Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  her onward to explore ancient secrets.

  All right, all right, she told herself. There was nothing dark and wild about the place. It was where they pastured the pigs and gathered firewood and—

  "There are outlaws in the woods," Cerdic told her, breaking in on her mental catalog.

  Jane jumped. "What?" she squeaked nervously. She remembered now that Stephan had warned her.

  "A band of outlaws."

  "Not like Robin Hood, I bet." The words slipped out before she could catch them.

  The reeve blinked his china blue eyes at her in momentary confusion. "Robin Hood's band was in the north. In Lincolnshire, I'm told. Or Sherwood. This forest is the Blean. Sikes's band of brigands is smaller but not so kindly. Though the Robin Hood band was in my father's time. There's nothing left of them but the tales. Sikes's leaves bodies and burned houses right now." He scratched his beard thought­fully while Jane tried to keep her head from spinning right out of its wimple.

  She almost had to bite down on her tongue to keep from demanding every word of Cerdic's father's tales. She was not a historian, she told herself firmly. She was chatelaine of Passfair. She was not going to take notes or write monographs. Robin Hood was not real. And even if he was, who was she going to impress with her well-researched, documented knowledge?

  As she stood on the edge of the wood trying to for­get Dr. Jane Florian's passion for the past, a slight fig­ure stepped from behind an oak's wide trunk, onto the narrow track leading out of the wood. It was an elfin-featured woman with gray-streaked black braids. She was wearing a brown dress and a faded green shawl. She carried a reed basket on one arm.

  Cerdic raised a hand in greeting. His affable face lit with pleasure. "My wife, Switha," he explained. "She can help you choose a woman to serve you at the hall."

  Switha arrived beside them and looked up at Jane with sooty-lidded blue eyes. Jane remembered being told Cerdic's wife was the village midwife and wise-woman.

  "I've heard you have a woman's illness," she said. Like Cerdic, she spoke to Jane in Norman French, but her accent was not as thick. "And about the fall," she went on, reaching up to touch the swollen and discol­ored skin around Jane's eye. "I've herbs for both problems, my lady. You'll be well soon," she said reassuringly.

  "May I return to the fields, my lady?" Cerdic requested, backing a pace from the two women on the edge of the woods.

  Jane's gaze was caught by Switha's. The woman was studying her critically, her head cocked to one side. It was almost as if Switha's intent scrutiny was more for the ills inside her head than for the injuries to her body. Jane barely had enough attention left over to nod dismissal at the reeve. She was too caught up in Switha's stare.

  She didn't know how long she and the little woman stood staring eye to eye, but when she man­aged to blink her good eye and look around, it seemed as if the sun had moved nearer to the horizon.

  "What time is it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  "The wrong time for you, I think," Switha answered

  equally softly. The woman shook her head sadly, her braids swinging gently on her breasts.

  A natural empath, the reasonable part of Jane's mind supplied as she gave her head a hard shake her­self. Back home Switha'd be wearing crystals and reading tarot cards and conducting seminars. Village wisewomen were supposed to be wise women. It was in the job description. Jane laughed nervously. The sound seemed too loud, spreading out to fill the silent landscape on the edge of the wood.

  "You said something about herbs?" she ques­tioned, her voice still too loud in her own ears. "Actu­ally," she went on, "apparently what I really need is an attendant. I was told you—"

  "I'll send Berthild to you," Switha interjected. She fiddled with a clump of moss in her basket, breaking it up into tiny pieces. Its earthy smell tickled the back of Jane's nose.

  Switha went on, "Berthild's gentle and biddable." Her far-seeing blue eyes took on a glint of amusement as she admitted, "Also my sister. One of the castle guards taught her some of your language while her husband journeyed to London town last year. She'll be happy to serve in the castle now her man's gone."

  "I see," Jane said. "Thank you."

  She was prepared to take her leave then, but Switha tugged on her sleeve and pointed into the for­est. "As for your other problem, I think I know the way to the cure for it. Come with me." She marched off the way she'd come, down the faint trail among the ancient trees. She didn't bother to see if Jane would follow.

