“Jenny.”
She brushed away her stupid tears and turned to face Matthew as she threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
“She is no’ my wife.”
Jenny felt an instant of relief, then cast it aside. “Your memory has returned, then?” she asked, somehow certain that it hadn’t, not when his expression was one of a man grasping at straws.
When he did not answer, she slipped past him and left the small dwelling, the refuge they’d shared so intimately for the past few days. It was the last caravan in the line, so no one noticed that she left without her supposed husband.
Matthew could not blame Jenny for being upset at the vision of Ana in the ceirtlín.
Mo oirg, he was upset, too. He did not know who the woman was, yet now she plagued his waking hours as well as his dreams, warning him and urging him to hurry.
Regardless of who Ana was to him, he could not let Jenny go off on her own. With haste, he collected the coins he had hidden and tossed them into his satchel, then did the same with the provisions he’d purchased from Bardo’s wife. A moment later, he started for the pasture where Moghire awaited, but found himself sidetracked by the arrival of a cold, misty rain, along with the newlyweds’ caravans. He was in a hurry to catch up to Jenny, but something was wrong.
All the brides were distraught, and one bore the marks of a beating. Her eyes were red and swollen, and one was bruised. The couples dismounted from their caravans and started speaking rapidly to their elders. An argument broke out between one of the Tsinoria men and Guibran Bardo. Matthew looked for Tekari, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Taking a quick jog to Rupa’s caravan, he found the woman watching the men’s argument with a horrified expression on her face. Her husband, Pias, bore an expression of anger and disgust.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Lubunka honor…hurt.”
“How?”
“Tekari—” Rupa covered her mouth with her fist. “He leave Beti. He…” Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away. Pias put his arm ’round his wife to give comfort, even as he muttered words that sounded like curses on Tekari.
“Where is Kaulo now?” Matthew asked.
“Gone,” Rupa replied. “So bad. He go away. No Gypsy man do.”
Matthew did not like the idea of Kaulo unaccounted for, not while Jenny walked the deserted landscape alone. He hastened to the pasture and slipped the Gypsy bridle onto the white gelding, then mounted and headed northeast, the direction Jenny must have gone.
The weather worsened, with falling temperatures and increasing winds. He took to the path toward Carlisle, riding as fast as Moghire could carry him and considering, for the first time, the reaction of the old woman and the others who’d seen the face in the ceirtlín. ’Twas as if they’d never seen it used properly before.
Matthew decided they had not. Somehow, that woman had acquired a ceirtlín, but had no idea what it could actually do. Matthew wasn’t sure how he knew how to use it, only that the words and actions had come naturally to him. Before he could give it any more thought, he saw a hooded figure ahead, walking through the drizzling rain with her cloak whipping ’round her legs in the wind.
He kicked his heels into Moghire’s flanks and galloped to Jenny’s side, dismounting as he arrived alongside her. She ignored him and kept walking. “Jenny, you are soaking. You will freeze this way.”
“No, I won’t Matth—” She stopped herself from using the name she’d given him, the experience with the ceirtlín forcing both of them to face the truth of their situation. Neither of them knew who he was.
“I intend to see you to Carlisle, moileen.” After that, he would convince her to let him find the woman who’d stolen her locket. But he would be content if she allowed him the first step for now.
Her eyes were bleak when she looked up at him. “’Tis not a good idea. We’ve become too—”
He did not allow her to finish, but took her bag from her and lifted her onto a rock that would serve as a mounting block. “I’ll mount first, then pull you up.”
She did not resist as he situated her in front of him on Moghire’s back. She was cold and trembling, and he pulled her close to warm and dry her. “The woman in the glass is no’ my wife, moileen,” he said close to her ear. “I would know it—would feel it—if she were.”
They rode for hours, making more miles in one day than they’d made in all the time they’d traveled with the Gypsies. It seemed wholly impossible, yet Jenny felt the heat of Matthew’s body warming her face and hands as well as her back. She felt his warm breath at her deaf ear, but she was too upset to tell him she could not hear the words he spoke. His denials did not matter. The vision of the red-haired woman and her pleading expression had been clear enough.
