hundred feet deep—it had houses at the head and gardens
behind. The plot-head houses stood side by side, fronts
forming an unbroken wall behind which residents could
shelter against danger. The backs of the dwellings opened
onto a large, protected commons.
Sherford had approximately fifty houses arranged in
a square around the green. Those on the west fronted
the market. A flour mill, a bakery and a smithy stood
across from the southern frontage. North side residents
could view English hills and forests stretching beyond
the horizon. The east side faced the Great Road.
Jeremy ruefully thought that under other
circumstances he’d appreciate Sherford’s beauty. But not
today. He’d come to spy and to forget mistreating Alicen
Kent. Posing as a wool merchant, he was soon speaking
with the citizens and shopkeepers, gathering information
on the townsfolk and their loyalties.
***
Alicen hadn’t seen Jeremy depart. Once inside her
cottage, she leaned weakly against the sturdy door, afraid
to walk farther lest she collapse. Only intense effort
steadied her breathing and slowed her racing heart. Her
hands continued to shake. By forgetting the captain’s
distrust, she’d nearly gotten injured. Belatedly, she no
longer underestimated him. He loathed her, and she
abruptly felt helpless and alone. He could have her killed
if the whim struck him...
But why? He’d resented her the moment he discovered
her to be the physician, and she lived literally at his whim.
His authority and suspicion made her position tenuous.
“Alicen?”
Ned’s sudden appearance caused her to start in alarm.
“Alicen, what is it?” The boy rushed to her side and
seized her hand. “Come sit down. You look faint.”
She allowed him to lead her to the table and seat her
on the bench, then accepted the mug of tea he thrust
into her trembling hands. She managed a few shaky sips.
The boy’s dark eyes mirrored his concern. “What
happened?” His gaze fixed on her pale face. “Your lips
are bloodless.”
Seeing the question on his expressive face, she stated,
“Captain Blaine threatened me just now.”
Ned leaped to his feet. “That whoreson! I’ll kill him!”
“You’ll do naught of the sort,” she said with forced
calm, reaching out to restrain him. “Now, sit down.”
“But he’s terrified you.” Ned pulled away from her
hand.
Her brow arched. “And for that you’d slay him? Even
if you succeeded, they’d hang you for murder. Then where
would I be?”
“But—”
She sighed. “No arguments, lad. We’ll do naught about
the incident save put it behind us.”
At her grim look, he reluctantly took his seat.
“Well...you’re likely right,” he muttered. “But why did he
do it?”
“I’m partially to blame.” She gave a brief account of
the day’s events without articulating her fears.
Ned threw his thin arms around her. “I’ll protect you,
Alicen. He’ll not frighten you again. I give my word.”
She hugged him close. “Bless you, lad, but I’ll care
for myself. And rest more easily if you keep far from his
path. Though I’m certain ’tis only I he loathes, I’d rather
not try that certainty.”
A sudden knock at the door drew both their startled
gazes.
“I’ll see to that,” Ned said, rising. “Perhaps you should
attend the duke.”
Alicen was warmed by her apprentice’s protectiveness
but wouldn’t endanger him for her sake. “No need. ‘Twas
my action that caused the trouble, and I’ll deal with it.”
Seeing him start to protest, she quickly added, “I’ll not
have you involved in this. Now, see if the stew is warm.”
With that, she strode to the door and, drawing a deep
breath, opened it.
Michael Taft stood there, his felt hat in his hand.
She glared, focusing her animosity on Blaine’s
subordinate. “What do you want?”
“May I speak with you, Mistress Kent?” The soldier’s
eyes were kind, and he had a mouth that smiled easily.
“Your captain threatened me,” Alicen said bluntly.
“What’s to stop you from doing the same?”
“I don’t threaten women. And until today, Sir Jeremy
had never done so, either. He regrets it.”
“Forgive me for not believing you.”
Taft looked away momentarily. “The captain is
honorable, but your eluding Naismith was more than
could be borne. Worse yet, you reminded him of how
distasteful discipline can be. I know Captain Blaine well.
He’ll not harry you further.”
“As he was so quick to point out, he acts as he sees
fit. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy, Lieutenant.”
The soldier blushed. “Please, lass, I mean, the men
and I...we...we wish you to know we’re sorry for all that
happened today.”
“Do you speak for your captain, or just for
yourselves?”
Taft shook his head. “Captain Blaine speaks for
himself. When he’s not furious.”
“Does that ever occur?”
“I’ve no words to explain my superior’s actions,” he
replied.
“Make no attempt.” Alicen started to turn away.
An upheld hand stopped her. “Duty is all to him, lass,
so much so that it obscures even compassion. He regrets
frightening you. I saw that regret in his eyes. But to admit
to such in front of the men would undermine his
command.”
