by Linda Madl
"So I can't imagine that we're in any danger with an escort of a brave knight and squire.” Brenna looked around. “Where is Wystan anyway? Oh, there he is."
Without waiting for a word from Leandra, Brenna scrambled down the ladder to join the squire, whose head was still swaddled in bandages.
Leandra returned to memorizing Lyonesse's beauty. There probably was little danger ahead. But the image of Leofric and the gory pirate head in the gift box haunted her. She had always sensed something cruel in the heir to Casseldorne. Despite his pleasant overtures, there was always a gleam in his eye—something too bright and too intent—that spoke of dark currents and sinister appetites. Like the gleam that must have glinted in the serpent's eyes when it tempted Eve. How relieved she was that Lord Reginald had offered for her. She could only pray that he was as pleased that she had accepted him.
"Lyonesse is in good hands,” Sir Garrett said, his deep voice startling her thoughts back to the deck of the cog. “Cedric is capable. You have seen that for yourself. The best thing you can do for your people now is see to your own safety."
"How do you know that's what I reflect on?” she demanded. Actually, she had decided that Cedric was competent. But she still wished that it was Garrett who remained in command of the Lyonesse men-at-arms. Was she so obvious? Did he have to be so observant?
"Because that's what is always on your mind,” he said. “I see it in your eyes sometimes. Where is your father? Does he not come to see you off?” He peered over the railing as if in search of the highlord among the crowd.
"He is at prime prayers,” she explained for the second time. She bridled a little, annoyed that no one seemed to comprehend that her father and she understood each other completely. He did his duty. She did hers. She'd said all her farewells, and there remained nothing to do now but sail away to be married to Lord Reginald.
Behind them the ship's master shouted orders for the anchor to be weighed. Beneath her feet the ship took on life and edged away from the quay. She leaned forward, eagerly studying the villagers, trying to commit to memory dear faces, the bright sunlight on the tall oaks, and the ancient beauty of Castle Lyonesse rising against the pallid morning sky. The square sail snapped as the wind caught it, then billowed. Ashore, hands fluttered in farewell, and she waved in return, her heart heavy but her eyes dry.
Her courage wavered, and her throat grew achingly tight with tears she would not shed. At her side Sir Garrett braced himself against the railing. She heard him mutter something to himself. Her courage deserted her.
"Tell me about Lord Reginald,” she pleaded. She needed something to cling to, some reassurance to give her courage. “He is said to be a just man."
"Indeed, he is,” Garrett agreed. She could hear the bewilderment in his voice.
"Tell me more,” she demanded. Little seeds of panic threatened to bloom as Lyonesse grew smaller and smaller. Why hadn't she thought to ask for a potion against homesickness? “Tell me, what his first wife was like? The bards sing of his great devotion to her."
"I knew the lady only a short while before she died,” he said. His voice took on warmth she had not heard since the night of the betrothal banquet. “She was a fair and kind lady. She was generous and devout. Graceful and smiling. Everyone honored her. Lord Reginald was loath to be without her company for long."
She glanced up to find Sir Garrett watching her with a narrow-eyed look of assessment. He added, “She was said to be a lady of a powerful family, well-trained in the wifely skills, loving and gentle. Devoted to her husband. True and virtuous and pious."
"A paragon, indeed,” she muttered, her heart sinking. Lofty standards to measure up to, but she clung to her courage. “I have some of those skills.” She couldn't think of a one at the moment.
"I'm certain you do.” His face went blank. To her disgust he gazed at her, appearing as baffled and unable to name one as she was. At least he had the good grace to appear embarrassed and quickly added, “You are my lord's choice of wife, and I honor that."
She regarded him for a long moment. “And the others. The barons, knights, and their ladies?"
"I'm certain they will show you every respect also."
"Even if they think me an unsuitable bride and Lyonesse unworthy of the alliance?” she asked, watching him closely, waiting to see if he would deny the truth.
"They will honor you as I'm sure Lord Reginald will,” he said. “But you are very young, and the responsibilities of Lord Reginald's wife will be great."
