as well, for she guessed Sasha’s thoughts and deeds much too often for comfort. While Elspeth’s opinion of maidens who pursued rogue knights did not deter Sasha, it was unpleasant to feel her disapproval. Well, she could not alter her course now that she had found the prophecy’s champion.
“Nay,” Sasha said, “it’s not quite all.” She met Biagio’s sudden glance of interest with a lifted brow. “We . . . kissed.”
“Oh no, not another like the French troubadour.” He groaned in disgust. “Shall I just slit the knight’s throat now and save us the pain of having to listen to his sighs and moans of everlasting love?”
She smiled sweetly. “If you think you can, Biagio.”
Sasha ignored his muffled curse. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up from the doused fire on the cave floor. Bundles were packed, and the donkey brayed softly in the sudden silence. She looked back at Elspeth.
Her lips were pressed into a taut line. “So you kissed, did you? And you a chaste maid—”
“By my own choice, you might recall. If I had wanted to lose my maidenhead, I’d have done so by now. ‘Tis not as if I haven’t had offers.” Biagio snorted, and she shot him a dark glance. “I’ve seen nothing to recommend a wrestle in the hay or clumsy gropings in the dark, whether prince or peasant. It seems a sordid business to me and not worth my trouble.”
Elspeth’s lips pursed. “That is not the point. For once, I agree with Biagio. Your wonderful champion is but a hedge knight and more likely to end up a nuisance than a worker of miracles.”
“A few kisses are not likely to turn him into Tristan,” she said tartly. “Though if I knew of a love potion guaranteed to make a knight fall at my feet, I’d try it on him. And not for the reason you might think.”
It was a wonder the ground didn’t open up and swallow her for telling such a lie. Not that she truly wanted him to fall in love with her, but it would make it much easier to solicit his aid if he wanted more from her than just a tussle on the ground. Worse, she didn’t dare admit just how arousing she’d found the tussle on the ground.
Elspeth gave her another hard look. “I hope you don’t think a few chaste kisses are enough to lure him to a war.”
“Are you suggesting I yield more?” Sasha smiled at her mutters of outrage. “Ah, Elspeth, you must know I’ll be cautious. I want nothing more from him than the use of his sword and an army.”
“Oh aye,” Biagio muttered, “only an army. If you think the soldiers I saw quaking in the trees at the mere mention of faeries can win back your land and avenge your wrongs, you dream.”
“I didn’t say I knew how he’d manage it, only that he will. He’s the promised knight, the fierce warrior of—”
“The prophecy,” he finished for her, irritable and glaring. “I’ve only known you for five years, and I’m weary of hearing about this eminent prophecy. I quake to think how Elspeth must feel.”
“Aye,” Elspeth said. “‘Tis beyond thought. But changing the course of the Nile would be easier than changing Sasha’s mind once she’s determined to do something. I can only hope that this time, it won’t cause disaster.”
Draping his lean body over a rock shelf, Biagio nodded. “Yea, ‘tis a gloomy thought. Until now, I thought the worst notion she’s had was that w
e all masquerade as rope dancers for that Austrian duke, but this is—”
“It was a good idea,” Sasha said coldly. “A brilliant idea. We would have been greatly rewarded—if you had but followed simple instructions.”
Looking pained, he straightened. “Simple? Flying from the musician’s gallery of a great hall to swing over the heads of dining noblemen is simple?”
“It would have worked. I have seen it done. There are gears and pulleys and a series of ropes, but one has to have the good sense to listen to how they’re used. You did not listen. It ruined everything.”
“Say that to someone who hasn’t fallen in the midst of a table of pies filled with live birds,” he retorted. “The carnage was worse than the sacking of Rome. Blood, feathers, and birds everywhere, darting about, pecking at me. . . . Most of the blood was mine, you know.”
Studying his sulky expression, Sasha smiled. “The peak of the evening. The duke was most entertained. He said he’d rarely laughed so heartily. And the reward was adequate, considering the botch you’d made of it.”
Biagio’s rude comment was to be expected, and she didn’t begrudge him his rebuttal. It was only fair. Then he added darkly, “Do not forget our flight from Windsor. A narrow escape.”
