Kim Iverson Headlee

by Snow in July

  “I know.” Del kissed the top of her head. “And that is just the smallest token of my eternal love for you, dearest Kendra.” He released her, his expression earnest. “But I do not have an eternity to spend here, and neither do you.”

  She dabbed her eyes with her gown’s sleeve. “I will see you again, won’t I?”

  “Of course.” He favored her with one final, lopsided grin. “À Dieu, ma soeur chere.” His grin broadened as he caught Alain’s astonished gaze. The look exchanged by the Saxon and Norman warriors thrummed with mutual understanding and respect.

  Still grasping the roses that she wouldn’t take from him, Alain watched intense light flare around her brother. The silver case glistened against Del’s chest as he disappeared.

  Kendra too began to fade.

  Alain lunged for her hand but caught only vapors.

  Chapter 23

  “SIR ROBERT?”

  Alain fought through the thinning mist, trying to place the voice. Female, but not Kendra’s: this one crackled like oak leaves in winter. At least it didn’t sound as if the speaker was using his name as a curse.

  “Wake up, Sir Robert, I implore you!”

  Wake up? How could he? Kendra was still lost to him.

  “My lord, the king has summoned you.”

  King William? Here?

  That had to be part of the dream.

  Alain willed his eyes open. Kendra’s servant—he couldn’t recall her name—loomed over him as he sat on the floor beside the bed, one hand stretched up, clutching Kendra’s. The fingers of his other hand were wrapped around the thorny stems of a pair of roses so dry, the petals rattled as he moved.

  As in the dream, one blossom was white and the other red. How he had acquired them, God alone knew.

  His joints were aching like fury, though nothing compared with the pounding in his head. He disengaged his hand and pressed it to his temple, groaning. The pain abated.

  He studied his palm, recalling the paste that the servant—Ethel, that’s what she’d called herself—had made. All that remained was a coating of white ash.

  He unknotted his legs and attempted to stand. Dizziness obliged him to cling to one of the bedposts for support, still holding the roses. He waved them as Ethel offered him a steaming posset. “What do you know of these flowers, good woman?” He displayed his other hand, palm outward. “Or this?”

  Ethel took the flowers in exchange for the mug. As Alain swigged a deep draught of the herbal concoction—chamomile, valerian, mint, honey, and God alone knew how many other ingredients he was too groggy to identify—he watched the servant study the roses.

  “Many believe that the Glastonbury thorn harbors miraculous healing powers when used by someone pure of heart,” she began, “though how it works no one knows.”

  Pure of heart. Alain snorted. The phrase couldn’t apply to him, the worst deceiver to fall into this world since Satan.

  After he drained the mug, Ethel took it and returned the flowers to him. “As for the roses, my lord, all I know is that when I woke, I saw them in your hand. I didn’t think you were holding them before, but”—she shrugged and gave him a gap-toothed grin—“I may not have noticed them.”

  Alain knew he hadn’t brought the roses with him.

  “But come, my lord. King William knows you were fighting yesterday, but he cannot be kept waiting forever.”

  Alain swallowed hard. “The king—here, now? I didn’t dream it?”

  “Most certainly not, my lord.”

  Ethel bustled into the anteroom and returned with an armload of fresh clothing. She deposited her bundle on the table, guided him behind an ornate oaken screen, and began handing him garments. He felt his cheeks heat to imagine Kendra asleep in the bed just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t be intruding like this, but since he didn’t have quarters in this manor yet, and since anyone could burst into the anteroom without notice, the screened area would have to suffice.

  When the servant gave him the tunic, dyed bright crimson and trimmed in fox fur much like Ulfric’s original gift, Alain surveyed it with resigned distaste before pulling it over his head and tugging it into place. Appearing before His Majesty in either a dressing gown or a charred, torn, bloody surcoat did not constitute valid options.

  He emerged from behind the screen, and Ethel helped him gird the tunic with his sword belt. The sword itself she’d left in the anteroom, where Ruaud had removed it, along with Alain’s mail and ruined surcoat, last night.

