by Lynn Kurland
An egg.
Apparently Cook was boiling them into rocks today.
Colin was unsurprised, either by their condition or by the fact that Sybil had been hiding them in her hair.
Her maids fluttered around her like frantic butterflies, trying to pat her back into sense. Colin could have told them it was a useless exercise, but he suspected they wouldn’t take kindly to his instructing them in their duty. He looked about him for someone useful. With a sigh, he settled for Jason.
“Carry her up,” he said.
“Of course,” Jason said promptly. “And I will happily take Sir Henri with me. I’m certain you wish him to be watched over quite closely.”
“I am fine on my own,” Henri protested.
Colin looked at the lad. Well, the first thing he would be teaching the lad was how to sound less like a woman and more like a man. “Henri, you should likely go with him,” Colin agreed. “You’ve a way with the wench. See if you can’t calm these squawking harpies surrounding her.”
Jason moved promptly to do his bidding, slinging his arm around Henri and dragging the lad with him around the table to collect Sybil. Colin watched Henri put up quite a good fight at being thusly wrenched about. He certainly couldn’t blame the lad. Jason’s good cheer could be quite annoying at times.
Though why Jason was so interested in Henri was beyond Colin to fathom. The lad was much more likely to latch on to a handsome wench than nursemaid a fledgling knight.
Colin scratched his head over it for a moment or two as he watched the little party disappear up the stairs, then shrugged. Perhaps Jason had witnessed more of Henri’s beating than he’d been able to stomach. Well, at least Henri could count himself well avenged.
Colin leaned on the table, wondering what he was supposed to do with his bride now, when he was distracted by the delicious smell of sauce wafting his way. He looked over the table to find Gillian looking at him purposefully.
“Don’t want to hear it,” he said crossly, stuffing a hefty hunk of meat into his mouth and chewing industriously.
“Questing is a noble venture,” she offered mildly.
“I’ve no interest in questing,” he said, making a purposeful grab for as much sauce-covered meat as he could fit in his fist. He knew exactly of what quest she spoke—and he had no desire to speak further of any attempts to find the missing and no doubt very dead Aliénore of Solonge.
“The prize might be worth it,” she said.
“The prize is rotting in a shallow grave, no doubt,” Colin said, reaching for Sybil’s trencher and beginning to liberate it from its coverings.
Gillian looked unconvinced. “I’ll say no more.”
“A body could only hope,” he muttered, then lifted the trencher and moved it to one of the lower tables. At least there he would eat in peace. The men said nothing as he sat with them. He accepted their silent sympathy without comment.
Well, at least Sybil had ventured forth from her hiding place. If she did it once, she could do it again. He should have removed the bolt from the solar whilst he’d had the chance. It would have saved him the future aggravation of trying to get her to open the door. He sighed as he bypassed the cup and reached for a jug of wine. Apparently he would be doing more waiting than he’d like for her to come to her senses. Or perhaps he could merely post Jason at her door and wait for the lad to charm her from her lair.
Aye, that might be wise. Jason could do what he did best, and Colin could concentrate on his strengths—such as focusing his efforts on Henri’s training.
Turning that womanly lad into a warrior would be task enough for the present, one fully worthy of his considerable skill and attentions.
How could Henri not be eternally grateful for that?
Chapter 9
Ali knelt in the alcove next to the lady Gillian’s solar, looked about her once more to make certain she was alone, and then quickly stuffed her coins into a crevice in the rock. She pushed dirt in after them, then placed the small stones she’d removed earlier back over the hole. She sat back on her heels and studied her work. Well, it looked unremarkable enough. At least there would be no danger of her future being discovered if she had the sorry misfortune of being forced to bathe again. ’Twas far safer to have her coins in a place that was, for the moment, far from her own person.
