Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  Jane patted the girl's hands again. "I know you will. Now," she went on briskly. "There is one more thing I wished to consult you about. It's Lent, you know."

  "Of course."

  "Since we have no priests to care for our souls, I thought we might try to observe the season a bit more strictly than usual. To make up for the lack of spiritu­al guidance, you see."

  Sibelle nodded slowly. "That might be wise."

  "I'm glad you agree. I'm not thinking so much about services, since we can't have them anyway. I was thinking perhaps those of us at the high table should serve as an example of piety to those below. That we would limit our meals to small amounts of simple fare. And fast at least one day a week as well, of course."

  "Fasting?" The girl sighed.

  "For the sake of all our souls, my lady. I know how important the state of our souls must be to you."

  "Yes. Yes, of course. When we fasted at Davington, Marguerite and Alais would sneak food to me. I knew it wasn't right, but I was sad and lonely. I prayed and prayed for a vocation, but the days were just so tedious and long. I will fast now. With you," she declared. "It will please the priests when they will hear our confessions again."

  "I've already spoken to your women," Jane said.

  "They will help you with everything. Now"—she stood, keeping hold of one of the girl's plump hands—"come along." She gave Sibelle a coaxing smile. "It's time for your first riding lesson."

  11

  It had been thirty-five days since Sir Stephan had absented himself from Passfair, Jane thought as she leaned against the paddock fence. She breathed in the warm smell of sun-heated straw with satisfaction. It was safe to say life at the castle had changed for the better in his absence. She chuckled. The kid didn't know what he was missing.

  It was a beautiful day, a well and truly spring day. A groom was walking the horses she, Sibelle, and DeCorte had ridden in from the fields a few minutes before. She watched the animals' fluid movements with approval. Stephan certainly kept fine horseflesh. She was especially glad the sidesaddle hadn't been invented yet. Women could look forward to at least two hundred more years of riding astride when they got the chance to ride at all. The morning was getting on. She sup­posed she'd had enough of dallying in the shade of the stable and had better get herself off to her duties. It had been a good, brisk ride over the

  flowering countryside. The exhilaration of it left her full of energy for facing another busy day.

  There were bluebells blossoming at the bottoms of the fenceposts. She plucked one, entranced by the beauty of the long row of tiny, purple-blue flowers as she walked through the outer bailey toward the guard's training area. Archery targets were set up at the far end of the grounds. A few apple trees in full bloom shaded the edge of the grounds. Marguerite was seated beneath one of the trees, her fingers busy with a piece of embroidery. The freshly planted herb garden was nearby as well. Sibelle had worked very hard to help Switha transplant the seedlings from spots all over the estate. Switha was skeptical about taking the plants from their natural settings, but Sibelle's idea was to see which would be able to stand the transition from the wild. Sibelle, it seemed, when given half a chance, was just brimming with ideas.

  Right now Sibelle was standing next to the guard sergeant, her bow in one hand, watching with rapt attention as he showed her something. She was loyal­ly applying herself to every task Jane set for her. She kept apologizing because she wasn't progressing as quickly with hunting skills as she did with gardening. Lady Sibelle, it turned out, was a bit nearsighted. DeCorte was patiently teaching her some tricks to help overcome the problem of not being able to see what she was aiming at. He seemed confident it could be done. Jane wished him luck. Luckily Sibelle didn't seem to be too nearsighted.

  She had been nearsighted herself, unable even to wear contact lenses. It was lucky she'd had laser surgery just before she ended up in the thirteenth century. In fact, she'd only just returned from sick leave when the argument with Wolfe had occurred. She remembered the thick, clunky glasses she'd always worn before that. As a teenager she'd been so embarrassed, she'd go out on dates without them. Half the time she hadn't known what her boyfriends even looked like. As an adult she'd been more philo­sophical, but she'd always felt as if her real self had been hidden behind those glasses. And they certainly would have been difficult to explain in the Middle Ages.

