by Lynn Kurland
“Drink,” he commanded. “Breathe. If you puke in here, we’ll be sleeping in the stables.”
Henri nodded weakly and sipped at his wine in a most wenchlike fashion. Colin rolled his eyes and finished his meal as quickly as possible. Perhaps the best place for him was outside where he could drive a few more manly manners into the lad before bed.
He grunted at Sybil’s parents as he pushed back from the table.
“Follow me,” he threw at Henri over his shoulder.
He didn’t look to see if Henri would obey. He could hear the light pat-a-pat of the lad’s footsteps as he followed obediently along. Colin thrust open the door and stepped out into the cooling evening air. Aye, there was daylight enough for him to be about a bit more training before the sun deserted its post completely.
He was just choosing an appropriate spot for a little impromptu fighting when who should appear before him in a most unsettlingly unexpected fashion but that chief practitioner of shady arts, Berengaria. Colin folded his arms over his chest.
“I’ve no need of you. No improvement to my visage could possibly aid me at this point.”
Berengaria smiled. “Your visage suits you as it is, my lord. I merely came to see how your heart fared.”
“My ... h-heart!” Colin spluttered. “My heart!” he repeated. “What could that possibly matter?”
“Does being a warrior mean you can’t enjoy a little happiness as well?” she asked in that wistful voice that always set his teeth on edge.
“I haven’t time for that,” he said, gritting his teeth to keep them from aching.
“It might make you a better swordsman,” she offered slowly.
“Ha,” he said derisively. “What will make me a better warrior is a bit more time in the lists. Now, move yourself, mistress, lest you force me to aid you.”
“What of the lady Aliénore?” Berengaria asked.
Colin reached out to steady Henri, who had swayed suddenly and quite violently. He gave the lad a good shake, then turned to Berengaria. “Why does everyone persist in speaking of her?” he asked in astonishment. “The wench is dead!”
“Mayhap she isn’t,” Berengaria insisted. “Mayhap she needs aid.”
He looked at her narrowly. “You’ve been having speech with Gillian. You women and your foolish, romantic notions. I have a notion and that is that if that gel from Solonge isn’t dead, mayhap she should find someone to see to that for her.”
“Now, my lord—”
He wasn’t sure there were words in common use equal to expressing his displeasure—or his discomfort—with speaking on Aliénore of Solonge and her doomed flight from her home.
“She is dead,” Colin said curtly, “and if she isn’t, I hope her current straits are just recompense for what she did to m—”
He clamped his lips shut. Damned errant things. This was what a man deserved for letting his tongue run free from between his bloody lips. Too much babbling and the next thing he knew, he would be spewing forth the contents of his heart.
So he folded his arms more intimidatingly across his chest and glared down at the old woman before him.
And he did so silently.
“I’ll say no more,” Berengaria said pleasantly.
He grunted. She’d said far too much already.
“She might,” the old witch mused, “aye, she might very well be in need of your aid, however.” She looked at him in silence for a moment or two. “A rescue might be in order, my lord.”
Colin snorted and so forcefully that he cleared his nose of several things that had been troubling it since his last trample through the farmer’s field. He dragged his sleeve across his upper lip, nodded curtly to Berengaria, then motioned with his head to Henri for the lad to follow him.
A rescue? Ha! He would sooner climb to the tallest tower in England and do a jig on the roof.
But that name. Aliénore. It rolled sweetly over his tongue and seemed to travel upward and rattle quite often around inside his head. He couldn’t seem to rid himself of thoughts of her, where she was, if she were dead or alive.
If she needed aid.
He clapped his hand to his head so forcefully, he had to blink aside a great pain above his eyes.
“Henri,” he barked.
“Aye, my lord,” Henri squeaked.
“Never speak to women.”
“My lord?”
“Bed them. Get them with child. But never converse with them. Nothing good ever comes of it.”
“I’ll remember that, my lord.”
