by Nancy Morse
Fia the Defiant.
He pivoted on his heel. She’d once been a friend. Odd to have a woman as a friend, but that had been what they were. Friends. Now she rejected even that relationship, so there was no point staring at her, memorizing the face she’d have withheld from him forever if she’d had a choice.
He settled himself outside the shed and barely dozed.
She cried out once in the night and he called her name, a soft question in the darkness, almost on his feet when she answered, “I’m sorry, it was just a dream.”
It took him a long time to sleep after that, and he suspected she lay awake as well. Yet another thing that had changed. He distinctly recalled when they were younger she’d bragged about how heavily she slept, how she could sleep almost anywhere.
Perhaps it was Paris, or him. Or perhaps she hadn’t slept well in years. He certainly wouldn’t know.
The glass disc changed color with the light, starting almost black in the early predawn, transitioning to deep purple when the first weak rays of the sun peeked into the shed, and now a fierce burning red as she held it up to the bold blast of the summer sunrise. The words echoed in her head — she’d repeated them over and over during the nightmarish weeks to make sure she never forgot them.
We go in circles at night and are consumed by fire.
Circles, yes, like the old argument with Rowan that would go round and round until they died, she supposed. But not fire, not with him. With him she must feel only coldness, as frigid as the thick ice on a pond in the winter.
She closed her eyes to draw Victor’s memory forth. Pale skin, stunning blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. Shining black hair, thick and short. A lean build with wiry, quick strength. A cunning smile. Sometimes the smile became almost predatory, and he’d lower his lashes as though hiding a wonderful secret, and a tingle would run from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.
Oh, he could make her laugh, too. He’d never discouraged her from fun or acted older than he was. She’d loved Victor, and though she couldn’t blame Rowan for his death, she’d never forgive him for the betrayal that had separated her from her love even before the permanence of the grave.
Girded with resolve to be polite but distant, she tucked her treasure into her bag and hurriedly tied it under her tunic. Rowan was probably long awake and remaining outside to give her privacy. Keeping his distance from her frigid circle.
As expected, his footsteps scuffled behind her while she rolled her rough blanket and tied it with a band of worn leather. She looked over her shoulder as he dug through one of the packs of food until he found a strip of dried meat to chew.
“Eat,” he said.
It appeared neither of them was going to apologize for last night.
No matter. She shook her head then immediately regretted the abrupt reply. He had warned her their day would be long, and he’d been right about one thing last night —her strength wasn’t what it should be.
“Is there more fruit?” she asked.
Approval eased the tension around his mouth as he handed her a small cloth sack. Why could she still read his expressions? Why did the slight thawing of his face, his solid presence, untie the knot in her stomach so she could eat without gagging?
He cleared his throat. “There is a question I should have asked before, but I didn’t want to distress you. Heric’s body…?”
Intense concentration allowed her to swallow the bit of apple that wadded like wool in her mouth.
“He instructed me not to bring him home,” she said to the dirt floor. “His burial was done properly, if not well.”
Rowan felt a dram of relief that Heric had lived long enough to give his last wishes, yet something about the circumstances of his grave troubled her. She lifted another slice of fruit to her mouth and chewed very deliberately as she stared into the corner of the shed. So stubborn. So strong. Fia the Defiant. Yet now she looked on the edge of breaking.
He saddled Faxon but couldn’t stop wondering.
When she carried the pack of food toward him, he said, “We can spare an hour or two if you’d like me to situate him more suitably before we go.”
She recoiled from the idea, and Rowan couldn’t blame her. Shifting a body weeks after burial….
“We should leave, I think,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Very well. I will load our bags onto the horses. Can you refill this skin of water? The day promises some heat.”
She eagerly grasped the empty bladder. “Anything to get us out of this city.”
The day proved to be endless. Fia’s cob followed Faxon’s wide rump without any guidance, freeing her unpleasant thoughts to stretch back to Paris, to Papa. He’d always been the central pillar of her life, even after he’d kept her from marrying Victor. How could she stay angry with him when he was always working behind the family’s cottage to provide the very bread she ate, respected in his trade, loved by her mother?
Through her haze of grief, she sensed Rowan observing everything around them. He monitored her progress, searched the horizon, pulled the long spata made by his own hand from its scabbard when the road led them into brushy areas. She thought the combination of his size, Faxon’s snorting bulk, and the length of that blade would frighten even the most seasoned hordes away.
It was probably why he was still alive while Victor wasn’t.
None of it seemed fair, that she should lose her father and the man she’d intended to marry, both violently, both so far from home she didn’t even have the comfort of weeping over their graves.
She physically shook off her melancholy. The time for mourning her father would come later, without Rowan as a witness.
“We are clear of the outskirts of the city,” he announced near mid-day. “We can breathe a bit easier now.”
“Can we?” she replied, her chest tight as if still bound by the strips of cloth.
“Would you like to stop to stretch your legs?”
“I can tolerate a bit more.”
“Good. I think we will come upon a shady place to water the horses soon.”
