Once and Future Hearts Box One

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  He whirled and came back, his hands fists by his sides. He stood breathing heavily at the edge of the cloth. “How did you know?”

  “Know, my lord?”

  “How did you know that reminding me the Saxons are my real enemy would steal my anger?”

  “Did it?” She shook her head. “You told me in the courtyard you cared for nothing but slaughtering Saxons. I am not Saxon. I only want to avoid your knife…or your hands.” She eyed his fists.

  He flexed them self-consciously, as his throat worked. “There is a town in the north…” He cleared his throat. “There was a town in the north. Cair Dain, it was called. Up near Catterick…do you know where that is?”

  “Yes. That is close to the Saxon Shore, is it not?”

  “Indeed,” he said dryly. “Half a year after the Saxons had driven the Picts back behind the wall, they raided all through that land. Whole villages were burned to charcoal.”

  Lynette’s gut tightened. “I have heard men talk of such raids, before,” she admitted.

  “Have you? Then you might have heard of the valor of the Britons who fight the Saxons who dare step onto British soil, beating them back to their Shore and their long houses.”

  “That is usually the way the stories go.”

  “Only, on this day, not a single Briton raised a hand. Not a weapon was unsheathed. The Saxons flowed over the land like water and nothing stopped them.” His voice was hoarse. “No word reached us. No alarm was raised. Survivors said the Saxons took their time, raping and drinking, cutting throats and using men to practice their archery. They stripped every barn and stable and larder, piling their loot upon carts to carry back home, before they put a torch to the remains…” He looked away.

  “Who of yours was in Cair Dain?” Lynette whispered, staring at the profile of his face, the strained lines and the old agony it portrayed. Everything about him—his distress, his anger—told her he had lost someone that day.

  “My wife,” he whispered. He closed his eyes. “My son,” he added.

  Lynette dared not speak. There were no words of comfort she could offer him.

  His eyes stayed closed. “I found their…them, afterward,” he said. His voice was strained, but stronger. “To this day, the smell of burning flesh makes me too ill to stand.”

  Lynette shuddered and held back her moan of horror. She got to her feet, picked up the flask and pressed it into his hand. “Drink,” she whispered.

  He looked at the flask. Then he unstopped it and gulped the wine. He tossed the empty flask onto the cloth and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze met hers. “The only care I have left in the world is to put my sword into as many Saxons as I can.”

  “The lady Vivian is not a Saxon. Her affairs are of no threat to you or Vortigern. I give you my word on that.”

  He laughed. It was not a happy sound. “You give me your word?”

  She met his eye. “As a Celt and a Briton.”

  “You omit naming yourself a servant of Vortigern,” he pointed out.

  Lynette hesitated. “It goes without saying,” she said as off-handedly as she could and gave a shrug.

  “Does it? You called him Vortigern, not the High King, or King Vortigern.”

  Lynette dropped her gaze.

  “You are pro-Roman,” he concluded.

  “I don’t know what I am,” she said truthfully. “I suppose, as he is the High King, I am for Vortigern, yet…”

  Cadfael laughed again. This time there was amusement in it.

  “Why do you laugh?” she demanded.

  “I laugh at the spectacle of a woman trying to decide where her loyalties lie. As if they matter a damn in the scheme of things.”

  “You think a woman cannot have an opinion?”

  “About politics? No.”

  Irritation touched her. “I read, I listen. I naturally form an opinion. I can tell you that Vortigern is as much a blight on this land as the Saxons—” She tried to suck the words back inside her, to take them back. It was too late. They had been spoken.

  She lifted her chin and looked at him.

  Cadfael nodded. “So, the truth comes out. No wonder you hide here in Maridunum. You keep good company.”

  “If the company I keep makes me no different from them, then you have no need to single me out, do you?”

  Cadfael pursed his lips. “You are not Saxon, nor are you one of their spies, not tucked away in this place. I give you that. You are hiding a secret, though. Perhaps I should unravel it to keep myself entertained while Mabon lingers here.”