  Intrigued, Jane trailed slowly behind, glad her long walk with Cerdic had helped ease the stiffness from her sore leg. Her skirts and veil immediately began catching on the thick undergrowth. This side of the wood was darker, the trees bunched together more closely, than the area around the old tower. Switha moved with fleet assurance, leaving the trail to pick a path between the trees.

  Jane moved with more care. The layers of leaf mold under her feet were springy. The aromas of impend­ing spring, damp earth, wood rot, and moss filled the air. In sheltered spots she saw the beginnings of ferns and fungi, and maybe violets. The wind was still, but the birds overhead were raucously noisy. The place was dark, but it soon lost its air of mystery for Jane. She began to enjoy the walk despite the trouble with her voluminous layers of clothing.

  She had no way of guessing how far they'd strayed from their starting point when the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the earth echoed off to the left.

  A horse! Her first thought was of outlaws, her first instinct to climb a tree and hide.

  Ahead of her, Switha stopped. She tilted her head to listen for a moment before turning to look at Jane. She seemed rather pleased with herself.

  Jane whispered a nervous "What?"

  "Sir Daffyd's been quartering this part of the woods with his men all day. But I doubt he'll find any outlaws here today."

  Jane relaxed, glad to know the unseen rider was a soldier, not a criminal. She got the impression the peasant woman wasn't exactly in favor of the man­hunt. She supposed the arrogant Sir Daffyd was unpopular with the locals. He was a king's man after all.

  "I think the lad should find what he seeks," Switha said, apparently reading Jane's thoughts. "Then he'll go away and leave us alone." She pointed to where a clearing appeared through a gap in the trees. She set off once more, and Jane followed.

  The horseman was waiting on the other side of the small clearing. His gold head was bared to the sun, his sword drawn and resting on the high saddle front. Sir Daffyd glared down his aquiline nose at them from the back of a deep-chested gray warhorse. He sat still as a statue, cape thrown back, muscular body poised in the center of a sunbeam. The sight of Daffyd ap Bleddyn against a backdrop of mistletoe-draped oak and clear blue sky was riveting. He seemed to Jane the living personification of ancient war.

  Switha continued toward the knight. Jane hesitat­ed at the edge of the clearing, half tempted to run from this theoretical protector of the people. He looked anything but benign. Stephan armored, with sword in hand, looked a bit like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. Sir Daffyd looked as though he meant business.

  But she was also half tempted to move forward. The dangerous figure of the horseman was oddly compelling. )ane found herself waiting, one foot in the wood, one in the clearing, biting her lip while indecision and the half-recalled memory of a dream froze her in place.

  Sir Daffyd solved her dilemma by spurring the big gray forward. He stopped briefly to speak to Switha, curt words in the Saxon woman's own lan­guage. From the look of pained concentration on the woman's face, Jane assumed the man spoke Saxon with a particularly garbled accent. The woman eventually bobbed her head in understand­ing, pointing at Jane.

  Sir Daffyd moved the horse closer. When she could feel its warm breath on her shoulder, he jumped out of the saddle to stand before her. Loom. He was shorter than Stephan, but not by much. He was a looming sort of guy. His sword dis­appeared into its sheath with a dangerous snick. She noticed his eyes we
re hazel, highlighted with green. They looked her up and down with chilling contempt.

  "What?" he demanded. "Did your husband beat you?"

  "What?" Jane asked in her turn.

  He pointed to her cheek.

  She had almost forgotten her bruised and swollen face. She touched the swollen eye while reminding the knight sternly, "I'm a widow. I fell down some stairs." He didn't look as though he believed her. Not that how she'd injured herself was any business of his. "It was one of those stupid dogs," she started to explain.

  "And what are you doing out here alone?" he demanded. He rested his hands on his narrow hips.

  She didn't suppose it would do any good to point out to Sir Daffyd that he had a definite attitude prob­lem. She was seething inwardly, but she tried for a conciliatory smile. All the gesture did was pull at the aching muscles of her cheek.

  "I'm with Switha," she said reasonably.

  He looked around the clearing, then raised a heavy, pale eyebrow at her. "Oh?"

