Creating Memories - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 6)

by Shea,Lisa

  “I will still miss you dearly,” offered Storm, drawing Mary into a warm hug.

  Mary blushed crimson, and her eyes welled. “As will we. You have been a delightful guest.”

  She turned and lifted the mirror from the dresser. “And you will be pleased to know that you look gorgeous for your reunion. I think we can declare you fully healed.”

  Storm looked at her reflection critically, and she had to admit that Mary had done a fantastic job. The dress fit perfectly, and the ocean-blue color brought out the highlights in her auburn hair.

  Storm forced herself to smile brightly at her reflection. For the sake of the truce, she must go into this day appearing content and happy. Falcon was returning a lost sheep to Walker’s fold, and it was her job to impress Lord Walker with how well Falcon had cared for her during the past few weeks. It could become a crucial part of ensuring the truce was signed with no further delays.

  Too soon, a knock sounded at the door. Heather, fresh as a summer’s morn in her rose surcoat and braids, peeked her head in the door.

  “Oh, Storm, you are lovely,” she gushed with pleasure, looking Storm up and down with a smile. “If you are ready, Lord Walker and his group have arrived. They are asking to see you.”

  Storm felt faint – in minutes she would have her full past revealed. She took a deep breath and smiled at Mary. For better or for worse, she was going to go down and face her destiny.

  The walk down the hallway was interminable. Her steps grew slower and slower, until finally she stopped in the archway leading to the main hall.

  She drew in a deep breath. There was no turning back now. She would face her past. Whatever it held, she would accept it and move forward with her life.

  So determined, she strode into the room.

  Her eyes first caught Falcon’s, standing at the head of the table. His familiar leather armor, the sword at his side, the strong hands – all so well known to her …

  Her breath caught.

  Falcon’s eyes were flat, cold, and distant.

  Storm’s heart skipped a beat, and she drew to a stuttering halt.

  What was going on?

  There was a movement at his side, and Jessica moved to stand next to him. Her face was bright with a wide, sly grin. She looked as if she would be willing to take on Lord Walker’s entire army for the right to marry Falcon.

  Storm felt as if she were plunging into a bottomless pit; being swallowed by darkness. Not only was Falcon lost to her, but even her memories of their short time together were being tainted and twisted.

  She heard the clearing of a throat, and she realized with a shock that there were others in the room. She had been so focused on Falcon that nothing else had entered into her awareness.

  The soldiers in the Walker entourage were lined up against the far wall.

  Her eyes scanned down the row, and she drew in a long breath. She knew them. To her surprise she realized that she knew them all. Every man was as identifiable to her as her own hands. The device on their shields was as familiar as the ring on her finger.

  The men were staring at her in confusion, their eyes drawing down her form. None looked as shocked as the sturdy, elegantly dressed man in front of the group.

  Lord Walker.

  Her father.

  An avalanche of emotions held her in place as his face morphed from pleasured surprise to a look of calculating greed. He shook himself and strode forward to stand before her, evaluating her as if she were a horse on auction.

  “Laura, my child, you look wonderful!” he cried in hearty approval. “I do declare that Falcon has worked wonders! I do not know that I have ever seen you so beautiful!” He ran his eyes from her head down to her feet, examining every inch of her.

  An overwhelming flood of memories bombarded Storm, fighting for attention, and she found she could not speak. Memories of him beating her, of him denying her food, of him locking her in her room for whatever transgression had struck his whimsy that day. She was staggered by the rich fury which hammered at her, which welled up from every pore of her being.

  She turned her eyes away from him, breathing in deeply, struggling to gain a semblance of control. Her eyes went to the line of men again, each holding a shield with her father’s crest on it. Two red lines on a white background. The image burned into her mind. Again her emotions roiled with white hot fury.

  Her gaze sought Falcon, and he seemed completely unsurprised at the news. His face was stony, almost hostile.

  He had known.

  The fury at her situation spun to new heights. She turned on her father, feeling humiliated, used, and betrayed.

  “You lied in your message,” she snarled. “You set me up for your latest game. A guard at a nunnery, father? Doris? That was the best you could invent?”

  Her father’s eyes turned sharp, and his arm tensed. She willed herself to hold her ground, not to retreat back a step. He glanced at Falcon for a moment, then with an effort unclenched his fist.

  I knew you were in good hands, my sweet,” he finally growled. “I figured with the frame of mind you were in when you fled the keep that a little amnesia might do you some good.” He paused for a moment, then leered at her with satisfaction. “Judging by your appearance, I would say it has done you a lot of good.”

  He reached out to possessively take hold of her arm.

  His touch on her arm was a red hot poker, and she instantly flinched back from him. Everyone else faded from view except her father. She snarled, “You nearly broke my jaw. You planned to starve me into submission. I refused, point blank, to go through with this marriage. That is why I was fleeing the keep, alone, in the first place.”

  She thought back to that long night - riding, galloping at top speed, through the pouring rain. The image was replaced by another, of her mother riding furiously, pursued ... pursued …

  The shields!