His doubts stung, but she admired him for not disavowing his true thoughts. However, this was not the comfort she sought.
"I am a full sixteen years of age.” She squared her shoulders and stood a little taller. “Our queen of England, Phillipa, gave birth to the prince and heir to the throne by the time she was my age. You yourself one day will take a bride perhaps as young or younger than myself."
She was surprised to see him blanch and turn away to stare out over the sea. “I have not thought of such yet. I'm more concerned about Wystan now. I have one favor to ask of you concerning your cousin and my brother."
"Yes, Sir Garrett?” She frowned. “What about them?” Everyone had noticed that Wystan had eyes only for Brenna, and Brenna encouraged his shy attentions.
"I would prefer that they spend less time in each other's company. Clearly, they are unsuitable. Their natures are completely opposed."
"Your Wystan and my Brenna?” she asked. Brenna had her faults, but how could anyone consider a member of her family as unsuitable?
"I have plans for Wystan,” he said, his scowl deepening. He looked away as if he couldn't quite face her as he went on. “As soon as he wins his knight's spurs, he will go to the king's court. He is a gentle, inward soul, and I think he should marry a soft-spoken wife of fine lineage."
"What's wrong with the Lyonesse lineage?” she demanded. Irritation grew, prickly and hot. She leaned back to look the knight square in the face. “Is your disapproval of me not enough? You disapprove of Brenna, too? She may be headstrong, but she will make some knight—even a Bernay knight—a fine wife."
Sir Garrett's features tensed. They both turned abruptly to stare out over the bay in tortuous silence. She could almost hear him grappling with his anger, debating how to react. She scolded herself for being so petty, for bringing up the Bernay reputation in a way she knew would be hurtful. She'd only heard vague rumors about the Bernays and knew nothing of the truth.
Finally he shook his head. “I do not mean to offend, my lady. Your Lyonesse lineage is fine and ancient. Surely Lady Brenna would seek higher than a humble second son. I wish only to do the best for my family, as I know you do for yours."
"I understand,” she said, comprehending better than she wanted. Blunt, capricious Brenna would be a hindrance to an ambitious man at court. “You have no control over who weds your lord. But you can control what happens to your brother."
Sir Perfect made no denial.
She looked away lest he see her mutinous expression. Momentarily she thought of encouraging Brenna and Wystan just to annoy him. She'd actually thought that Wystan's gentle ways might be good for her cousin. “Under these shipboard conditions I can hardly promise to keep Brenna from Wystan."
"No, of course not,” he said, a look of relief softening his brow. “When the voyage is over. When we reach Penzance and start on the overland journey, I will need Wystan as a guard. Lady Brenna proves too much of a distraction for him. He was nearly addled forever that day during arms practice."
"Yes, ‘twas unfortunate,” Leandra hurried to agree. “Brenna did apologize. If you wish it, I shall speak to her when we land.” Then she added, “You're wrong, you know."
"Wrong about what my lady?” He stepped closer, and she sensed him hovering over her shoulder—possessive, critical, and eager to part her company all at once. They had just cleared the mouth of the bay. Sir Garrett glanced ahead at the open sea and paled, though she couldn't imagine why. “I must see to other duti
es. Tell me, quickly, how is it that I'm in error?"
She ignored his strange expression, and her chin came up a little higher. She fingered the tiny silver phial in her cuff to comfort herself. She held the power to make Lord Reginald love her, and in that love would lie her success and Lyonesse's safety.
"You'll see. I will make a fine countess and a good wife,” she stated. The challenge sounded fine to her. Uttering the words and touching the phial made her feel stronger, ready to take on her quest. “I'm not too young. A year from now, Sir Garrett, I will have proved your misgivings unfair and unfounded."
* * * *
A GREAT SEA SWELL heaved the bow of the cog up, and Garrett flung his head over the railing.
"Matins, and all's well,” called the helmsman from the stern.
