Sunlight faded to gloom; the threat of rain grew more imminent. She quickened her pace through the hazel coppice. The long hem of her berry red skirts caught on a branch, and she paused to untangle it. She sensed the approach of a knight, the turbulence of his thoughts reaching her long before she heard him. Brian. She stopped and waited.
Sasha . . . not a likely name for a faerie queen . . . a trick, and he can’t see it. . . . The witch will most like kill his horse before she cures it, but would he listen if I tried to tell him of it? Nay, Rhys is too reckless for his own safety. . . .
More thoughts emanated from him, some couched in Gaelic phrases that she didn’t know, all accompanied by visions of Rhys sailing away in a crystal boat and of herself leering over him and laughing evilly. The man was truly besotted with his fears. And she didn’t at all like the way he viewed her, harsh and dark and wicked—a veritable crone. Very well. If he thought her so demonic and powerful, she would be what he expected.
When he drew close, a vague shadow among the tall, slender branches of hazel coppice, she began to chant softly, lifting her voice in a meaningless patter of sounds. The hem of her cotte spun around her ankles, and the tiny bells on her feet tinkled as she began to swirl, dancing lightly among harebells, primroses, wood anemones, and red campions growing beneath the willowy poles of hazel.
Then she bent, swooped, plucked the fragile flower of a harebell, and held it up to the thin threads of light piercing the wood. “Bluebell, bluebell, bring me some luck before tomorrow night,” she chanted, loud enough for him to hear her, then knelt to tuck the blossom into her shoe.
Still crouched on the ground, she looked up at Brian where he stood, transfixed. “Greetings, fair knight. Ask me anything, and I will be bound to tell the truth, for I wear the bluebell in my shoe.”
It was a common enough myth that she was certain he had heard it before. He must have, for he started toward her then, his mind set on extracting the truth from her.
“You are called Sasha,” he said, then cleared his throat of the rough rasp in his words. “I would know what you want with my lord.”
Her brow lifted, and she curved her mouth in a faint smile. “He knows what I want from him.” She reached out, fingers grazing the length of a catkin that had opened and was dangling from a slender hazel branch. “But what does he want from me?” She looked past the yellow cluster of blooms resting against her palm, eyes lingering on Brian’s face. Her fingers curled around the catkin, and she yanked it from the branch, holding it tightly in her hand, the faint smile still playing on her mouth. “Shall I make wreaths of hazel for us both, Sir Brian? We can wear them on our heads, and none will be able to see us, ‘tis said. Have you ever tried it? Have you ever danced with the faeries on Midsummer Eve? Or picked mugwort before sunrise and said Tollam te artemesia, ne lassus sim in via. . . .?”
Brian took a swift step backward, one hand fumbling at the pouch on his belt, fingers shaking as he clutched a charm. Sasha laughed. She couldn’t help it. This big, stalwart knight looked absolutely ridiculous quivering with fear of faeries.
Her laughter made him halt, and he took a deep breath and glared at her. “You won’t have him. I won’t let you spirit Rhys away from here. He may not believe, but I know about elves and faeries, the Daoine Sidhe that think they are so clever. . . . You won’t have him.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to refute his vow, but she stopped herself from saying anything. To put him even more on the defensive would be foolish beyond measure, and she had already tweaked him enough. So she allowed herself a careless shrug before saying, “If you want me to heal his horse, you’d best take me there before I’m out of my charitable mood. Later, I may not feel like it.”
Brian gaped at her, eyes wide. “I did not tell you why I came—”
“You didn’t need to tell me. The horse was lame yesterday, but your lord did not heed my warning.” She dropped the catkin and brushed the yellow dusting of pollen from her palms. “First, I must fetch my chest of herbs and salves. ‘Twill do me no good to see the horse without my herbs.”
When Brian remained standing as if rooted to the spot, she said impatiently, “Do you come? Or must I go by myself?”
