by Lisa Hendrix
A cold chill ran down Gunnar’s back and lifted the hairs on his arms. How? He shifted, setting his feet firmly, ready for a fight. “No. Not those.”
“You know far older tales than that, Carolus,” said Eleanor, all unaware. “You spent hours at York telling us of the ancients of Greece and Rome.”
“I do not recall what I told, my lady, but I have learned some new stories just this year past. Would you like to hear them?”
Yeses rippled around the circle, but the old man kept his blind eyes on Gunnar. “And what say you, Sir Gunnar?”
“I don’t know. Are they any good?”
Chuckling, the old fellow turned back to the others. “We shall see. Now, the first tale I’ll tell is of how the Greeks believed their gods came to be. They were false gods, of course, but the ancients can be forgiven because our Lord had not yet sent Paul to give the Greeks knowledge of the One True God …”
He went on to tell of what he called the Titans and their battles for control of all creation, and of gods both great and small birthed from their foreheads and ripped from their thighs. It all sounded very much to Gunnar’s ears like Ymir and Búri and how Vili, Ve, and Odin came to be, and slowly, as the familiar-but-not-familiar tale spun out, his wariness faded away. The old man was merely a skald, with the fey ways such men always had. Not so different from Ari, and for a while, Gunnar’s mind wandered to his old shipmate and wondered what part of England he was plowing these days. Once he had Eleanor for his own, he would send Jafri to hunt down Ari and Brand and enlist the skald’s visions to help him find his amulet.
And then he would put the amulet in Eleanor’s hands and get her to say she loved him, and he would be free. Free. The idea of a life that was a true life, and the death that would properly finish it, was as sweet as honey wine.
When he came back to the present, the storyteller had moved on, telling of the ways the gods of Olympus dealt with their mortal subjects, again not so different from the way the gods of Asgard behaved, though the Greeks seemed to enjoy more tupping—especially Zeus and the one called Eros, who exercised their right to take any woman who pleased them more even than Odin did. For a monk, old Carolus seemed especially fond of those stories, going from one to the next to the next.
“One day, Zeus spied the fairest maid of them all bathing in the sea,” the old man continued. “She was Europa, the youngest daughter of the King of Tyre, and the sight of her smooth skin and yellow hair inflamed Zeus till he could not contain himself. He wanted this maid beyond all others, but she was surrounded by her handmaidens. So Zeus drew on his powers and turned himself into a great bull …”
The chill went clear to Gunnar’s bones, slowing his heart, turning his arms and legs to lead. Run, screamed a voice in his head, but he couldn’t move. All around him, the others listened with rapt attention while Gunnar, frozen by the old man’s words, struggled for breath and silently prayed, Odin, help me. He gives me away.
“And as the bull, Zeus wandered close to the fair Europa. Her handmaidens ran away in fear to hide in the woods, but Europa was taken by the beauty of the great beast and stayed behind, and the bull did her no harm, but instead let her stroke his head and breast. Enchanted by the animal’s gentleness and nobility, Europa wove a garland of flowers and laurel and approached the bull to twine it about his horns. From the woods, her handmaidens called for her to come away before she was crushed or gored, but the beast only knelt down to her and let her climb, smiling, onto its back.”
“It is the story from my comb!” Excited, Eleanor turned to the man next to her. “I have a silver comb with a lady on a bull. I never knew the story that went with it.”
Her voice, so different from the old man’s, shook Gunnar out of his stupor. He gulped down a huge breath, and the lead began to melt out of his limbs.
“Then it is good you hear it at last, my lady,” said Carolus. “It is an important tale, and you shall see why. When the beast had Europa on his back, he plunged into the waves and carried her away across the seas to a beautiful island called Crete, and there he revealed himself, seduced the maid, and had his way with her. When he was done with her and she was with child, he left to return to his throne on Mount Olympus, but as her reward for being the fairest and sweetest of all his lovers, Zeus gave her as wife to the king of Crete, and she became queen and the mother of all the West, which is why today we call the whole of the Holy Roman Empire by her name, Europe.”
