Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

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

  The most vivid memory of all was of Letitia Hayward, the striking redhead who had been Daniel’s last lover before he got ill. Eleanor had always been uncomfortable around her father’s ladies, and Letty acutely so, for she was always perfectly turned out in silk dresses or linen suits, hair coiled into fantastic knots, nails gleaming with enamel. A cloud of gardenias surrounded her person, so she announced her presence in a room even before she was seen.

  She had come to the hospital several times, until Eleanor had made it quite clear she was not welcome. Now she lurched across the room in a discreetly dove-gray suit, which showed a mournful respect but no more. Her glass-green eyes had the glazed look of alcoholic anesthetic. Putting her drink on a table with exaggerated caution, Letty had gripped Eleanor’s wrists with amazing strength for one so slender.

  "Tell me how he died,” she hissed.

  Eleanor, embarrassed and angry, had tried to break free, but Letty had hung on. Finally, she had used her tongue to try to wound her tormentor, detailing the ghastly end of a vigorous man in vivid detail and barely noticing the steady trickle of tears upon her cheek until a wisp of gardenia-scented lace and linen dabbed her face.

  "Your mascara is running,” Letty said, slipping an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders and pillowing her head on the gray silk. "Do you know how lucky we were to have loved him? Those others remember him as a brilliant scholar, but we knew the man. He made everyone else pale by comparison, Eleanor, but don’t fall into the trap I did.”

  "Trap?”

  "Don’t let him blind you.”

  The memory of that cryptic statement brought her back to the here and now of Sable sprawling beside the fire and Arthur removing the entrails of the grouse. Eleanor sat down, stilled the cacophony of conflicts in her mind, and concentrated on getting pilaf and not rice gruel in her pot. She was getting better in her culinary conjurings, but she still had disasters and found the task demanded her undivided attention. I can cross the sea in a willow cup, but I still mess up supper.

  Arthur had spitted the two halves of the bird onto sticks and thrust them into the fire when she raised her head from her task. He had been looking at her and shifted his eyes away uneasily. It wasn’t a guilty look, but something was bothering him.

  "What is it?” she asked.

  "You are so tired, and I am worried about you.”

  "It has been a long six months. Hell, it’s been a lifetime. And I’m not sleeping well.”

  "I know. Are you afraid of Baird?”

  "Of course. I would be a fool not to be. I mean, no one warned me I would get to play Isis to his Set and Doyle’s Osiris, and I really don’t know my lines.” "Who?”

  "It is a long story,” she said, setting the pot upon the fire. After a moment of watching the flames, she began. "Once upon a time in the land of Egypt,” and plunged into a tale three thousand years old, as much to pass the time as to shift the subject away from her own health. She told of how Set had murdered his brother Osiris and cut his body into pieces and cast them into the Nile and how Isis had spent a year gathering them up to be reborn as the god Horus, coloring the tale a little with her own experiences, and drawing the incidents from her vast background in myth. It eased some hurt to dwell for a time in that ancient world, though she did not know if Doyle had become the judge of the dead. It was both real and unreal, for she lacked the vanity to see herself as an object worthy of fraternal rivalry.

  As they ate charred bird and scooped saffron rice out of the pot like a pair of bedouins, Arthur asked, "You said she had a cloak of blue with stars. Is it the same one you have?”

  Eleanor looked at the object in question, folded up atop the rest of her belongings. "I am not certain. It is a magical garment, for sure, because it never gets dirty or anything. Bridget is a lot like Isis, though I cannot recall Isis ever waving a mucking great sword around. The cloak of stars goes with a lot of goddesses—Aphrodite or Venus, and even Mary, Jesus’s mother, wears one. They say that the blossoms of the rosemary bush were originally white, but the Virgin hung her cloak over a rosemary bush, and the flowers turned blue in her honor. I suppose it would be safe to say that this cloak is a reflection of the original.”

