Wild Lavender: The Aurelian Guard - Book One

by Nicole Elizabeth Kelleher

  Warin, on the other hand, couldn’t stop complaining. “This rain is interminable. I’ll not be happy until we cross the mountains and into a fairer clime.”

  Larkin smirked, enjoying anything that made Warin uncomfortable. Experience had taught him that the best way to quiet Warin was to agree with him. “This is a miserable place,” he concurred, “and a waste of time.” They rode on, the hooves of their mounts making the only conversation, a sucking and splashing of mud.

  “They were broken, those people,” Trian said, finally letting go of what had been gnawing at his mind. “Did you see? Especially the women.”

  “What women?” Warin growled.

  And there it was, thought Larkin, the crux of what had bothered him. He waited for Trian to put to words what he’d noticed but not recognized.

  “Even the girls, they were clothed head to toe. Did you notice they all covered their hair with scarves? Not completely, but enough to act as guimples,” Trian noted.

  It was true, Larkin realized. Women hadn’t covered their hair in Aurelia since before the Great War. He knew of only one place that continued the tradition.

  “Nifolhad,” Warin supplied, as if reading his mind. “I’ll be da—” He was stopped from saying more by what sounded like a woman singing. Soon, the smell of roasting meat filtered through the rain. The soft glow of a window drew them forward like oil through a wick. “I will be damned,” Warin repeated, “a tavern!”

  • • •

  If Warin weren’t careful, Larkin thought with a small amount of relish, the pert little barmaid sitting in his lap might migrate to Trian. She’d already cast a longing eye in Larkin’s direction, but he’d warded off her affections, leaving her fluttering eyelashes wilted. He hadn’t been as interested of late in the game of hearts that he and Warin played, and was content to listen to the local gossip, hoping to hear something of worth to take back to the king.

  The tavern keeper’s welcome had been so warm when they’d shuffled in from the rain that Larkin wasn’t sure if they were still within the borders of Ragallach. Thus far, they had been placed near the great hearth with its roaring fire, been fed a hearty stew, hot enough to warm their bones, and were kept supplied with one of the best honey meads that he’d ever tasted. Trian was so satisfied that he’d broken into song. His beautiful tenor voice rang true and clear through the tavern. The barmaid couldn’t keep her eyes from him.

  Larkin had heard this sad ballad from Trian’s northern home of Cathmara before. It spoke of the legend of Fishwife Point, a perilous outcropping that stretched into the Northern Sea. Many a ship had been wrecked on the jagged rocks hidden under the surface of the waves at high tide. At low tide, a person could walk to the tip of the natural jetty, a quarter league from the coast. The lyrics told the tale of the young wife of a fisherman. Newly married, he vowed to return to her every night; she vowed to wait for him. Out to sea he sailed, and his wife watched until his boat disappeared. Each evening, at low tide, she would walk to the point’s end and await his return. One evening, as the ballad went, she waited, but he came not. Hours passed, and she kept her vigil even as the tide rose around her. Finally, she saw his boat. But it was too late; the rising sea had cut off her return to the mainland. The waves swept her from her perch, dashing her upon the rocks hidden below. Her husband, seeing her perish, scuttled his boat and joined his beloved in a watery grave. At low tide, the farthest rock of Fishwife Point resembled a woman leaning toward the sea.

  As Trian sang the final verse, there was not a dry eye in the room.

  …they keep their vows, yet ev’ry day

  For still she stands, and waits for he

  Whose wat’ry arms encircle she.

  Larkin finished his mead and used the end of the song as his cue to head out to the stable where he would bed down in a pile of hay. He nodded to Trian, who had been unsuccessful in turning down another mug of drink. Warin would no doubt find a cozier bed, Larkin mused, as he bade all good night.

  Stepping over the threshold, he tucked his chin to his chest in anticipation of the pouring rain. Only, the deluge had ceased. A fine mist hung about him as he made his way to the stable. His destrier, Rabbit, nickered upon hearing him enter, and Larkin scratched his horse affectionately before stretching out in the fresh hay. He was still awake when Trian came in and found a dry spot to spend the night.

