My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  An oak table stretched across half of the room. By the fire in the center of the dirt floor, an ancient, orange tabby raised his head from where he lay curled up in a blanket tucked into a woven basket. Blinking his golden eyes, he stared at Faye—a very direct look, akin to a greeting.

  “Hello, Merlin,” Faye murmured.

  Her strides smooth and elegant despite her many years, Greya came to her. “Now, milady, what did you do to your cheek?”

  “I … fell from my mare.”

  The old woman tsked. “It looks painful.” Guiding Faye toward the table, Greya said, “Sit, milady. I will fetch you an herbal infusion, then find my best ointment.”

  “Thank you.”

  Greya raised a slender, protesting hand. “I am glad to be of help. You do not look well. I hope you do not mind me saying so, milady, but you look quite wretched.”

  Faye laughed, despite the weariness pressing upon her. “Oh, nay.”

  Gliding over to the fire, carrying a small iron pot, Greya chuckled, a sound like dried leaves scraping over frosty ground. “Tell me what happened.”

  Faye rubbed her chapped lips together. How she longed to confide in Greya all that had transpired over the last few difficult days. But she could not. If she told, the kind-hearted woman would feel compelled to help. A word or two to the wrong person could put her in grave danger, as well as Angeline. A risk Faye would not take.

  With stiff fingers, she unfastened her mantle, keeping her gaze on her hands rather than Greya. “I was thrown from my horse the day of the storm. I hoped to come visit you, but the tempest overtook me. The thunder frightened my mare and she galloped off.” Faye dropped onto the bench at the table, fighting the compulsion to look up and meet the healer’s gaze. “I spent the night in the storm’s wrath, waiting ’till the weather cleared. Torr’s men found me the next morn and escorted me back to Caldstowe.”

  “You spent the whole night alone in the storm?” Greya sounded aghast.

  In truth, I lay in a tavern room, in the care of a handsome, arrogant knave.

  Somehow, Faye managed a soft “Mmm.”

  Shaking her head, Greya hung the cauldron over the flame. Reaching up, she snapped dried leaves from the herbs hanging overhead, muttering to herself as she went along. “—a little of this. Aye, a bit of that.” She dropped the handful into the pot, then stirred. A piquant scent wafted from the fire.

  Faye leaned her cheek on her hand. “’Tis a lovely smell.”

  “’Twill be ready in a moment.” After one more stir, Greya set her wooden spoon aside. She crossed to a small cupboard, withdrew a glazed, earthenware pot, and came to Faye’s side. As the old woman removed the wooden lid, the soothing scents of lavender and comfrey enveloped Faye.

  “Is aught else bothering you?” Greya asked, her voice gentled by worry.

  Faye bit her lip. The little lamb, clasped between her palms, scratched her skin. If only she could share her turmoil with the old woman, her closest friend. Without Greya’s comfort, Faye did not know how she would have survived the despair of losing her babe. What a blessed relief ’twould be to release her pent-up emotions.

  She could not.

  Must not.

  Faye forced a lie, hating each false word. “I am … weary after my ordeal in the storm.”

  “Of course.” Greya tilted Faye’s face with tender, skilled hands. With light touches, she massaged the ointment into Faye’s cheek. Then, with a satisfied nod, she set the lid back on the pot. “Take the rest with you, if you like. ’Tis good for curing all manner of injuries”—her voice dropped to murmur—“except, I fear, a wounded heart.”

  Tears burned Faye’s eyes. Raising her head, she looked at Greya. The old woman’s mouth formed a compassionate line. She squeezed Faye’s clasped hands.

  Tears spilled down Faye’s cheeks. “Oh, Greya.”

  “I know how much you miss your babe.” The healer settled on the bench beside Faye. “She will always be with you, though, milady. As close as your own whisper.” She tapped wrinkled fingers to her chest. “Here.”

  Faye managed a jerky nod.

  “There now.” Greya patted Faye’s hands. So smooth, her palms. Like the softest linen. “’Tis no wonder you are upset, with Lady Lorvais dying not long ago. I know what close friends you were. And little Angeline, without a mother now.” Greya paused before exhaling a troubled sigh. “No doubt what has happened to that sweet child is worrying you as well.”