Colin grunted. If only he were intelligent enough to take his own advice, he would be far better off.
But what if Aliénore did need aid? Who better than he to provide that aid?
“Draw your sword,” Colin said, pushing aside his momentary weakness. “Let us see what you’ve learned.”
Which, as it turned out, was more than Colin could have hoped for, but less than he would have liked. At least Henri’s failings gave him something else to think on besides a foolish wench who likely had herself in the most perilous of straits with no one there to rescue her.
Leaving him, of course, to do it for her.
Damn her anyway.
He stared at Henri and noted that the lad was hoisting his sword without trembles, for a change. A pity this one had no sister, as pretty as he was and with a bit of his courage. Colin sighed and grasped his own sword a bit more firmly. Mayhap Christopher had it aright, that he didn’t need a wife, he needed a squire.
Henri would be a damned sight less trouble than Sybil, to be sure.
Chapter 18
Berengaria stood near the abbey’s infirmary, as near as she could come, of course, being a woman in a man’s kingdom, and watched with interest the goings-on there. Nemain apparently had no compunction about going where she pleased. And judging by the look on the abbey’s infirmarian, she would continue to be allowed to trample heedlessly over whatever rules and monks she found in her way. The poor man she faced didn’t look as if he’d ever come across anything like her. Berengaria eased closer to listen. The saints only knew what Nemain was choosing to torment the man about today. Likely something that would see them all merrily on their way immediately if her tongue wagged freely enough.
“Haven’t seen any nightshade in your garden,” Nemain said sharply. “How can you brew a proper potion without a bit of nightshade to perk it up?”
“Ah,” the monk said, his hand moving nervously to his throat.
“Horehound aplenty, but what good is that if you want the victim to bleed to death?”
“Um ...” Both hands were now at his throat, as if he intended to protect it from whatever Nemain was brewing.
“And all these bloody roses,” she groused. “As if any of you had need of a brew to woo a woman to your beds!”
The man began to look about him—for aid, no doubt. Berengaria took a step forward, hoping to stop Nemain’s complaints before they grew too horrifying for the poor monk to tolerate.
Nemain sighed with apparent disgust. “I can see your garden’s of no use to me.” She fixed him suddenly with an intent stare. “But what of the woods hereabouts? What’s in ’em?”
“In them?” the monk asked faintly. “Good woman, I know of nothing in them save trees and grasses and the like.”
Nemain snorted. “I’m not talking of flora and fauna, you silly lad. I’m inquiring about things of substance. Faeries. Bogles. The odd sorcerer with both thumb-bones still on ’im.”
The monk looked at her; his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground like a small tree after the axe had taken its final, fatal swing.
Nemain turned and looked at Berengaria with a scowl. “No spine, these lads. That’s the second one who’s fainted on me today.”
Berengaria only smiled, gave Nemain a commiserating pat on the shoulder, then left her companion staring down at the fallen man of the cloth, shaking her head in disappointment.
She could only hope the monastery woul
d survive their visit.
The hall was full of the usual souls, namely the lady Sybil guarded by her three handmaids, with young Peter of Berkhamshire kneeling at her feet, no doubt reassuring her that all would be well.
Unless he was, of course, reassuring her that he would find a way to free her from his brother’s clutches.
Berengaria shook her head at that. The lad was nigh onto taking his priestly vows, but he looked more like a lovesick suitor. Perhaps that would be a better finish to Sybil’s tale, given that Colin’s former betrothed was certainly hale and hearty enough to be his bride.
She made her way out of the gates and walked down the lane, enjoying the sunshine and the smells of summer. Her girlhood had been passed in country such as this, and the fragrances she hadn’t enjoyed in decades brought back pleasing memories of time spent in her grandfather’s care, learning his trade.
Which, she had to admit, he had never been all that skilled at. All manner of brews for hurts and discomforts, aye. But anything else?
That had been her gift alone, she supposed.
