Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  It took a few minutes of banging into wooden bar­rels and bins and stirring up dust in the feeble light before she finally found the notch in the wall contain­ing a narrow bed frame. After setting the lamp down on a leather-bound chest next to the bed, she turned too quickly and tripped over one of her bags. Landing on the straw mattress, she stayed put. Her skirts snuffed out the wick as she fell, saving her from hav­ing to blow out the light.

  "Lucky I didn't catch my dress on fire," she mur­mured.

  She knelt in the center of the bed to wriggle out of her layers of clothes. As she recalled, nightgowns were unknown in this period, but she didn't want to have to sleep in the same clothes she would have to wear again tomorrow. And the next day, and the next. Maybe she would adopt a few laundry innovations as chatelaine of Passfair.

  She rolled around, settling the fur covering com­fortably, and almost immediately discarded any plan for change. She didn't dare alter a thing. Not one sin­gle, uncomfortable thing. She had a responsibility not to influence this alien culture. She could change the future. And stuck back here she'd have no way of knowing whether a ripple effect from one tiny alter­ation would prove good or ill for her own time. She sighed unhappily. She'd just have to live by this place and time's rules. Observe and not participate and get herself to a nunnery ASAP.

  She just hoped she didn't forget, screw up, or get fed up with life in a time warp.

  The straw-stuffed mattress wasn't much different from the thin cotton futon she slept on at home. The mattress did rustle dryly when she moved, and there

  were things in it that nibbled on her. But it was nei­ther the straw nor the bugs, nor even her spinning thoughts, that kept her awake. It was the silence. It was the dead still quiet of the night inside these stone walls that convinced her she was no longer at home. Alone in the silent darkness she faced the realization that she wasn't really in some weird overauthentic theme park produced by David Wolfe.

  Even in her quiet neighborhood in an Illinois town there was white noise that went unnoticed except in its absence. Here in the south of England, probably sometime around 1209, there wasn't a dishwasher or airplane or car engine or stereo or lawn mower or air conditioner—not a mechanical whoosh or roar or thrum or blare or rattle or hum to be heard anywhere on the planet. She didn't like the dark silence; it pressed in on her ears and her mind.

  In the silence she couldn't stop thinking about what had brought her to this alien place. She was an alien here, no matter what Wolfe thought. He thought she lived for history. Maybe she did; her job had become her life in the last year. She gradually lost track of friends and family and the real world to con­centrate on historical research. She practically lived at the institute. She'd drifted away from the Medievalist Society, hardly ever called her mother anymore. There were no men in her life. She had thought she was satisfied with what she was doing.

  She suddenly knew she'd gotten so caught up in the project that she hadn't made time for anything else in her life. She thought her historical research was enough. She'd been enjoying herself.

  Enjoying herself and forgetting reality, she casti­gated herself. Now reality dodn't exist for her. Not the reality she wanted and didn't even realize she wanted until she'd lost her chance for it. It wasn't as if she hadn't planned to get on with real life someday. She'd hoped to find someone to love. It was just that she hadn't found anyone who'd met what her stan­dards were. Maybe someone who looked like Daffyd ap Bleddyn but acted like a gentleman.

  She tried not to feel sorry for herself despite the strangeness and discomfort other surroundings. She tried not to be frightened. She tried not to be home­sick. She tried not to listen to the silence, but the silence wouldn't go away, though she tried to popu­late it with memories of familiar sounds. It kept her awake for many hours until exhaustion finally forced sleep on her. Even then she had nightmares.

  In her dreams the broad-shouldered form of Sir Daffyd, grown to giant size, stood over her, sword drawn while she worked frantically at a piece of embroidery. She kept trying to form red dragons with her needle, but the design kept turning into a lion. He kept threatening and badgering her to get it right until she got fed up and began shouting back. He grabbed her shoulders. She kicked him, and he laughed, telling her he liked a fiery wench. She told him he sounded damn silly, which was when he kissed her and the dream changed from nightmare to something else.