He jerked forward, reluctance in every line of his body as he followed her through the coppice to the beech glade where the Saracen tent still stood. Wind fluttered the jewel colors, and Biagio struggled with ropes and stakes. He paused and looked up, dark brow lowering when he saw her with Rhys’s knight.
“I need my chest of herbs,” she said to forestall anything he might say to Brian, “so fetch it from the cart.”
There was a moment of tense silence. Sunlight flickered erratically through clouds and beech leaves, glittering on Biagio’s dark hair as he glared at them. Then he shrugged and moved to the open cart, where it tilted at an awkward angle on one wheel. The broken axle was still being repaired by the village wainwright. Biagio flipped up the covering and dragged out her chest of herbs.
“You’re almost out of dragon wings and unicorn hearts,” he said with a bland expression, handing her the small leather cask.
Sasha bit her lip, ignoring Brian’s quick wheeze of horror. “Then fetch me some more from wherever it is you got the last,” she said. “I’ll be in the stable should Elspeth need me.”
Brian was remarkably quiet on the trek to the stables, though she had to erect her mental barriers to hold back the barrage of terrified thoughts and images that flooded his mind. Despite his distrust and fear of her, she couldn’t help but admire his single-minded devotion to his lord and friend. He truly cared about Rhys, truly loved him with an emotion only one man could feel for another. It was different from that felt by women, just as strong in its way, but as different as night from day. So she could forgive him a little for wanting her far away from Rhys.
That did not mean she had any intention of abandoning her plan. On the contrary. It only strengthened her determination. For if Rhys inspired this kind of devotion from his man, he was definitely the kind of man who could regain all she had lost.
The stable was gloomy and ill-lit and filled in every corner with moaning men and the fetid stink of sickness. Appalled, Sasha paused just inside the door. She was assaulted with an overwhelming torrent of painful impressions, and quickly threw up her barriers. But it had been enough. It had not occurred to her that these men would feel quite so badly, or that the potion she had so blithely put into their wine to detain Rhys would cause this kind of suffering. No, she had envisioned only enough discomfort to keep them from riding away from Edwardstowe just yet.
Filled with remorse, she made her way to the stall that held the huge black horse. The animal snorted, tossing its great head and whipping the long mane into tangles. She set down her chest of herbs and opened it, channeling her energies into the horse. As she had done with Beyosha, she removed everything from her mind but the distressed animal, until she began to feel its energy and the source of its pain. Yea, as she had told Rhys, there was an inner bruise in the pastern. The unguent applied by his squire had not harmed the soreness, but neither had it helped.
The tall, thin squire joined them; he moved to take hold of the steed’s bridle and keep him still enough to twist a length of rope around the soft upper lip. It was a common method used to immobilize a feisty horse. Sasha glanced up and shook her head. “There is no need for that. It will only distress him more.”
“If I do not,” the squire muttered, “you will never be able to get close enough to apply your mixture.”
She smiled. “Do not worry about that. He will not hurt me.”
A flutter of skepticism mixed with Welsh phrases she did not understand flickered through the squire’s mind, along with a grim relish. None of these men trusted her, and each hoped that her failure would prove to their lord that she was not worthy of his attention.
She set out to prove
them wrong.
Crooning soft words in the secret language of horses that she’d learned from the desert men of Arabia—whose ways with horses were legend—she lifted the small bowl of noxious-smelling salve and a length of brown cloth and approached the nervous steed. The black hide rippled with tension, muscles sleek and shiny and powerful. Snorting, he strained against the squire’s hold, eyes rolling to show the whites as Sasha drew close.
“Step back,” she said softly, and the squire shook his head.
“Nay, for then it would be me who must explain to his lordship why his horse’s hooves are stained with your blood.”
She put a hand on the quivering flanks, and the horse snorted but did not shy away at her touch. She smiled. “See? He won’t harm me, but you must move away. You make him nervous.”
“I make—? Devil take ye!”
“Intabih likalāmik,” she murmured softly, and the squire crossed himself.
“She speaks the devil’s tongue! ‘Tis a curse, I vow.”