Only midnight! Garrett settled back on the deck and pulled the blanket over his head. Eternal hours stretched ahead until morning, until their landing at Penzance. The sickness had hit him, as he knew it would, as soon as they had cleared the quiet waters of Lyonesse Bay.
Thankfully, everything had been stowed and lashed by then, and no trouble had appeared on the horizon, no pirates, no Leofric. Wystan seemed to have things in order, assuming Brenna hadn't robbed him of his senses again. Everyone was asleep, and if all went well, he would go unnoticed, huddled by the railing under the blanket.
Another swell and he forgot everything—except the misery—and hung over the railing once more.
"Sir, what do you see on your watch?” A husky voice called softly from behind him.
He drew a deep breath and struggled to remember who possessed that intriguing voice.
"Don't fall asleep, watchman,” she said, the voice timbered with sweet concern. “'Twould bring you to grief with the ship's master."
"I've already come to grief,” he groaned. “Go away. Sleep in your cabin, lady."
"Sleep eludes me this night,” she said. “But ‘tis such a beautiful evening, and I have too many thoughts in my head to sleep. I came out on deck to watch the moonbeams bounce off the waves."
"Augh!” Waves.
On the deck behind them Father John snorted, snuffled, and turned on his side.
"Who are you?” Her voice had moved closer, and he was vaguely aware of her standing over him at the rail. She hesitated. “Sir Garrett, is that you?"
He pulled the blanket tighter over his head. “I'm not here. Go away."
He prayed she was satisfied with that answer and would leave. But she didn't. “Sir? I wondered where you had gone. Are you ill? Do you need help?"
She stepped closer and leaned forward, her cool palm slipping beneath the blanket and covering his forehead. He shoved her hand away. The blanket fell aside.
"Sir, you're ill. Even in this light I can see that you're as green as a moldy cheese."
"I'm not sick.” He shook his head miserably. “I'm, ah, occupied."
Another sizable swell rocked the cog and elicited a long, low groan of profound misery. “God, have mercy,” he pleaded. When the most serious wave of nausea had subsided, he managed to mumble, “Did I hear laughter? I warn you, lady ... go away. I'll be well enough as soon as we make landfall."
A giggle burst from her lips, the laughter bubbling forth light and melodious. He cast her a wounded look. “I'm fine on a horse. ‘Tis just the sea..."
She sobered. “I understand. Does Wystan know?"
"Yes, and where is he? He should never allow you to—"
"He's asleep outside the cabin door.” She knelt down beside him, ignoring all his protests. “Does Lord Reginald know about this?"
"No,” he muttered. “Why should he? A knight fights on solid ground. A knight is a horseman, a conqueror of lands, not a rolling, gaited sailor. What cares a lord about my misery? Sweet Jesu, I can't even cross a river on a ferry."
Leandra gazed at him, her mouth carefully pursed like one trying to resist laughter. “I'm sure you're a fine warrior on land or sea.” Despite her apparent best efforts, she chuckled.
He frowned. “'Tis fine that the only thing that makes you smile is my misery. What kind of a lady are you? Have you no compassion?"
She gulped back the laughter. “Yes, I have compassion. When it's needed. In fact, Sir Garrett, I have more than that. I have a cure for your illness."
He shook his head over the railing again. “There is none. I have tried everything. Wise women's potions. Apothecary's powders. I even inquired of an alchemist once."
"This potion will work,” she vowed, patting him comfortingly on the back and praying that she was telling the truth. “You'll see. Vivian's potions always work."
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Chapter Seven
HE HAD A FLAW! All the way across the deck of the cog, Leandra choked back her laughter. She mustn't wake the others aboard. Besides, ‘twas nigh sinful to laugh at the poor man's weakness. A seasick knight! Chivalrous, valiant, brave, and true, but at sea, Sir Perfect was sicker than an overfed dog under a banquet table.
With only the moonlight falling through the doorway, she located Brenna's surcoat thrown over a chest. Tucked in the cuff, just as Leandra had done with her love potion, she found the silver phial of seasickness remedy. She saw no reason to wake her cousin to explain. Brenna had been so intent on entertaining Wystan and the other men with her harp that she had never succumbed to the ailment. She slept as soundly as a babe on her pallet. Leandra took the phial and tiptoed from the cabin.