  First his lips brushed across hers, then the kiss deepened, became demanding, filled her with a glow­ing heat. In the dream he was suddenly holding her as no man of her time ever had: fiercely possessive, wanting her, knowing how to make her want him. His hands cupped her breasts. He pinned her between himself and the cool stones of a wall, his hips grind-

  ing against hers. His need was obvious, hard against her thigh. His kiss became more passionately insis­tent.

  Jane wound her arms around his neck, wholly con­sumed by the desire he aroused so demandingly in her. She responded eagerly to his touch. She offered herself to the sure touch of his hands and lips. In the dream she matched his passion with her own, molded her flesh to his, drank in the masculine, erotic scent and hardness and—

  She woke up shivering, very aware of the fur cov­ering rubbing sensuously against her bare skin. "Well," she complained to the ceiling, "I never thought I liked them butch." Her mother would say that it was about time she had a thing for a man in uniform. Which she didn't, of course. She tried to make a joke of the unsettling erotic experience. For­get the dangerous good looks and the narrow-hipped swagger; the dream was probably caused by moldy rye in last night's bread.

  She chuckled, her usual good humor restored as she threw off the blanket and flopped onto her back. And yelped as the chill air caught her by surprise. Yep, still in the thirteenth century, she decided as she leapt up and began to pull on layer after layer of clothing. Her tower cubbyhole possessed one tiny slit window, enough to let in light to dress by. She remembered the fire in the hall. It pulled her like a magnet through the storeroom and down to the hall.

  "You're late rising," Bertram told her with the slightest hint of disapproval as she arrived by the blazing hearthfire. With Bertram was the grizzled guard sergeant, Raoul DeCorte, and a bearded man she hadn't seen before. She knew she hadn't seen him because she would have remembered the silly baby-cap of a hat he was wearing. It was made of faded blue wool, tied snugly under his yellow-bearded chin.

  "There's porridge and bread saved for you," Bertram added.

  What she needed was a cup of coffee, she thought, ignoring the food to warm her hands by the hearth. The stench of the hall had hit her anew as she came down the stairs. She'd woken up hungry, but her stomach was now informing her she'd better not dare try to put anything in it in this noxious atmosphere. She swallowed and shook her head at the servant. Her skin itched, and she wanted to brush her teeth.

  The men made room for her, all of them looking at her worriedly. She threw a sour glance over her shoulder at the pale-lit windows. In an age that lived by fire and rushlight, every second of daylight was important. Only someone who was very ill would spend time sleeping past the break of day. Oops.

  She tucked her warmed fingers into her wide sleeves and told them, "A touch of lingering fever, I think."

  The men looked at each other anxiously, and she recalled what Sir Stephan had told her about a fever devastating his holding. "I doubt it's catching," she hastened to reassure them.

  Caffeine withdrawal wasn't, she grumbled to her­self. For their benefit she explained, "A woman's ill­ness." The tension relaxed immediately into knowing and sympathetic nods.

  "My wife's had such," the man in the silly hat said. He spoke slowly, with a thick Germanic accent. "She's learned much about herbs from brewing her own remedies. She might be of help, Lady Jehane."

  "Switha's a useful woman," DeCorte interjected. "This is Cerdic," he went on. "Reeve of Hwit and Passfair villages. Sir Stephan said you would want to speak with us this morning."

 
Bertram handed her a heavy brass key ring. "I've been keeping these," he told her as she fingered the keys one by one. "The cook and I can help you with an inventory of the keep. Cerdic has knowledge of the villages. Sir Stephan said—"

  "And where is Sir Stephan?" she interrupted. Raoul DeCorte gave a gap-toothed grin. "Rode for Sturry at daybreak. Took most of the men with him, my lady."

  "A savings of the late-winter stores," Bertram con­tributed. He gave the others a jealous look as he added, "The inventory, my lady?"

  "Your orders, Lady Jehane?" DeCorte requested, elbowing Bertram aside.

  "Will you have need of me, my lady?" Cerdic asked with a respectful nod of his baby-cap. She won­dered if he was going to tug his forelock in an excess of loyal zeal.

  And just what threats did Sir Stephan use to gain such enthusiastic cooperation from his household? Or maybe these three mature gentlemen were just tired of chaos. Or maybe the masses liked being downtrodden. She backed a few steps from the fire, nearly tripping over one of the deerhounds in the pro­cess. It growled. So did she.