  Larkin’s rest was habitually brief. When he finally fell asleep, it was anything but restful. He dreamed of a young woman with golden-flecked eyes and beautiful hair that curled down her back. He pulled her into his arms and tasted her velvety skin. Her hair smelled of flowers, though he couldn’t tell which bloom, and the scent was subtle and fresh and made his lust grow.

  But she slipped from his embrace, and the more he stretched his hand to reach her, the farther she seemed to be. He woke, sitting straight up, and peered into the dim stable that the dawn was just illuminating. “Anna,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head to clear the image of the face that had haunted him for so long.

  He stood and brushed the hay from his clothes, waking Trian in the process. Together, they walked back to the tavern. The scent of smoked pork and fresh eggs poured into the courtyard when they opened the door. Surprisingly, Warin was awake and halfway through his breakfast.

  It was early when the three guards started out for Whitmarsh. Still troubled by his dream, Larkin rode behind his friends. Baldric would be disappointed, he thought. Ragallach had given up naught but a tavern with good mead. Warin’s jovial manner and running commentary on the barmaid’s attributes further darkened Lark’s mood. That is, until he focused on the words slipping so easily from his friend’s tongue.

  “…at least this quest wasn’t a total waste,” Warin was saying. “That little bird likes to sing.”

  “What mean you, Warin?” Trian asked. Larkin pulled up next to his fellow guards.

  “It turns out that yon pretty thing’s grandmother was no less than the midwife at Roger’s birth. She’s an old woman now, but her mind is still sharp.”

  “You spoke with her! She’s still alive?” Larkin demanded.

  “Alive and kicking, but in hiding for years. She believes that her daughter was killed in an attempt by Lord Roger’s men to find her. The tavern keeper hides her in a cottage in the woods. In return, she concocts that mead we drank.” Warin patted his bulging saddle bag. “A goodly sample for Baldric.”

  “Out with it, Warin!” Trian ordered in a rare show of impatience. So Warin began the crone’s tale of how Lord Roger was delivered into the world and how his mother died soon after.

  “But Lady Ascilia did not die. She was alive when Roger was a toddler,” Trian countered, remembering what Baldric had told them.

  “I said much the same thing. But the old woman insisted, mentioning a name long since forgotten. She told me of Lady Ulicia, daughter to Lady Ascilia of Ragallach and the jewel of her father’s eye. She was lost to the sea during a great storm,” Warin retold. “The midwife insisted it was Lady Ulicia who gave birth to Lord Roger.”

  Larkin pondered this strange tale as they rode out of Ragallach and into the northern reaches of Cathmara. Weeks later, they cantered into the courtyard of Whitmarsh Castle and went directly to meet with Lord Baldric.

  “So, Lady Ulicia did not perish as believed,” Baldric marveled. “She died after bearing a son, leaving her father and mother to raise Roger as their own.”

  “The midwife revealed that there was no love between Roger and his grandfather,” Warin explained. “After Roger’s grandmother died, they argued constantly. Then Roger disappeared. He was eighteen or nineteen at the time. When he returned seven years later, he was wealthy, and very much the prodigal son.”

  “Or prodigal grandson,” Larkin quipped.

  “The woman’s memory faded slightly after this,” Warin went on. “Soon after his return, Roger’s grandfather died. Trade with King Cedric of Nifolhad was reestablished. Ragallach’s coffers filled, and Roger was able to
push his suit with Lady Isabel of Stolweg.”

  Baldric was worried, Larkin observed. His mentor looked at each of the assembled men before settling on Larkin. “Tomorrow, we ride for King’s Glen.”

  Chapter Fourteen—Nature’s Bounty

  A pattern emerged during the first year of Anna’s marriage. Her husband would disappear every few weeks and, upon his return, she would be summoned to his chamber. Anna lived for the days—three, four, five at a time—when her duties with the horses would take her afield. Weeks could go by when she would not see Roger at all.

  When she was at the keep, she would visit the cottages each week, checking on the health and welfare of her people. They were slow to accept her aid, but she persisted. Trust grew, and before long, they would seek her out with each new injury or illness. In this way, Anna came to love all of the people of Stolweg, and they in turn loved her.