  Faye sucked in a breath. “Greya—”

  “A friend at Caldstowe told me Angeline is missing. There are rumors she has been kidnapped.”

  “A-aye.” With trembling hands, Faye wiped her face. Freed from her grasp, the lamb tipped over to lie on the table in a little puddle of water.

  “What have you there?” Greya’s eyes widened. “’Tis Angeline’s?”

  “I believe so.”

  The old woman picked up the soggy toy. “Why, ’tis filthy. And wet. Where—”

  “I found it at the river.”

  “River? What did you there, so early this icy morn?”

  Faye swallowed, her mouth dry. The effort of holding back the truth became almost unbearable. She struggled to contrive a reasonable explanation which would not lead to more awkward questions. “I had difficulty sleeping and needed a morning walk. Elayne, Angeline and I oft went to the river. I rode there and …”

  “You found the lamb during your walk.”

  Not quite the truth, but near enough. Faye nodded.

  Greya set the lamb back on the table. How stark it looked against the worn oak. After a silence, she said, “’Tis probably not Angeline’s. That child did not go anywhere without her lamb, and the man in the village has made many ewes with lambs over the years. Most likely, it belongs to one of the villagers’ children, lost when the women stopped there to wash clothes.”

  Faye’s conversation with Brant nudged its way into her thoughts. With an irritated clamp of her jaw, she forced it away.

  “A terrible crime, to abduct a child,” the old woman said. “I cannot imagine. Angeline must be terrified.”

  Faye rested her hands on the table. Entwining her fingers, she said, “I will find her.”

  “You, milady?” Greya clucked her tongue. “’Tis not your responsibility. ’Tis Lord Lorvais’s. He is ruler of this land and Angeline’s father.”

  “True. Yet, I made a vow to Elayne as she lay dying. I promised to watch over Angeline, to protect her.” Her voice quavered. “I will not fail Elayne, especially in aught so important.”

  “Oh, milady. Lady Lorvais could not have meant protecting Angeline from kidnappers.”

  “Still—”

  “You place too great a burden upon yourself.”

  Faye wiped her eyes, then looked up at Greya. “How can I not do all within my power to help Angeline? She … needs me.”

  A thoughtfulness shadowed Greya’s gaze as she rose from the bench. Steam wisped up from the pot over the fire. After stirring it several times, she fetched a mug and poured the liquid, then set the infusion on the table. “Careful. ’Tis hot.”

  “Thank you,” Faye murmured.

  Greya slipped down onto the opposite bench. Tucking stray, silvery hair back behind her ear, she asked, “How is Lord Lorvais, after all that has happened?”

  Faye thought back to her earlier conversation with Torr. “As well as can be expected.”

  “I imagine all the strain has made his affliction worse.”

  “I believe so. He was drinking from his flask this morn.”

  Greya shook her head. “I remember when he came to me for more of his herbal draft, when his other healer was ill.” A worried frown knit her brow. “’Twas a strange brew. Not light and healing, but dark and sinister. A potion with the power to enslave.”

  Blowing on the infusion to cool it, Faye hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “Some herbs, such as Wormwood, should be used only when there is no alternative, for they can cause a”—she w
aved her hand, as if searching for the right word—“craving. A hunger that becomes stronger and stronger. This need has the power to destroy.”

  “’Tis the only remedy that eases his discomfort.”

  Greya pursed her lips as she looked down at the table. “So he said. I told him I never used such herbs and thus could not duplicate his draft. He seemed displeased. When I offered to make him a different tonic, he refused and strode out. He has not come back to me, so”—she shrugged—“I assume he found another healer to aid him.”

  A high-pitched brrrttt announced Merlin. He leapt up onto the bench beside Greya, agile despite his age. Purring, he rubbed his furry face against her arm. With an affectionate smile, she scratched between his ears.

  “Always after attention,” she said with teasing gruffness. “Just like a man.”

