Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  "There, there, dear child,” Sally murmured as she stroked Eleanor’s wet hair, "it’s over now. Yes, I played a nasty trick on you, but you hadn’t gotten over your fear of water, not really. Shh. Don’t try to talk. Just be still and rest against me. It’s been a long time since I held anyone in my arms. I had forgotten what a pleasant feeling it is. It almost tempts me to take a lover again, but they always seem to get possessive. Neither man nor god had dominion over me. Poor baby. Soon you will meet my sister, the sea, and you must not be afraid of her, for she’s capricious enough to kill you.”

  Eleanor could feel the beat of a heart under her head. It was a steady, comforting rhythm. She found, as she lay there, that she could trace the flow of blood up and down Sally’s body and even feel the net of nerves. She followed the nerves over the body until she touched upon the sexual center. The sensation of exploring this private sphere, even with her mind, was frightening and exciting.

  She started to draw away in mind but found that the healthy animal part of her, dormant during her father’s illness and annoyingly persistent since, was too strongly awakened. Eleanor wrestled with needs in herself that had been denied, the desire for love expressed as lust, the desire for any love at all in an environment where it was a rarity, and finally the need to offer love completely. She suppressed her body’s desires sternly and found that there remained a vast reservoir of unexpressed affection.

  Trembling slightly, she raised her head off Sally’s breast and lifted herself a little. Then she clasped her arms around the goddess’s neck and placed a fervent kiss upon the smooth cheek. Sal smiled slightly, then bent her head and returned the gesture.

  The sensations Eleanor felt under the kiss were totally conflicting, simultaneously wild and calm. Her body experienced a prolonged climax that made her cry out sharply, but her mind seemed filled with cool green light that pulsed to gold as the kiss continued. She found her lips pressed against the goddess’s, shutting off her wild cries. The golden light surrounded them both, piercing Eleanor’s mind like the unshielded sun.

  Her body shuddered and twitched, warm liquid coursing down the inside of her thighs, but Eleanor was less aware of this than of a flood of emotions for which she had no words. When they drew their mouths apart, the golden light lingered inside her. She did not try to identify it but took a deep sobbing breath and accepted it as something she might never understand. Then she blushed at her nakedness and the intimacy the lady’s kiss had brought her.

  Sal chuckled. "Silly goose. You just experienced the most perfect thing in the cosmos and you’re embarrassed. Still, you are the product of thousands of years of guilt, which is a forerunner of the Darkness itself. And you did kiss me first, which I had not anticipated.

  "No, I am not angry. You gave me such a token of love as I have not had in many years. All that joy, bottled up inside you! I am only surprised you never found a release for it, as human beings have been doing forever. Yes, I know your father overshadowed any rivals. Conceited man. Well, men all are, since they conceived the notion they were the Lords of Creation. Poor Electra. A father is only a suitable love object before one is ten. Ah, you shiver. Come, let us get some garments on you. One of the great mysteries is how such puny creatures as you humans can yet be so strong and enduring, while we, who need not food or shelter or clothing, dwindle. Perhaps it is the love you bear each other that sustains you. I feel positively juvenile, having tasted your love, child. ’Tis a fair, sweet thing, and I hope the brawny bastard who will take your maidenhead appreciates what he is getting. He probably won’t, being male and Irish in the bargain. But he has dark hair, and that’s a hopeful sign.”

  As she spoke, Sally helped Eleanor to her feet and handed her a gown of deep blue wool and a shift of rosy linen. Eleanor dressed silently. Then the lady handed her a knotted cincture of glossy white stuff, which she tied around her waist.

  "Why is black hair a hopeful sign?”

  "Dark men are the most considerate lovers. Never bed a flaxen-haired man unless you have no choice, or wish to get something from him. As for redheads, look at their hands. Good, square workman’s hands are an indication of a caring nature, while fine, soft, elegant ones belong to a man who would dissect your nature in order to destroy you or try to reconstruct you in his own image.”

  "Like my father?”

  "Yes. Now we will drink tea together, and I shall instruct you.”