“So, she was rewarded for her lack of chastity?” asked Lady Anne, tart as ever. She glared at Eleanor.
“A strange thing, I know,” said Carolus, “But the ancients were of a different mind about such things. I cannot help but wonder what any of you ladies would do if a bull turned to a man before you.”
“He wasn’t a man, though,” said Eleanor. “Not to Europa. To her, he was a god. She may have thought it an honor.”
She sounded so reasonable about it. Could it be that she might actually accept such a thing? Gunnar’s heart began to race. Please, Odin, please.
“Or she may have realized that she had little choice in it,” offered Mary Ferrers. “Much as a lowborn woman has little choice today if her lord chooses her for his bed. Though a true gentleman would never force himself on a woman, no matter her rank.” She looked straight at Henry Percy.
“A woman of true virtue would refuse, even unto death, as Saint Margaret of Antioch did,” said Carolus. “The ancient tales also tell of such refusals. The fair daughters of the god Atlas refused Orion the Hunter for seven years as he pursued them.” He shifted into this new story.
No, no, no. He was pushing her the wrong way now. Anger cleared the last of the cobwebs from Gunnar’s brain. He didn’t want Eleanor to refuse him. Shut up, old man.
But of course Carolus didn’t shut up until he reached the end. “And in the end, Zeus turned them into stars, the constellation we commonly call the Hen and Chicks, but which is properly known as the Pleiades for the seven sisters. It shines in glory above us even today, as honor to their virtue.” He turned to Gunnar suddenly. “Now what do you say of my stories, monsire?”
Gunnar’s tongue was still thick in his mouth. He swallowed hard, and looked to Eleanor, still smiling, oblivious to any significance beyond a good story. Had the old man done him a favor or destroyed all hope?
“I think, old man, that you have talked a great deal.” He reached into his purse and pressed the first coin that came to hand into the old man’s palm without looking to see what it was. “And that someone should bring you some ale to wet that throat.”
The listeners laughed and clapped, and a page scrambled for an ale pot. Gunnar pushed his still-unwieldy legs to carry him to the table on the far side of the hall, where he poured a cup of wine, drained it, and poured another.
“You did not like the stories,” said Eleanor, coming up behind him.
He drained the second cup and set it down before he turned to face her with a lie. “I’ve heard them before.”
“No, it was more than that.” She held out a cup for him to pour for her. “You paled when he spoke of Zeus becoming a bull.”
His hand jerked, sloshing wine over the edge of her cup. “Pardon.” He took the cup from her and poured off to one side as she dried her hand on a cloth. He flailed around for a reasonable excuse for his behavior.
“It was his words, his, his, his, manner of sp-speaking.” Stop stuttering, fool. He handed the cup back to her and formed his words more carefully. “I was suddenly reminded of someone I knew, long ago. It was as though I heard a ghost, and it caught me unawares. But it has passed.”
One eyebrow went up slightly at that, but she didn’t challenge him. “I am glad. I thought for a little you were going to retch on Carolus’s head.”
A snort of unwilling laughter escaped him. She was too close to the truth; he could still taste the bile in his mouth. “Perhaps it would have made his hair grow back. What of you—did you like the story of the lady and the bull?”
She sipped at her w
ine. “Very much, though it would be most strange to have a bull turn into a man before you.”
“You told the old man it would be an honor.”
“If it were a god. And if I were a pagan, to believe in such things. But I am not and I do not,” she said firmly. “It was only an old tale.”
“What if it wasn’t?” he pushed, wanting to know—needing to know—her true heart in this. “What if such a thing could happen, and the bull were only a man, and you were only Eleanor?”
“I would run way in fear, for how else would a man become a bull, except that he was a demon?”
Gunnar turned away so she couldn’t see his face. “He might have been enchanted through no fault of his own.”
“I suppose that is possible. My nurse used to tell me of such enchantments,” she mused. “Of good men changed to wolves or rabbits or foxes by those who deal in evil. If I were certain that was true, then I might not run. But how could I ever be certain?”