  He brought his bushy eyebrows together in thought. "Does it trouble you to know all these tales of gods and heroes and bear some part of them at the same time?” "Yes, it does. In my own time, these stories were studied as curiosities from the childhood of man. To believe in them was to mark yourself as a superstitious fool. I remember once my father gave a lecture in a town called Berkeley, not part of his class but as a seminar. Never mind, I’m confusing you. Anyhow, these people showed up, about a dozen of them, in long white robes embroidered with flowers and moons. They said they were Druids, and I thought he was going to explode. They were terribly sincere and intense and invited him to a ritual they were planning. He was quite rude about it, and they looked at him with such disappointment. They really believed, and he didn’t.” "Did he go?”

  Eleanor smiled slowly. "As a matter of fact, he did, purely as a matter of academic curiosity. Actually, my mother convinced him it would be useful to see in what manner modern people used archaic material. We all went. There were, oh, fifty people, most of them in their twenties or thirties, dressed in all sorts of fanciful garments. We gathered in a grove of trees near the sea, and they sang songs and did circle dances as the moon rose over the hills and was reflected in the ocean. And afterward we ate honey cakes and drank terrible red wine, and a lot of people went off into the trees for loving. Father got cornered by a dark-haired woman a little older than the rest who told him she could trace her origins back to the witches of Thessaly. I think he almost believed her. I think part of him wanted to believe in the gods, and he couldn’t quite make the leap. 1 didn’t have that choice. But sometimes I wonder if this isn’t some dream I have blundered into.”

  Arthur nodded. "When I saw you clawing the earth by the body of that boar, I thought I was dreaming. But then, the last thing I remembered was the banquet hall and a goblet with a dragon coiled round its stem.” "Tell me about your cousin John.”

  "I hardly know him, for he was ever busy with the ordering of the kingdom. Until I was sixteen, I only met him a dozen times, for I lived at Brittany with my mother and my sister. I had two tutors, Pere Jean and Pere Gerard, and Master Guillaume to teach me sword craft.

  "I would say that he is clever. His eyes dart here and there, watching all. A serious, thoughtful man, I would judge him, though I have heard some tales—servants’ gossip—that he is a great lover of wine and women. My mother hated him, and my sister avoided him.”

  "And Master Guillaume?”

  Arthur smiled fondly. "As much father as I have ever known. I was perhaps eight when he came to us, having had some falling-out with my Uncle Richard. He had a son with him, also called Guillaume, a year my younger. He offered his services to my mother, which I think she was glad of, and lived with us, off and on, for the next ten years. He told me tales of my grandfather and the exploits of my Uncle Richard and my father as boys and men. He was killed in an ambush a few months before I was eighteen.”

  "How very convenient for your cousin John,” Eleanor answered with some asperity.

  "My mother felt the same, but she sees plots in every bush. She used to say I was a changeling, for I do not rush headlong into every fray, as she does. And Master Guillaume pounded it into me with his strong right arm that a worthy knight uses his brains as well as his muscles. My father had a name for deviousness and guile, but my sister contends that was from being squeezed between Grandfather, Uncle Henry, his son John, and my Uncle Richard. Not to mention Grandmother.”

  "So William Marshall actually found an Angevin he could beat some sense into. Amazing. Are you pious as well?”

  Arthur shook his head. "Pere Gerard forced the catechism down my gullet, but I cannot say it stayed. Pere Jean was content if I learned my letters. Poor Gerard. He was the family confessor, but we brought him little traffic, a
nd he always went about with a fierce scowl, muttering gloom and doom.”

  Eleanor reviewed her knowledge of the domestic lives of the Plantagenets, a tapestry of violence and betrayal run through with the single thread of William Marshall, who served them loyally until he outlived even wicked King John and served as regent for his young son Henry, the third of that name. He had refused to kill Richard, in rebellion against his father, and had slain his horse instead, and had been lettered enough to pen an autobiography, a remarkable achievement for a man of his time and profession. And here, in this other Albion, he had chosen to serve Arthur of Brittany in his later years.

  It seemed a strange choice until she realized that Richard fathered no children and that the legitimacy of this King John was doubtful at best. Arthur was simply the only certain male issue of the line. John wasn’t the first bastard to sit in Westminster, but the Conqueror was not remembered with any affection, and Stephen of Blois was surely a blot upon the escutcheon.

