by Anne Stuart
But Helva made no move toward her. “Run,” she said in a low, evil voice. “It will do you no good. He’ll find you. He will, or his mother. Your body will be out at the crossroad, the flesh flayed from your bones as a warning…”
“Please!” Elspeth protested. “I can imagine the rest.” She pushed past her, starting down the winding stairs as quickly as she dared.
“He’ll find you!” Helva shrieked after her, standing on the landing like an avenging angel. “And you’ll die a slow, terrible death. You’ll die, you’ll die…”
Elspeth closed her ears to the shrieks and curses, increasing her speed in the dark tower. Though the noise from the great hall was thunderous, so was Helva’s voice, and she didn’t dare run into any of Alistair’s men. Not if she hoped for a chance of escape.
She heard the noise of booted feet on the stone floor just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and without hesitation she slipped into the shadows, grateful for the darkness of the pilfered cloak. She could see Gilles De Lancey’s blond hair, his stalwart body as he paused at the foot of the stairs, and she almost called out to him, asking for help.
Something kept her silent. Something stilled her hand as she was about to reach out to him. Something quieted her as he started a slow, steady climb to the tower. When he moved past the first circle, she stuck her head out to peer at him. The torchlight glinted on the jeweled knife at his belt, and she stared at the weapon with something akin to fascination.
All men were armed nowadays, even priests. Of course De Lancey would wear a knife at his belt. Why did she think there was evil attached to it, any more evil than came attached to most weapons?
He might have felt her eyes on him, or he might simply have been naturally cautious. He stopped, whirling around to stare down into the darkness an instant after she’d flattened herself against the wall, her breathing and her heartbeat stilled.
A moment later she heard his footsteps continue moving upward until the sound vanished into the darkness. A noise drifted down, an eerie, gurgling sound, like a voice being cut off mid-sentence. And then all was silent once more. She didn’t dare hesitate any longer. It took her precious minutes to wrestle with the heavy door, and then she was outside for the first time in almost a week, the soft night air swirling around her.
The moon hung high overhead, and courtyard was deserted, shrouded in shadow. Elspeth moved swiftly and silently along the wall of the keep, running one hand against the rough surface to guide her way. She passed no one but a cat intent on his round of night hunting, and for a moment she thought of her husband, a sleek black cat looking for a juicy white mouse. He wouldn’t find her, not if she could help it. No one would find her deep in the heart of Dunstan Woods. She could hide there forever, and be safe.
The smoke was billowing forth, filling Morgana’s rheumy old eyes, making her blink furiously. There were no tears, of course. Witches cannot cry.
She stirred, tossing a squirrel’s tail into her loathsome brew, muttering beneath her breath in a cheery little singsong.
White and black they shall combine
Pure as snow, as blood-red wine
Flame and fire destroy them both
Death and rebirth, blood their troth
In thunder, rain, brought right again
And all shall be as God’s design.
Morgana took a sip of the broth, shuddering with pleasure. “God’s design, bah,” she muttered. “This is no curse of mine. Bring me my daughter-in-law. Bring her to Dunstan Woods. Bring her to me.” And the smoke whirled upward, giving her the answer she sought.
4
Alistair Darcourt was in a towering rage. When he finally staggered to his feet, blood still seeping from the cut on his cheek, his fury was so overwhelming that he thought he might explode.
“De Lancey!” he bellowed, stumbling toward the winding stairs.
“I’m here, cousin.” De Lancey’s cool voice came from the doorway. “Where’s your bride?”
Alistair glared at him, wondering whether he might vent some of his rage by pummeling his sly cousin into repentance. “Wipe that smug smile off your face, Gilles,” he snarled. “I’ll deal with you later. Unless you can tell me you’ve already managed to stop her.”
“I’ve seen no sign of her,” De Lancey said. “Nor her maid.”
“Saddle my horse.” Alistair spat the words, yanking on his black shirt, ignoring the blood on his cheek.