  “When you learn the truth, perhaps you would be kind enough to share it with me.” She blinked, surprised at the degree of bitterness that sounded in her voice.

  Cadfael considered her, his hand at his chin. “You don’t know what your lady does, any more than I do.”

  “I know little more,” Lynette admitted. “Which I will not share with you,” she added hastily. “What I do know makes no sense and Vivian refuses to explain herself.”

  “Yet you risk your neck to lure me here, so she can tend to her secret, anyway,” he finished. “You are loyal, aren’t you?”

  “I am sworn to her service,” Lynette said stiffly.

  “Did you swear your fealty before you knew you would be asked to seduce men in her name?”

  Lynette felt her cheeks heat. “I have made no attempt to seduce you,” she pointed out stiffly. “Unless a woman’s conversation is considered to be seduction,” she added.

  Cadfael smiled. It was unexpected, and Lynette caught her breath. The expression wiped away the worn expression in his eyes. He looked younger. Carefree. Perhaps even happy. Cadfael the Black had momentarily departed. “Every man back in Maridunum would tell you that a woman signals by her conversation an interest in a man. That interest opens the way for the man to press his advantage. You are too sophisticated a woman to not understand that instinctively.”

  “You are saying I should have walked up to you on that barrel and kissed you, for all the difference it makes.”

  “Oh, there is a difference,” he assured her. “I would not fail to notice a kiss from you.”

  The words strummed between them.

  Lynette could not pull her gaze away from his eyes. They grasped her attention and held it, to the point where she could hear nothing but the thud of her heart. Her whole body pulsed with it.

  His gaze shifted and dropped.

  To her lips.

  Her heart fluttered weakly. She made herself speak. Her voice was also weak. “Then perhaps I should have kissed you, for that would have held your attention, while my mere conversation failed to.”

  For a moment more, he studied her. She couldn’t move.

  Then he turned away. “Pack your things. I will escort you back to the palace. It’s getting late and we’re a long way from the town.”

  “Not really,” she told him, as she bent to pack away the meal and stuff it into her saddle bag, along with the cloth she had been seated upon. “I came around in a great curve. There is a shortcut through the end of this valley, back to the town.”

  His scowl rushed back into place, as he picked up his stallion’s reins and perversely, Lynette was pleased to see it. She felt as if she had escaped by the narrowest margin.

  The sensation stayed with her all the way back to Maridunum, as she tried to resolve the riddle. What, exactly, had she escaped from?

  Chapter Seven

  Lynette left the weaving to other women. Any loom she approached tended to break its warp threads at the sight of her and snarl into a defensive tangle before she could touch it. On the other hand, she was a good seamstress—good enough that other women asked her to make garments for their men and themselves for occasions where more workmanlike skills would not serve.

  She always had more than enough sewing tasks to spend her time upon, although she did like the clack and swish the looms made as the women worked them. It made the time pass pleasantly.

  The day afte
r Lynette led Cadfael into the hills and survived to tell the tale, Vivian asked the best weavers in her retinue to weave the finest cloth they could manage, for Vivian wanted to surprise the king with a tunic for his birthday. The three looms were set up with gold and white threads and the women got busy with their shuttles. The looms ticked softly as the women worked, with few words between them for they were hurrying and needed to concentrate.

  Maela broke the absorbed silence. “The looms are not in rhythm. They are competing with each other. The work would go much faster if they were in time.”

  Lynette looked up from the seam she was sewing. The young queen’s face was pink with her own daring, the freckles standing out. “What do you mean, they’re not in rhythm?”

  “You don’t have weaving songs?” Maela asked.

  Vivian looked amused and puzzled at once. “Why don’t you sing one for us?” she asked.

  Maela’s flush deepened. “I could hum it, I suppose.” She put down her embroidery and hummed softly. Lynette could only just hear her over the sound of the looms.

  “Louder,” Vivian suggested.