How indeed? But her question gave him hope. “I do not know, my lady. I will put some thought to it. Come, we should rejoin the others.”
“Wait. Before we do, I … It is May Day in three days. Will you join me at the revels? The lord, my father never goes, and it is a very free day. It will be a chance to—”
“I cannot, my lady.”
A shadow of hurt darkened her face. “Your mysterious business again. I have been most patient with you and your business, but truly, have you no time free of it?”
He lifted his hands helplessly.
“What sort of business could it be that takes you away every day, even May Day?”
“The sort that I have no choice in,” he said, not answering her question because he could not. Not yet. “For if I did, I would spend every hour of sunlight striving to make you smile.”
“Then do so. Delay your duty, just this once. You will find your task easy, for your mere presence at the revel will suffice to make me smile the whole day through.”
He sighed heavily. “’Twould be a glorious sight, but much as I would like to see it, I cannot.”
“I do not understand.”
“Sometimes, even I do not understand,” he said gently. “But it is what it is. Just know, my lady, it makes me no happier than it does you. Now come. The others grow too curious of us.”
She didn’t come down that night either, and for once, Gunnar was glad. It gave him time to think about what she’d said. To plan. To beg the gods to help him find some way to convince her he wasn’t a demon.
For in three days, it was May Day.
And she’d said she might not run.
CHAPTER 10
“OH, NO. HERE she comes again,” said Mary. “Up, everyone, to honor the Queen of May.”
Eleanor laid aside the dried fig she’d been about to enjoy, conjured up a smile, and rose with the others to do courtesy and wonder for the thousandth time what had possessed their father to declare Anne, of all his daughters, queen. This must be the fourth, no, fifth time Anne had paraded through the revel, demanding honor from all her subjects.
“Be at ease,” said Anne. “Why are you all out here? You should be in the pavilion, paying me court.”
“It is too crowded, Your Grace. Your loyal subjects would not be able to approach,” said Henry Percy. “You would not want to disappoint the good folk of your realm.”
Anne glanced over her shoulder at the villagers of Stain-drop, who had been bringing her a steady stream of flowers and good wishes in exchange for her blessings on their crops. “I suppose not, though I wish May Day and the tourney fell together. Then it would be dozens of knights laying garlands at my feet instead of dozens of peasants.”
“They are good men and women,” said Eleanor. “They deserve their holiday.”
Anne’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And at least they are here. It is so sad you find yourself without a companion, Eleanor, today of all days.”
“But I have companions, Your Grace.” Eleanor indicated Mary, Harry, Lucy, and the others gathered around. “Fine ones, including our brothers.”
Anne barely gave Ralph the Younger, whom they called Raffin, a glance, much less the little boys. “Yes, of course, but not the one you want, I think, on this day when all the world sings of love. Where did you say Sir Gunnar is? I would call him your Sir Gunnar, but of course he is not and cannot be.”
“Of course,” said Eleanor as evenly as she could. She would’ve done better to keep her mouth shut. “His days are spent on business.”
“It must be very dire business, that it keeps him from you even on a holiday. Or perhaps it is only that he knows what is important.”
“Enough, Anne!” Red-faced, Gilbert inserted himself between the two of them. “It is time to go back. Your subjects await.” He gripped Anne by the elbow and firmly steered her toward the pavilion.
They all stood there, staring in silent shock. Finally, Henry Percy whistled appreciatively. “Umfraville’s found his balls at last.”
That released the tension, and they all laughed. Lucy picked up Eleanor’s fig and handed it to her, and Mary motioned for her waiting woman to start collecting her things. “Either we move someplace free of her royal presence or I am retiring to the hall.”
“I’m for moving,” said Raffin. “My sister annoys even me today. Pack the baskets, Cedric, and round up some men to move us.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The servants worked quickly, and soon the party was ready to move off.
“Where shall we go? Somewhere she won’t trouble us.”
“There’s that big oak at the edge of the far meadow,” suggested Eleanor. “I doubt she’ll will venture so far, although I suppose she might ride over there just to torment me.”