  Eleanor remembered nothing after her first sip of bitter willowbark tea. It seemed to her she raised the earthenware cup to her lips, and when she lowered it, she was very tired. Her eyelids closed in sleep as she sat.

  VII

  Something warm and wet lapped her face. Eleanor reached out and felt Wrolf’s shaggy mane. She pried her eyes open and looked around. She was lying on the ground, wrapped in her blanket, in a small stand of willow trees. The dark bulk of Silbury stood over her. She sat up, pushed the blanket aside, and stood up.

  The air was warmer, and the willow trees were beginning to show swellings of green along their drooping branches. The ground was damp, but she could see no trace of snow in any direction. She could not guess how long she had spent with the Lady of the Willows, but from the appearance of the trees, it had been at least a month. She had a moment’s thought for the stick she had begged from Sam, planning to notch it to keep track of the days. Now she would never know.

  Eleanor looked at her things heaped on the ground. Bridget’s cloak and sword, bound with the patterned belt, lay on the ground where her head had rested. The leather bag Ambrosius had given her bulged lumpily. There was another bag beside it, a dyed and worked leather sack, vermilion with golden suns, and a short strap.

  She sat down again and went through everything. In the first bag she found a tunic, shift and hose, the mead, the book, and the knitting pins. The ball of wool Sarah had given her was gone, replaced with another of finer stuff, pure white and almost as smooth as silk. And there was the dowel Sam had given her. There were nicks in it. She counted them. Thirty slashes. So, it must be March the third or fourth.

  Then Eleanor opened the other bag. There was a bowl and cup, of light-colored wood with a fine grain. It was carved around the outside with a braided pattern,

  and she paused over it, thinking of the embroidered bands on the robe of the cleric and on the tunics she had found at Gretry Hall. She kept meaning to ask about them and kept forgetting. There was also a small, carved spoon. She rubbed the wood with her fingers, feeling comforted. There was a bottle of almost clear stuff, which might be water. Then, in the bottom of the bag, a large napkin was tied around a beautiful loaf of bread, smelling slightly of honey, some white cheese, a roasted fowl, and some pieces of bark. She repacked the bag and tried to remember anything beyond the bitter taste of willow tea.

  There was a nickering sound behind her. Eleanor turned around and saw a horse, a veritable monarch of his kind, as black as night but with a silvery mane, tail, and hooves. He pawed the ground and whinnied softly.

  "Hello, big fellow,” she said, standing up, all thoughts of willow tea forgotten. She raised her hand to stroke the quivering muscles along the neck. The horse snorted and tossed its head. "Where did you spring from? You are a steed fit for an emperor, at least.”

  There was a fine leather bridle around his neck, just a hackamore with no bit. The leather was silvery gray, as supple as willow but very strong. He wore no saddle or other trappings.

  "Well, I did wish for a horse, but you are quite beyond my dreams. Will you bear my body upon your back?” The horse nickered and nodded its great head.

  "Mounting you is going to be a real challenge. Hmm. The rock over there is a pretty good height.” She bent over and picked up the cloak-bound sword. She tied it across her shoulders, then put on her cape. She shook out the blanket vigorously, folded it, and laid it over the broad back of the horse, moving slowly and doing nothing that might spook him. He stood there as if having soiled and tatty blankets put on him was an everyday occurrence. "
This isn’t nearly nice enough for you, but I hope you won’t mind too much. There’s a good fellow.” She picked up her two bags, slipped them over her shoulder, and sighed.

  She looked at herself, seeing the rosy shift and wool tunic that Sally had dressed her in what seemed like a moment before. The silky white cord lay in her hands, and she had a fugitive memory that the knots in it meant something. She had a brief flash of visions, like single frames of a hundred different movies spliced together, words, touches, smells and sounds, all blurred, then gone.

  Eleanor turned to the mound and bowed. "I thank you, oh Lady of the Willows, for all your gifts and your many kindnesses. I go to try to accomplish the tasks set for me by your sister Bridget with a glad heart and the hope that the harmony between my people and yours, which you have taught me, will someday be realizable. I shall not forget the sweetness of our voices together, nor the love you gave to me.” She found her face was wet with tears and that she had a sense of loss as great as that which followed her father’s death. A sound, like a stag at bay, seemed to echo from the earth before her, a noise so filled with pain that Eleanor wanted to clap her hands to her ears. Wrolf howled and scrabbled his paws over his flattened ears.