As dusk approached, there was no sign of a village or town where they might spend the night. Eventually they came upon a solitary stone farmhouse on the rain-swept landscape where they stopped and asked for shelter.
“Aye, ’tis a bruising storm,” said the housewife who opened the door merely a crack. “Take yer horse to the barn. Ye’ll find my husband out there.”
She pulled Jenny inside, taking her bag and sending her to stand by the fire. “’Tis an awful night to be out and about. Where ye headed?”
“To Carlisle,” Jenny replied, inhaling the scent of something hot and delicious in the cook pot that hung on a hook over the fire.
“Well, ye’ve a ways yet to go. But ye’ll be warm enough and dry here. I’m Kitty Moffat. These be my bairns—Sally, Jamie, and Paul. And my youngest, Susan,” she said, referring to the baby she carried on her hip.
Shivering, Jenny nodded to the woman and her shy but curious children. “I’m Jenny Keating. My…husband is Matthew.”
“Ye can hang yer cloak there,” Mrs. Moffat indicated a hook near the door. “We’ll soon have our soup. There’s plenty t’ go ’round. ’Tis lovely to have a bit of company. We don’t get much here.”
The children were all rosy-cheeked, with curly brown hair. None was older than five or six years, and Jenny saw by the roundness of Mrs. Moffat’s middle that she was with child again. Jenny touched her own belly under her cloak, and it struck her that she might be carrying Matthew’s child.
“What is it, lass?” The woman asked. “Ye’ve gone all pale, like.”
Jenny gave a quick shake of her head and forced a smile. She took off her cloak. “I’m just tired, I suppose. We’ve been riding all day. You have handsome children, Mrs. Moffat.”
What a fool she’d been, risking pregnancy with Matthew, a man who had a beautiful, red-haired wife worrying and waiting for him. She turned to face the fire and rubbed some heat into her arms as she blinked away fresh tears. When she felt composed enough to turn back, Mrs. Moffat was organizing the children into their places at the dining table.
“Would ye take Suzie for me, Mrs. Keating?” Jenny had not a moment to reply before the child was thrust into her arms. The bairn could not be even a year old, for she had only two teeth, and could do nothing but bat her arms and smile happily.
Jenny felt numb as she watched Mrs. Moffat tie the next youngest child into a chair so that he would not fall out during the meal, then took bowls and spoons from a cupboard and placed them on the table. “Tom—my husband—thinks the sleeting rain is going to keep up all night,” said the woman. “Here now. Take a seat.”
Keeping the bairn on her lap, Jenny sat down at the table and gave the rest of the children a hesitant smile. They kept their eyes on her, certainly curious about the stranger who’d suddenly turned up in their house, but each one too polite or too shy to question her.
Mrs. Moffat drew up a wooden stool and an extra chair, and put them at the table. “We have plenty, Mrs. Keating, and ye’re welcome t’ sleep in here by the fire for the night. ’Tis sorry I am t’ say that th’ floor will have to do, but we’ve got a few rugs to soften it, and spare quilts t’ keep you warm.”
“You’re very k
ind,” said Jenny, grateful that she would not have to force her aching legs and hips onto Moghire’s back for a few more hours. At least they’d stayed relatively dry for their ride this far, though she did not know how that had been possible. By the time they’d stopped at the farmhouse, the cold mizzle had turned to sleet, and was coming down in icy sheets.
“How far is it to Carlisle?” she asked.
“Twenty miles as the crow flies,” the woman replied. “But in this horrible weather—”
The door blew open and the two men came in with the wind. Everyone shuddered at the cold blast as Mr. Moffat pushed the door closed and latched it tight against the weather. Mrs. Moffat took her husband’s coat, and then Matthew’s, hanging them both by the door.
“Ye’ll be Mr. Keating, then. I’m Kitty Moffat, and ye’re welcome here. Tom, come and say hello to Mrs. Keating.”