Alicen blanched, remembering the flash of pain
revealed in Blaine’s gaze after he’d attacked her. She must
have been mistaken, his look a trick of the light.
“I should think his men would appreciate honesty,”
she said flatly. Noticing she twisted her apron in her hands
as she spoke, she forced herself to stop.
“You don’t understand, Mistress. Had you not
challenged him, he never would have reacted in such a
way.”
Her lips thinned. “You believe I’ve no right to oppose
brutality on my own property?”
“The captain never punishes excessively.”
“Fifteen lashes isn’t excessive?”
“He could’ve hanged the man,” Taft stated. “We men
respect him because we know at all times where we
stand.” He paused, studying her. “He has far more trouble
with women.”
“So I gathered,” Alicen replied dryly.
“I believe he was as shocked as anyone at what
happened.” When Alicen shook her head in denial, Taft
added, “Yet his men know he but protected his authority.”
“I appreciate your candor, sir, but thrashing a man
for being outwitted is unconscionable.”
“Were you a soldier, you’d understand.”
“As I told your captain, I thank God I’ll never be such.”
Taft smiled. “We thank Him for that, too, Mistres
s.
You’re too fine a healer to be aught else. You saved
William’s life and have treated us well. Captain Blaine
will admit his mistake, at least to himself. Whether he’ll
admit it to you, I know not.”
Alicen believed Sir Jeremy Blaine would rather die
first, but she said nothing. She shook Taft’s proffered
hand, then watched silently as he left the cottage.
Her thoughts returned with shuddering clarity to her
predicament. She must not force the captain into a corner.
Like a wounded wolf, his reaction was to protect himself.
She desperately hoped what Taft said about him—that
he’d reacted uncharacteristically—was true.
Otherwise, could she continue to protect Orrick, Ned
and herself?
On impulse, she plucked her cloak from the peg by
the door. A brisk walk through the now repaired garden
gate brought her to the woods behind Landeyda. She
glanced around to see if she’d been observed, then slipped
into the dense underbrush via a well-hidden path. Soon
she stood in a small clearing dominated by an ancient
oak. At its base was a weathered Celtic cross, a sprig of
mistletoe draped over the crosspiece.
Grasping her amulet, Alicen knelt in front of the cross
and bowed her head.
“Mother, I’m afraid. The soldier of my vision. He who’ll
change my life. It’s Jeremy Blaine. What am I to do?” She
listened carefully but heard only a gentle breeze rustling
the oak’s leaves. Then the stones in her amulet began to
warm. The breeze picked up, swirling around her, pulling
at her cloak, tangling her hair.
He has forced you to abandon your neutrality. Kaitlyn
O’Rourke’s voice filled her daughter’s mind.
“I’ve no intention of betraying my vows, Mother.”
But what if those vows don’t fit his plan?
“I won’t break my oath to you.”
You may have no choice, Daughter.
The wind died, her amulet cooled, and Alicen was left
to contemplate the meaning of her mother’s words.
Four
He was far more intoxicated than he had planned.
Jeremy had patronized all of Sherford’s shopkeepers,
then taken a room at the inn. Although he had no need
of a bed, it gave him an excuse to spend hours in the
common room, eavesdropping.
What he’d heard made him guardedly optimistic. No
overtly partisan sentiments had been discussed, and no
one eyed him with suspicion, as they would have had
they feared his intentions. Those who’d come and gone
throughout the evening—some alone, others with families
or friends—had spoken only of everyday matters in an
English village.
Five patrons at a table opposite Jeremy’s formed the
night’s most vocal tipplers. They pinched serving wenches,
ate and drank noisily, and sang bawdy songs. But they’d
said naught of Harold the Bastard, or of Duke William.
In order to allay suspicions of his presence, Jeremy
had imbibed quite steadily for several hours. As the night
wore on and the conversations remained common, he
found himself thinking more on Alicen Kent and less on
plots against William. And each time he recalled how he’d
mistreated the healer, he took another drink.
Now, the inn’s common room swam before his eyes.
He thought to ride back to Landeyda, but feared he’d not
be able to mount Charon. Nor could he even be certain of
mounting the stairs to the room he’d acquired at the inn.
Mayhap a meal would clear his head.
But when he looked up to signal the serving girl, Alicen
stood before him, accusation in her emerald eyes. He
choked, shamed to see fright still brimming in that lovely
gaze. Had she followed him? Brought friends to avenge
her? He knew he’d drunk too much to defend himself
from a gang intent on thrashing him. Fighting instinct
made him sit straight, alert to danger, but his reflexes
were so befuddled his body could hardly respond, and
he knew the effort was futile. She had him trapped.