“I have not,” she said shortly. It was true. It still haunted her.
Elspeth wouldn’t look at her but continued stuffing linen into the leather bag without regard for Sasha’s neat folding. Tension settled, lying like shrouds of smoke in the dank air of the cave. After a moment, Biagio sullenly withdrew to the front of the cavern to pack the small wooden cart with their belongings and feed Socrates, the donkey. Sasha waited.
Turning at last, Elspeth met her gaze. “How do you know this is the man? How do you know he can be trusted? I fear him. I fear for you.”
She had been expecting this. The only weapon she had was the truth. “I don’t know for certain, Elspeth. I will follow the knight to Coventry. Do you know where that is, perchance?”
A wave of dismay emanated from Elspeth. “Coventry. Twenty leagues from here . . .” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. But much closer to . . .
Sasha stared suspiciously when Elspeth suddenly began to think of spring flowers and a wonderful invention she had once seen in Constantinople. She knew this trick. And she had no intention of being distracted with the memory of an amazing mechanical angel that blew a trumpet. Her eyes narrowed.
“What are you planning, Elspeth? You might as well tell me, for I’ll learn of it swiftly enough when you’re not so guarded.”
“Forsooth, but you are a rude child at times. Haven’t I tried to teach you that it’s impolite to meddle in people’s minds?” Elspeth smiled slightly. If you are rude enough to listen to my thoughts, then hear this: If the knight refuses your request, you must go with me to my village, and we’ll hear no more of the prophecy . . . Swear it, Sasha, for I am getting old, and I must see you safe . . . Swear it this time, for my sake . . .
There it was, the plea that she’d always feared would come. The end to it all, the forsaking of the prophecy. But Elspeth was getting older, with gray streaking the hair beneath her kerchief, lines of worry creasing her dear face, and a slower step. It would be cruel to continue dragging her from one place to another much longer, heartless to abandon her after all these years, even in her own village. Danger rode swift behind them. She felt it. And yet . . .
“If I cannot get the knight to agree,” she said slowly, feeling as if each word was torturously pulled from her lips, “I will speak no more of the prophecy.”
“And you’ll stay with me in my village? Swear it, swear . . .”
Closing her eyes, Sasha nodded. “Yea, I swear it.”
“SHALL I OFFER Master Beakins more?” Elspeth murmured.
Sasha pulled up the hood to her cloak despite the warmth of sunshine on her face. She looked over at the tradesman who had just refused their offer and was demanding a much higher price. Beefy and grinning, he waited confidently, his thoughts telling her all she needed to know.
Oafish peasant . . . yea, I can ‘ardly wait ta tell Walter Pinchbeck ‘ow I sold tha’ crazy beastie for two crowns . . .’is eyes’ll fair drop outa ‘is ‘ead, they will . . . ‘im wi’ tha’ nag ‘e wants only a crown fer . . . aye, ‘e’ll be fit ta’ bury . . .
Smiling, Sasha ran a light hand down the neck of the bay mare quivering by the fence post. “Nay. Beakins will take what we offer and think himself shrewd for getting so much. Mention that Walter Pinchbeck has another horse much finer than this one for only a crown.”
Elspeth returned to bargain with Beakins, speaking her native English fluently as she haggled with him. Half-listening, Sasha knew when Biagio approached, hearing the familiar cadence of his steps before he reached her.
Leaning on the fence post, he stared thoughtfully at the bay. “The collier said that Beakins is the kind of man ‘twould sell you a white-oak cheese in place of a real one. He also said this horse is dangerous.”
“Not dangerous, just misunderstood.”
A frown creased Biagio’s darkly handsome face. “Why do you want a horse when we have a placid beast like Socrates to draw our cart?”
“Because until now, I had not met this horse.”
Biagio muttered something in Italian, shaking his head. Sasha laughed at the brief image that flashed through his mind. She couldn’t blame him at times. But once she’d seen this mare, there was no other choice. She had to purchase the horse. Coventry was still leagues away, and a broken cart axle was proving a frustrating delay. Now, she could ride on alone to find Rhys, though it would be difficult to escape Elspeth’s close eye.