  Her eyes opened wide in shock. For a long moment all thought fled. She took a step backwards, her hand dropping automatically to the dagger at her hip.

  It had been her father. Her father must have ordered her mother’s death. The men who had taken down her mother had been carrying his shields.

  It was as if she had a mosaic in her mind and the pieces merged, slid, and fit together in a new shape. She struggled to hold in her fury as she saw how they connected. Her mother had come from a wealthy family; her dowry had been impressive. He married her solely for her lands and money. The second he was able to, he had slain her mother and never looked back.

  Storm took another quick step backwards, drawing her dagger in one smooth movement. She felt both Falcon’s and her father’s soldiers react instantly around her, drawing their own blades. They held still in alert readiness. A thought distantly whispered to her. Both sets of men had been her allies at one time. Both would dutifully cut her down now if ordered to do so.

  Iron bands constricted her chest. She could barely breathe, her lungs drawing in long pulls.

  She had to get away.

  She spun on her heel, fled the room, and burst out into the courtyard, not stopping. The arch of the main gate streamed over her head. She only drew to a halt when she reached the grass beyond, when there was naught around her but blue sky and distant trees.

  There were footsteps behind her. She turned, all hope being for Falcon’s warm eyes. She craved for him to understand what she was going through; for him to stand by her side.

  It was her father who strode up to her, his gaze surly. “Just what are you playing at, girl?” he snapped. His eyes moved to the dagger in her hands.

  Storm had had enough. The rage burst out of her, taking on a life of its own.

  “You murderer,” she screamed in agony. “It was your men! You killed her!” She rotated the dagger more securely in her grasp. She had half a thought to drive it into him then and there; to plunge the blade deep into his chest.

  “Laura, your mind is muddled.” snapped her father, dismissing her accusations with a glare. “You clear
ly do not know what you are saying. You are still ill.” He stopped speaking as his soldiers came out behind him. Their blades drawn, they arrayed themselves around him, a protective constellation.

  He held her gaze with sharp focus. Storm wondered if, should she press the issue, he would simply have her slain. And, after all, how could she prove his involvement?

  More men came to join the circle, and Storm began to feel hemmed in … trapped. Her hand relished the texture of the hilt in her grasp, the dagger she always kept by her side. Always worn in defense since that day her mother had died.

  She took a step forward toward her father. Her world narrowed down until it encompassed just the two of them. The blades of the guards closed in on her, and she knew she would never reach him if she tried for an attack. She would be cut down before her blade could land.

  Frustration mounted in her, but she knew the odds were too great. She had to accept a truce, at least temporarily.

  She brought her eyes up to hold his. “From this moment forward, I am no longer your daughter,” she hissed at him under her breath. Her mind flicked back to the cell of a room, to the precious cargo remaining in the wooden box. “I will return to the keep and gather my few possessions. That done, I will quit myself of you and your life. You will be troubled by me no more. You have my word on that … father.”

  There was the sound of horses moving, and Storm became aware again of the large group which had formed outside the walls. Harold easily moved between the men, pressing them apart with the train of horses he led.

  As he reached Storm and her father, Harold nodded to Lord Walker in greeting. “You will be wanting your mounts, I expect,” he commented dryly.

  Storm spotted her own steed in the group and wondered how her father had reacquired it after her flight. Perhaps it had gotten loose in the struggle and simply returned home of its own accord.

  No matter. It was time to get this over with as quickly as possible. Standing tall, she turned toward the ring of her father’s soldiers, daring them to stop her.

  The men, uncertain, looked to Lord Walker for a signal, then drew aside their swords and let her pass. With one swift move she mounted her horse and sharply wheeled it to point toward the road home. Without a backwards look she urged her steed into a fast gallop, streaming down the path.

  She realized, suddenly, that she had left her sword behind. She had not worn it down to the hall – she had felt it would be inappropriate to do so when first meeting the guests. Now it was lost to her. The thing she had loved most, the precious present given to her by Sarah, was now left behind in Falcon’s keep.

  All was lost …

  The tears streamed down her face, and she wiped them away with her sleeve. It was silly to mourn the loss of a sword. It was a piece of metal. She could certainly acquire another one before she headed out to the nunnery. She would gather her small box of belongings, take an extra sword from the armory, and head north.

  She would leave her life behind …

  The tears cascaded down her face, and she let them come.

  * * *

  It was several hours before the steam had burnt itself out of her and she allowed herself to draw in to a stop. A pair of her father’s guards had matched pace with her through her rounds of canters and trots. When she eventually drew to a stop by a small stream, one stayed nearby, watchfully silent, while the other whirled and rode out back the way they had come. She presumed he was alerting her father, and the following group, to where she was.

  Storm washed her face in silence, then tended to her horse. By the time the others had arrived, she had found a mossy corner by a tree and had curled up in it. She feigned sleep, and none bothered her as the men set up camp. The smell of cooking rabbit made her stomach rumble, but she did not stir. If she could make this journey without once speaking to her father, it was worth the hunger pangs.

