by Linda Madl
"Oooh,” she crooned, in sympathy with the separation of mother and young. “Where is your home?"
She gazed overhead again to find the nest, well-woven, snuggled tight in the fork of the tree branch. Returning the fledgling would be no great problem. As girls she and Brenna had often stolen apples from the orchard trees.
Once more she glanced toward the hillside camp. Satisfied that everyone was busy with their own concerns, she looped her skirt up in her leather girdle, scooped up the soft bundle of feathers, and started up the gnarled tree.
Climbing with only one hand was difficult. Eventually she reached the forking branch. She lay along the limb, stretching toward the nest, and tenderly placed the young robin next to its sibling.
"There you go. Home safe.” She lingered for a moment to watch the two babies call for their robin mother.
"You shouldn't be here alone.” Sir Garrett walked around one of the trees. He gave her such a start she nearly tumbled from the branch. She looked down to see him staring up at her. She realized from his bemused expression that he'd been watching every move she'd made. Sweet Mother, he'd seen her take off her hose.
His chain mail jingled and his sword clanked against his thigh as he leaned against the other tree beside the spring. With a frown of disapproval he added, “You know, countesses don't climb trees."
"I was restoring a bird to its nest,” she explained, annoyed with the censure in his remark. “When I'm countess, I can order you to do it. Besides, I'm not alone,” she added. “I can see everyone, and they can see me. I have my bow and arrows right here. Nothing is going to happen."
"I suppose not.” He sat down on a boulder. “But I'll be here if anything does."
She wanted him to leave. He leaned back against the tree, making himself comfortable for a long stay.
What now? To climb down risked exposing more leg than was bare already. Her boots and hose lay on the ground next to him. She couldn't dress without his observing every move. She made a vain attempt to tuck her bare feet away and out of sight until he decided to take his leave.
"Look at Brenna,” he said, gazing across the moor at the camp. “She looks so innocent. Does she feel any remorse?"
"I think she believes it's a fine joke.” She was becoming more disappointed than angry with her cousin's irresponsible act.
"Yes,” he said. “Since I've had some time to think about it, this situation with the love potion is really rather humorous, isn't it? Nothing to get upset about.” He spoke to her as if holding conversation with a maid lying on a tree branch were the most natural thing in the world.
She shifted uncomfortably on the branch. “I'm afraid I don't see any humor in it. Last night you didn't, either."
"A long day's ride has given me a new perspective. You bring along a potion to share with your future husband, then the wrong people get it. ‘Tis like the errors in a mummer's play."
Astonished, she shook the tree limb, jostling the poor baby birds. “Are you becoming as addlepated as Brenna? This is no mummer's play! Do you realize what would happen if this potion works?” She hesitated a moment overcome by the very thought of the dire reality. She lowered her voice. “What if ... what if we..."
"What if we became lovers as the potion is supposed to make us do?” he finished for her, gazing up without any apparent embarrassment.
"Yes, well, don't you see,” she stammered. The bedchamber vision popped into her head again. “You would betray your liege lord, and I would be unfaithful to my betrothed.” She looked around to be certain that no one was close enough to hear. “We would both lose everything. Everything!"
"But only if the potion works,” he said, with a shrug of indifference. “Only if we become lovers."
His smile faded as he looked up at her, his eyes straying to her bare legs, which she had been unable to hide. “Tell me, do you believe this stuff will work? What are the first signs?"
"Well, I don't know,” she admitted with a frown. “I always assumed my heart would know. Vivian didn't say."
He grinned at her roguishly, his eyes warm with good humor. “Are you falling in love with me, Lady Leandra?"
She stared at him in horror. The sun glittered off his closely cropped hair and gleamed in his dark eyes—blue as a summer sea. His jawline would tempt an angel to kiss it, and the grin that twitched on his lips was captivating.
She shook her head. “Of course I'm not falling in love with you.” Her heart pounded as if she had just lied in the confessional. She talked on quickly. “You're far too arrogant and domineering to appeal to me, Sir Garrett."
* * * *
HE SAT UP straight, surprised by her words.
"Arrogant?” She thought him arrogant? He had worked so hard at being humble throughout this mission.
"Besides, I save my heart for Lord Reginald.” The lady placed her free hand over her heart and her betrothal ring glinted in the sunlight. “You're not falling in love with me, are you, sir?"