How did he know that? She recognized nothing, could hardly remember an individual moment of her journey here, only the overall sense of excitement and adventure she’d shared with Papa. They’d even laughed at the warm spring rain that dogged them for two soggy days.
As promised, Rowan guided her into a stand of trees with a burbling stream. He fed and watered her and the horses as if they were all one herd. She walked in a circle around a tree until she could feel her legs, then they set off again.
“Julius has grown,” he said companionably.
“Julius.” Her brother. A vision of bushy hair and gangly arms and legs skated through her head. A fatherless boy on the threshold of manhood.
“He was very helpful in finding supplies for me long after most tradesmen had closed for the day.”
“My family was well?” Fia finally asked. She’d been focused on the past, but yes, she should begin to consider the equally bleak future.
“Yes, they were very well. Stella had been working with the weaver woman but came home for dinner. Julius spent the evening asking my father about his travels.”
“And Mam?”
“She was quiet. Worried, as mothers are known to be.”
“You said she hadn’t gotten the message we sent?”
“No, I’m sorry. Maybe it has arrived since.”
“I hope so. At least she’ll know part of it.”
The sun burned down on them and the conversation dwindled to silence. Not surprising, considering the number of miserable topics they must avoid. Victor. Heric. The past. The future.
Rowan built a small fire, more for Fia’s comfort than the heat they surely didn’t need. She’d rinsed her underclothes, though she continued to wear the same pungent, gigantic tunic. He’d been unable to buy any extra clothing at the poor tenant homes they’d passed so far.
He
pulled one of his two spare under tunics from a pack and handed it to her. “You can wear this tonight so you can wash out all your clothes, if you’d like.” He turned away before she could protest or betray embarrassment. She’d either accept it or not.
Still, the sight of her sound asleep again, curled up in the extra length of his tunic, with only the tips of her toes showing, while what must have been one of Heric’s work tunics dried on the bushes nearby, warmed him in a way the stifling humidity did not.
When he’d first met her, she’d been rambunctious and fearless compared to his ever-responsible eldest sister, Marian, and she pushed the boundaries of propriety compared to the next in line, his sister Patrice, who would always do exactly what was expected and was baffled when all the other citizens of the empire strayed from her narrow path.
Five years ago, barefoot Fia had introduced him to Victor, a young nobleman who, in the winter, lived and trained in preparation to inherit a small estate with an older relative, the Lord of Metz. Victor was considered a fit companion for Rowan. The two of them, with Fia, made up a peculiar threesome that took to rambling the town of Metz. Fia would leap into piles of hay, and Victor would toss armfuls over her until she was buried. She’d climb the woodpile with the sure-footedness of a squirrel while Victor teasingly poked at her with a stick. Behind them, Rowan tidied the messes, ill suited for such pointless entertainments but happy to have friends for the first time.
Yet Fia was not foolish or useless, even if those were the parts of her personality Victor encouraged. She knew how to cook and sew, as she should. Julius, just a boy then, ran to her as willingly with his cuts and bruises as he would their mother. She was never silly around her father, and she was curious, questioning Rowan about his life in the country and the people and places he’d encountered in his travels. They talked about everything, it seemed, when Victor wasn’t around.
Looking back, he realized their group must have been viewed as highly odd — two young noblemen and a tradesman’s daughter — but as a young man of sixteen, Rowan had fallen fast and hard. And watched, helpless, as her favor landed with the one who encouraged laughter instead of conversation.
He’d seen very little of that carefree, curious girl today, riding like a rag doll on the cob, barely registering the world around her. He’d have wondered if she’d suffered an injury or affliction to make her so lifeless if she hadn’t flared up last night to give him a glimpse of the old Fia, the only woman he’d ever loved.
The very fact that they had been friends ruined other women for him. He was expected to marry, preferably to a lady of the aristocracy who could give him connections to noble morons he had nothing in common with. The trouble was, he hadn’t found a lady he could talk to the way he’d been able to talk to Fia, back then. Having had that sort of friendship with a woman, knowing it existed, made it damn near impossible to accept less. But, as with most areas of his life, he might be forced to compromise, eventually.
He slept fitfully, disturbed more than once when she stirred, though she never cried out as she had the night before. When he opened his eyes at dawn, her dark gaze was looking right back at him.
Chapter Five
Heat as intense as that put off by a forge blasted from the old Roman road. There was nothing to do but press on at a pace the cob could tolerate.
When, in the middle of the third afternoon, they came upon a small abbey, Rowan guided Faxon through the gates to the welcome shade of an ancient tree. Fia was so thankful for respite from the hot sun she could have hugged the rough trunk.
The horses were slick with sweat. Their heads drooped low enough that puffs of dust swirled from the ground near their nostrils. Rowan negotiated with a round-faced monk for two of the rooms maintained for travelers. A boy younger than Julius rushed forward to take the horses. His answers to a few curt questions from Rowan were apparently satisfactory, and he was permitted to lead the exhausted, overheated animals away.