That task finished, she rose and stood, uncertain of what to do now. All she knew was that she couldn’t remain out in the passageway. If she were going to avoid all the souls in the keep who seemed to want something from her, or seemed bent on discovering who she was, she would have to find a better place to hide than directly before Sybil’s door.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been about searching for a place that morning. She’d braved the kitchens first thing. Cook hadn’t seemed to want her lingering there, no doubt because of her inability to judge a stew properly. The stable master thought she was about some kind of mischief. ’Twas rumored that Sir Etienne still languished in the healer’s house, even after three days of recovering from Sir Colin’s gentle ministrations, which included a broken nose and much bruising, so there was no hope of hiding there. Even the chapel and the resident priest had been unresponsive to her pleas, the latter having found her appearance to be too suspicious for his taste. How the man could determine that when she was surrounded by warlocks, witches, and warriors of fiendish and dubious character, she couldn’t have said.
Inside Sybil’s solar was no place for her, either. She’d managed to get herself inside the night before with Sybil and her ladies yet shove Jason out the door before he could give her any more knowing looks. And since she’d been in a goodly amount of pain, the solar had seemed a perfect retreat, a safe harbor for her to rest in and be shielded from the stormy seas without.
Until the seas began to heave within.
Sybil had confined herself to sniffles for the evening—once she’d regained her senses and had a bit more sustenance. The sniffles had been followed hard on the heels by quiet weeping, then weeping that grew in volume and intensity until Ali had known that if she didn’t escape, she would go mad. That she was willing to abandon the security of the solar for the perils of the keep spoke eloquently of her misery.
But the saints only knew what she would do now.
Especially given that Colin of Berkhamshire had taken such an interest in her. Her, a knight in sore need of training.
By him.
Personally.
Ali would have put her face in her hands and laughed herself ill over the complete improbability of it all, but she found that laughing was simply beyond her. If Colin had his way, he would soon discover that she was not exactly what she seemed to be, and then he would eventually discover just who she was.
And then he would make good on his vow and remove her head from atop her shoulders, thanks to his blade across her throat.
“You look like you could use a good cup of courage.”
Ali blinked and realized that Gillian of Blackmour was standing before her. Damnation, but how did the woman move so quietly? Ali revised her opinion of Gillian’s state of betwitchedness. And that forced her to reconsider the likely truth she’d being trying her best to ignore:
The whole place was under a spell.
“Sir Henri?”
Ali smiled weakly. At least Gillian was holding true to her word about not giving away any secrets.
“Forgive me, my lady,” she said, with a little bow. “My mind seems to be elsewhere.”
“’Tis perfectly understandable,” Gillian said. “I was thinking about you and suspected you might wish for a peaceful place to rest for a bit. Would you care to come with me?”
Ali knew that she must have looked pathetically grateful, because Gillian only laughed and took her arm. She went along without hesitation. After all, the woman had offered her peace. Who was she to refuse?
They walked up and down stairs and through passageways until Ali was quite thoroughly lost. Either that or she was falling furthe
r and further under Blackmour’s spell. Whatever the case, by the time Gillian paused in front of a door and knocked, Ali had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there.
The door opened and an old woman stood there, appearing as harmless as an old woman should.
“Ah, Gillian, love,” said the woman, reaching out for Gillian’s hands. “A pleasure, as always. And who do you have here?”
“Someone who requires aid,” Gillian said. “Of your particular sort, of course.” She looked at Ali. “This is Berengaria.”
Berengaria’s smile seemed to invite all it reached to come, sit, and be at ease. “I am Lord Blackmour’s ... healer,” she said.
Ali frowned. “I thought the healer was a man in the inner bailey.”
“Ah, well, he does what he can. When souls have difficulties beyond his art, they come to me.”
Well, there was surely more to that than those simple words, but before Ali could venture any more questions, Berengaria had reached for her and was pulling her into the chamber. Ali paused, feeling herself on the verge of something quite tremendous. To step over that threshold...
She found herself, quite suddenly, standing in the middle of the chamber and wondering how she had gotten there. She whirled around to look behind her only to find Gillian giving her a friendly wave and retreating back out into the passageway.