The farmer gave Jenny a friendly nod and went to the fireplace, lifting the pot off the hook while Matthew took the Gypsy bread and cheese from his pack and laid it on the table. “We’ve something to share, too,” he said.
The sight of Jenny holding the pretty, dark-haired bairn took Matthew’s breath away. He knew the recovery of his memory was the only thing that would convince her that the woman in the glass ball meant naught to him. And once that happened, he would take her home and fill his house with their children.
He’d had a few more inklings of memory while they rode, but not enough to solve the question of who he was. The persistent sense of urgency was stronger, as was the echo of a warning. About what, he still could not fathom. He only knew he lived for the day when Jenny would sit in Coruain House with his bairns in her arms.
“Coruain?” he muttered aloud.
“What’s that, man?” asked Tom.
Matthew looked up. “Coruain House. I…just remembered it. Do you know of it?”
Moffat shook his head. “Canna say I’ve e’er heard of it. In Carlisle?”
Matthew sat down on the three-legged stool beside Jenny. “No. Mayhap.” He sighed. “I’m no’ sure.” He felt the excitement of being on the verge of discovering something important about himself, but at the same time, disappointment, knowing the words told him little. Unless his memory returned, he would still have to search for someone who knew of him…or of Coruain House.
“Sounds Scots, or Gaelic,” said Moffat. He opened the shutters and looked out at his land being battered by the freezing rain, then turned to his wife. “I doona know what this storm portends for the rest of our spring.”
“Likely a harsh one,” the woman remarked with a visible shudder. She ladled a thick potage into each of the bowls, then bade her husband to come and sit down. She took her own seat and bowed her head, speaking a short prayer of thanks.
“I’ll take Suzie now if ye’ll be so good as to slice yer lovely bread,” she said, reaching over to take the bairn from Jenny.
The Moffats were friendly and gregarious by nature, and lately deprived of company, so Matthew had no difficulty steering the conversation from himself and Jenny, and concentrated on farm matters and the weather. It was fully dark by the time they finished the meal and Tom went to the mantel for his pipe. He sat in one of the worn but comfortable chairs near the hearth and took the smallest bairn on his lap while his wife cleared the cups and bowls with Jenny’s help.
The older three children climbed all over their father, playing a game they called “tickle the bear.” Tom roared while the children squealed and ran away, giggling. Then they sneaked back and tried to tickle him while one of them distracted him. They got the best of him until his wife came and took the bairn, then each of them was eventually caught by the bear, and tickled mercilessly.
Matthew watched them, distracted, as he tried to make sense of Coruain House. He could not picture any such place in his mind, nor did it call any other memories to him. Coruain was just a word, as the red-haired woman was just a face. He thought of her, looked into her grass-green eyes, and felt naught but a vague familiarity. Likely because he saw her so often these days.
Naught was real to him but Jenny. But until he knew his own history and could swear he was free to take her as his mate, he was sure she would have little to do with him.
She and Mrs. Moffat came along and sat by the fire, and Jenny took a book from her traveling bag.
“Ye’ll ne’er guess, my wee ones! Mrs. Keating has promised to read to us!”
“’Tis good of ye, ma’am,” said Mr. Moffat, insisting that Jenny take his chair.
“Ach, ’tis a fine auld book,” the farmer’s wife said when Jenny placed the book on her lap and opened it carefully, showing the illustrations to the children.
“’Tis a treasure to me—Sir Thomas Malory wrote it hundreds of years ago.”
“The book is that auld, then?” asked the farmer’s wife.
Jenny smiled. “No, but ’tis an old edition…printed many years ago.”
The children settled themselves comfortably near Jenny and begged her to begin. Matthew could easily imagine her reading to their own children. He thought of the games he would play with them, mayhap in Coruain House—a place that must have some significance if it came into his mind, like all the other disconnected bursts of memory.
“‘’Twas New Year’s Day in those ancient years,’” Jenny began, “‘and all of England’s barons rode unto the field, some to joust and some to tourney…’”
Her voice was magical, sliding inside Matthew and settling just below his heart, where he could feel it. He stretched out on the floor and listened, almost dozing, to the legend she read, a tale of an ancient kingdom and its knights.