"Can you keep water down?” she asked when she returned.
Garrett watched her pour some dark liquid into a wooden cup. “I'm not sure.” What dreadful thing was she offering him? At the moment he wasn't certain that it mattered. He felt so terrible he would welcome poison if it ended the awful roiling in his gut.
"Here, try this."
In the moonlight her loose hair framed her smiling face like a gold-spun wimple. For a moment he failed to notice the cup she held forth to him.
"Take it. I promise it will help."
With unsteady hands he took the cup and sipped at the water-laced potion. He smacked his lips and peered into the cup. “It tastes brackish."
"'Tis just the remedy's flavor,” she assured him with the soothing patience of a mother. “Finish it if you can."
Another large swell interrupted his second sip, but with an encouraging gesture from Leandra, he put the cup to his lips for a third time and gulped down the contents. When he handed the cup back to her, he noted the pleased, upward curve of her lips. Sweet Jesu, she was enjoying this. The lady hardly ever smiled, but she grinned ear to ear while he suffered.
An uncomfortable warmth welled up in his gut, then suddenly subsided. He waited. Which would be more humiliating, sickness or blessed death? The nausea eased notably. He relaxed a little, leaning his weary head against the ship's railing.
He gave a start when Leandra's cool, dry hand took his. He pulled away.
"No.” She refused to release him. “Your hand is cold. When the warmth returns, we'll know the potion has worked."
He nodded and left his hand in hers. He recalled now that was the way with women. The moment they thought someone was ill, they touched: a cheek, a hand, a brow. He sighed. But better a woman's touch than a foul leech put on your skin by some old barber. He closed his eyes and found himself savoring her delicate touch.
They sat in silence. The ship creaked and the rigging rattled. The wind dried the dampness from his face, and he found himself taking deeper breaths of air. Was it possible the silly potion worked?
"Better?” she asked at last. “Your hand is warmer."
He opened his eyes to regard her with a thoughtful gaze. She smiled up at him, a soft, tender smile that quirked at the corners of a wide, luscious mouth.
"Yes, better, I think,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes from her moonlit face. “Where did you get this remedy? I must have more."
"'Tis Vivian of the Forest's recipe,” she said. “The physician calls her a witch, but I think he is je
alous of her skill. I've always heard that her potions are most reliable."
"She makes other remedies?"
"Yes, for illnesses and injuries.” She withdrew her hand and eyed him closely, leaning near, almost nose to nose, to peer into his eyes. Her lips hovered so near his that he was reminded of a certain blindman's bluff kiss. “You do seem much improved,” she conceded.
"What other potions of hers have you used?” he asked, beginning to hope that those lips would move a little closer.
"Me?” Instantly, she retreated to the railing, looking a little alarmed. “Use potions?"
"Can Vivian change the gender of a babe, or some such thing that women always chatter about?” he asked, wondering why he was so disappointed that she had moved away without touching him again.
"No, nothing like that.” A peculiar unreadable expression crossed her face. “But she did give Brenna a dimple."
"Which your cousin used to beguile Wystan, no doubt."
"No doubt. But my cousin has other wiles all her own."
He felt well enough now to realize they best stay away from the subject of Brenna. “I am grateful to you, Lady Leandra, for sharing the seasickness remedy with me."
"'Twas my pleasure to aid you, Sir P—Garrett.” She rose from her place by the rail, an uncertain frown puckering her brow. “I bid you a good night and a pleasant voyage."
"Good night to you, my lady."
Leandra walked back to the cabin, lifting the hem of her gown to step over Father John, two soldiers, and a sailor who slept on deck. She could sleep now.
A small smile played across her lips as she went. Sir Garrett's flaw was forgotten. She cared little for that. She smiled for the success of his recovery—and the success of Vivian's remedy. Now she could be certain that the love potion would work. She had little to fear from Lord Reginald's dead countess.
* * * *