She stopped along the lane and rested her elbows on the rickety fence there. The entertainment in a very muddy, no doubt formerly quite fruitful, portion of a field was such that she couldn’t not pause and watch. She wished somehow that she might preserve the sight for generations to come. Surely some grandbabe would enjoy watching his grandfather and grandmother hacking at each other with swords.
Actually, Colin was doing the hacking. Ali looked to be just endeavoring to stay on her feet.
But even to Berengaria’s eye, her progress was clear. The lass had courage, to be sure, and determination. And a goodly mind, if her cleverness in remaining hidden so long told the tale true.
Now if Colin could merely remove the scales from his own eyes and see what stood right before him, the tale might finish up as it should.
Berengaria watched until she began to feel the need to find somewhere to sit. It was, fortunately for her aching feet, at that precise moment that Colin put up his sword, clapped a friendly hand on Aliénore’s shoulder, then led her from the field. Berengaria met them at the gate and received a scowl from Colin.
“Come to bludgeon me with more advice?” he demanded.
“The saints forbid,” Berengaria said with a smile. “I’ve said my piece with you.”
He grunted at her, then looked at Aliénore. “Be careful what you listen to,” he advised. “And even more careful what you drink, though I daresay Mistress Berengaria’s brews wouldn’t hurt you. And that Magda’s you can smell from fifty paces. The other one, though,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t brew our young one here anything foul,” Berengaria promised. “Only things to heal his aches, that he might train even more diligently on the morrow.”
Predictably, Colin was for anything that might lengthen any stay in his makeshift lists, so he nodded in approval, then looked at Henri.
“Come with me and take your rest,” he said. “We’ll be at it again after lunch. I cannot bear being in that hall longer than needful.”
“Of course, my lord,” Aliénore said, nodding.
“Might I have at the lad for a moment or two?” Berengaria asked. “Just to see if there might be a particular ache he needs seeing to?”
Colin frowned. “I don’t like leaving him alone—”
“I can keep him safe,” Berengaria assured him. “We won’t be far behind you. Nothing untoward could happen between here and the guest hall.”
“You would be surprised,” Colin grumbled. “Very well, Mistress Berengaria. I assume if Sir Etienne comes near, you can spell him into leaving Henri be?”
Berengaria only smiled pleasantly, but that was apparently enough for Colin. He looked at Henri. “Do not wander. Follow behind me quickly. Keep your sword loose in its sheath.”
“Of course, my lord,” Aliénore said, with a nod.
Colin looked at Berengaria. “Perhaps you can brew the lad something to make him sound more like a man. Think you?”
“That might be,” Berengaria said dryly, “a bit beyond my art. But I’ll try.”
Colin cast a final warning look at Aliénore, then turned and strode off toward the hall. He didn’t stride as quickly as he might have another time, though. Berengaria watched him for a moment, then looked at Aliénore.
“He guards you well.”
“For all the good it does me,” Aliénore whispered. “Things simply could not be worse. Sir Etienne stole my coin, the monks think when I ask about nearby convents that I’ve rapine on my mind, and Colin intends to make me over in his image.”
“Poor girl,” Berengaria said, putting her arm around Aliénore’s shoulders and walking slowly back toward the abbey. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Tell me where the nearest priory is and provide me with false proof of a dowry,” Aliénore said with a sigh. “Not that Colin would approve of such lying.”
“And neither would you,” Berengaria said.
“At this point, my lady, I’m desperate enough to do almost anything.”
Berengaria stopped and turned Aliénore toward her. “Then why don’t you try the truth?” she asked quietly. “Give Lord Colin the tale.”
“You and Jason have the same poor ideas,” Aliénore said grimly. “I would tell Colin who I am only to have him immediately remove my head from my shoulders.”
“I daresay he wouldn’t.”
“He vowed he would.”
“I think,” Berengaria said slowly, with a smile, “that his tender feelings were bruised.”