“I’ll go after her…” De Lancey began, but the sheriff cut him off.
“She’s mine,” he said. “And by God, she’ll learn that before the night is out. I want no man touching her but me.”
“It’s late. You’ll need help,” Gilles protested.
Alistair’s smile was chilling. “I have all the help I’ll need,” he said, and once more Gilles crossed himself in superstitious terror. “Get my horse ready.”
De Lancey raced down the winding tower stairs, and Alistair followed him, his black shirt flapping as he stormed into the deserted courtyard.
“Where is she?” he howled to the night air.
There was no answer.
De Lancey appeared, leading the sheriff’s huge gray gelding. Alistair leaped onto the back of the horse and wheeled around in the courtyard, almost trampling his cousin in his passionate fury. A moment later he’d raced from the castle yard and out into the windy night, without a backward glance.
Elspeth ran until her breath caught in her chest, and still she ran. The tree branches pulled at her clothes, tore at her hair, scratched her pale skin. The wind had picked up, tossing the huge, ancient trees overhead, and in the distance she could hear the faint call of an owl.
Dunstan Woods was no place for a woman alone at night. She had heard the stories all her life. It was no for place for anyone unprotected from faeries and creatures of the dark. Demons lurked there, witches and trolls and monsters that stole the minds of innocents and left them witless, that tore flesh into pieces and left nothing but bones and bits of rag to bear witness that a mortal soul had once passed this way. Elspeth refused to panic. She ran, her bare feet bleeding, her long hair flying out behind her, her skirts tripping her up. The sheriff’s cloak was slipping from her shoulders, and she pulled it more tightly about her, finding some odd comfort in the rich black folds. Had she killed him? Did she care? If she was a widow, her problems were now solved—until she was hunted down and killed for the murder of the high sheriff of Huntingdon.
The sky was dark and fitful overhead, the fun full moon dancing behind scudding clouds. Elspeth sank down on a soft hillock, trying to catch her breath, to still her panic. She’d escaped Huntingdon Keep, where the greatest danger lay. Surely she was safer alone in Dunstan Woods than in the possession of a madman. A man who now had every reason to want her dead.
Her father’s lands lay to the north of the vast, sprawling wilderness, and he and his men had always done their best to skirt the forest, leaving it to the creatures of the night and their spawn. It had belonged to her father, but the demons had claimed it long ago, those seen and unseen, and Sir Hugh had been helpless to fight the powers of darkness. Indeed, her father had probably been just as happy to pass it over to Alistair Darcourt and let him deal with it. A fitting dowry for the son of the devil.
Shivering, Elspeth huddled beneath the rich velvet cloak. She was hungry, bone-weary, and dangerously near despair. All that she had trusted and counted on in this life seemed to have abandoned her, and now her husband probably lay dead from her own hands. Yet the taste of his mouth lingered disturbingly on her lips.
She should move deeper into the ancient forest, clutching the silver cross that hung to her waist beneath her thin linen chemise for whatever protection it might offer. The sheriff’s men would come after her, hunt her down in the forest like a wild boar. She didn’t want to die at the end of a dozen lances.
She pulled herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against her moan of pain. Deeper, deeper into the woods was where safety lay. It w
as her only hope.
The trees were thick, ancient, with no discernible path in the inky darkness. She could rely only on her instincts. They pulled her to the left, into the very heart of the forest. To the left lay warmth and safety, she was sure of it. Forcing herself, she moved onward, deeper and deeper into Dunstan Woods.
She lost track of time. It might have been minutes or hours or days that she wandered through the darkness where no light penetrated. All she could do was keep moving slowly onward, stopping only to catch her breath before continuing. When she first saw the dim light coming toward her through the thick mist, she stopped, fighting back the superstitious terror that filled her weary heart. She’d heard tales of goblins luring people to their doom in the swamps with faerie lights. What sane, God-fearing person would be here in the heart of the forest, welcoming her? If she had sense at all, she would turn and run back the way she had come.
