Athelnor and Marga had been silent on the issue, but that anniversary would soon be upon them. So far, all had respected her official mourning of a year and a day, but that would soon end. Well, all but Lord Cition, who had sent his second son Emerson early, to “get in first” as Emerson had put it.
Thankfully, Emerson’s goal had been far different from his father’s. She smiled to think of her weaver suitor, writing letters to his father about her stubbornness while weaving his tapestries in every spare moment he had. He’d soon have the first finished and she looked forward to having it displayed in her Great Hall. Emerson was already muttering about his second project, one he was keeping a massive secret.
Cera sighed and considered her options. She thought of keeping others at bay using Emerson, but that hardly seemed fair. Or honorable.
In her heart of hearts, Cera admitted she wasn’t sure how she felt about marrying again. In the beginning, her marriage had been good. Better than good, it had been lovely. There was joy with a spouse who shared secrets, goals, and plans, an intimacy that went beyond their bodies. She missed that.
But when it went bad—and it had gone bad quickly—it had been a nightmare. The yelling, the blows. Cera shuddered. At the time she had thought she had been at fault, not him, that she had caused his anger and flare-ups, and there were still moments—
A gentle cough brought her back to the present. Gareth had slowed, bringing his horse next to her mule. “A copper for your thoughts.” He grinned at her.
She grinned back.
“So how bad were Ondon’s sums?” he asked, sitting his horse easily, carrying his long boar spear balanced in one hand.
“Bad enough.” Cera chuckled. “He was embarrassed but happy when I discovered that the error was in the village’s favor.” She tilted her head. “You could have checked it for yourself, you know. Your sums are better than mine.”
“Shhh,” Gareth said. “Grandfather is trying to keep me indoors as it is. He finds that out, and I will never hunt again!” His face was filled with youthful horror at the idea.
Cera laughed, then gasped as her mule suddenly backed and kicked. She kept her seat, looking back—
A man lay sprawled on the road behind them, his head bloody. What had—?
More armed men appeared from the woods all around them, intent and silent.
Gareth cried out a warning to the two lads up ahead. With one swift move, he stood in the saddle, and thrust down at his attacker with his boar spear. There was sickening crunch, and the man fell back, taking the spear with him.
Cera’s horror paralyzed her, but not her mule. It kicked again, sending two men skittering back, clearing the area around her.
Her heart pounding, Cera slid from her saddle and darted to the side, away. There were four against the boys, and they were trying to pull them from their horses. The boys were giving as good as they got, but if she could lure some away, even the odds—
Cera let out a loud whistle, the kind she used to summon herds back home.
Heads turned.
She held out her coin purse and jingled it once. The sound of coin on coin sounded oddly loud to her ears. Not a plan really. More of a desperation.
It caught the attention of the bandits. “Get her!” cried one.
Cera turned and ran back along the road, cursing her skirts and swearing never again to look like a lady.
She could hear footsteps behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. Around the curve ahead was a crossroads, and if the Trine was with her, maybe aid, or at least a moment to hide in the tall wildflowers, thick along the road.
The sounds of fighting faded, but the heavy breathing behind her grew closer. Cera ran faster. A distraction, she needed something, anything.
She threw the coin purse to the left, into the underbrush. He’d want the money, he’d stop and gather—
He didn’t stop. “Got ya—” was muttered in her ear.
Cera cried out at the feeling of heavy fingers brushing against her skirts. He’d lunged and missed, heavy feet stumbling. She leaped forward, her breath ragged, running for her life. The road curved, the crossroad came into view.
Cera ran right into the middle of a herd of wooly, fuzzy horses. At least that was the impression she had before the animals scattered, making odd chirping noises.
There were other noises as well, deep sounds of outrage all around her, but all Cera knew was the tug on her skirts from behind. Her attacker forced her down, yelling at her, pinning her to the ground, his hot breath on her cheek, a hand on her breast.