  Maela halted, flustered. Then she nodded and sang, “La-la, la-la-la…” As her sweet voice piped the notes, she gestured with her hands, mimicking the motion a weaver makes, shooting and catching the shuttle, then pulling the beater forward, switching the warp threads, then pushing the beater back.

  The tune had a simple beat that made Lynette’s foot tap, while the notes climbed and dipped in a pretty little tune.

  The weavers—Iva, Olwen and Mabyn—paused, looking at each other. Olwen tilted her head and smiled, then nodded. The three of them turned back to their looms and paused to start in time with the tune.

  The three looms followed the beat of the song. With the looms adding to the beat, Lynette found even her own needle was sliding through the fabric every third beat.

  The work continued for a few minutes, then Mabyn turned on her stool. “Are there any words?” she said. “Then we could sing it for ourselves.”

  Maela halted, her gaze skittering to Vivian and away.

  “I think there are, only Maela is too much a lady to share them,” Vivian said.

  Olwen turned quickly. “Oh, are they bawdy? Please share them!”

  “Yes, do,” Iva added.

  Maela rubbed at the base of her throat, her eyes downcast. With her head down, she sang again, this time using words. It was a simple little tale about a husband coming home too drunk to see and trying to seduce his wife. He takes off his leggings, stumbles and falls, hitting her head with his and making them both pass out. He wakes and thinks his prowess in bed was so fine, his wife fainted from the pleasure. His wife, thinking quickly, assures him that yes, he was more than a man and could she please experience that pleasure again. The next night and every night after that, he returns home sober, to outdo himself in bed and this time to experience it, too. Their marriage was happy from then on.

  As the song progressed, the women smiled, then laughed. When it ended, they clutched their looms and held them while they giggled and snorted and wiped tears from their eyes.

  “Again!” Iva called, turned and facing her loom properly once more.

  Maela began the song again, with no hesitation. Her chin was up, now and her eyes shining. The women picked up the words quickly and sang, their looms keeping time.

  The opening of the outside door brought silence to the room. Everyone looked up to see Cadfael walk in, looking around with interest. His cloak swirled around him and his sword knocked against his leg. He seemed to bring in with him a hint of the cool air, a scent of horses, smoke and wine. It was a masculine smell and foreign in this room.

  The women dropped their eyes to their work demurely and waited. Lynette did, too, her heart skipping along a little faster. He could only be here because of her.

  Cadfael cleared his throat. “Queen Maela,” he acknowledged.

  “Good day to you, Cadfael,” Maela returned.

  “My lady Vivian,” Cadfael continued. “I wonder…if you would be so kind to lend me the services of your ladies. I have a tear in my tunic and no woman to take care of it.”

  Vivian stirred. “Lynette, perhaps you could repair the tunic in the storeroom and let us return to work?”

  Lynette picked up her basket and got to her feet. It was a reasonable request. While a man of rank stood in the room, the women could not turn their backs and work. Without looking at him, Lynette murmured, “This way, my lord,” and moved over to the inner storeroom. There was a curtain across the entrance, which would cut his view into the workroom.

  She closed the curtain behind him, her heart jumping. There were shelves on three side of the room and a little sorting table, which left little space. Cadfael seemed to fill the space even though there was a little room to step around him and move to the table.

  The looms set to work again, on the other side of the curtain. After a while, the weaving song began, too, only the women were tra-la-la-ing, instead of singing the words.

  Lynette smiled to herself and held out her hand. “The tunic, my lord?”

  Cadfael reached up and slid the pin from the brooch on his shoulder and the cloak fell away. He bundled it and put it on one of the shelves.

  Then he unbuckled his sword.

  With horror, Lynette realized that the tunic he wanted her to repair was the one he was wearing.

  She didn’t realize she was backing away from him until her shoulders bumped against the shelf behind her. Her dismay must have shown on her face, for he paused with his knife belt in one hand, the tunic hanging loose from his shoulders. “You have nothing to fear from me, remember? You are not a Saxon.” He kept his voice down, so it would not travel beyond the curtain. The merrily clacking looms covered the small sound he did make.

