by Linda Madl
The guests chimed in agreement with a clinking of goblets and proclaimed similar wishes for good fortune. The supper proceeded without incident.
Wystan and Brenna served the plain food whenever the innkeeper or his wife needed more hands. The wine carafe went empty almost as soon as the innkeeper refilled it. Sir Garrett sat near Father John, sober and silent, with Wystan at his side.
Leandra thought the meal was going well enough until Brenna, smiling mysteriously, poured herself a fourth goblet of wine. She leaned toward her cousin. “On the morrow we rise early and ride far, Brenna. Is it wise to drink so much wine?"
"I'll drink what I like.” A frown spoiled Brenna's pretty wine-reddened lips. “You're not my father, you know.” She turned away from Leandra, obviously to attend to the pilgrims’ storytelling. Leandra sighed in resignation. No, she was not Brenna's keeper.
The pilgrim family, the Penders, proved to be good company, as they'd promised, telling engaging stories of their travels across Spain. Father Rhys also had stories to tell. His travels had taken him to Italy, a land that Sir Garrett spoke of with some knowledge and fondness, to Leandra's surprise.
The candles burned low, and the greasy serving platters glistened bare when at last the Penders and the churchmen excused themselves.
As they rose to say their thank-yous and seek their beds, she vaguely noted that it was Brenna who busied herself with pouring the remaining wine into the goblets of those left in the room: Wystan, Garrett, herself, and Leandra.
"'Twas a fine supper. Now I propose a toast.” Brenna swayed slightly as she stood and held her goblet high. She looked to Sir Garrett as if she expected him to object. When he didn't, she went on. “To an amusing journey and a swift arrival at Tremelyn."
"I'll drink to the swift part.” Sir Garrett raised his goblet again without looking at Leandra.
Wystan lifted his, murmuring agreement. Leandra sipped from hers, too, surprised by her cousin's uncharacteristically gracious gesture.
"Drink it all,” Brenna warned. “Remember, ‘tis bad luck to leave any in the bottom of the cup."
When they finished, she set her goblet down and peered first into Leandra's cup, then into Garrett's, apparently satisfied. An unusual grin spread across her face—a malicious smile that made Leandra shift nervously in her chair.
"This should prove to be a most entertaining trip,” Brenna said, tossing her head as she did when she felt victorious. “Tell me, cousin, where is your love potion now?"
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Chapter Eight
LEANDRA STARTED AS if Brenna had thrown a bucket of cold water into her face. What was her cousin up to? Why was she bringing up the potion in the presence of Sir Garrett and his brother. “That is not something to jest about, Brenna. Not now."
"What love potion?” Sir Garrett asked, cautiously setting his goblet on the table.
Leandra hesitated.
He turned to her expectantly.
She had little choice but to explain. “I have it right here.” She reached for the phial in her cuff. Nothing there. It was gone!
"You see, I have it, or I did.” Brenna held up the silver container for all to see. “Until I poured it into your wine. You two have just shared a love potion. How do you feel, Sir Garrett?"
In horror Leandra stared across the table at the knight. He glared uncomprehendingly at Brenna.
"Lady Leandra and I have what?” he demanded, astonishment on his face, his voice ominously low. “Say that again."
Brenna edged her way toward the door, a fiendish pleasure twisting her lips. “You two have drunk of a love potion. You shall love each other hopelessly, eternally, above all things—just as Vivian said. Right, Leandra? No more bickering. No more scowls exchanged. No more vying to give the last order."
She beckoned to Wystan. The squire took one look at his older brother's threatening expression and chose to remain in his place. Brenna wisely swept out of the room, leaving Garrett and Leandra to stare speechlessly at the closed door.
"What nonsense is this?” he demanded at last. “Is what she said true? Was there a love potion in that phial?"
Leandra nodded, unable to speak and helpless to take her eyes from Garrett's grim face. How could Brenna have done this to them? To her?
"A love potion? One of Vivian's, I suppose?” Garrett stared at her, disbelief in his eyes. “Sweet Jesu, why do you have a love potion?"