Cera screamed, hot white rage flooding through her. She couldn’t see, didn’t know anything but the weight on top of her, and fury.
She lashed out, bucking the man up and off, rolling, beating, and clawing at his face. Without thought, she kept punching, scratching, pummeling. Maddened, desperate to injure, desperate to hurt him, to prove he was wrong. She was enough, was good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, damn him! Cera screamed again, lost in a blood-red mist of wildness.
“Easy,” a voice spoke close by, an easy rumble. “Easy, girl.”
Cera paused and gulped air, raising her fists and looking around wildly for other attackers.
There weren’t any. All she saw was the legs of animals and men all around her. Cera blinked up into the light; one of the wooly horses stared back at her with wide eyes, floppy ears, and a rabbitlike face.
The rough voice spoke again. “I think he’s had enough, girl. No need for any more now.”
Cera looked down.
She was straddling a man, his head rolled to one side, his eyes closed, his face bloody and beaten. She sucked in a breath as she saw her own hands, covered in blood.
“It’s okay.” The voice was closer now. She looked up again at a broad-shouldered man towering over her. “Can I help you up?” he asked, as if hesitant to touch her.
Cera nodded and felt a strong hand at her elbow, lifting her to her feet, drawing her slowly away from her assailant.
“Are you well?” the man asked, keeping his distance once he had her on her feet. “Did he harm you?”
“No,” Cera almost reached to check her hair but stopped herself at the sight of her hands. “I think . . . it’s his blood.”
“Good,” the man said. “We are on our way to the manor house of Sandbriar. We can take him and you to the Lady and—”
“Cera!” Gareth shouted in the distance. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Cera croaked faintly.
“A friend?” the man asked, and at her nod, he bellowed for her. “Here. She’s here!”
The sound of galloping hooves approached, and then a frantic Gareth was in her arms, pale and trembling and hugging her for all he was worth.
Cera clutched at him just as tightly, shaking in her own right. Through her tears, she wondered when he had gotten so much taller than her. “The others?” she asked.
“Guarding the bandits,” Gareth blinked away tears as he pulled back. “We got the best of them, but the one, the one I struck with the boar spear, he’s—” Gareth gulped, turning paler. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, Gareth,” Cera whispered, and hugged him again.
“Not like killing a boar, is it?” the man asked quietly.
Gareth pulled out of Cera’s arms, his eyes hard. “And who are you?” he asked, suspicion in every line of his body.
“I’m Withen Ashkevron, second son of Lord Ashkevron of Forst Reach.” There was no offense in his voice or manner. “We—” He gestured at his companions, who were looking down at the bandit with grim expressions—“We are bringing this herd to Sandbriar at the request of its Lady.” Withen frowned. “Seems there’s a need here about.”
Cera caught her breath. “These are chirras?”
“Aye,” Withen said. “You know of them?”
“I sent for them,” Cera
breathed, staring at the animals. Tall, with a longer neck than a horse. Delight rose in her heart at the sight of the animals sniffing at the wildflowers. One of them looked right at her, an oddly familiar blossom trailing from its mouth, bobbing as the animal chewed the stem.
“Lady Cera?” Withen asked.
Suddenly aware of her torn and dusty state, Cera tried to hide her hands in her skirts. “Yes,” she said. “You are very welcome, Withen. My thanks for the timely rescue.”
Withen smiled. “You didn’t appear to need much in the way of rescue, Lady.”
“We had them in hand,” Gareth said stiffly. “Why did you run? We could’ve handled all of them.”
“My fear got the best of me,” Cera said.
“But—” Gareth protested, but Withen interrupted.
“We should see to the Lady,” he said gently. “Gather up the living and the dead and continue on. My men will aid you, Gareth. We have water if you wish to clean up, Lady Cera.”
“That would be best.” Cera glanced at Gareth and saw they had both realized the kind of reception they were going to get from his grandparents.