  She was the boss, was she? The men were eyeing her pensively as she considered how to proceed. She was more familiar with user-friendly software and self-service everything than with any kind of labor relations. Shorting a tip for the occasional surly waitress was about all she knew of disciplin­ing the peasants. Fortunately this bunch seemed eager to be led.

  "Woman's got to do what a woman's got to do," she said under her breath in English. She squared her shoulders, looked the trio in the eye one by one, then announced to Bertram, "I want those hounds ken­neled, the floor cleaned, and fresh rushes down by

  tonight."

  "Rushes, my lady?" Bertram asked, his wrinkles rippling with puzzlement. "At this time of year?"

  "Our lady is from a warmer land," DeCorte inter­jected gallantly while she swore to herself.

  She gave the guard sergeant a grateful look. She also remembered something her mother had told her she'd learned in the army. When in doubt, delegate.

  Mom the colonel would probably be enjoying this adventure. It was just the sort of thing she'd fanta­sized about doing ever since she'd gotten involved in the study of medieval military history. She'd become so fascinated with the whole period, she'd helped found the Medievalist Society so she could play dress-up and mock battles. And lane had grown up sharing eagerly in Mom the colonel's off-duty pastime. She'd never thought it would land her here.

  "You'll find something," she assured Bertram with a steely-eyed confidence that dared him to contradict her. He just looked at her in dumbfounded confusion.

  "We've straw enough in the stables." DeCorte came to the rescue.

  Jane began to understand the respect for sergeants her mother had brought from her tank commanding days. "Suitable," she agreed. The stench of the hall was beginning to make her eyes water. Her stomach

  was still threatening revolt. She had to get out before she threw up.

  "Fetch my cloak," she ordered the servant. "DeCorte and I will inspect the outbuildings while the hall is cleaned."

  5

  Nearly a week later, Jane was having trou­ble deciding which of several aching spots to rub when she spotted Bertram approaching from the direction of the kitchen. She squinted at him painful­ly. She only had sight in one eye at the moment; the other was swollen closed. His hobbling steps were slow, but he looked determined. No doubt he'd found another task needing his chatelaine's urgent atten­tion. To think she'd been worried about figuring out how to do the job. She'd scarcely had time to breathe in the five days since Stephan had left the holding.

  Bertram and the others were having a wonderful time finding things for her to give orders about. It seemed the inhabitants at Passfair had assumed their amiable young lord didn't mind living in squalor;

  young knights were supposed to have war and wenching rather than the state of the storerooms on their minds. His putting a proper chatelaine in charge was the same as giving notice to the peasants that times were changing.

  And they wanted the place to look nice for their new young mistress, as well. There was an eagerness about the serving women working on new linens in the bower, a cheerful willingness in the way two other women were beating the dust from the tapestry they'd carefully taken down and into the courtyard to air out. Knowing the lord of the manor was bringing home a bride made everything about the castle seem more purposeful and alive. Especially old Bertram. Old Bertram, who turned out to be fifty-two and quite spry.

  Jane sighed with tired fondness at his approach, then contemplated her injuries while waiting for his arrival. Her eye hurt worse than her hip, so she set­tled on cradling her swollen cheek with her palm. She rested the other hand on the cool stone of the freshly swept step where she was sitting. A puppy came up and licked it.

  The sky overhead was a brilliant blue, there was a hint of warmth in the air, and she was getting some satisfaction out of watching people scurrying around the courtyard doing her bidding. There was steamy smoke rising from the wash house. Rich, yeasty smells were drifting her way from both the brew house and the wide mouths of the ovens next to the kitchen. Of course, none of this made up for the physical discomfort of sitting around nursing a black eye and bruised bottom.

  Last night's fall down the tower steps was the dog's fault, of course. Melisande was simply too much the willful pet to put up with being kenneled with the common riffraff. Not a day had passed before she'd bitten the boy put in charge of the deer-hounds, escaped from the enclosure, and marched boldly into the hall, her puppies bounding happily after. Jane didn't have the heart to throw any of them out again. Melisande was Stephan's particular favorite, after all. So she'd named the puppies Nikki and Vince, and somehow the three canines all ended up in her bed. This did not help the bug problem, but she welcomed the company.