“I merely told him to watch his mouth,” she said coolly when Brian stepped forward.
“Move away, Morgan,” Sir Brian said suddenly. “She’s been warned.”
Sasha knew his game. If he thought to rid himself of her that way, he was mistaken.
Morgan reluctantly loosed his hold on the animal’s bridle and stepped back, pressing against the oak wall a few feet away.
“Move out of the stall,” she said firmly. “I don’t want you in the way while I tend him.”
Swearing in Welsh and English, the squire surrendered angrily, giving her a harsh glance as he obeyed. Sasha ignored him and began talking softly to the stallion, edging her way toward his head. Though nervous, he whickered, his animal mind focused on the source of his pain, the sharp, spearing thrusts in his foreleg. She lightly explored his muscles with her fingertips, felt the strain of tendons that were too taut, the flinch when she touched a tender spot.
When she reached his head, she skimmed a hand over the gleaming withers and down his shoulder to his leg, then lower until she knelt at the huge hooves. Heavily shod and lethal, these were the same hooves that could shred a fallen man and inflict great damage on other horses. But the animal stood still and trembling, sensing she would help him as she lifted one of the heavy hooves and propped it on her bent knee. The horse’s balance shifted to three legs, and as she worked, smearing salve, finding sore points to apply pressure, she crooned softly in the rhythmic language of horses. She praised the stallion’s power and beauty, his great heart and his ancestors, likened him to the wind and the heavens. He seemed to understand and agree. As she worked, he lowered his great head and nuzzled her hair softly, blowing moist warmth gently on her neck.
She tied a length of soft brown cloth around the leg in a firm knot, then rose. Her back ached from the strain of kneeling and holding the weight of one huge leg. Pressing her hands against her spine, she bent backward to ease the cramped muscles.
“Let me do that,” a deep voice said, and she looked up to see Rhys. He watched her, a faint smile on his mouth and an amused gleam in his eyes. He indicated Brian and Morgan with a nod of his head. “Their tongues are tied in awe by your prowess.”
She shrugged. “It is more like fear than awe, as they worry you might replace them with someone who knows horses better.”
He leaned on the top board of the stall. “There’s no fear of that. I am loyal to those who are loyal to me.”
“A wise attitude. Many men are easily swayed.”
“I am not. Although I’ve no objections to asking for help from others when it’s been offered.” He gestured to the empty bowl on the stall floor. “What did you use on his leg?”
She glanced at Brian and couldn’t resist a jest. “Chopped faerie wings and the heart of a unicorn.”
“No dragon teeth?”
“I used them all during the last full moon.” She pressed her lips together to hold back her laughter at the expression on Brian’s face. He seemed to be laboring under the suspicion that he was the butt of a jest, while still struggling with his own superstitions. The latter won.
“She did send her servant for more dragon wings, my lord,” he muttered fiercely. “I heard her.”
When Rhys looked at her, Sasha shrugged. “‘Twas a jape, but that pigheaded man would never know it.”
“Then don’t torment him. It may turn out that I’m the fool for not believing in elves and faeries.”
She smiled. “Yea, my lord. It may.”
His brow lifted. He didn’t reply to that, but patted the horse’s neck. “Malik al-Layl,” he murmured, catching her by surprise.
“You speak Arabic?” she asked in her language, but his quizzical glance answered her question. She nodded. “It is a good name for him,” she said in English. “King of the Night.”
“Yea, so I thought when the man who sold him told me his name.” He held out his hand and said, “Come with me, lovely Elf Queen, and I’ll pay you for your tending of my horse.”
“Do you not wish to wait and see if I’ve cured him?” she teased. “What if he grows wings, or shrinks to the size of a dormouse?”
His lips twitched with amusement. “I’ll chance it.”
Shrugging, she moved to her chest of herbs, then paused and looked up at him. “I’ve a potion that will ease your men if you wish to chance that as well.”
“While I would chance it, I’m not certain my men feel quite so bold.” He hesitated, then said, “But if you offer it, there may be some whose misery will overcome their fear of worse.”