“‘How gat ye this sword? said Sir Ector to Arthur. Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother’s sword, I found nobody at home to deliver it to me; I thought my brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of the stone without any pain.’”
Matthew’s eyes shot open. Arthur? It sounded familiar, but…No, ’twas Arthwyr whom he remembered, quite clearly. The warrior Arthwyr was a man of short stature with a barrel chest and fair hair. Matthew rubbed a hand across his mouth and tried to remember more. Had he served with Arthwyr? Were they somehow related? There had been war…
Matthew recalled a vast number of mounted knights, all bearing swords and lances, wearing the green and gold colors of Arthwyr, the king.
The memory flitted away, leaving him even more confused than he’d been without any memory at all. Why did he remember knights in thick leather armor? Where on earth…
“‘Then all the kings were passing glad of Merlin, and asked him, For what cause is that boy Arthur made your king? Sirs, said Merlin, I shall tell you the cause…’”
“Merlin?” The hair on the back of Matthew’s neck stood on end.
Jenny nodded. “Merlin, yes,” she said as though it were the most common name in Britannia, and continued to read until the farmer and his wife started to doze.
Three of the Moffat children had fallen asleep, and the fourth nearly so. Mrs. Moffat stopped Jenny and rose to her feet. “I’d best get these wee ones—and ourselves—off t’ bed. Thank ye for the tale…Mayhap ye would finish it for the children in the morn.”
“Of course,” said Jenny, stifling her own yawn.
The family went to the back of the house, and Matthew could hear their faint voices as the couple put their children to bed. Jenny busied herself with arranging the thick rugs Mrs. Moffat had provided, and set the blankets on top of them.
“Jenny…That last part of the tale.”
“When Merlin explains how Arthur pulled the sword?”
“Aye.” The name resonated, even more than Arthwyr. He pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and started to pace.
“Matthew?”
He looked up at her, puzzled and unable to explain why he felt as though he knew Merlin. “The tale you read…’tis strangely familiar.”
“’Tis likely you’ve read, or at least heard the
tale of King Arthur. Everyone knows it.”
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“But you remember nothing more?” She took a deep breath and appeared to brace herself, as though she feared his answer.
He shook his head and touched her cheek. “No, my sweet lass.” And what he remembered about Merlin was unclear.
Jenny did not think it would be much longer before Matthew remembered everything. If he recalled the characters from Malory’s tale of King Arthur, and the name of that place—Coruain House—then the rest was sure to follow.
Kitty Moffat’s thick rugs made a comfortable bed, and when Matthew lay down beside Jenny and pulled her into his arms, she did not resist. He made no advances, but seemed lost in his own thoughts, as she was in hers.
The sound of the sleet lashing against the windows had Jenny considering their journey from the Gypsy camp. Surely the icy rain had been falling just as viciously then as it was now. Yet they’d somehow managed to stay relatively dry, and she wondered if she’d been responsible. She’d willed the rock to fall off the riverbank, and those silver fibers had carried out her desire. Jenny wondered if she might have used the same force unconsciously to make herself and Matthew impervious to the weather. She dozed off before coming to any conclusion.
Tom Moffat was up before dawn. Matthew left the house with him, offering to help with his chores. Jenny passed a pleasant enough morning with the rest of the family, entertaining the children with the end of Le Morte d’Arthur, while Mrs. Moffat started her own chores.
Jenny and Matthew were ready to take their leave well before noon. It was still cold, but at least the storm had played out overnight. Tom helped Jenny to mount the white gelding in front of Matthew, and they made their farewells.
Just before Matthew turned to ride away, he stopped and spoke to Tom. “There’s a lone Gypsy who might come this way,” he said. “Black hair and eyes, with a wiry build. He rides a bay mare. Beware of him. He’s a bad character.”
“Thank ye for the warning,” said Tom, glancing toward his wife. “We’ll take care.”
Temptation of the Warrior Page 14