Murmuring softly to the quivering mare, she scratched between her ears. The nostrils flared open like pink blossoms. Sunlight glittered on the deep brown hide that had been oiled to make it gleam. Horses were easily drawn to her. She sensed their moods and could soothe them when agitated. And agitate them when necessary.
Elspeth returned in triumph, and Sasha eyed her with growing amusement. Her tall, bony frame was clad in a rough wool tunic with a hood, a surcoat, baggy hose, boots, and a wide belt. She looked for all the world like a freeman. Which was their intention. It was a masquerade they frequently employed as they traveled. Few tradesmen would bargain fairly with a youthful foreigner or a woman, but found it easy to haggle with a freeman. And it gave Elspeth such great satisfaction to best them.
“Dieu merci,” Elspeth said wryly in French when she reached the fence, “the mention of Walter of Pinchbeck had a most rapid effect on Beakins’s price. So, we have a horse to feed now, as well as the donkey.”
Sasha laughed. “Beakins has a private feud with Master Pinchbeck and must outdo him at everything. I hoped that would help.” She stroked the animal’s fine head, murmuring, “Beakins thinks ‘twill kill us before we take her far. But I know better.”
To the horse, she whispered in the secret language, “We shall call you Beyosha, and you will run like the wind.”
Snorting nervously, Beyosha pranced at the end of a lead rope as Sasha led her out of the fenced yard, hooves dancing along the hard-packed mud. Elspeth kept close to the donkey and cart and out of the way of Beyosha’s hooves, which had earlier kicked a hole in the gate. The agitated horse was given a wide berth by the villagers, some laughing to themselves that Beakins was finally rid of the worthless animal.
Sasha ignored the jumble of half-formed thoughts whirling around her in a blend of rough English and occasional French. She focused her talent on the blank fear controlling the mare. This was nothing like the use of her Gift on people, for animals were guided by unformed impressions and vague images. There was no fear of death, for it was too abstract for the simple animal mind, but there was a very real fear of pain, for that was a familiar experience.
As she focused on the horse, she began to absorb some of its fear. S
he channeled it as she had learned to do long ago, letting it flow through her without affecting her.
“Beakins abused her,” she told Elspeth when they reached the yard of the Boar’s Head Inn at the north end of Edwardstowe. “‘Tis why she’s so afraid and angry.”
Elspeth nodded, not surprised by this revelation. “Easily believed.”
Relinquishing the horse into Biagio’s custody with strict instructions for her care, Sasha gave Beyosha a pat on her soft nose and followed Elspeth into the inn. The common room was smoky and dark, filled with a clash of conflicting emotions that she quickly blocked from her mind. They found a table near the rear of the room away from the worst of the smoke and noise, and sat upon hard wooden benches.
From across the table, Elspeth eyed her gravely. Sasha tucked her hands into the loose sleeves of her cotte beneath the cloak and shrugged. Elspeth’s opinion of her determined pursuit couldn’t be helped. Three days trapped in this village had been hard on all of them. Especially on her. What if Rhys had already left Coventry? How would she ever find him? It would be hard but not impossible. He was no hedge knight as Elspeth thought, for she had heard the man named Brian call him my lord. No hedge knight was a lord. Nay, he was much more, though he traveled simply, apparently not wanting his identity known. If not for Brian—whose fevered mind had contained little but a blank fear of faeries—she wouldn’t even have known they were traveling to Coventry before going to Wales. Mounted horsemen traveled swiftly. He could be anywhere by now. Surely he would use the Fosse Way, for it was a straight road from Ilchester across England to Lincoln, less prone to impassable mud but bedeviled with outlaw bands.
The sojourn in Edwardstowe to fix the cart axle had ruined her hopes to follow the knight to Coventry, but she still hoped to engineer a meeting with him on his way to Wales. If she could persuade him to act as her champion, she would regain all. The prophecy would be fulfilled and her parents avenged. Yet Fate seemed against her. It was not an easy thing to follow a large band of knights even when she knew their destination. Now that she had a horse, she would slip away on her own and ride toward Coventry.
The Magic Page 4