  Before following Ethel from the bedchamber, he stole a final glance at Kendra’s sweet face, gratified to observe that she seemed to have found a measure peace at last.

  Whether she would ever deign to share that peace with him remained to be seen.

  Honor constrained him to placing a chaste kiss on her forehead, though love urged him to express himself more fully. Such liberties, however, would have to wait until they’d been earned.

  His lips brushed her soft, warm skin, but she did not wake.

  He laid the roses beside her and slipped from the room.

  KENDRA AND Alain had worked out all their difficulties, and he sealed his promise with a kiss that, while chastely planted on her forehead, conveyed the breadth of his vow and the vast depth of his love.

  She knew she must be dreaming.

  Although…she didn’t seem to be as angry as she’d been the day before. She recalled having spoken with him; how that was possible when she’d been unconscious, she had no idea.

  The prospect of having everything set to rights between them, however, was not an unattractive one.

  The squeal of the door’s hinges intruded on her reverie, and she opened her eyes to watch a familiar figure exit the bedchamber.

  In trying to call his name, all she could manage was a throaty rasp. The door shut with a soft but no less final-sounding thump. Tears stung her eyes and nose.

  In a rush, the events of the past day thundered into her mind: Alain’s arrival and shocking revelation, her flight to King Harold’s cottage, and her failure to either heal him or accompany him in death.

  The latter puzzled her, because she’d stood upon eternity’s threshold, close enough to recognize her brother and mother. She tried to recall her experience—the light, the love, the joy—but earthly words could never suffice.

  Nor could she describe the fathomless sense of loss she’d felt when the eternal radiance faded, ending her chance to accompany king and kin.

  That was when she’d dreamed of seeing Alain—Del again too, she recalled. Del had spoken at length about choices and promises while Alain, oddly, had remained silent.

  Habit compelled her to reach toward her neck.

  The locket was gone.

  She sat up and groped around the pillows and covers, thinking that it might have slipped off while she slept.

  All she found was a trail of dried white and red petals strewn across the bed, leading to a pair of roses. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  Stretching forward, she touched the stems and pricked her finger on a thorn. The bright bead of blood testified to the flowers’ reality, but how could they possibly be what her heart claimed they were?

  She sucked her finger, her mind awhirl with snatches of memories; whether real or dreamed, she couldn’t discern. Recollection of Ulfric’s voice convinced her that he’d been inside the cottage with her, though she couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. But she also recalled hearing the clash of metal on metal and smelling the greasy smoke’s acrid stench.

  Smoke inhalation would explain why her throat felt on fire. Absently, she pressed her left hand to her neck.

  The pain stopped.

  That got her attention.

  She withdrew her hand to study her palm and recognized the Glastonbury thorn ash.

  Where in heaven’s name had that come from? Was it the residue from her final attempt to heal the king? Had Ethel put more of the herb in her hand, hoping that Kendra could heal herself?

  Or—
the name came unbidden to her mind—had Alain done this?

  He must have carried her here, she reasoned, but why hadn’t he waited for her to wake?

  I wouldn’t marry you unless it snowed in July!

  Her cheeks burning, she rolled over and buried her head in the pillow, unable to stem the flood of tears.

  Even the creak of the door opening couldn’t penetrate her grief.

  “Poppet?” Ethel’s concerned hand patted her shoulder. “Weep not, child. Things cannot be as bad as all that.”

  “Worse. I cannot die. And I”—she swallowed a sob—“I cannot live.” Not without Alain, and her accursed tongue had ruined whatever chance they might have had.

  “Of course you shall live, my lady. Many people are depending on it.”

  Kendra pushed herself over and wiped her eyes. “Would one of them happen to be a certain Norman?” she whispered.

  “Several, in fact.”

  “What? Besides Sir Ruaud, what other Normans would be here?”

  “His Majesty, the regent, and their guards. The army itself is camped below the hill.”

  She felt her jaw drop. “King William, with an army? Is Thornhill under siege?”