  * * *

  Storm’s eyes fluttered open in the soft pre-dawn haze of light. The moistness of early morning dew glistened on her cheeks. She must be out on patrol – there was the familiar feel of lumpy moss beneath her; the snores and grumbles of her fellow soldiers sounded nearby. She racked her memory, pushing herself to a sitting position. Where were they off to this time?

  Her eyes blinked wider, and she froze in place, her gaze coming across her father’s slumbering form. The man never went out on a patrol. He never risked his own skin for the safety of his lands. Why was he here?

  The events of the past weeks flooded in on her, and she drew her knees up against her chest, closing her eyes. A longing for Falcon cascaded through every corner of her being. She ached with the desire to have his arms wrap around her; for him to whisper in her ear that everything would be all right.

  She pushed the feelings away with harsh effort. The men were stirring to life around her, stretching, grumbling, and she could not indulge herself in longings, not yet. There would be ample time for losing herself in her memories once she was fully free of her father’s influence.

  There was a movement at her side. Stuart, her young sparring partner, came up next to her, his pale face tense with worry. He glanced hesitantly back toward her father before dropping to one knee. His voice came in a low whisper.

  “I thought you might want some food,” he murmured, handing her a half loaf of bread along with an apple. His eyes scanned Storm, his face relaxing. “You are not hurt? When I heard you had fallen into Falcon’s hands …”

  A vivid image of Falcon leaning over her, gazing down at her with longing, swept over Storm, and she turned her head. “I am fine,” she reassured the teen, taking the food from him. “You best get back to your duties, before my father sees you.”

  His eyes retained their concern, but he nodded, rising and returning to the group.

  Storm ate quickly, then prepared her horse. The men around her were quick and efficient. The group was ready by the time she gave her horse a nudge and started on the final part of the journey home.

  Not home.

  Pain coursed through her as the roads became more familiar, as the landscapes brought to mind memories of countless previous patrols, of sultry summer afternoons and snow-laden winter routes. She no longer had a home. She had sought so desperately to regain her memories, to know where she was from, and now she longed to forget them all again. She had been happy when her world was fresh and new. Now she felt adrift, with no anchor to hold her in place.

  A small village came into view. Her father made his way to the front of the group, riding proudly at the head of his entourage. A young child stood watching from beneath a birch tree, and his mother scrambled out, glancing fearfully at Lord Walker before sweeping up her child and moving back within their small, ramshackle home. Further along a shutter was carefully eased closed as they moved past. Lord Walker’s arrogant gaze swept his domain, his eyes shining.

  A weight settled on Storm’s shoulders, and suddenly her memories of previous travels with her father were before her. It had always seemed so natural - the fear villagers had of him, the way they shied away, and his casual contempt. She had never had a frame of reference before. But now that she compared her father’s actions with those of Falcon …

  Her eyes threatened to well again, and she gave her head a shake, pushing away the sensation. She did not have that luxury. Not now, not when escape was so close. She just had to get through the remaining few hours. She was almost at the keep.

  Another twisting path through a dense wood, another series of low rises, and finally the long, grey wall and corner towers of her family’s keep began to emerge from the greying twilight. A sense of gloom settled over Storm as the group came in beneath the main arch and circled to a stop in the central courtyard. The area seemed smaller, more neglected than she had remembered it.

  She dismounted, tossed her reins at a waiting servant, and strode into the main keep. The quicker she got through her departure, the less chance there was that her father could create impediments for her. She knew, if he had half a
chance, that he would attempt to draw her into a fresh set of machinations.

  She moved with purpose through the main hall, heading toward the stairs which led up to her room. To her surprise, she spotted a familiar, white-haired figure sitting at a table in one corner.

  The elderly man looked up at her approach, beaming with pleasure. “Laura, my dear, it is so good to see you!” He took her with both arms and tenderly kissed her forehead.

  “Matthew, what are you doing here? Who is tending to your shop?” Storm gazed with fond warmth at the potter’s wrinkled face. She was immediately reminded of his work, of the beautiful blue vase with the bulbous base. She had left it behind. It currently waited for her on a windowsill in Falcon’s keep. It held a collection of reeds, gathered by Falcon, placed there with his hands to comfort her.

  Storm could again feel the strength of his arms; the powerful depths of his eyes. She drew in a long, deep breath. Only a few more minutes. She had to keep these longings at bay until then.

  Matthew was looking at her with concern. She forced a smile back to her face, reassuring her old friend. “I am fine, it has just been a long day,” she explained. “Are you here to bring us some fresh supplies?”

  Matthew shook his head, his gaze still holding worry as he looked her over. “Your father ordered me out here a few days ago, insisting it was urgent. I am not quite sure what he wanted.” He took a long draw on his ale, looking around. “Since then, it is as if he completely forgot about me. I have been waiting to hear his desire. I of course do not want to press him …”

  Storm thought back to Thom’s report - how he had found the potter’s location but the man himself was absent. The pieces suddenly clicked. “My father probably had heard we were looking for you and wanted to get you out of reach,” she mused, looking at her old friend. “If Thom had described me to you, you would have known in an instant who he was talking about.”

  “Thom? Who is Thom?” asked the lean potter in confusion.