  Eleanor stretched out, pillowing her head on Bridget’s cloak, the fire sword beside her and Sable curled at her feet. Their talk had relaxed her somewhat, involved her mind with what was still to some degree history to her. The rolls of kings and bastards, queens and consorts, soothed her, easing away nagging questions, except the figure of William Marshall seemed to stand like a pivot point between them. Why was that important?

  Then it hit her that it was because he had chosen to serve, to serve one family through wars and rebellions, crusades and marriages. She had made a choice, too, months before, in a chilly chapel. No one had forced her to accept the sword and the task, but she had pretended to herself that by some alchemy, it was all Bridget’s fault. The weight of her many burdens seemed to press on her chest, like the weight of Baird’s body. She had entered into the adventure with a light heart and had never asked the pivotal question, "Is this my task?” until it was much too late. Doyle’s fate was sealed by her choice, and she knew that in one way she was as much to blame for his death as the tusk of the boar that had killed him. And she knew the dreadful tale of her arrogance and ignorance. Doyle and Wrolf dead, Baird maimed, all because she had said yes without thinking.

  Tears slid out of her eyes and puddled in her ears as she stared up at the summer stars. It had been Doyle’s choice to take the sword, even knowing it would cost him his life. He could have lived forever in his mother’s house, but he chose love and death. Was that why the gods were concerned with the ways of men, to experience that which they had invented but could not actually understand, the final severing of flesh and spirit?

  The mystery was too great for her weary mind, and Somnos covered her with his grace, sleep. It was an uneasy repose, full of whimperings and restless tossing, until the nightmare caught her, the grinning presence of Baird’s unmarred countenance above her face, the musky scent of sweat and leather crowding her nostrils. The weight of cruel hands pressed her shoulders, and she struck out with taloned hands and screamed.

  "Ouch! Stop that!” Strong hands gripped her wrists. "Mercy, you are strong. Wake up, milady. Come on, wake up!”

  Arthur’s ruddy face was silhouetted by the stars, making a coronet above the curling hair. She stared blankly at him for a moment, then noticed a long scratch on one cheek. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and patted her awkwardly. Eleanor leaned her head against his chest, reveling in the comfort of his touch. She lifted a shaking hand to touch the scratch.

  "I’m sorry.”

  "’Tis nothing. My sister has done much worse,.”

  "What? The gentle Eleanor who calls the unicorns?” It felt so good to hear the steady thumping of his heart upon her cheek, the rise and fall of air from his chest. She wanted to clutch at him.

  Arthur gave a crack of laughter. "What a milky maiden your history has made of her. My sister is gentle only by comparison to my mother and the rest of the family. She has a rare temper, like rain falling in sunshine, for she gives no warning. One moment still as a lake, the next a stormy sea. The only gentle Eleanor I know is you, dear lady.” His voice deepened, and he lifted his hand to stroke her tangled hair.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face to his, to find lips brushing in a tentative kiss. The memory of grouse and saffron rice lingered on his mouth, mingled with the smell of sweat. It was a scent she had previously found unpleasant, the tense, acrid odor of a classroom full of students taking an exam, the sour smell of old beer and tobacco after a party, or the way her father smelled after a night with Letitia, a cloying mixture of gardenia, deodorant, and sex. And here was wool too long unwashed upon a body still rich with the flavors of exertion, and she found it comforting. Like the feel of his shoulders under her hands, it was simple and real.

  A large, long-fingered hand cupped her breast as he kissed her more deeply. Eleanor made a halfhearted gesture of protest, a muffled moan. Her mind and body went to war for a moment as visions of her dark-haired Doyle danced behind her closed eyes. How could a few stupid chemicals make nonsense of love and loyalty? Then came the faint laughter of the willows and the deeper chuckle of the man, and she knew she betrayed nothing, that indeed Doyle would expect her to bestow her affections as she saw fit.

  Instead, she opened her eyes and searched the face above hers. Arthur paused under her gaze, as if aware of her conflict. The boy she had helped rescue was gone, and the stranger. The days had made them friends, and Bera had brought him into manhood. Eleanor found she liked him and knew that she could, if she chose, love him. If I choose. No act is free of consequences. She could not tell if the thought was her own or some memory of Sal. This time I will not rush into anything thoughtlessly. A faint tension in her loins told her how foolish this was.