  She bowed her head and let the tears fall for several minutes. She felt her own sorrow, but even worse, she sensed Sal’s loss. The goddess had not released her gladly or willingly. "I’ll come back. I promise.” Then she straightened her shoulders, feeling the bite of the hilt of the sword in her right scapula, and turned to the horse. She led him to the stone she had chosen for a mounting block.

  On her first try, Eleanor caught her foot in her skirts and slid off the horse onto the other side, landing in a tumble of legs and baggage. Eleanor giggled at her clumsiness, got up, and brushed the dirt off her bottom, then kilted the bottoms of her robe and shift up into the knotted cincture. She replaced the blanket, and her second mounting was more successful and more graceful. The horse stood with the quiet patience of his kind while she tugged her cloak into place, shifting the two bags into the least uncomfortable position she could find. She patted his neck and took the bridle lightly in her hand.

  Wrolf was on his feet, barking. He dashed back and forth while she tried to figure out what she had done wrong. Finally, he grasped the rowan staff in his huge teeth and dragged it over toward her, growling. He put his forepaws on the mounting block and raised it enough so that Eleanor could bend down and grasp it without slipping off the horse. She took it in her left hand.

  "Thank you, Wrolf. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Shall we go?” He barked his reply, and the horse began a slow walk through the willow trees. Eleanor, unfamiliar with near bareback riding, though she was a good enough horsewoman with a saddle and a bitted horse, let him choose the pace. She had her hands full, literally, with the reins and stave, concentrating on pressing her knees in to grip the horse. Wrolf wove along before them, bouncing in and out of the trees like a puppy.

  They went south around the mound and came out into a flat field. The horse increased its pace a little, moving faster than Eleanor could have walked but not so fast that Wrolf couldn’t keep up.

  The sky was an unbroken gray. They went south, as best as Eleanor could guess, and a little west. The terrain was rough with stands of trees here and there. By the time the sun was making a pale patch almost overhead, they came to the edge of the Salisbury Plain, the land falling away flatly, the ground damp and marshy. She could not judge the distance to the famous circle at Stonehenge, but in any case, it was too far away to see.

  The horse turned west now, skirting the edge of the plain. Eleanor’s legs began to ache, and the blanket chafed her calves through her hose. She gritted her teeth and hung on, ignoring her shoulders, cut by the straps of her bags and the constant rubbing of the sword on her left hip. The land grew hillier, and she was considering walking when they came to the castle.

  Since it was the first intact stone structure she had seen since St. Bridget’s Priory, Eleanor stared at it in mild disbelief. She had almost forgotten such things existed.

  It was not particularly large or impressive in any way, just thick stone walls around some buildings, a tower rising over the tops of the walls. She was glad for this sign of human habitation but nervous, too. The horse drew to a halt before the drawbridge while Eleanor wondered whether to dismount or urge him onward.

  "Well, Wrolf, how does this place feel to you?” The wolf raised his hackles and whined at the same time. The whine she had come to know as a signal of pleasure, but the ruffled fur about his neck puzzled her. "Good and bad, huh?” He answered with his sharp bark.

  Two men came out from under the portcullis. One was tall and fair, walking with a strong stride, the chain mail he wore making a tiny jingling noise. His companion was bent with age, leaning heavily on a thorny black stick, his eyes running with rheum and his steps halting. In the pale, fading half-light of day, she could hardly see their auras. Since she could make no judgment about them, she mistrusted them both.

  The younger man spoke after looking at her and the horse. "What a fine gift this is, a horse and a good, strapping wench.” He moved toward her while Eleanor fumed slightly over his words.

  "Clovis, stop it!” That was the old man.

  "Quiet, dodderer, or I’ll kill you where you stand. I might do it, anyway. You are sooo boring.”