  As summer turned to autumn, Anna noticed that her stock of herbs had dwindled, as had Grainne’s. So it came about that during her excursions with her horses, she collected plants and wildflowers. Grainne would mention some herb that she required, and Anna would make it her mission to seek it out while with the horses. Will and Gilles were so used to her stopping to pick at weeds or to dig for roots that they began to recognize the plants and would dismount to harvest them as well.

  Anna had yet to hear from her family. On her first day at Stolweg, when her life had drastically changed forever, she’d written to her sister. Claire had never answered. And she now doubted that the other letters she’d written to her family, carefully omitting any details regarding her marriage, had ever left the keep. Perhaps it was for the best that the months passed with no word.

  One morning, she and Will had taken the mares into the hills to allow them to stretch their legs and graze on the lush grasses growing in low glens. It was in one such clearing that they discovered three wizened apple trees that were early in producing their fruit, the clime being slightly cooler than in the tended orchards within the keep’s wall. To Anna’s surprise, the fruit trees yielded pomerois, an old variety, and usually held in reserve for the King.

  “These trees could be the last of their kind in Aurelia,” Anna explained. “King’s apples, they are sometimes called.” She pulled the dead branches from around the trunks. “When I was a child, an apple blight swept through Aurelia. The pomeroi orchards were decimated. If we could take some cuttings—”

  “We could give King Godwin a tribute he wouldn’t likely forget,” Will finished for her. They cheered each other on as they picked as many apples as would fit in their saddlebags. Still too early for fully ripened fruit, the poms, as the fruits were called, were small and misshapen.

  Anna bit into one and her mouth puckered at its tartness. But after eating the soft, mealy apples from the previous harvest, the crisp fruit with the promise of sweetness to come was wonderful. Happy with the day’s toil, they rode back to the keep. Will transferred the apples to a large burlap sack. “I’ll help you carry them, m’lady.”

  “Why don’t you give them to your mother?” Anna suggested. “I’m afraid Grainne has depleted her supply from last season.” Grainne had noticed Anna’s affinity for apples, and had kept her in good supply. It was no small feat to take anything from the kitchen, Anna thought, and she had yet to be welcomed into Doreen’s domain.

  “But Lady Aubrianne, it—it was your idea to gather them,” he stammered.

  “It would mean more to her coming from her son. Have you ever given your mother a gift?” Anna asked.

  “Well, no, come to think of it. I think she may likely faint.”

  The next day, Grainne brought Anna’s dinner as usual to the south chamber. As was their custom when Lord Roger was away, they ate together, enjoying capons stuffed with leeks and topped with a sauce delicately laced with rosemary.

  Grainne uncovered a small plate and held it out to Anna. “Doreen made sweets, m’lady.”

  Anna took a small pasty from the proffered dish. When she bit into the flaky treat, she was delighted to find it filled with tender apple slices laced with honey, spices, and wild onions.

  “She’s no fool, m’lady,” Grainne commented. “She was beside herself that Will was so thoughtful, but she knows that you had a hand in it.”

  “I have no notion to what you are referring, Grainne.”

  So it became Anna’s habit to search out useful foodstuff that could be taken back for Doreen as a gift from her son. They stuffed sacks in their saddlebags, never knowing what they would find—mulberries, gooseberries, blackberries, wild onions, woodland mushrooms, and chestnuts.

  But Anna’s favorite days were spent near the many streams sewn throughout the fabric of the hills and forests. “Too bad we didn’t bring our fishing rods,” Gilles said sadly, gazing longingly at one of the streams.

  “Who needs a fishing pole?” Anna asked. She fashioned an alder branch into a long spear and stepped into the cool shallows.

  Once the silt settled, she waited patiently for a trout to swim near. She held her breath as a large fish swam steadily closer, her weapon poised for action. With a light flick of her wrist, the alder branch was gone from her hand.

  Pulling the spear from the water and holding aloft a neatly skewered trout, she grinned sheepishly at her openmouthed companions. If they only knew of the summers spent fishing in the streams that flowed through Chevring, she thought, they would not have been so astounded. She had inherited her love of fishing from her father and her excellent aim from her mother. Anna was a dead shot every time she threw a spear, knife, or dagger. It had driven her mother to distraction that she could be so lethal.