  As Sibelle raised her bow and took aim, Jane stud­ied her figure critically. And smiled. Getting there. Definitely getting there. Sibelle was definitely tying her belt tighter. Her face was thinner, too. So were her hands. Getting muscle tone. She had to have lost ten or more pounds since this started, which was mostly Switha's doing. Switha had kept Sibelle busier than Jane had thought was possible. Jane's smile grew hopelessly fond. It was time to give Sibelle a treat.

  She waved her bluebell like a magic wand before going, humming something Disneyish, into the castle to get some help with the fairy godmother bit. Alais, Berthild, and several other castle women were work­ing on the household's spring issue of clothing in the bower. She commended them for their hard work, inspected a few seams like a good, dutiful chatelaine, and then shooed everyone out but Berthild and Alais. To them she gave orders to be carried out immediate­ly. Having set things in motion, she hurried back out­side happily.

  When she spotted the tall, gold-haired figure looming over Sibelle, large hand on her delicate arm, an instant of pure terror shot through her. Her first thought was, Iwas right! The monster had come to

  spirit her darling lamb away! She belonged to Stephan. No landless knight would ever lay a finger on her for the sake of a barony. He wasn't going to have her! Not as long as she was chatelaine here.

  She'd protect the girl with her life if she must! Adrenaline fueled, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her down the length of the outer bailey. Four pairs of curious eyes were turned on her as if she were mad by the time she came to a panting halt at Sibelle's side. Four pairs. Sibelle's, Daffyd's, DeCorte's, and Marguerite's. DeCorte and Marguerite, Jane realized belatedly. The sergeant of the guards and a fierce old mother dragon. It wasn't as if the girl were left alone and unprotected.

  It didn't matter. She refused to be embarrassed. She didn't trust Daffyd ap Bleddyn. Especially not in the presence of a tender maiden. "What," she demanded between ragged breaths, "are . . . you . . . doing . . . here?"

  His eyes laughed down at her. Every green glint in them sparkled with amusement. "I?" he questioned, hand touching his breast gently. "I, good Jehane FitzRose, was speaking to the lady of the manor. What were you doing, running like the hounds of hell were after you?" He smirked familiarly. "Did you miss me so badly?" He drew her hand up and kissed her palm.

  "I didn't miss you at all!" Which wasn't true, exactly. Not that her uncontrollable dream life was any of his business. She snatched her tingling hand away. She'd tried not to think about him in weeks. But it seemed as if the man had haunted her from the first day she'd arrived at Passfair. She'd only been with him a few times, yet every encounter was more intimate, more exasperating. More ... exciting. She'd fumed about him a lot, her imagination had run off on wild tangents when she wasn't keeping a firm grasp on it, but that wasn't the same as missing him. It was impossible to miss someone you didn't know and didn't want to know and knew it wasn't safe to know. She took a deep breath, mentally and physical­ly. Calm down, woman!

  She deliberately ignored him to speak to Sibelle. "Finish your lesson, then go to the bower. Alais is waiting for you. Sir Daffyd," she said after Sibelle nodded her acquiescence, "come with me." She marched purposefully away from the training ground, leading the disreputable knight toward the gate.

  "I suggest you leave the girl alone," she told him as he matched his strides with hers. She had to look up to speak to him. So far he was the only man besides Sir Stephan she didn't tower over. It was almost refreshing to have someone to look up to.

  For some reason he put his hand on her elbow. She tried to shake
it off, but there was no budging those strong fingers. She didn't like being remind­ed of his size and strength, even if she enjoyed not feeling like a giant herself around him. She didn't like being close enough to catch his aroma of sweat mixed with lavender. She didn't like the way the light caught the wheat-and-honey highlights in his thick yellow hair.

  "Go away," she said. "Please." She wasn't sure when they stopped walking and started standing very close, face to face.

  "Should I let go of you first?" his deep, satiny voice questioned. He leaned closer, his breath brushing across her cheek. She caught the scent of cardamom.

  Softly and seductively, he continued, "Or should I drag you off with me? To where, Lady Jehane? Some deep, moss-covered bank in the woods? Would you like that? To lie down with me somewhere soft and fragrant?"

  Abruptly, before she could draw breath to answer, he jerked away from her. Before she even knew what her answer to his seductive suggestion would be, he took his hand away. He stepped back, his face gone distant and unreadable.