Gareth and a few of the others headed back along the road, taking a chirra to haul the body. Withen’s men bound the one at their feet as Withen brought Cera a waterskin and cloths. It was then that she noticed his limp.
Withen noticed her look. “The war,” he said shortly. “Tore my knee right up. Healers did their best.”
Cera nodded, washing her hands under the stream of water he poured. “The others?” she asked softly.
“All men looking to be needed,” he said, his voice just as low. “Not all the injuries are on the outside, Lady Cera.”
She glanced up at his pained brown eyes, then looked away. She was embarrassed at her outburst and wondered what she’d said in her madness. “I know that well.”
“I suspect you do,” he said. And to her relief, he left it at that.
• • •
Athelnor and Marga were horrified at what had happened and at the same time thrilled at the arrival of Withen Ashkevron. Once the dead bandits had been buried and the living ones secured, Withen and his men were given a warm welcome and a tour of the manor house. Cera had to keep herself from rolling her eyes as Athelnor asked more questions of Withen’s heritage than Cera was comfortable with.
“I was named for a great-great-great-too-many-to-remember grandfather,” Withen explained. “But my elder brother is the heir, and well-suited to the position. I was always happier with a plow in my hand rather than a quill pen.”
“Well, you are most welcome.” Athelnor had hustled himself out of bed to greet them, and now he was sagging with fading energy. “Perhaps Lady Cera will finish the tour.” He coughed, looking very pleased with himself.
“I’d be happy to,” Cera said, sharing a grin with Withen. She waited until she had closed the door to Athelnor’s office. “He is not very subtle, is he?”
“No worse than the matchmakers back home,” Withen said.
“Down here is the solar,” Cera said. “We are training the young ones to embroider.”
“Da said something about that.” Withen gestured for her to lead the way. “Afraid it’s kinda lost on the Ashkevron men, but the women—”
“Lady Cera.” Emerson dashed down the hall toward them, his arms filled with balls of wool. “You have to help me. These dye lots don’t match, and the sky is—” He slid to a halt, staring at them. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t . . .” He trailed off.
“Withen Ashkevron, I’d like you to meet Emerson, second son of one of our neighbors, Lord Cition . . .” Cera started, but then realized that no one was listening to her.
Emerson was blushing. Withen stood blinking. Staring.
Cera paused.
No one said anything.
“Withen and his men brought chirras, Emerson. They will be staying for some time, hopefully permanently.” Cera looked at Withen. “Emerson is our resident tapestry weaver.”
Silence.
“Would you like to see my tapestries?” Emerson blurted.
“Y-Y-Yes,” Withen stammered, but hesitated. Then his face hardened, and he stepped forward.
Emerson didn’t even blink at Withen’s limp. He waited until the other man was even with him, and then headed off, taking a mile a minute about colors, patterns, and his idea for a new design.
Cera blinked, taken aback to be left alone. The look on Emerson’s face. It was—
Oh.
Ohhh.
Something deep in her chest relaxed. Cera started to smile.
There’d be assumptions made, but it was fairly clear as she watched Emerson and Withen stammer and avoid each other’s gaze, that her newest suitor was not truly sincere.
To her astonishment, she felt only relief. No shame, no offense. Perhaps she needed to admit the truth to herself. She’d no wish to remarry. At least, not right now.
Still, she wouldn’t close her heart to the possibility. Nor could she ignore the needs of her people. Part of her honor as Lady of this land was the responsibility to see to her people. To ensure their lives were held in good hands long after her own life had ended.
But that knot in her chest was gone, and she felt lighter somehow. Summer was coming, and with it the potential pleasure of watching young lives come together.
A dance, she thought. A summer dance for all, to celebrate the end of her mourning period and the new season.
Cera smiled, and then turned to go back to Athelnor’s office. She’d have him start planning the celebration, something he could do from the comfort of his office.