Frantically she searched for an explanation that would make sense to him.
"Because I wanted Lord Reginald to love me and I him.” She willed him to understand with all her heart, but knew that he never would. “I want the best for your liege lord just as you do. I want ours to be a union true and strong."
His eyes narrowed as he listened. “You would deceive Lord Reginald with a village maid's aphrodisiac?” He stood up, the sound of his chair scraping the floor overpowering Leandra's protests. He turned his back and strode to the fireplace. “You would take away his choice, his free will?"
"I give up mine as well.” Exasperated by his righteousness, she also rose from her chair. Did no one care about the burden she bore? About the uncertainty she lived with, the insecurity? “I've had little enough choice in this marriage as it is. Lyonesse desperately needs Tremelyn's protection. And do you forget about the countess? I must overcome the earl's grief for his first wife. My skill with a bow won't help me there."
He remained silent. Shadows played against a jaw hardened in anger and lips pressed thin with fury. “Just what does the potion do?"
When she didn't reply immediately because she wasn't certain what he asked, he gave an ironic laugh. “Well? Will I become mad to possess you? Will I chase you about the chamber until you surrender, moaning in my arms with passion?"
"No, no. Nothing like that,” she protested, unable to rid her mind of the very image he described—of a golden, impassioned Garrett pursuing her around a bed, his strong hands about to grasp her, to throw her down on the mattress, and his lips descending on hers. His body—
She shook her head, shaking away the picture from her mind. “I don't think so. Vivian said the potion is no aphrodisiac. It is meant to bring true love, forever."
Garrett gazed at her with an expression she could no longer read. Then he turned back to the fire. “True love? Forever? As serious as all that?"
"Yes, that's what she said. Maybe it will be ineffective on an unreceptive man,” she offered, desperate to give him and herself some peace of mind.
He said nothing for some moments, his gaze absorbed in the flames in the hearth. “But this is Vivian's potion, is it not? She who made the seasickness medicine?"
"Yes, Vivian.” She wished for once that she had not sought out the best of all the wise women.
He groaned and wiped his hand across his face. “What are we going to do? I can't love you. ‘Twould be a betrayal of everything I believe in. I do not want to love you."
"Nor I to love you.” She sank into her chair and twisted her betrothal ring, strangely disappointed by his confession and all the while wishing she could say or do something to smooth the furrow from his brow.
"Is there no way to ward off the effects of this spell?” Wystan asked, peering from one of them to the other. She had almost forgotten he was still at the table. “Or do we hope it's merely a maiden's silliness?” he continued.
"'Tis no maid's silliness.” She looked at Garrett, at the handsomest face she'd ever seen, at the first man to stir passion in her with little more than a kiss bestowed in a child's game. The temptation was great, but she would not compound Brenna's folly with a sin of omission. “Vivian told me that there is an antidote."
"An antidote?” His face brightened and he straightened, taking his elbow from the stone mantel. “There's an antidote. Tell me more."
"Yes, but Vivian must prepare it fresh for us,” she explained. “If we wish to take that, we must return to Lyonesse as soon as possible."
"Another sea voyage?” He
ran his fingers through his hair once more. “I'm not setting foot on another ship. Not for a while. No. There must be another way."
"I don't know of any. Unless Father John—” she began.
"Of course, the good father should be able to advise us,” Garrett said. “Wystan, bid Father John to come to us."
Father John shuffled into the dining room, his fringe of white hair pressed flat on one side and crinkled into a cloud on the other. “You haven't had a change of heart about bringing the pilgrims along, have you, Sir Garrett?” the father asked, stifling a yawn. The priest's face shone rosy with sleep as he squinted at the knight.
"No, Father. I—We asked you here for another reason."
Garrett explained about the potion. As the knight told the story, Father John's sleepy smile faded into a look of concern. Leandra could feel the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks as the priest studied her.
"Is this true, my daughter? You carried a love potion with you?"