  Last night, while she'd been climbing the pitted old stone steps with a puppy in each arm, Melisande had affectionately butted the back of Jane's knees with her head. Hard. Jane was knocked off balance, tripped over her voluminous'skirts, and ended up tumbling head over heels all the way back down to the hall.

  Nikki and Vince were unhurt. She was lucky to sustain only some heavy bruising and the black eye. She hated to think what might have happened if she'd really been hurt. A broken bone in this era could be fatal. She didn't want to think about it. She rose care­fully and greeted Bertram instead.

  The old man's first words were, "The hall needs more servants, my lady."

  Jane tugged at the veil of her wimple. The gesture was becoming the substitute for her old habit of play­ing with her hair when she was puzzled. As far as she was concerned, the place was crawling with servants. What sort of project did Bertram have in mind? Rebuilding the hall completely by the time Stephan and his lady arrived?

  "Oh?" she asked, hoping her tone conveyed dignity along with healthy skepticism. Bertram was very con­cerned for her dignity and sense of status. He was very much in favor of her having both. She tried to live up to his standards.

  "You have no women of your own to attend you."

  "They died on the journey," she recounted hastily.

  "Of course, my lady. But you really should not go unattended," he persisted. "It is not—"

  "Proper," she finished for him. She felt a great deal of fondness for Bertram. She wondered what he would have been if he had lived in her time. The CEO of a major corporation, perhaps.

  She tucked her hands in the voluminous sleeves of her gown and gave a judicious nod. "Quite right, good Bertram." She looked at him speculatively out of the eye not swollen shut. "You know where I might find a decent woman or two to serve me?"

  He gave a decisive nod. "There are three young vil­lage widows you might choose from. They lost their men in the winter's fever. Cerdic can bring them for your inspection."

  Mention of the village and its reeve reminded Jane that she hadn't yet inspected the houses or tithe barn, or any of the demesne beyond the fortress's wooden outer walls. Sh
e said, "Yes. I must talk to Cerdic." She picked up her cloak from where she'd left it on the top step. "Where would the reeve be this time of day?"

  Bertram wasn't sure, but he gave her directions to the reeve's house. "Shall I come with you. Lady Jehane?"

  "No need." She patted the old man's arm. "I need you here to manage while I'm gone." He lifted his head at her words, his bent shoulders straightening a bit.

  She walked off, happy her slight praise brought him some pleasure. She walked slowly toward the gate, her sore hip reminding her it wasn't happy at all with this walking nonsense. She told it exercise was the best thing for the stiffness. At the gate one of the stable lads hurried past her, no doubt sent by Bertram to warn the reeve of her impending visit. She sup­posed his forethought saved her the additional exer­cise of searching out Cerdic. She didn't try to hurry her steps but carefully made her way down the rutted track leading to the group of low, thatched huts clus­tered at the foot of the hill. It had rained last night, and her hem had an extra border of mud by the time she reached Passfair village.

  She found the house without trouble; it was the largest daub-and-wattle hut in the village, after all. Cerdic was there, hurriedly back from whatever task he'd been overseeing. He greeted her with a respect­ful bob of his head. He'd taken off his hat, revealing a wealth of gray-tinged red-gold curls.

  The Saxon reeve knew every inch of Stephan's two villages, fields and orchards and pastures and mill and barns and houses. Jane walked him over the well-trodden ground, asking questions as they went. The sunny day brought a hint of warmth in the air; several of the small fields were greening with early wheat and barley crops. She found out it was late February and that the river running beneath the mill wheel was the Stour. He told her eighteen people had died during the winter fever and that there were twenty-one fami­lies in Hwit, which was on the river, and eleven fami­lies in Passfair.

  They walked to the edge of the wood where Jane first arrived. Now that she saw it on foot rather than on horseback, the place seemed somehow more formidable, dark and mysterious. Bare branches seemed to reach out for her, or beckon