  "My apologies," he said stiffly. "A small joke. I didn't mean to frighten you."

  The hot, melting sensation running through her blood and stirring the secret parts of her had nothing to do with fear. Not much. His words sent cold after the heat. His hot and cold actions made no sense. Nothing he'd said made any sense. She struggled to get her equilibrium back. She discovered she hadn't stopped being angry with him. "You don't frighten me."

  Which wasn't true. He did frighten her. Not with his size or the threat of violence in the warrior way he carried himself. He frightened her because she was attracted to him. How could she be attracted to this warrior? She knew she was and she didn't under­stand it. Was she mad? What was it that made her nurse a secret longing for this man when no macho jock from her own time ever held any appeal for her? Perhaps, she explained to herself, trying to ignore the sheer sensuality he exuded, it was because his being a soldier gave all that dangerous strength purpose. He was strong and he was purposeful, and, she reminded herself of the harsh reality, he was a mercenary. This was no time for her to start believing in chivalry her­self. People like Stephan and Sibelle, with their secure places in the scheme of things, could afford to act out games of chivalry. She was a dependent, an outsider. She had to remain a realist. She didn't dare be attract­ed to anyone. She had to live her life alone. She had to play the role David Wolfe had exiled her to. David. Daffyd. She was bedeviled by men named David!

  She had to play the religious widow, the nun. There was no other place for her, not at Passfair or in the years ahead. She dared not jeopardize her posi­tion with something as foolhardy as lust. Not for any man. Especially not a Welsh mercenary who would only use her to ease a momentary attack of passion.

  "You're trembling," he pointed out. His hand cupped her cheek for a moment, then sprang away as though it were burned.

  "It's the wind," she told him, though the breeze stirring her veil was gentle and warm.

  "Of course. Your bruises have healed, I see."

  "Yes."

  "You're a beautiful woman, Jehane." His brows lifted sardonically. "Too beautiful for me, I think. You had better give yourself to God before some man snatches you away."

  "God's waiting on the king," she answered tartly. She tried to stomp on the part of her that had latched happily on to his calling her beautiful. "What are you doing at Passfair?" she questioned. "Still chasing out­laws through Blean Forest?"

  "We've hanged a few not too far from the castle," he responded. He seemed all business now. "The rest are elusive. I've come to ask DeCorte for a few men to help root out some more. There's a village I want to search and I need help."

  "What village?"

  "Lilydrake. Sir Hugh's gone to Normandy, so I thought I'd pay his holding a visit. Will you loan me the men?"

  "Discuss it with DeCorte," she said. "You have my permission if he agrees. How many men does Sikes have?" She looked back toward the training ground. Sibelle was gone, so she started walking toward it, with Sir Daffyd by her side.

  "About twenty, I think. There'd be less if Hugh didn't let them have the run of his lands. And all the while he protests he knows nothing of bandits in the area."

  "So you only came on business?" she questioned, remembering his hand on Sibelle. The memory sent a hot shaft of jealousy through her, for just a moment. She denied the feeling and waited for his answer.

  "And to see the Lady Sibelle."

  It wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted to shout for him to stay away from Sibelle, but not for her original protective reasons. "Oh?"

  "I told you before, I needed to talk to her."

  "About what?"

  "A private matter." He set his jaw stubbornly, and she knew she'd get no more details from him. "You've done wonders with her," he conceded. "Or perhaps she wasn't as bad as I'd been told."

  "A bit of both, I think," Jane responded. She stopped near the inner gate leading to the courtyard. "I'll leave you to speak to DeCorte."

  He gave an acknowledging nod. She turned to leave, but his rich voice called her back. "Lady Jehane?"

  Hearing him speak her name sent a shiver down her spine. She turned, but didn't retrace the five steps or so she'd taken. "Yes?"

  "I think you've won the wager."

  She smiled. "So I have." She held out her palm. "Hand over the earring."

  He tugged on the gold hoop in his ear. "Isn't it too worldly an ornament for a nun? Who'll see it beneath your veils? Actually," he went on, "I think it would be best for us to forget the wager ever happened. It was a joke. Lady Jehane. Nothing more."