"That's not the problem, Father John,” Garrett interrupted, diverting the priest's attention, she noted gratefully. “Do you believe we will be affected? After all, the potion was not intended for me—for us."
Father John said nothing for some moments. He paced the room in his sleep-wrinkled cassock. “Most potions are but the quaint recipes of old women who mean well. Mostly meant for young people who want to fall in love and would anyway.
"You both are honorable people, pure of heart, and true to the laws of the Church. Put it from your mind,” the priest advised with a yawn.
Garrett nodded and smiled at Leandra, relief coming to his face. “There, see, ‘tis all nonsense. We will suffer no ill effects."
Father John regarded her for a moment more, then asked, “Lady Leandra, where did you obtain this spell?"
"From Vivian of the Forest, Father,” she said, knowing Vivian was well-known, even beyond the shores of Lyonesse.
Father John's benign expression vanished. Sleep vanished from his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his lips in sudden agitation. “Oh, my children, I don't know what to tell you except ... Vivian? ... ah ... That does cast the issue in a new light...
"When the spell takes hold, you must come to me. Confess all. Your lusts, your passions will be safe with me. Together we will pray to God for the strength to resist the desires until they pass."
Garrett frowned. “What are you saying, Father?” He didn't like the priest's reversal. “That the potion might truly work a spell on us?"
He looked from Father John to Leandra, and she stared back at him, her face pale and her dark eyes wide. For a moment he thought he saw tears gathering. Before he could be certain, Father John walked between them, and she lowered her head. Obviously she regretted the situation more than Brenna ever would.
"'Tis possible,” Father John said, avoiding Garrett's gaze.
"I will go pray, Father,” she offered, rising from her chair and clasping her hands like a penitent. With a wary look in Garrett's direction, she added, “I will make Brenna pray with me. Long and hard."
Quietly she walked across the room and turned into the passage.
Father John turned to him. “Do I dare ask how all this happened?"
Garrett shook his head, unwilling to betray Leandra, even though the thought of her giving his lord a potion infuriated him.
"Then all I can say, my son, is come to me when—” He glanced out the door as if to make certain that the lady was beyond their hearing. “You'll know when you need my help,” the father said. “I recommend that during this journey you keep your distance from Lady Leandra and bathe long and often in a cold stream."
* * * *
LEANDRA SLAMMED THE chamber door behind her and clenched her fists at her sides. Brenna stood half dressed in the middle of their private chamber, her dark hair hanging loose about her bare shoulders and wine still staining her upper lip.
"What on earth did you think you were doing!” she demanded, angrier with Brenna than she'd ever been in her life. “This is the most irresponsible thing you have ever done. Have you gone mad?"
"No, I'm merely incensed with being pushed here and shoved there as if my feelings don't matter,” Brenna said, clearly not in the least disturbed by Leandra's rage.
"What is this mischief supposed to accomplish? How does this change any of that? You knew my plans for the potion. Don't you care what happens to your homeland and your uncle?"
"Don't be so dramatic.” Brenna wiggled her gown down over her hips. “You're taking this love potion thing too seriously."
"Too seriously? Who knows what is going to happen to Sir Garrett and me under the potion's spell? Not only that, I have nothing to ensure Lord Reginald's love. Suppose he dislikes me on sight and sends you and me home?"
As she was about to step out of her gown, Brenna halted. The idea of being sent back to Lyonesse appeared to be new to her. “He wouldn't do that. The earl will like you. Of course he will. In any event, I doubt the potion would have been much use to you anyway."
"Just how is that?"
"You and Sir Garrett might fall in love. But I don't think it will last long."
She could hardly believe what her cousin was saying. “What do you mean? You heard Vivian say it was eternal."
"Well, look here.” Brenna pointed to her cheek. “See?"
"See what? What does your face have to do with this?” She could see nothing on Brenna's flawless skin. “And why should I care?"
"My new dimple,” Brenna said, obviously irritated that she had not noticed.
"The dimple that Vivian's remedy gave you? What about it?"