The door closed.
Ali took a deep breath. Gillian would not have led her to a place of danger. Perhaps this Berengaria was just what she said: Christopher of Blackmour’s personal healer.
But just exactly what that meant, Ali didn’t know.
She took the chance to look about the chamber. The place looked as if a healer dwelt there. Shelves lined the walls, wooden shelves filled to overflowing with pots of various sizes, though most of them were smallish, as if they held precious things. There was a window in an alcove with two benches flanking it, made for comfortable sitting with sunlight to aid in any kind of handwork.
Unfortunately, on one of those benches sat none other than Jason of Artane, whom she most earnestly wanted to avoid.
“Um,” Ali said, backing up.
Berengaria put her arm around Ali’s waist and drew her across the chamber.
“You know my lord from Artane,” Berengaria said easily. “Nothing to fear there.”
Ali tried to disagree most heartily, then realized that no one, including Jason, was paying her any heed.
“And I say that it cannot be made,” Jason said, folding his arms across his chest, “without the petals of a new rose.”
“Ha,” said the woman facing him. She was of Berengaria’s age, and she shook her finger at Jason as if he’d been but a lad of eight or nine. Ali recognized her immediately from the skirmish she’d been privy to days earlier. What was she doing here? “And what would you know of it, my lord? Wet behind the ears are you still, and there’s no doubt of that.”
“Now, Nemain,” said a wispy-haired woman, who stood nearby, nervously fingering a long wooden spoon, “he’s a fine student. He knows where all the pots are and his charms seem to work well enough—”
“Be silent, Magda,” said Nemain with a glare. She turned that look on Jason, but it softened to mere skepticism. “At least you haven’t burned anything yet.”
“I can cook,” he agreed. “And I’ve an excellent memory. And, my lady Nemain, ’twas you yourself who told me that the proper way to woo a woman was with a potion made from the petals of a new rose.”
“A pink rose,” Magda offered.
“Red, I’d say,” said Nemain, scowling. “Brings the blood to a lass’s cheeks, does that.”
Ali found Jason looking at her quite suddenly. He stood. “Good day to you,” he said with a little bow.
Nemain threw a glance her way, then scowled at Jason. “Why’re you standing for a knight?” she demanded. “Sit down, whelp, and let’s finish your lesson for the day. I’ve important work to do after I’m finished with you.”
Berengaria pulled her over closer to the alcove. “Nemain,” she said calmly, “I hear Sir Colin has a victim still in the healer’s house. He’s being offered nightshade to soothe him—”
Nemain threw up her hands. “Hopeless! Helpless! Is there no rest for an old woman?” She rose and pulled Magda along behind her. “Carry my pots and let us be away to save the man from the ministrations of that fool in the bailey. By the fires of Hell, is there no one but me who can brew a proper healing draught?”
Ali watched as Magda was loaded down with a basket full of pots, then dragged from the chamber. The door shut with a bang. She looked first at Jason.
“Potions? Charms?”
Jason shrugged with a rueful smile. “I dabble.”
And then it occurred to her where she was and with whom she was keeping company. She stared at Berengaria in horror. Why, this was a witch! A witch, one of the three Colin had spoken of, likely ready and exceedingly willing to ply her trade on a hapless soul brought to her lair for that express purpose! Ali backed away.
“I know what you are,” she said, holding out her hands to ward off any stray charms. “I know what you do.”
“I know what you are as well,” Berengaria said. “And why you hide.”
Ali didn’t doubt it in the slightest. She looked quickly to her left to judge the distance from her own self to the doorway. Could she gain the doorway before she was put under a foul spell, or would she perish right there in the middle of the chamber, writhing in horrible agony as she died a frightful death from witchly curses?
“Now, my dear, there is nothing to fear here,” Berengaria said gently. “Come. Let me aid you.”
“How?” Ali said, easing her way out of the alcove. “By spelling me to death?”