  “Nay, my lady.” Wringing her hands, Ethel glanced over her shoulder. “But the queen didn’t accompany His Majesty, only soldiers did.”

  A queasy pit formed in Kendra’s stomach. “Ulfric cannot be pleased with this development.”

  Ethel looked down. “My lord Ulfric lies beyond caring about such matters.” She covered her face with her apron.

  “You mean he’s—” Kendra’s breath caught, and she let it out slowly. “Oh, Ethel, I am so sorry.” Although she’d never cared for him in a romantic sense, and she had despised how he’d tried to use King Harold as well as herself for his own ends, Ulfric was, after all, kin. And this woman had known him the longest of anyone alive.

  Ethel dried her face with the apron and gave Kendra a frank look. “I’m sorry too, but his lordship did bring his end upon himself with his choices.”

  “How—what happened?”

  “I don’t rightly know, my lady. He—well, that is, after he—” She shuddered and averted her gaze, but Kendra prompted her to continue. Ethel sighed. “You’ll think me daft for certain, but he made his face into His Majesty’s likeness.”

  Kendra knew Ethel wasn’t referring to King William, and the report of what Ulfric had done came as no surprise. “The transformation killed him?”

  “Nay.” The servant chewed her lip. “Leastwise, I don’t think so, but my lord—that is, I fell and hit my head. When I woke up, the cottage was afire, and Thane Ulfric was lying in a puddle of blood with Sir Robert bending over him, whispering. Sir Robert was fair baptized in blood too.”

  Kendra’s head began reeling, and she pressed a hand to her temple. “And Sir Robert—did he save me from the flames?”

  “Aye, my lady. Carried you all that long way to the manor. Any fool with eyes could see he was half dead on his feet, but he wouldn’t let anyone help him till he got to the stairs. He’d have fallen too; you both would have if it hadn’t been for his friend, Sir—Sir—”

  “Sir Ruaud,” Kendra supplied when it became obvious that Ethel didn’t know.

  Ethel tried the name once or twice, pronouncing it more like “rood.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Sir Robert’s friend bore you up the stairs, with himself scarcely a step behind.”

  “Sir Robert kept vigil beside me all night?”

  “Vigil, aye, ’twould be one word for it.”

  Kendra felt her eyebrows tighten. “What do you mean?”

  “I intend no offense, of course, my lady, but”—Ethel’s chest heaved as she sucked in a noisy breath—“but you looked like death itself, all pale and still. I feared for you, so I gave him this.” She opened the pouch attached to her belt and extracted a pinch of tiny white petals.

  “He healed me?” Did he yank me away from my reunion with Mother and Del too?

  Ethel replaced the petals and spread her hands in a gesture of ignorance. “Mayhap he helped you heal yourself. He sounded unsure that it would work, though he seemed plenty eager to try.”

  Kendra wished she could recall more details of that odd dream, but she could conjure nothing past what she’d already remembered: the fog, Alain standing before her dressed in full, spotless battle gear, and Del, looking by turns like his effigy and as she had remembered him in life.

  And the roses.

  She studied them. “How did these get here, Ethel?”

  “Sir Robert, my lady.”

  “But how did he come by them?”

  Ethel shrugged.

  That these were the roses from Del’s tomb, Kendra no longer had any doubt. But what had become of the locket?

  WALDRON EDGARSON heard more than felt his joints creak as he labored to his feet inside Edgarburh’s chapel. Until Kendra’s disappearance, he hadn’t spent half as much time on his knees in his entire life.

  Since the departure of the fyrd, led by Alain, his prayer time had more than doubled.

  The other worshippers filed from the chapel. With most of the fyrd away, the building did not take long to empty. Father Æthelward gave Waldron an inquiring glance, but the thane expressed his preference for being alone. Giving an understanding nod, the priest went about the business of tidying the chapel.

  Waldron made obeisance to the crucifix and limped to the bank of candles representing Kendra, Alain, Lofwin, and the rest of the fyrd.

  So many flames, each one bravely holding back the gloom.