  She peered over his shoulder. The Saxon woman

  had disappeared from the clearing. So much for find­ing the cure for her problem.

  "I sent her home," he explained shortly. "I doubt there's anyone in the region who'd dare to harm the goodwife, so she's safe enough. But you." He pointed an accusing finger at her.

  "Me?" she heard herself squeak. She cleared her throat."I'm chatelaine of this holding," she went on defensively. "Who would dare ..."

  "Any outlaw who can catch you alone," he cut in. "You've guards at the castle," he pointed out. "Bring some with you when you venture out."

  It was good advice, though his contemptuous tone was anything but endearing. She gave him a curt, imperious nod, thinking with annoyance that she wasn't used to living life with a bodyguard in tow. She was not a rock star. Although he certainly looked like one with all that gorgeous naturally blond hair and the gold hoop earring in his right ear.

  He took her arm and said, "Come along, lady. I haven't got all day." It was a large hand. She could feel its warmth, and a heavy layer of callusing, through her three layers of sleeves. The calluses were from wielding a sword, she supposed.

  "What! Where?"

  While she protested, he dragged her forward a few steps, until they were next to the horse's warm gray flank, then placed his hands around her waist. The next thing she knew she was perched precariously on the rump of his horse. He swung easily up in the sad­dle before her. She watched his fluid movements with a certain amount of admiration. She managed to keep her sputtering indignation in check only by reminding herself just which one of them carried the sword—and muscles enough to treat her as though she were no heavier than a feather.

  "Where are you taking me?" she asked with decep­tive meekness as he guided the animal forward.

  "To Passfair," was the succinct answer. He gave a swift glance over his shoulder and instructed, "Try not to fall off."

  The high rear of the saddle didn't seem like a par­ticularly good object to cling to, and this horse was nowhere in the black destrier's league. It had a far rougher gait. Her sore hip made her position even more uncomfortable. She found herself flinging her arms around Sir Daffyd's waist.

  It didn't feel at all like Sir Stephan's. There was more of it, for one thing. Stephan was all lanky skin and bones. This man was made up of hard muscle and sinew. Wide shoulders arrowed down to the waist she was holding. Even though she could feel the chain mail beneath cape and surcoat, she could tell most of what she was holding and leaning against was him. His gold hair was soft against her cheek, the thickness and texture very different from Stephan's black silk. He smelled different, too. Less of wood smoke and stable and more of...

  "Lavender?"

  She felt the chuckle ripple down his back. They were so close that the movement almost tickled her. "Switha recommends it for fleas. You should try some, my lady," he suggested.

  She wasn't sure if he was being helpful or implying she was flea-ridden. She probably was. She'd didn't know if lavender would keep bugs away, but it cer­tainly smelled good. She breathed deeply but didn't bother to reply, and they rode on in silence.

  Daffyd stopped twice to speak to soldiers they encountered as they neared the fields, then moved on. He seemed to forget her presence behind him. She held on tight and endured the bumpy ride.

  As they reached the track leading up the hill from the village, she recalled her dream of several nights before. She remembered how, in the nightmare turned into erotic fantasy, it had been Daffyd ap Bleddyn who'd kissed and caressed her. She realized the subconscious pleasure she'd been getting from pressing so close to him. Her grip slackened so much that she almost fell into the mud as the horse began plodding toward the outer bailey.

  She was going into a convent, she reminded her­self sternly. And Sir Daffyd was a brutish man with a big sword. He gave orders. He probably beat his own wife. She wasn't interested. She repeated the simple phrases several times with her eyes firmly closed so she couldn't look at the man riding the horse.

  She kept her eyes closed until they reached the bustling activity of the inner bailey. Then she slid to the ground without any help from Sir Daffyd. Look­ing around the courtyard rather than at the Welsh­man, she couldn't help but notice there was rather more activity than she'd expected. There were cer­tainly more guards than she remembered.

  It was Sir Daffyd who explained from his vantage point atop the gray horse. "It seems Sir Stephan's returned."

  6

  Sir Stephan approached from the stable, his purposeful long strides lacking their usual zest. He was tired, Jane decided as a group of laughing guards parted to let their young lord pass.