  That evening, they enjoyed fresh fish peppered with herbs and butter. The fruits of Anna’s and her friends’ labor were so prolific that it was not long before Doreen started smoking their surplus. Thus, Anna’s tentative friendship with the cook began.

  One afternoon, Grainne confessed that Lord Roger demanded weekly reports on Anna’s health, appetite, and cycle. He was most curious about the latter, wanting to know immediately if Anna had missed her courses. Anna had assured Grainne that anything she told Lord Roger was not a betrayal. In truth, she thought, if her husband knew when she was having her courses, she would gain a few additional days’ respite.

  It was one of her greatest fears that Roger would get her with child. So every night she drank a tea infused with loveroot, feverfew, and a goodly amount of chamomile. Although the concoction might not prevent a pregnancy, the daily intake would help maintain her regularity. Grainne, without acknowledging its constant use, kept her supply of these herbs fresh and full.

  One day there was a small burlap sack on Anna’s workbench. The bag was filled with a whitish, powdery substance. When Anna’s supper came that evening, she asked her maid what the bag contained.

  Grainne cleared her throat nervously. “It’s saltpeter, Lady Aubrianne. My mother called it fool’s pipe.” At Anna’s confusion, Grainne added without preamble, “It’s for your great horse, m’lady, in case he has some difficulty, erm, dismounting. You boil the powder with wood ash to purify it, and mix it into an ointment. Be careful, though. Prolonged use and he’ll likely stop acting the stallion and take on like a gelding.”

  “But Grainne, it would not work when breeding horses,” Anna pointed out. “To approach a stallion in that state of, well, readiness, it would be too dangerous. And then to attempt an application of ointment or balm—it would be impossible!”

  “Oh dear. Well, m’lady, the ointment can be applied to the mare. Over time, the stallion feels the effects,” she explained with frankness. “There are a number of uses for fool’s pipe, m’lady. It’s rumored that many a monk depends on its effects.”

  When comprehension dawned, Anna’s mouth dropped open. “For my stallion, I see. And the mare, Grainne? Any side effects for the mare?”

  “None that I’ve heard, m’lady.”

  Chapter Fifteen—Circle of Conspirators

  The crops had
been reaped, the fields long since mowed, and fruits and nuts and root vegetables stored. Autumn thus passed uneventfully into winter.

  One cold morning in early January, Anna awoke to sunshine streaming through a slit in the tapestries covering her windows. For weeks the weather had been dismally cold, unusual even for Stolweg. Each day had dawned gray and dark. Or hadn’t dawned, in Anna’s opinion, so dreary were the mornings. The sodden skies were an endless expanse of pregnant clouds. But this day, a crackling of light knifed its way across her room and lost itself in the folds of her blankets. She jumped from her bed with an energy she had not felt in weeks.

  Walking to her window, she trailed her fingers in the wedge of light, disrupting the floating specks of dust. The luminescent motes tumbled wildly in the turbulence she caused and winked out as they left the bright shaft. Anna yearned to be as free and unencumbered.

  A year ago, she was a naïve maiden; now, she felt as though she’d lived a lifetime. She drew back the heavy fabric that covered the large south-facing window. Frost was etched on the lower corners of each pane in fantastic patterns of barbed spikes and feathery swirls. Although the sun had yet to spill its light over the distant hills, its rays kissed the mullioned glass of Anna’s high tower window. She stared up into the heavens. The sky was an unadulterated shade of blue, the rarest of colors seen only on very clear and cold winter mornings, its brilliance intensified by the endless sea of blue-shadowed white that covered the ground. The swollen gray sky of the last few weeks had finally opened and dropped its crystalline treasure on the muddy land below.

  Anna sighed, looking at the landscape, virginal in the early morning. The snow that had fallen during the night was a heavy blanket that offered no warmth to the sleeping land. Early as it was, she was still surprised that no one had marred the perfect canvas. She spied one or two trails in the courtyard itself, brave souls who had ventured out, in the confining space between the castle wall and an encroaching snow drift.