  Swiping at eyes that had become too moist, he wondered how many would remain lit after everyone else’s return.

  The association prompted him to turn toward Del’s tomb and the tall, thick tapers that illuminated it and Edwina’s in perpetuity. A shaft of sunlight piercing the chapel’s high, round window was dimming the candles’ effect, bathing Del’s sarcophagus in an ethereal glow.

  Something else glowed there too. He cautiously approached.

  Astonishment halted him.

  Del’s effigy claimed its usual position atop the lid, but Kendra’s roses had disappeared. In their place on Del’s chest lay her silver case, its black velvet cord tied in a second spot, where it must have been cut by the outlaws, and stretched taut.

  Had Alain recovered the piece, brought it to Edgarburh, and left it behind? Waldron couldn’t recall him having mentioned it; surely the lad would have returned it to Kendra rather than leaving it here.

  Unless Alain thought he might not live to present it to her?

  Waldron’s gut gave an uneasy twist.

  He picked up the locket and hefted it. Not sure what he’d been expecting, he acknowledged that it felt real enough.

  Strangest of all, he discovered after springing open the case, Del’s hair lay nestled inside. He had given it to Alain while the locket was still lost.

  Wagging his head, he snapped the lid closed and returned it to the effigy.

  He had prayed more times than he could count for some sign that Kendra, Alain, and his men would be all right. If this was indeed the requested sign, then God had to be the undisputed master of the impossible.

  REMEMBER THE promise I asked of you.

  Kendra jerked up her head, feeling her eyes moisten. “Del?”

  “My lady?” Ethel’s look radiated concern. “No one else is here.”

  Kendra shook her head.

  Seeking answers shall free you to seek happiness.

  The fog enshrouding her mind dissipated to reveal the whole dream and its attendant grief and joy. And she knew where she’d find the locket.

  She laid the flowers down and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  Ethel rushed to her. “Nay, my lady! You must rest.”

  “Please bring me a gown, Ethel.”

  Kendra stood on legs more wobbly than a newborn foal’s. Dizziness threatened, but between the bed post and Ethel’s support, she managed to stay upright.

  �
��Are you certain about this, my lady?”

  “Absolutely.” Kendra gazed toward the bedchamber’s door. “I have answers to seek.”

  If Alain believed he had no further reason to stay at Thornhill, she might not have enough time to finish her quest.

  Twitching her shoulder in a slight shrug, Ethel pulled a forest-green overdress from the chest and helped Kendra into it. As the servant was smoothing the linen, a ferocious pounding rattled the bedchamber door.

  “Open in the name of King William!”

  Kendra’s stomach clenched. “Go see what he wants, Ethel,” she whispered.

  Ethel tried to keep the door open just a crack, but the soldier would have none of it. He yanked it wide and shouldered past Ethel. She stumbled back with a whimper as more soldiers trooped in, swords drawn.

  “Lady Kendra of Edgarburh, you stand accused of high treason against the Crown—”

  “Nay!” she cried.

  “—for aiding and abetting Ulfric of Thornhill,” continued the soldier, “and the other Saxon thanes allied with him in his rebellion.”

  “’Tis not true,” she protested as one man gripped her shoulders while a second bound her wrists with rawhide cords. A third prodded her with the point of his sword. She planted her feet and glared at the contingent. “Even my lawless kidnappers treated me better than this. I demand to see the king!”

  “So you shall, Lady Kendra.” The soldier who had recited the charges grinned. “His Majesty prefers to pass sentence against traitors himself.”

  As the soldiers marched her from the chamber, a single thought looped in her mind:

  Alain shall denounce me as a traitor too.

  She was unprepared for how much devastation it wrought within her soul.

  Chapter 24

  ALAIN APPROACHED THE line of King William’s guards stationed in a tight perimeter around Thornhill’s hall. He suspected that more of the king’s men were watching the gates and manning the wooden palisade’s towers.

  Prisoners who’d survived yesterday’s action fit to work today had been pressed into service to erect a gallows in front of the hall. He grimaced at the irony.