  Faye laughed. The cat rubbed his face on her sleeve again, then gently nipped her.

  “Merlin! Cease.”

  “Merlin,” Faye said. “Did you name him after King Arthur’s sorcerer?”

  “I did. Has a lovely sound to it, does it not?”

  “What do you know of King Arthur?”

  A little grin touched the healer’s lips. “He was the greatest of the Celtic rulers. He defeated the Saxons in battle after battle—a warrior of legendary victories—until he was killed at Camlann by a man named Mordred. Many believe he was Arthur’s own son.”

  “Camlann is not very far from Caldstowe,” Faye said, sipping the infusion tasting strongly of mint.

  Nodding, Greya stroked her hand down Merlin’s silky back. “Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.”

  A cold shiver trailed down Faye’s spine. She carefully set down the mug. “’Tis impossible. How could men live for hundreds of years?”

  “As I said, ’tis a legend. One of a great many.” She continued to stroke Merlin, while he blinked at her with bright, golden eyes. “There may be some truth in the old tales. Many are merely stories to entertain on bleak winter nights.”

  Faye trailed her finger over the mug’s shiny glaze. “If … just if … King Arthur were still alive, in a slumber, where might he be?”

  “There are many deep hills and caves in our lands. Some close to Caldstowe.” Greya scratched under Merlin’s chin. “A few of the villagers believe he lies in a secret cave very close to this village.”

  “Has anyone searched for him?”

  “More than once. None of the villagers found him, though—or the riches claimed to be hidden with him.”

  A vivid memory of Brant’s taut, determined expression stole into Faye’s thoughts. Where was he now? Still searching the riverbank for more gold? Or, had he ridden off to sell the chalice? Ignoring a stab of unease, she asked, “I have heard rumors of such a lost treasure. Is there really any truth to the legend?”

  The healer chuckled. “Every once in a while, farmers tilling their fields unearth bits of gold or ancient spearheads. After the recent flood, a peasant found a gold coin by the river.”

  Faye started. “Indeed?”

  “The man and his family promptly vanished, before anyone could question him about the find. He was probably afraid someone might rob him. Of course, whenever an artifact is found, there is renewed interest in the old stories.”

  “I can imagine,” Faye murmured. She could only guess at the tremendous excitement if the village folk knew of the chalice.

  “For that reason, the legends will never die. King Arthur shall live on forever.”

  “Immortal.”

  Greya slowly nodded. Merlin’s purr seemed louder than the crackling fire. “Milady, why are you so interested in King Arthur?”

  “The legends are fascinating,” she said quickly, sipping more of the comforting brew. “Please, Greya, tell me more about King Arthur.”

  ***

  As the sound of Faye’s galloping mare faded into the morning birdsong, Brant threw out his hands and cursed into the air. At his feet, Val cowered, then scurried away to explore further down the riverbank.

  Glowering, Brant stared at the empty stretch of road. If he stepped up onto the boulder nearby, he would no doubt see Faye racing away, her hair flying out behind her in her haste to put distance between them.

  He tore his gaze from the road. He did not wish to see her.

  Deceitful, untrustworthy wench.

  “Damnation!” He blew out an exasperated breath before kicking a stone into the river, startling the nearby ducks into a flapping, squawking frenzy. Val barked. The rock landed with a plonk, then disappeared from sight. As with Faye’s abandonment of their quest, his hopes for finding the treasure had all but vanished.

  Staring at the sluggish water, he dragged his fingers through his hair. What in God’s holy name had happened? Why, of all unforeseen circumstances, had she balked after finding the little lamb?

  How wretchedly unfair of her to abandon him. They had forged an agreement that was of mutual benefit. He intended to fulfill his part of the bargain.

  Now, he was on his own.

  Spurned, yet again, by a woman.

  True, Faye had not rejected him in the same way as Elayne, but she had spurned him nonetheless.

  Hurt gouged deep, along with fierce frustration. He kicked another rock, then spun around and kicked the boulder. He winced. “Ow!”