  He turned on them, snapping, "Why are you men standing around idle?" They dispersed quickly, their abrupt silence testimony to their shock at the lad's unaccustomed reproof. He continued on toward Jane and Sir Daffyd.

  Tired and cranky, she amended as she made out the weary slump of his narrow shoulders. His black eyes, however, were full of angry fire. She hoped it wouldn't get turned on her. Perhaps his mission had gone badly and the heiress was now in Hugh of Lilydrake's hands. She was full of sympathy for the young man by the time he arrived at her side. She bobbed him a quick curtsy and got her shoulders grabbed by him on her way back up.

  He held her, giving her bruised face and black eye a critical once-over before turning an angry glare up to Daffyd. "Did you ... ?"

  "I thought you did."

  "It was the dog."

  Stephan's hold loosened at her explanation. "What?"

  "I fell down the tower stairs after tripping over Melisande."

  "Oh."

  Something about his tense manner told her he was spoiling for some reason on which to vent his temper. He would gladly have taken on Daffyd in order to defend her honor. Stephan was chival­rous, and she was a lady under his protection. And it would have made a wonderful excuse to pick a fight.

  Never mind if a few days ago she'd gotten the impression he liked Sir Daffyd.

  Daffyd asked, "Is your lady bride well? Safe with­in your walls?" He leaned a forearm on the high saddle horn, voice lowering suggestively. "Is she pretty?"

  "She's here," was as much answer as Stephan seemed willing to give. Jane was shocked by the look of sour disdain twisting Stephan's pale features. "As for well ..." He gave a mocking laugh.

  "Worse than you expected?" Daffyd questioned sardonically. "Not to your taste? No beauty?" He backed his horse and turned it toward the gate. "If it's a choice between a fortune and a pretty face," he went on, tossing the last words over his shoulder as he reached the gate, "I'll take the pretty face every time."

  "I bet," Jane mumbled under her breath. Stephan made a rude gesture at Sir Daffyd's departing back before facing Jane squarely. Alone with her, his expression changed from arrogant annoyance to boyish petulance. He ran a soothing thumb, very gently, under her sore eye. "Poor lamb." He sighed. "Sweet Jehane ..."

  "Did you come to the Lady Sibelle's rescu
e before Hugh could carry her off?" she interjected, hoping to raise his spirits by dwelling on his heroic exploits. He straightened his shoulders and gave his wide grin. Some teasing devil in her prompted her to add, "Does Sibelle think you're wonderful?"

  His face fell back into depressed lines. "Yes," he said unhappily.

  How bad could the girl be? Jane wondered. She was only fifteen. Even in this time fifteen had to be kind of unfinished. She touched his cheek sympathet­ically. "Tell me."

  He brightened. "About the fight?"

  About Sibelle, you . . . "So there was a fight," she coaxed agreeably.

  He linked his arm in hers, leading her toward the castle door. The servants gave them a wide berth, but Melisande and her kids came bounding up as they neared the steps. This closeness with Stephan felt good after the uncomfortable proximity of the ride with Sir Daffyd. Stephan was safe.

  He told her, "There's truth to the rumor Hugh har­bors Sikes and his men."

  She hunted through her memory for the reference. "The outlaw leader?"

  "Aye. At least Hugh must have let them know there was gold in it for them, even if he didn't actually send the brigands to set the ambush. Oh, he put on quite a show." He gave a delighted laugh. "We were attacked at a narrow turning of the road, and I was

  burdened down with the girl and her women and her baggage."

  He waved a long-fingered hand toward a row of three two-wheeled wooden carts and a box-shaped closed carriage, drawn up in a ragged line near the entrance steps. Jehane assumed the carriage, which was a springless monstrosity, had conveyed the baron's daughter from her home to Passfair. Riding pillion behind Stephan would have been more com­fortable, certainly more fun. Of course, a girl raised in a convent wouldn't have any experience of riding and might be shocked by the intimacy the position required. She turned her attention back to Stephan as he went on.

  "We were set on by the outlaws first. They didn't fight very hard. They ran off, expecting me to give chase into the forest while Hugh and his men came up from behind to snatch the girl." He snorted derisively.