But she no longer had any sense. She no longer cared if she lived or died. She was too weary to continue. If that light signaled death, then she ready was for it. The fight had left her.
It was no faerie light. No will-o’-the-wisp luring her to her doom. It was simply a cottage; small, rough-hewn, overgrown with moss and branches, and the light spilled out into the darkness like a beacon.
“There you are, my pretty,” a cracked, ancient voice said from within. “I’d almost despaired of you finding your way here.” Silhouetted in the doorway was a broad, bent-over figure.
Once more her superstitious terror threatened to overcome reason. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice deceptively steady.
The woman stepped back slightly, and Elspeth could see her face. It was beautiful, for all that it was aged and seamed. Her hair hung to her waist, thick and gray and flowing; her clothes were soft and shapeless; and her eyes were bright and intelligent and curiously light in her narrow face.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said in that hoarse, gentle voice. “I’ve been waiting a long time. For a while I was afraid you were too strong for me. I rather think you would be if you weren’t so weary. What have they been feeding you up at the castle?”
It was too confusing. She didn’t bother to think about how the woman knew she was from the castle, or how she’d happened to end up here. She simply answered the question. “Thin gruel.”
The old woman’s mouth curved in a mocking smile, one that was eerily familiar. “How like them,” she murmured. “Come in, child, and let me give you something to eat. I’ve a pot of stew on the hearth. It should put some strength back into you.”
Elspeth followed her into the tiny hut. It was small, cramped, redolent of herbs and other foreign smells that were strangely beguiling. For the first time since she’d been informed that she was now a married woman, Elspeth felt curiously at peace.
“He’s not a bad boy, you know,” the old woman said as she handed Elspeth a bowl of rich, dark stew. “He has a temper, that’s for certain. He always was too quick, even as a child. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and the world is full of fools.”
The stew was thick and savory, warming the empty knot in Elspeth’s stomach. She ate slowly, dreamily, content to watch as the old woman brought a basin of herbed water for her bruised, bleeding feet. “Who doesn’t?” she murmured, the spoon scraping the bottom of the earthenware bowl.
The woman moved beside her, dried flowers in her hand, and she shook them over Elspeth’s weary head. “My son, of course,” she said. “Your husband.”
For a moment Elspeth’s lassitude lifted. “You’re the witch,” she gasped.
“Not the most tactful thing to call your mother-in-law,” the old woman said, “but accurate, nonetheless. You may call me Morgana. Unless you’d prefer something a little more intimate.”
Elspeth tried to move back on her seat, but there was nowhere to go and she was feeling so deeply weary. “I don’t believe in witches,” she said, wondering she still meant it. “How did I get here?”
“I summoned you. After all, I couldn’t let you wander around the woods with no protection. These are dangerous times, and despite everything, Alistair is too trusting. My son would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”
“He wants to kill me himself.”
“Nonsense. And you seemed like such a levelheaded girl. Don’t believe all the things that are said of my son. To be sure, he’s a bit wild, a bit dangerous, perhaps even a bit mad. But you could be the making of him.” And she began to mutter something beneath her breath, something Elspeth couldn’t quite hear, about white and black, blood and snow, and fire and rain.
She tried to struggle to her feet, but her body refused to obey her, and her mind began to spin. “I won’t…” she murmured, and felt herself begin to fall moments before Morgana’s unusually strong arms caught her with surprising gentleness.
“Of course you will,” she said. “There’s no denying the prophecy. It came to me on the wind the day he was born, and there was no turning away from it. Let me make you some of my special tea, and you won’t mind it at all.”
“No!” Elspeth screamed, but the sound came out as an agonized whisper. She raised her hands to ward off any more potions. “You’ve poisoned me.”
“Of course not. Just given you something to help you sleep. You’re weary, child. you need your rest. We have time. Alistair won’t realize where you are until tomorrow at the soonest. When you awake I’ll brew you some tea.”