"No, no. I favor a more docile woman,” he said, suddenly irritated with her and ready to give back as good as she offered. “I fancy dark-haired, brown-eyed maids."
But he caught himself gazing at her small feet, smooth and bare against the rough tree bark. He eyed the shapely line of her hips, tapering to a waist he'd fitted his hands around once already. And he admired her round, firm breasts that would be fine to cup and to taste. The breeze fluttered her loose golden tresses, and he longed to feel the texture of her hair.
The golden goddess Diana—barefoot and innocent—stared down at him from above. Hastily he struggled to his feet. Sweet Jesu, what was happening? What was he thinking? Was the potion already at work?
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Chapter Nine
GARRETT ROSE FROM his seat on the rock and his eyes went to Leandra's face in the tree above. Was she affected by the potion, too?
She stared back at him, her expression strained and her lips tight with discomfort. Clearly she wasn't thinking about him as a lover.
Fool. Understanding instantly, he reached up for her. “Lady Leandra, let me help you down from there. It wouldn't do to save you from assassins and have you break your neck falling from a tree."
"I can get down myself.” She shrank from him, and a blush spread upward from her throat as she glanced down at her bare feet. “I am waiting for you to leave. Since I'm not properly clothed—as I'm sure a countess always is."
With a soft laugh he offered his hand again. “I'm an honorable knight, my lady. I promise not to look.” He'd seen enough already.
After a moment of consideration, she agreed. “I know you are an honorable knight."
She swung down, lowering herself carefully from the tree branch until he could reach her waist. He spread his hands along her sides, wrapped his fingers around her rib cage, and lifted her down, allowing her to rest for a moment with her back against his chest.
Her hair smelled of roses, and her body moved warm and vibrant in his arms, desirable enough to stir unchivalrous reactions. Were she anyone else, he would have held her against him a little longer. But he set his lord's betrothed down promptly, his hands lingering only long enough to be certain she had her balance.
"Thank you, sir,” she said without looking him in the eye. Immediately she reached for her boots.
He stepped away. “I'll wait for you on the other side of the tree.” With greater effort than he anticipated, he turned his back on her.
* * * *
ON THE SECOND day of the overland journey, Brenna began to complain to Leandra that traveling wasn't as amusing as she thought it would be. She didn't like the fog that seemed to follow them most of the day, and she'd already tired of the pilgrims’ stories.
"Have you noticed?” she added, leaning from the saddle to confide in Leandra's ear. “The old man always smells of garlic."
Leandra had noticed. It was impossible to miss. Even the guards had begun to avoid the old pilgrim.
"Mistress Pender seems
more like a witch than Vivian did,” Brenna observed and chattered on.
The shrouded road that lay ahead suddenly stretched out between the ears of Leandra's horse—mile upon complaining mile.
Only the churchmen seemed to enjoy themselves, thrilled by the sight of every holy well and hallowed marker they encountered.
"Here it ‘tis, Sir Garrett, the way to St. Euny's well.” Father Rhys pointed out the narrow track that disappeared down the hill into the fog. His fuzzy brown beard split into a toothy grin. “I recognize it now. We go by foot from here."
The excited priest jumped from his mule and trotted down the path, mist swirling in his wake.
"Are we stopping here?” Brenna whined. “Why were we in too much haste to stop at the fair in the last village, but have time to visit saint what's-his-name's well?"
"Yes,” Leandra agreed. She had wanted to stop at the fair, too. “Why is that, Sir Garrett?"
"Because,” bit out the knight who squinted at her from the other side of Wystan, “your pilgrims wish it."
"Oh.” Leandra decided to say no more. Despite their private talk beneath the tree, Sir Prefect's temper had improved little since Brenna had given them the potion. He scowled often, as though he wanted to commit murder every time he saw her cousin.
"I'd prefer traveling the open moor to lingering in a close place like this, especially in this gloom,” Sir Garrett was saying, his words meant for Wystan. “These hills remind me too much of the day Reginald was attacked. Stay close and prepared."
His warning sent little chills down Leandra's back. She slipped off her horse without waiting for a groom, gathered her skirts, and strode down the path close behind the priests. Brenna followed.
"Sir Garrett says this seems like a place for an attack,” Brenna repeated, gazing fearfully at the misty hillsides.
"'Tis Sir Garrett's duty to be prepared to fight,” Leandra said. The gloom made her uneasy, but it wouldn't do to upset Brenna. They had no need to add hysteria to their problems.