“I will see that she doesn’t,” said Henry Percy.
“She will take note of our leaving,” said Mary.
“I will see to that as well,” said Henry. “Lady Eleanor, may I borrow Lucy?”
“Harry …” Both Mary and Eleanor glared at him.
“She will cause a distraction in the pavilion and thus both hide what I do and cause Anne to think you are still within range of her royal whims.”
“’Tis hardly fair to Lucy,” said Eleanor.
“Oh, I won’t leave her to Anne. That would a fate too terrible. No, I will rescue her in a little and bring her to you. I am, after all, a gentleman, and Lucy is your cousin.” He gave Eleanor a wink, then put out his hand. “Come, maid, your lady has need of your succor.”
Lucy took his hand, and they were off. Henry turned to call back, “Listen for my whistle, then make for the edge of the woods. We will see you at the oak.”
Moments later, an outcry arose from the direction of the pavilion, followed quickly by a loud whistle. Laughing, they all dashed into the woods, where they paused to regroup. Raffin sent the servants ahead with the bundles and baskets, then turned to Eleanor.
“Shall we wait for Percy and Lucy?”
“If you were he, would you want us to wait?” asked Mary. “Sometimes, Raffin, I hold no hope for you at all.”
The woods were pleasant, after the unfamiliar heat of the sun. As they skirted the brambles, the younger members of the party picked the few ripe berries. Cuthbert, one of Eleanor’s own brothers, caught up with her and tugged on her sleeve. “I thought you were going to strike Anne. Were you?”
“No, of course not,” lied Eleanor.
“Well, you should,” said Mary over her shoulder. “She has been insufferable to you since Catherine left.”
“She is jealous,” said Raffin. “She has some cause. She thinks our father makes better marriages for his second family than his first.”
It was a complaint Eleanor had heard herself, that Anne and her sisters had gotten short shrift, married off to the unremarkable sons of unremarkable families while Lady Joan’s daughters got earls and dukes. It made little difference to Anne that most of their contracts had been made when their father was an unremarkable man himself, marr
ied to their even less remarkable mother. He was Earl Marshall now, and his second wife had brought a royal bloodline and powerful new connections. Anne, however, craved the same honors due his new family, even though she had no right to them.
“But all your sisters have lords,” said Mary to Raffin. “And Gilbert is Earl of Kyme.”
Raffin batted at a branch. “Kyme is a hollow honor. There are no lands with the title, and Parliament has never even confirmed it for him.”
“Gilbert has served both the king and Prince Henry well. He will surely improve his position when the crown changes hands. But even if he doesn’t, Anne will still be lady of both Harbottle and Redesdale.”
“And Catherine is Countess of Norfolk and Nottinghamshire, while Eleanor will be Countess of Gloucester.”
No, I won’t, said Eleanor firmly, in her own head if not aloud. No. I. Won’t.
Cuthbert, who was a clever boy though he was not yet seven, looked up at her and quietly squeezed her hand.
IT WAS WITH great relief that Lucy saw Henry Percy approaching from the direction of the horses. Dodging the morris dancers, he circled around to the far side of the open-sided pavilion, where he entered as though coming from the gaming field.
“There you are, Lucy. We have been looking for you.” He bowed to Lady Anne. “By your leave, Your Grace. She lost a wager and owes Mary Ferrers a song.”
Anne, occupied with yet another presentation of days-eyes, barely took note, waving her away. Lucy did her courtesy, and she and Henry strolled off toward where they’d left the others. The farther they got from the pavilion, the faster they walked, until, as they reached the edge of the revelers, they broke into a run and fled, laughing, into the wood.
“I heard you singing,” he said as they slowed. He hummed the tune.
“ ‘Tis her favorite song. I told her it was my gift to her as Queen of May, and that Lady Eleanor didn’t know I had come to sing for her.”
“That pleased her, no doubt.”
“She actually thought I slipped away from my lady for love of her.” They walked a little farther before Lucy mustered the courage to ask, “What did you do to her mare, monsire? You didn’t hurt her, I hope.”