  Resisting another pained yelp, he sucked a breath between his teeth, then flexed his toes inside his boot. Relieved no bones seemed to be broken, he dropped to his knees. Snatching up a flat stone, he began to dig into the mounded earth and stones Faye had indicated.

  So she had decided not to help him. Fine. He would find the treasure himself.

  Without her, he would find King Arthur’s riches.

  Without her, he would achieve Royce’s dream and prove the treasure was worthy of legend.

  Without her.

  Resisting intense dismay, he kept digging, overturning stones, pushing aside dirt. He dug and dug, until he had excavated a wide hole.

  Naught.

  As he sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow, a curious sense of apprehension lashed through him. Was the treasure not here because the gold cup was all the earth had chosen to spit out? Or, had Faye deceived him? Decided, at the last, that she did not wish to tell him all, and used the finding of the lamb as her means of escape?

  He pushed to his feet, tossing the flat stone aside. She would not deceive him so.

  Would she?

  His gaze again flew to the stretch of road. Anger roused in his gut, like an adder stirring to wary alertness in the sun.

  She might have decided he was not the man to help her rescue Angeline, after all.

  Faye might have decided to turn to Torr.

  You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away, Torr had said the day they met in the woods, when he commanded Brant to ride to the lake and demand the ransom from Faye.

  Why had Torr wanted him to terrify her? To put her through such torment was not only cruel, but … corrupt.

  Did Torr want her to seek help from him, even though the ransom demand had told her not to? If so, what reasons did Torr have for manipulating Faye in such a manner?

  Moreover, what role did Torr play in the abduction of his own child? Surely he had not arranged to have his own child kidnapped.

  Had he?

  Brant scowled. God’s blood, how he loathed deception. It reeked like an onion rotting from the inside out.

  He strode to the water to rinse the dirt from his hands, wondering what would happen if Faye went to Torr, told him of the ransom note, and asked for his help. What next set of machinations would slip into place like wooden pieces of a child’s game?

  If she told him of the goblet …

  A chill sluiced through him, icier ev
en than the winter river. If she spoke of the gold, the danger to her—as well as to him—increased hundredfold. As lord of these lands, Torr would demand to know why she kept the find a secret. Torr would be furious. Moreover, if Faye told him Brant knew of the gold days ago, Torr would demand to know why Brant did not tell him, either.

  Both of their lives, as well as Angeline’s, would be in terrible danger. Months ago, on crusade, and years before that while they grew up together, Royce had shared his journal with notes of the lost treasure with Torr as well as Brant. The riches and old stories had fascinated Torr.

  A painful tightness spread through Brant’s chest. Without him, Faye faced whatever happened next on her own.

  His gaze shifted to his saddlebag tied to his horse. Inside, the gold goblet lay protected in a length of cloth. That morn, in the grimy tavern room, when he had carefully unwrapped the vessel to examine it once again, it had glimmered with an austere beauty. Unable to resist, he had traced his thumb over it, a tactile reminder of his promise to Royce. Again, his hands tingled with the brush of his skin against the ancient metal.

  He had not been able to save Royce. Yet, if he chose, he could help Faye. And with her, Angeline.

  However, to protect them, he must abandon his search for the treasure. And, he must walk the steepest, most dangerous precipice between preserving his oath to Torr and forsaking it.

  His mind whirled with the enormity of his decision. To do what he had vowed to honor Royce’s memory, or do what he knew was right …

  Brant whistled between his teeth—a single, sharp note—and strode to the boulder. He leapt up onto its pitted, flat surface. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the road heading toward the village.

  There, no more than a speck in the distance.

  Val came to the side of the rock, tail wagging. Brant stepped down and bent to scratch Val’s head. “Find her,” he said.

  The little dog barked.

  Gesturing toward the road, Brant yelled, “Go.”

  Val raced toward the road. As Brant swung up into the saddle and spurred his destrier, he muttered, “Royce, forgive me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Faye sipped her infusion, even as a sound nudged its way into the comfortable cocoon inside Greya’s cottage. Holding the mug between her palms, nodding with interest as the old woman chatted on about King Arthur’s Camelot, Faye strained to hear.