The cleric shouldered her bag and turned to her with an oddly submissive posture. “My lady, let me show you to one of the private cells for female visitors. We live a simple life but have several women working here who can fetch water and see to your basic needs.”
Fia looked at Rowan, momentarily confused by the words and the deference of the monk’s address.
Rowan’s steady, slightly imploring stare reminded her. I think we should pretend to be husband and wife….
She swallowed and looked toward the gate, longing to run, the dullness of the last two days scorched away by the betrayal of Victor. She may only be playing a role, but it was a role imposed on her by the very man who…. She shook her head. She must not indulge the old hatred. No matter their past, Rowan was now the man who was saving her life.
“My lady?” the monk asked worriedly, taking the movement of her head as…what? She felt Rowan’s eyes boring into her.
Simply follow my lead and keep quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “Perhaps the heat has addled my thoughts a bit.” The words sufficed to move the relieved monk toward a sturdy stone building with a dark doorway that promised blessed coolness.
“Your husband said you lost all your belongings to the heathens, my lady. I pray our good Christian men will force them back to the north once and for all.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He opened a door to a tidy, soothingly cool room holding only a hay-softened pallet and a rough table, all dimly lit by sunlight shafting through a narrow slit window high in the stone wall.
“We will be honored to share a meal with you in just a few hours. That might seem early to you. We rise before dawn so retire shortly after dark.” He gave her directions to their kitchen. “We do not have a separate hall for visitors like the larger abbeys you have probably visited,” he said with his head bowed as though she’d be disappointed in the arrangement.
She stared at him for a moment before managing to dully thank him again. When he shuffled from the room, she feared she had offended him and followed for a few steps. Rowan’s silhouette at the end of the hall stopped her. He had come only far enough to mark the location of her room, an observation that both reassured and unnerved her.
The monk ducked his head in deference as he passed. Rowan paused to peer down the dim passage at her for an inscrutable moment, then he followed the man, probably eager to find the comfort of his own chamber.
A servant girl brought a wooden bucket of chilly well water, much of which she poured in a chipped pottery bowl for washing. She also carried a large, thin towel and shyly presented an undertunic and tunic. “They are not new or fine, but your man asked if we had any clothes to spare. Clothes that would fit. I hope you don’t mind that they belonged to a dead lady.” The girl clapped a hand to her cheek. “She didn’t actually die in them, mind, just left them behind when she did die.”
The poor maid was so distressed by this accidental revelation that Fia’s only choice was to reassure her that she didn’t mind about the dead lady. What she did mind was hearing Rowan referred to her as “your man,” but she dare not correct that misconception.
As the servant hastily retreated, Fia sank down on the edge of the bed and dropped her head into her hands. As if betraying Victor wasn’t enough, she was reduced to lying to monks and accepting a dead woman’s clothing. She touched the folded, dove gray tunic. It was not fine, nor fancy, but it was clean and of better quality than what she had been wearing, which had been her father’s worst tunic after all. Fingertips pressed into her eyes stopped the sting of tears.
She closed the door, stripped, and washed properly for the first time in months, sponging herself with the soaked towel and letting water run down her skin and splash all over the stone floor until the chipped bowl was empty. She stood naked and enjoyed the novelty of goose bumps as she air-dried. She looked down her body, shocked at how far the points of her hipbones protruded. Her breasts had shrunk, if that was even possible. But the tunic fit and even
had a simple blue cord to tie at the waist. Fia adjusted the folds so the tiny plums of her breasts were at least there. Victor hadn’t minded. He’d bitten them as if they were sweet fruit and said that he liked them small.
Her hands slid down her chest, making the nipples rise. She hadn’t realized how swamped she had felt, how lost, as if she was neither girl nor boy, woman or man, just a helpless, hot, smelly being.
It was vanity, really. A sin. But Rowan, while travel-worn, at least had clothing that fit, where in contrast she had looked worse than a beggar, she now realized.
Her stomach growled as she followed a delicious aroma across the courtyard to an unadorned rectangular dining hall.
Rowan rose and took in the new outfit with one flick of his eyes as he approached.
“That is much better,” he murmured as he guided her to the seat next to his at a table with four of the higher ranking monks, all inclined to converse with him. He handed her an eating dagger in a tiny scabbard.
“This is yours. It shouldn’t be too heavy for that belt,” he said, gesturing with his chin to her waist.
As a flush rose on her cheeks, he thankfully turned his attention back to their hosts. The same servant girl who’d come to her room brought her a heavy trencher of bread filled with hearty seasoned goat stew, colorful with early carrots, wild onions, and wilted greens. A metal goblet of watered wine quenched her thirst. She found herself surprisingly content to be an audience to the rumble of male conversation and continued to sip the wine long after her appetite was sated.
The men spoke at first very generally, on things they could all agree on, such as that all Northmen should be dismembered and have their heads on pikes. Each party tried to determine the other’s opinion on matters of the empire, but when the time approached for the monks to be called to their first evening prayer, the abbot spoke more plainly.