  She could see the tear in the tunic, now. It was where the shoulder met the arm, a long rip with tattered edges.

  Cadfael fingered it. “I wouldn’t bother you with it, only the edges keep catching on my cloak and tear more each time I take off my cloak.”

  It was a perfectly acceptable request, even reasonable. Lynette held out her hand. “Give it to me.” She did not move closer to him. The room was already felt too small for her comfort.

  He nodded and took off the tunic and held it out to her.

  Lynette stared at the undershirt he wore beneath. There was an identical tear in the wool, only not as long. The edges of the wool were unraveling.

  Her heart beat faster. “How did you tear the tunic?” she asked. Her voice sounded remote.

  Cadfael leaned forward slowly, as if he was trying to avoid startling her. He placed the tunic on the table and straightened, then looked down at the rent in the undershirt. “Knife, I think. I don’t quite remember. Perhaps a spear head? I came round after the fight was done, bleeding everywhere.”

  The tunic and undershirt had no blood on them. They were washed and unstained.

  She had seen her mother mending her father’s clothes many times in the past. Until this moment, she had never connected the mending with the making of the tears. Swords, knives, spears, arrows and the Saxons’ favorite, axes. There were more ways to kill and maim than there were ways to fix such wounds.

  “I should stitch the shirt, too,” Lynette said, forcing volume into her voice. “Otherwise, the wool will unravel and you’ll have no shirt left at all.”

  “I see.” He hesitated, then with quick movements, he stripped the shirt, too.

  She might have stared at his heavy chest and thick arms, except her gaze was drawn to the angry red scar on his shoulder, right where the tears in his tunic and shirt had been.

  He traced her gaze and ran the tip of his finger over the scar, from top to bottom. “Embarrassing, for the High King’s battle commander, no?”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Lynette said.

  “I cannot afford to. This one was nearly my undoing. It was a good warning to keep up my guard. And my shield.” His smile was brief
.

  The silence that built reminded Lynette why they were both squeezed into the tiny room. She held out her hand for the undershirt and he dropped the soft wool onto it.

  Unable to meet his gaze, she selected thread and a needle, then gathered up the stitches and loose ends of wool, tying them off so they would not unravel. The construction of the sleeve, with a square inset at the bottom, made her pause. She spread the sleeve to better examine it, her heart hurrying. “I know this style shirt. They don’t make shirts this way in the south. This is from the north.”

  “True enough,” he said evenly. He had his arms crossed and leaned against the thick door frame. The leather leggings hung from tight hips. His stomach was flat and strong with muscles. So were his arms. The tendons flexed in them as she looked up. Was he clenching his hands, hidden behind his elbows? The expression on his face was smooth and neutral.

  Lynette brushed her fingertips over the shirt sleeve, her eyes pricking with tears. Her throat ached with a sudden and unexpected longing to see the rugged peaks and valleys of home and to take in the crisp air.

  Only, that would never happen. She would never return home, for one of the unspoken expectations of her time in Maridunum was that Gwilym would find her a suitable husband—a war duke or perhaps a king or prince if she was lucky. They would take her to their home, instead, and that would become her new world.

  “There is a reason they make shirts that way, where I come from,” Cadfael said.

  Where he came from? Lynette blinked her eyes rapidly to disperse the tears, then looked up at him. Her throat was too tight with tears to speak.

  He nodded, as if she had spoken, anyway. “My wife explained it to me, once. The looms are smaller than they are here in the south, for lumber strong enough for a large loom is rare in higher plains. The shirts are put together with many pieces, instead of three large pieces, as they make them down here.”

  Lynette nodded, for she had made dozens of shirts just like this. The sleeves were four pieces each, the body another four pieces, front and back. The seams made the garment stronger and warmer.

  She kept her hands moving, repairing the tear. “Your wife made this shirt?” she asked when she could speak once more without revealing her upset.