Aliénore snorted in disbelief. “Tender feelings? There is nothing at all tender about the man.”
“Well, you were the only one who merely bolted,” Berengaria pointed out. “The rest at least gave some sort of excuse.”
Aliénore paused. “They did?”
“Oh, aye,” Berengaria said. “Issuance of blood from every orifice, symptoms of plague, sudden madness that rendered them unfit to say their vows.” She smiled. “Some have been quite inventive.”
“I don’t know why I grieved him, then,” she said darkly. “Surely he’s accustomed to it.”
“Aye, he unfortunately is,” Berengaria said. “Can you imagine how it troubles him?”
Aliénore looked down and remained silent.
“He is gruff and fiercesome, true, but I daresay underneath he has a tender heart. If a girl had the courage to look for it.”
“If a girl had the chance to look for it before he cleaved her skull in twain,” Aliénore returned.
Berengaria smiled. “I would trust him, no matter what he’d threatened in the past.”
Aliénore pursed her lips, but said nothing as she walked beside her. Berengaria breathed deeply of the pungent air.
“A lovely day, is it not?”
Aliénore sighed. “I wish I could enjoy it. I’ve too many things to fear, namely Sir Etienne.”
“Sir Etienne will meet his own sorry end in time,” Berengaria said. “Though I daresay he will cause you much grief beforehand.”
“Does your sight tell you anything else?”
“Just that you cannot forever hide behind your sword,” Berengaria said gently. “You can trust the truth. Lord Colin certainly does.”
“He’s fierce enough to weather the consequences.”
“So are you, my dear. So are you.”
“If only that were true,” Aliénore murmured, then bowed her head and watched her feet as they walked.
Berengaria kept her own thoughts to herself, though she surely would have loved to have given voice to them. Aliénore would have to find her own path, though, and that path to the place where she would have enough courage to reveal herself would not be an easy one. A pity, though, she couldn’t have seen the end from the beginning.
Ah, well, such was her own gift, and she supposed it was both a blessing and a curse.
But, for herself, she stole a glance at the future and
was well satisfied with what she saw.
Did Aliénore but survive what was to come first.
Chapter 19
The day dawned bright and fair. Ali peeked out a window in the guest hall and wondered if she might actually have another tolerable day. The condition of the sky boded well for it. The day before had been passed happily enough with a goodly amount of training with her sword—and who would have thought she would come to enjoy that—a fine meal with the comfort of the lady Isabeau’s presence nearby, and no hint of Sir Etienne doing anything foul.
Of course, he’d caught her eye a time or two as he’d stood near either Sybil or one of her ladies, but she’d only nodded in understanding, then turned away. She had decided that ’twas best to go along with him at present until she could divine a way to be free of him. Having him lean over Colin at supper, however, had been something else entirely. She’d felt a panic sweep through her, though she couldn’t have imagined how he would have dared such a brazen attack. The saints be praised that Colin was the warrior he was. He’d made Sir Etienne look the fool, and he’d managed to yet again keep her from the man’s clutches.
And now that the folk from Maignelay-sur-mer were there, she had hope that the torment might end soon. They would take Sir Etienne with them when they left and hopefully the tale would be finished. He would have her coins for his trouble and perhaps that would suffice him.
That he could still reveal her to Colin was unsettling, but perhaps by then Colin would be safely wed and not care who she was.
Perhaps.
Mistress Berengaria certainly thought Colin to be harmless. Ali wasn’t sure she herself had the same faith in his ability to forgive. Then again, perhaps by the time Sir Etienne had departed and Colin was saddled with Sybil, she would have already bid everyone a fond adieu and been well on her way to some other occupation.
Or mayhap she would find herself forever serving as Colin’s man, passing her days learning strokes of offense, and endeavoring to walk, talk, and carry herself in a very unladylike fashion. A month ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable. That it sounded less repulsive by the day said a great deal about the sorry state of her life at present.