She picked through the dried leaves and flowers stored in neat compartments in the chest and gathered two kinds of mint, rosemary, and rue, to brew into a tea. She rose and held them out to the squire. “If you doubt my intentions, ‘tis best to brew the potion yourself. Boil these with honey and feed the mixture to those men who wish to feel better.”
After a quick glance at Rhys, Morgan took the leaves and nodded. He muttered something in Welsh, and Rhys replied in the same language. The squire shrugged and backed away, taking the leaves with him.
Rhys turned to her and held out his hand again. “Come, lady fair, and we’ll test the tavern’s hospitality. Perhaps a miracle has happened, and the meat isn’t charred.”
She hesitated. There was more to the genial smile than met the eye, though she didn’t know what it could be. Yet, to refuse would only delay matters, and she had not broached the subject of his pledge to her. It had to be done at just the right moment, or she risked his anger outweighing his sense of honor.
She wiped her hand on her skirt and put her fingers in his palm, wishing she had been able to wash away the reek of horse chestnuts and goose fat. She should have changed clothes. Her garment was only a simple peasant’s cotte, green and mulberry with long sleeves smocked at the elbows and a cloth girdle binding it at the waist—nothing pretty. A brisk wind tugged at the wide hem, flapping it around her ankles so that she had to hold it down with one hand. Clouds rolled across the sky, and a drop of rain spattered on her arm. Rhys matched his long strides to hers so that she didn’t have to run to keep up with him; he still held her hand atop his sleeve, occasionally glancing down at her.
The irritating thump was back, and that quiver in her stomach. She hated it. Hated the way he made her pulse race when he smiled at her, his eyes shadowed by those long lashes, the white gleam of his teeth so bright it summoned an answering smile. Appalling that she couldn’t help reacting, intolerable that she had to suffer an overpowering need to touch his face, drag her fingers over his jaw and mouth—there must be a potion to cure this. She’d research it. There had to be some herb or plant or curative that would keep her from smiling like a mindless imbecile at him, no doubt looking for all the world like those women she’d always scorned.
“Mind the stoop,” he murmured, and s
he realized with a flush of chagrin that she’d been looking up at him and nearly stumbled over the tavern’s low stone threshold.
Kefāyah! she scolded herself. How must she look, gaping up at him like a tavern wench, probably with the same vacuous expression. Her face still felt hot as he escorted her to a table, ignoring staring patrons as best she could, feeling like the worst kind of fool. It was penance.
Retribution for dosing his men. And for tweaking Brian . . . teasing Biagio. Her sins were many, should she care to count them. She deserved this and should be grateful it wasn’t worse.
But it was hard to be grateful when he straddled the bench beside her, a powerful leg on each side, his knee grazing against her thigh as he leaned close, so close it was easy to see that his eyelashes were tangled. She resisted the impulse to untangle them and folded her hands tightly in her lap. Her head bent, she stared determinedly at the scarred surface of the oak table.
“Tell me,” he said softly in a voice rich with humor, “how you have managed to be so wise in the ways of horses and herbs.”
This was one occasion when the truth wouldn’t hurt. She lifted her gaze to the bare skin of his throat above the open neck of his tunic. “There are men in the deserts of Arabia who are very wise with horses, as I told you. What little I know, they taught me.”
“And the salve—it wasn’t faerie wings and unicorn hearts, but it would interest me to know what you used.”
“Horse chestnuts.” She dared lift her gaze to his face, smiling slightly. “Crushed and mixed with goose fat, it can be very effective. Nothing magical, nothing brewed in a mushroom ring on Midsummer Eve, just a simple salve.”
“You enjoy posing as a mystical faerie, I perceive.”
“Don’t be too certain ‘tis just a pose.” She drew a finger down the deep crease of a dent in the oak table and said lightly, “I could be a princess in disguise, for all you know. Or the Elf Queen, come with a crystal boat to sail away with you to the land of the faeries.”
The Magic Page 12