Blinking, he looked again. Alicen’s tall, lithe figure
melted into a short, buxom blonde with uneven teeth. He
vaguely recognized her...one of the inn’s serving wenches.
She moved closer to slide her small hand up his leg.
“Coo, yer lordship, ye look ta be lonely.” Without
waiting for an invitation, she sat in his lap. “How’d ye like
ta spend some time wi’ Sylvia?” She slid her hand higher
up his thigh then placed it on his groin, sobering him
considerably. The wench leaned against him, her crooked
mouth pressing to his neck and cheek. “We could go ta
yer room. Get more cozy.”
With a grunt, he found himself lurching to his feet
and spilling Sylvia from his lap. Had she not had her
arms around his neck, she’d have fallen to the floor.
“My, ain’t ye the randy buck,” she squealed in mock
protest, then grabbed his hand to guide him out the
tavern’s back door and onto the green.
Once outside, Jeremy stopped moving, and Sylvia was
forced to either stop also or let go of his hand. She stopped.
“I’m too drunk to please you properly,” he lied. Truth
to tell, he wasn’t drunk enough to overlook her slovenly
appearance and odorous breath. Her touch may have
somewhat aroused him at the table, but he wasn’t about
to act on that arousal. He had never rutted
indiscriminately, and—sotted or no—had no intention of
bedding a woman who sold herself. Though beautiful
courtesans clamored for him, since Estelle he’d been
discriminating.
With sudden blinding clarity, he imagined Alicen’s
slender, supple body beneath his hands, moving to the
rhythm of his fingers. He saw her face framed in thick
chestnut hair. But instead of passion-filled eyes, her
expression showed naked terror—like the fear he’d caused
that afternoon. With a low curse, he shook his head to
clear it of that stark image. Alicen’s likeness faded to the
reality of the woman before him.
“I’ll not pay you for a dalliance,” he found himself
saying. “I will, however, pay you for information.”
Sylvia gaped at him. “Pay me fer infermation?”
“Aye.” He fumbled in his cloak and brought out several
gold coins. “I’ll reward you well for any worthwhile
knowledge.”
“What do ye wish ta know, yer lordship?”
Jeremy motioned with a jerk of his head. “Upstairs
first.”
***
A short time before dawn, Jeremy left his room at the
inn, never to return. Although Sylvia had made it clear
she’d welcome any bedsport he desired, he’d done nothing
but interrogate her about Alicen Kent.
The serving wench had visibly trembled when he’d
asked about the physician.
“The best healer in the north of England, that one,”
Sylvia swore. “She cured me of fever once. But...”
prompted, “But what?”
“There be rumors about her holding.” Sylvia’s eyes
grew wide with fright, but Jeremy’s raised brow inspired
her to add, “‘Tis said the ghost of Kaitlyn O’Rourke protects
Landeyda.”
“And who is this Kaitlyn O’Rourke?”
“Alicen’s mother,” Sylvia whispered, as if to raise her
voice would call down this vengeful spirit. “‘Tweren’t no
better healer than Kaitlyn. Her daughter takes after her,
but even Alicen isn’t her equal.”
Kaitlyn O’Rourke must have been God’s right hand,
Jeremy thought, if she was more talented at healing than
her daughter. “Did Alicen’s mother ever harm you?”
“Nay! Nor her daughter, either. Both of ‘em did naught
but heal.”
“Then why fear her spirit, if it does in fact dwell at
Landeyda?”
“Kaitlyn was killed after a battle. While trying to help
the wounded.” Sylvia’s voice became even softer as she
added, “Such a skilled healer would know well how to
kill. And who but a mother who loves her child would do
aught needed to protect that child. Even if it meant comin’
back from the grave?”
Still nursing a head muddled by ale, Jeremy rode
slowly back to Landeyda, contemplating all the serving
wench had said. He recalled the sudden chill he’d felt
when he’d threatened Alicen in the stable, and it occurred
to him that the voice he’d heard could very well have had
the hint of an Irish brogue. Lord, he was addled to partake
in such ridiculous fancy! Too much ale and the
suggestions of a frightened and ignorant woman had made
him contemplate the possibility of a ghost. Loose spirits
did not exist. Dead was dead.
***
Sensing Captain Blaine wouldn’t return for several
hours, Alicen felt compelled to aid his hapless victim. His
orders kept well in mind, she took Ned along to the stable,
where they found Naismith face down on a straw pallet
with Malcolm Fish clumsily tending his lash marks. Fish
stood hastily when he saw her.
“Mistress Alicen, ye mustn’t be here,” the distraught
soldier cried. “Cap’n’s orders.”
“I’ll not be insubordinate, Malcolm,” Alicen assured
as she knelt by Naismith. “Sir knight, I am sorry you
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