“Oh, by the saints,” Jason said, rising and taking Ali by the arm. He pulled her bodily back into the alcove and pushed her down onto one of the stone benches. “She’s not going to hurt you. I’ve known her for years and she has yet to do anything unseemly to anyone that I’ve seen.”
“You’re hardly one to judge, apparently being one of them yourself,” Ali accused, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Do I look like I cast spells?”
“How can I tell? The entire place is bewitched!” Ali exclaimed. “You likely all cast spells!”
Jason sighed and looked at Berengaria. “Perhaps a soothing brew of harmless herbs would aid her. Then she’ll see we mean her no harm.”
Ali considered trying to escape again, but she’d already tried to escape from Jason before without success. So she remained on the bench where he’d placed her and watched closely as Berengaria went to her worktable. The woman poured wine, then sprinkled it liberally with several different kinds of herbs. In truth, Ali couldn’t have told the difference between dried rose petals and a pinch of hemlock—which gave her little comfort. When Berengaria returned, Ali gestured toward Jason.
“Let him taste it,” she challenged. “If he breathes still, then I’ll try it.”
Jason sighed heavily, but sipped the wine. Then he handed her the cup with a smile. “See? Still alive, still breathing, still just as charming as always.”
Well, he could have been a warlock himself, and immune to Berengaria’s spells. She gave that thought as she swirled the wine about in the cup and studied Jason for telltale signs of bewitchment. All he showed, however, was a lethal charm that couldn’t have come from a sack of herbs.
She sniffed the wine, wished briefly for Sybil’s ability to judge brews from a whiff alone, then tasted hesitantly. It didn’t taste poisoned, or as if it had been laced with spells. It tasted like sweet wine with a few herbs sprinkled on top. She leaned back against the wall and finished the cup.
And the longer she sat there, the more ridiculous her suspicions seemed.
Jason was no warlock; he was merely a man who looked at her kindly, if not a bit assessingly. Berengaria was no witch; indeed, she looked more like someone’s grand-mere than she did one who brewed potions and c
ast spells in the depths of night.
“You must be tired of hiding.”
Ali looked at Berengaria and blinked. “What?”
“Hiding for so long,” Berengaria said. “You must be tired of it.”
Ali wondered if she was gaping or if her mouth had simply decided it couldn’t be bothered to stay closed any longer.
“She has the sight,” Jason offered, draining his cup. “ ’Tis impossible to keep secrets from her.”
Ali looked at Berengaria. The sight, whilst a bit unnerving, was nothing to fear. “If you have it truly,” she countered, “then tell me what you’ve seen.”
Berengaria looked at her with a smile she likely used on all those who disbelieved in her skill, but she answered readily enough. “I’ve seen your stepmother hunting you; she hunts you still. I’ve seen your sire so deep in his grief that he can scarce think of you without weeping. He would give much to have you found.”
Ali pursed her lips. Those were things that anyone who knew she had a sire could have divined.
“And,” Berengaria added slowly, “I’ve seen that you should be very careful when you return to Solonge.”
Jason’s cup fell from his fingers and landed on the wooden floor with a dull thud. Fortunately for them all, the cup had been empty.
“Solonge?” he managed in a strangled voice.
Ali felt just as strangled. When she returned to Solonge? Why, she had no intention of ever setting foot inside that accursed bailey again!
Jason continued to wheeze.
Ali looked at him crossly. “You’re having trouble breathing. Did you finally find something foul in your cup?”
He looked as if he were torn between laughing and weeping. After a moment of his mouth working silently, he sat back and blew out a heavy breath. “Aliénore of Solonge,” he said, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Who would have thought it?”
“Who, indeed?” she muttered. She buried her nose in her empty cup, wondering if there might be a place to hide permanently that didn’t entail her own poor self in a crypt under the floor of a chapel. She looked at Berengaria, who she had to concede might indeed be able to see further than she herself could. “Thank you for the wine. It was pleasant,” she said.