Then she’d put on her barn boots and go check on her chirras, and—
Memory hit then, of her kneeling in the dust with bloody hands, staring at a chirra eating a wildflower with a strong, familiar scent.
Cera paused.
She needed to walk her fields.
• • •
The chirras seemed to enjoy their new home. Cera watched from the barn door as Ager and some of Withen’s men checked the animals over carefully.
She wasn’t alone. Some of the single women and younger widows were admiring . . . well, maybe it wasn’t the chirras they were looking over.
“Still not sure they’ll survive the heat,” Old Meroth grumbled. The old shepherd, grizzled and gray, had seen her walking through the yard and hailed her. He sat in his usual spot outside the barn, in the sun, his three elderly sheep dogs at his feet. Even with his right arm lifeless, and the sag to the side of his face, he still ruled the yard.
“The Old Lord’s herd had been here years,” Old Meroth continued. “They’d gotten used to it. These soft northern ones, they’ll die of heat stroke, sure enough.”
“We’ll care for them,” Cera said. She’d already felt through the pelt of one animal, marveling at the triple layered fur, and examined their clawed, dog-like feet. “The others adapted. These will too.”
Old Meroth snorted, grumbling under his breath.
Cera straightened away from the doorjamb. “I’ve a mind to look at that ram,” she said. “See if the pizzle rot cleared.”
“Young Meroth’s off checking the lambs. I’ll walk with ya,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “Walk’ll do us all good.”
His dogs didn’t looked like they agreed, but they rose with tails slowly wagging, as if warming to the idea.
They followed the fences, some of which clearly needed attention. Cera mentioned that, more to make a mental note, but it set Old Meroth off on young’uns and their laziness. The dogs were content to walk with them, occasionally slowing to sniff the world. But Cera was watching the side toward the forest too, checking the flowers. Looking for—
“There he be,” Old Meroth stopped and leaned on the fence.
The ram was in the clover, tearing at the plants. He lift
ed his head, grass hanging from his mouth, and observed them calmly as he chewed.
“Wanna check his nethers?” Old Meroth asked, leaning on the fence as the three dogs flopped down in the grass at his feet, panting. “I could have the dogs roust him.”
That decidedly did not please the dogs.
“There’s no need. The stench would tell us,” Cera said absently. She took a deep breath, searching for a familiar, sweeter scent. Of a flower she’d seen dangling from the mouth of a chirra.
“Aye, aye,” Old Meroth looked over his shoulder as she wandered into a patch of wildflowers. “Lookin’ for sumthin’ else?”
“Yes.” Cera smiled as she bent over. “See this? This green flower? You have to look hard, but here at the center—” She opened the flower with her fingers. “See the deep purple?”
“Aye, it’s a weed,” Old Meroth grumbled.
Cera pulled a trowel from her bag. “Oh, no, not just a weed.” She knelt. “In Rethwellan, it’s called wild kandace. Valued for its healing properties.”
“Kinda like people sometimes, eh?” Meroth was looking out over the field.
“What?”
“Overlook it, until you see into the heart of them.”
Cera sat back on her heels. “Meroth, are you complimenting me?”
“Aye,” Meroth said. “But don’t be tellin’ anyone. Ruin me reputation, it would.”
With a laugh, Cera turned back to her work. “I’m going to move this to the herb garden and see if I can—”
“Don’t see why,” Old Meroth grumbled again. “There’s a whole fallow field full of ’em over north of the lambing sheds. I’ll walk you there, if you’ve a mind to.”
“A field? Full of them?” Cera rose, and put her trowel away. “Why yes,” she said, trying not to laugh out loud. “I’ve a mind to.”
To the Honorable Apothecary Reinwald, Capital of Petras, Kingdom of Rethwellan
Dear Reinwald,
I am going to impose on the friendship between your Trading House and my Father’s. I trust that you are aware of the change in my circumstances. Sandbriar has a need for more avenues of trade, and I wished to inquire of you if you ever found another source for that rare herb named wild kandace?
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