  '"So subtly is the fume of life designed to clarify the blood and cloud the mind.’”

  Eleanor spoke the words without realizing it.

  "What?”

  "Part of a poem, which ends,

  'I find this frenzy insufficient reason

  for conversation when we meet again.’

  Nasty bit of verse to remember at the moment.”

  Arthur laughed. "The twists of your mind no longer surprise me. Frenzy, indeed.” He kissed her again, leaving no doubt of his desire. A strong hand slipped under her gown and caressed aching thighs.

  The skeins of tomorrows unrolled before her eyes. Eleanor saw a splendid altar, and herself garbed in cloth of silver, shimmering in the colored light of stained-glass windows. Arthur, crowned and dressed in blue, stood beside her, facing a slender man in the robes of a bishop. Then there was a hard-faced woman, her countenance riddled with rage and passion, handing her a goblet of wine. Poison, no doubt. A chill chamber with a white-faced, exhausted Eleanor murmuring over a small, dark head upon her breast, staring in horror as the stones of the floor erupted, and finally, Arthur, facing some unseen adversary with the fire sword bright in his hands.

  Eleanor pulled her head away, breathing raggedly. The jumbled images chased in her mind. "Bring your bedding next to mine, I think.” He released his grasp reluctantly and returned in haste. She reclined on the starry cloak, looking at the pale night and trying to shake herself into some semblance of sense. The moon had just risen, silvering the rocks and bushes and turning Sable to argentine.

  She turned and laid her head upon his chest, feeling a firm hand in the small of her back. They kissed, and she realized that he was lonely, too. Her body sang to have its emptiness filled. Soon there was nothing but the press of his weight upon her, until the final flood of release, the sharp cries of passion, brought her back to rocky ground and tangled garments. Eleanor laughed shakily, and he joined her after a second. They hugged and cuddled, all peril forgotten for a moment. Then she thought of nothing as pleasure turned to dreamless sleep against his warmth.

  XXVI

  Eleanor was aware of a strange buzzing beside her ear. It came and went, and she pried open sleep-clogged eyes to seek its origin. Arthur was snoring gently, one arm pillowing her he
ad, the other across her chest, his hand grasping her biceps tenderly, as if he was afraid to release his hold. The young face was handsome in repose, the strong jaw softened by the beard, the hooklike nose shadowing the generous mouth.

  She was stiff from lying too long in one position, so she turned to face him, flexing her muscles. His head rested on the cloak as Doyle’s had so often, and she searched her soul for shame or guilt. There was nothing but a sense that she was no longer alone. A person of any real sensitivity, she scolded herself, would feel awful. The question isn’t whether he will respect me in the morning but whether I will. That made her chuckle, and the sound stirred the sleeper.

  Arthur peered at her, a bit bemused for a moment, then kissed her lips. They clung together as if aware of how tender a thing now lay between them, then drew apart a little. "Good morning, dear lady.” He touched her cheek with one finger, tracing the muscles down to her long throat.

  "Good morning to thee.” She found she could not say "milord.” The bond was too new for her submission.

  The wedge-shaped face of the panther looked over his shoulder, as if to say, "Are you two going to dally the day away?” and Eleanor realized the sun was well up. She wondered if she would ever lie with a man on a real bed with sheets and blankets, then sat up. Her body immediately informed her of a need to remove its waste, and she staggered away for the semiprivacy of a bush, astonished that the same flesh that scaled the battlements of passion should yet have such earthy insistences.

  When she returned, Arthur was laying fresh bits of wood on the ashes of the previous night’s fire. The panther was nowhere in sight, and the blankets and cloaks of their bed had been folded neatly, removing all traces of intimacy but memory. Eleanor stood for a second, watching the sunlight gleam on the golden hair along his forearms, filled with postcoital affection and the cold doubt that it would not be returned. Then he glanced up and grinned at her, and it was suddenly a glorious day.