  He stood before her, all tall and muscular and handsome. He wasn't a young man. Sunlight shafted down on him, catching the harsh lines around his eyes and face, pointing out the small, intriguing crookedness at the bridge of his hawk nose.

  A joke? As he stood there in his armor, most of his attention on chasing down outlaws, he was every inch the barbaric warrior. Completely alien. She still thought him the handsomest man she'd ever seen, and he was telling her his wanting her was nothing more than a joke.

  She should be relieved.

  It broke her heart.

  "A joke. Of course." She tucked her cold hands neatly inside her sleeves. "A joke on my part as well. DeCorte just stepped out of the privy. I'm sure he can talk to you now."

  She hoped fervently, as she tried to walk instead of run into the shelter of the thick walls of the castle, that she never saw Daffyd ap Bleddyn again.

  12

  "What did Sir Daffyd want to talk about?" Jane demanded as she walked into the bower. She stopped in her tracks, totally surprised at not only her words, but the harshness with which she'd spoken.

  Sibelle peered at her, round-eyed, over the length of peach silk she was holding up to her face. "Sir Daffyd," she said from behind the bunched-up veil of material, "is a very strange man." She held the cloth out before her, then spun around with delight, the silk streaming airily behind her. "Wherever did you get this beautiful cloth?"

  "I brought it with me from Jerusalem." Jane took a dozen calming breaths, then stepped forward careful­ly. There was material spread all over one side of the bower. There was also a tub of hot, scented water steaming next to the loom. She made her way to Sibelle, mindful of both. Alais and Marguerite stood by the window, while Berthild knelt on the floor, lov­ingly running her hands over the many-colored mounds of cloth.

  Gently she pried the peach material from Sibelle's hands. "Here, let's get you ready for your bath. I thought you'd be done by now. What do you mean, strange?"

  "He asked me a great many questions about Davington Priory. May I have a kirtle of this?"

  "Yes. We're going to make you several new cos­tumes. Stephan will be very happy when he sees you dressed in summer silks, your hair unbound." She touched the girl's closely veiled head. "You do have hair under there, don't you?"

  Sibelle giggled. "Of course I do. I've never worn my hair loose. At Davington—"

&
nbsp; "You're a maiden. It's perfectly proper for a maid­en to wear her hair loose about her shoulders. What did Sir Daffyd want to know about Davington?" Jane gently unfastened the veil from where it was pinned to the thick barbette chin strap. "Bring a comb, Berthild."

  "About the women there," the girl answered. "He wanted to know if I knew where the older ones went when they were turned out. But I don't know."

  "Oh." Baring the girl's head, she discovered that a pair of thick, greasy braids had been tucked up under the veil. "Perhaps we'd better wash it first." She began picking at hairpins. "Why would he be interest­ed in the older nuns?"

  "He said he was looking for a kinswoman he thought might have been at Davington. He said she would have been there for about fifteen years."

  Marguerite came forward to help with the unbraiding. Jane stepped back and let Sibelle's woman finish the job. Sibelle's hair turned out to be nearly to her hips, of indeterminate color at present.

  "Concern for a relative. I see. That's not so strange.

  Off with your clothes now."

  "No. But when I told him the only Welshwomen who were at Davington came with my granny Rosamunde, he said his kinswoman wasn't Welsh. And when I spoke Welsh to him—I always spoke Welsh with granny Rosamunde—he didn't act as if he understood me. What sort of person doesn't speak his own language?" Sibelle inquired suspiciously. "He laughed and said it was my accent, and that he'd been among the Normans too long. I just think he's very strange." She didn't comment further, as Alais and Marguerite began lifting her voluminous dresses over her head.

  When the girl was down to wearing only a thin, threadbare linen shift, Jane, who'd been standing out of the way and digesting Sibelle's comments about Sir Daffyd, took the opportunity to walk around the nearly naked girl.

  Sibelle's head followed her as she moved. "I know I've lost weight," she said, smiling. "It helps with all the walking I have to do. My feet don't hurt all the time anymore."

  "I'm glad you've lost weight," Jane told her, pat­ting her shoulder affectionately. "Sir Stephan will be delighted."