  "Don’t be a fool.” The old man hurried forward, wheezing and coughing to stand beside the younger man. "Milady, he is young and im—” A sharp smack in the mouth stopped the quavering flow of words from the old man. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Wrolf gave his low growl but did not move.

  Eleanor watched the little scene, thinking furiously. Rape was not an alternative she had previously considered. She decided quickly that while she was not mesmerized by any snake or virginity, neither was she inclined to submit to the inevitable. The sword tied to her back would have made short work of Clovis, but it wasn’t available, and besides, she knew her knowledge of swordsmanship was clumsy, too awkward to try on horseback with no saddle to steady her. She was pretty sure he knew how to handle the great thing clanging at his side.

  Clovis came up to the horse’s head and reached for the bridle. Eleanor dropped the reins and grasped the rowan staff in both hands. Then she brought the end up and rammed it into the man’s chest with all her

  weight and energy, barely managing not to unseat herself. She squeezed her legs against the horse, and he took a step forward.

  Clovis made an oofing noise and staggered backward. Eleanor brought the carved end of the staff down on his head with a sharp crack, and he slumped to the ground in a half-conscious heap. He put a hand to his brow and struggled up, but his knees sagged under him again.

  "I will... kill... you for this,” he muttered, and vomited on the ground. He retched horribly and grabbed for her foot.

  "Stubborn bastard, aren’t you?” she shouted, kicking the hand away and almost unseating herself. "Coward! Keep your filthy hands on the ground where they belong, or I’ll break them off. Down, dog of night! Grovel! You are a breath away from death.” The words startled her, and she sensed that they came not from her, but from the cloak pressing against her back.

  Clovis cowered on the ground, almost whimpering and bringing up thick, dark vomit. The old man moaned helplessly.

  "Don’t kill him, milady. He meant no harm.”

  "No harm! Have your wits left you? Of course he meant me harm. He’s as full of sin as an egg’s full of meat,” she said, falling back on an expression of her mother’s. "My wolf has better manners.”

  The old man struggled forward but stopped well out of her reach. "Yes, milady. Whatever you say, milady. What should I do? Blessed Mary, what should I do? If only he were not so spoilt!” He twisted his hands together, and his stick fell to the ground.

  "Spoiled?” She glanced down at the golden hair and the nape of the man on the ground. "He’s rotten, which is a different matter altogether.”<
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  "Yes, milady. Oh, dear, oh, dear. And it is his birthday, too.”

  Eleanor was reminded so forcibly of the White Rabbit that she almost expected the old man to pull a watch from under his robes. "Stop fussing, old one. I never kick a man when he can’t fight back. Get someone to help carry him into the keep, or do the two of you dwell here alone?”

  "No, milady. Hoy! Will! Gowan! Master’s ill. Come quick.” The old man’s voice was reedy but carried surprisingly well.

  Two mert emerged from the shadow of the portcullis. They wore leather tunics and rough leggings, and neither of them looked very friendly. Eleanor reined the horse back from the fallen body of Clovis, and the men picked him up, shoulders and feet, and carried him away.

  "Who are you, old man?” she asked.

  "Some days I hardly know myself,” he answered. "But I am called Roderick. This is Nunnally Castle. Milady, night comes. Will you enter, for I must close the gates quickly. There are things that howl around our walls after day. Still, your brightness may keep them away. My lord’s sister would no doubt be pleased in your company.”

  Eleanor considered. The horse and Wrolf had brought her here, and she did not doubt there was some purpose in the visit. It annoyed her that her animal companions knew more about what was going on than she did, in one way, but she trusted Wrolf utterly. She was inclined to trust the unnamed horse as well.

  A night in the open did not appeal to her, not with the memory of the Black Beast as fresh as yesterday, though more time had passed than that. She urged the horse forward and dismounted on the drawbridge when she had passed Clovis’s vile mess. She swung her right leg over the horse’s back and slid to the ground with a thump. The blanket fell to the ground and she picked it up, shaking the dust out of it, then tossed it around her shoulders over her cloak. Then she pulled her skirts out of her belt, covering her legs.