“No,” she cried again, but there was no sound. She was helpless to resist as Morgana pulled her through a curtained doorway into a small, dark room.
Moonlight streamed through a window in the roof, illuminating a bed covered with velvet and animal skins. The old woman pushed her gently down on it. Elspeth felt herself fall from a great distance, landing on a cloud of luxuriant softness, her hair spilling around her as she stared up at the creature who was her husband’s mother.
“Rest now, my child,” Morgana murmured, pulling a velvet throw around her, and for one bizarre moment she reminded Elspeth of Sister Mary Frances.
Elspeth needed to escape. She was tall for a woman—perhaps she could climb out the hatch in the roof and disappear into the forest before Morgana realized she was gone. She had to lull the old lady into thinking she was asleep. Indeed, her eyes were so heavy if would be a relief to close them, even for the moment needed to trick the old woman. She let them drift shut, only for a moment, only because she had to.
When Morgana checked on her three hours later, she was still sleeping. She’d shifted in her sleep, making small, whimpering sounds at the back of her throat, and Morgana contemplated trying to tip some of the warm tea down her throat. She truly didn’t expect Alistair to realize where his runaway bride had disappeared to, not for another twenty-four hours at least, but it would never do to underestimate her formidable son.
The cottage was deep in Dunstan Woods. The wind seldom penetrated beneath the ancient oaks, but overhead the leaves shivered in the warm summer breeze, and the night-flying birds called out a warning. The moon had risen, a witch’s moon, one whose silver light would lead Alistair straight home. She didn’t dare wait.
The tea didn’t take long to brew. Indeed, she had more call for love philtres than anything else. There was no challenge in making them, no challenge at all in seeing a reluctant maid succumb or a reserved swain fall prey to the lures of the flesh. She’d grown tired of brewing them. But this was a special instance. Her son’s destiny lay sleeping in the bed, and Morgana had no intention of waiting any longer. There were too many things out of her control. This much she could ensure.
Elspeth lay sleeping more lightly now as the dark hours of the night passed. Her white-blonde hair spread around her like a bridal veil, and her face was still and beautiful in repose. She really was a child, Morgana thought dispassionately. Willful, too. There weren’t many brides who’d cosh their husbands on the head and take off into the depths of a haunted forest. Particularly when her husband was the feared hi
gh sheriff of Huntingdon.
She’d do well for him. She’d bear him strong babies. Her body was narrow, but her hips were wide enough to bring forth boys, lots of them. Girls as well. And Morgana was ready to be a grandmother. Kneeling on the soft bed, she took Elspeth’s narrow shoulders in her strong hands and pulled her upright.
“Here, sweeting,” she crooned, reaching for the bowl of tea. “Drink and you won’t be troubled by these silly doubts. Just a taste, love, and things will be ever so much better.”
Elspeth felt herself struggle through the fog. She opened her eyes, staring up into the woman’s face with dawning horror. “Leave me alone,” she gasped.
“Just a sip, and you’ll never—”
“Get away from her, you hag!” The high sheriff of Huntingdon stood silhouetted in the doorway, his voice thundering through the tiny cottage.
“Fine talk for a son.” Morgana rose with affront. “Here I am, trying to help you, and—”
“Trying to dose her with your filthy potions,” Alistair said, shouldering his way through the narrow doorway. He looked dark and dangerous in the cramped quarters of his mother’s house, with his black hair, his wild eyes, his tall, lean body vibrating with rage. “I don’t need your help.”
“You haven’t done too well yourself. You’ve had her for almost a week now and she’s still as pure as the day she was born.”
“Did you touch her?” His voice was icy cold, deadly, and as Elspeth lay still and silent she wondered that his mother didn’t quail before him.
But the old lady was apparently the only human, or semi-human, not afraid of Alistair Darcourt. “Of course not,” she scoffed. “I don’t need to check her maidenhead to know she’s still unawakened. What have been doing the past week, boy? Toying with your harlots? I want grandchildren.”