"It's gone. See? It only lasted two days and disappeared. I tried the lotion on it again and it came back sure enough, but only to disappear within two days.” Brenna shrugged. “So if Vivian's love potion does take effect, I give you and Sir Perfect two days at the best."
Leandra dropped down on the bed. Was it possible, that despite Vivian's claims, the potion was no more than an aphrodisiac? But the seasickness remedy had worked so well. Would the love potion be as effective as that remedy or as weak as Brenna's dimple brew?
Brenna added, “How do you think love will affect him? I can hardly wait to see something mellow that grumbling knight."
"I hardly think giving him this potion is the way to do that,” Leandra observed. “He's as angry as I am, and he has every right to be."
What should she expect? If Brenna was right—two days? Surely she and Sir Garrett could resist each other for such a short length of time—and in the company of so many churchmen.
"What do you think Sir Perfect will be like as a lover?” Brenna asked, drawing a comb through her hair. “I don't think he's the type to recite poetry or sing love songs, do you? I fancy he's a fine kisser, though. And jealous. I wager he's a jealous lover."
The angry, jealous aspect of Garrett was easy for her to see, too, but she didn't intend to speculate on the prospect. “Enough of this nonsense, Brenna. Regardless of how harmless you think this prank is, the fact remains that we've angered Sir Garrett once more. You have put us at great risk. I now have no potion to use on the earl when we reach Tremelyn."
"Well, the two of you have done enough to me that you can't ever make me feel guilty.” Brenna heaved a long-suffering sigh and blew out the only candle in the room. “'Tis no more than you both deserve."
* * * *
WHAT LITTLE SLEEP Garrett did get that night was filled with strange dreams of witches, all blond and resembling Leandra, bent over a steaming caldron of an evil-smelling brew. Nearby, innocent maidens, all dark-haired and resembling Brenna, prayed for forgiveness. He awoke to the barking of a village dog. “No, that's not right,” he muttered, rolling over. “Not right at all."
For a long time he lay awake, staring at the timbered ceiling above, listening to Father John snore. His mind was filled with the vision of Leandra's anxious face when she replied, Nor can I love you. She had regarded him with those exotic eyes, wide and honest. Had he seen
disappointment there, too? This time, when he finally drifted off, the witches in the dream were Brenna and the innocent maidens were all Leandra.
No hint of dawn had reached the eastern horizon when he awoke again, frustrated, exhausted, and thoroughly irritated. But the strongest feeling that lay on him was the sense of having been betrayed by some unseen hand. He'd no idea what to call it or how to strike back at its unfairness. He knew only that he could sleep no more.
In the dark of the morning he whipped back the blankets, prodded Wystan on the shoulder, and started to bellow orders to soldiers and grooms.
"Why are you all lying about?” he roared. “We're wasting the good light of dawn. Up with you. The sooner we're on the road, the better."
The entourage that climbed the road westward out of Penzance was a tense lot. A fierce knight led the way, followed by two silent, belligerent women, one apprehensive priest, one baffled squire, five prayerful pilgrims, and a host of bewildered soldiers.
* * * *
THE COOL WATER beckoned to Leandra, promising to refresh tired feet and legs. As soon as she was certain she was alone, she'd dropped her bow and arrows, pulled off her green leather boots, and peeled off her hose.
Over her head a robin red-breast fussed and fretted. Its shrill cries claimed her attention as she dropped her last garter and wiggled her bare toes in the grass.
"What's the trouble, mother robin?” She had remained at the spring after the soldiers had watered the horses and mules and returned to camp. Sir Garrett had pressed them hard all day, keeping the horses moving at a steady pace despite the warm weather, and she looked forward to cooling her feet in the cold spring water.
Then the flapping of wings had distracted her.
"Is there a snake about?” she wondered aloud. “And here I stand barefoot."
She looked around for the source of the bird's alarm, half expecting to see a serpent slithering over the turf. Instead she spied a scrawny fledgling struggling on the ground. The ugly nestling raised a wobbly head and cheeped weakly in answer to its mother. Then its head drooped, its strength nearly spent.