"Lady Leandra?"
She and Brenna whirled around to find Mistress Pender and her family on their heels. The scent of garlic drifted to Leandra's nose.
"I didn't mean to frighten ye, ladies.” The pilgrim lady, her husband, and grandson made no curtsy, no nod of respect. “But we wondered if ye will join us."
"I'll escort Lady Leandra.” Sir Garrett strolled out of the fog to Leandra's side and gave the pilgrim woman a steady look.
Mistress Pender backed away, her husband and grandson huddling in the black wash of her pilgrim's cloak. His presence seemed to inspire their deference.
"But I'm sure Lady Brenna would be glad to join you,” he suggested, taking Leandra's arm and leading her away.
"Of course, your lordship. Lady Brenna? We'd be pleased if ye joined us."
Leandra allowed Garrett to lead her on down the path, leaving Brenna behind to sputter some reply.
"Stay in the company of the guards or the churchmen,” he warned. “No wandering off to wade in the water or to rescue baby birds today."
"As you wish, your lordship.” She couldn't keep the rebellious sarcasm from her voice.
He cast her a contemptuous frown.
"Surely you don't think anyone would desecrate a holy place with violence, do you?” she asked, a little sorry that she had mocked his concern. He was only trying to do his duty.
"It has happened before,” he said. “Just don't wander off. If you wish to see something, take me—take a guard with you."
She agreed. At the bottom of the path, they found the natural stone grotto of the well. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool fresh air that hung over the spring, and let the tension ease from her shoulders. Pristine water gurgled contentedly from the rocks. She pulled away from Garrett to peer into the clear brook that frolicked away through the ravine.
Over the grotto stood a chapel-like structure with an informal altar. Rich green moss dripped from the grotto ledges. She watched in awe as the sky lightened, and the sun came out long enough to make the dewy moss sparkle like emeralds.
Father John, Father Rhys, and the brother cleric busied themselves with prayers at the altar. Mistress Pender bathed her face in the water while her old husband sat on the bank across from Brenna dozing in the sun. Garrett paced like a sentry.
Farther downstream Leandra spotted Alfred wading in the water without taking off his wooden clogs, his hood pulled low over his face, as always. She didn't like the way he constantly viewed the world from the depths of his pilgrim cloak. Furtively he looked up, and when he saw her watching him, he turned away. What was he up to? She turned away.
As soon as he thought he was unobserved, she saw him snatch coins from the water, coins tossed with prayers for a favor, a boon.
"Shame on you, Alfred.” Brenna appeared at the stream bank and boldly gestured for him to throw back the coins. “Taking pilgrims’ offerings! What kind of pilgrim are you? This is a holy place. Remember, thou shalt not steal."
At first the boy just glared at her. No one else in the group seemed to notice them.
"Shall I say something to Father Rhys or Father John?” Brenna hissed.
The old man stood up. “Heed her, boy."
Alfred brushed back his cloak, and grandfather and grandson glared at each other for a moment. Then Alfred grudgingly tossed the coins into the water. Abruptly he turned his back to Brenna and waded downstream, away from the others.
Father John's invitation to prayer distracted Leandra, but later when they were back on the main road riding east, she touched Brenna's arm. “I saw you with Alfred at the well."
Brenna nodded. “Can you believe he took the coins? There's something strange about a pilgrim stealing from a holy place."
"I know,” Leandra said. “I don't think he's a boy."
Brenna blinked at her. “Is he a maid? If so, he's a thieving maid and an ugly one, too."
"No, that's not what I mean,” she said. “I think he's older than he appears to be."
"The Penders probably fib about Alfred's age so they don't have to pay full fares for him,” Brenna said with a shrugged. “'Tis dishonest, but harmless enough."
"I suppose you're right,” Leandra said. So what if the boy was older than he appeared? So what if his grandparents passed him off as a child to save on expenses? She silently agreed with Brenna to say nothing more. But she decided that if she saw one more strange action from the Penders, she would go to Sir Garrett with what she'd seen.
By late that day Alfred's thieving was forgotten. Just before they stopped to make camp, chanting voices swelled in the gloom, eerily floating on the mist, rhythmic and sad.
Sir Garrett halted the company and pulled them to the side of the road. They could see nothing, but the sound moved toward them. In silence they waited, the chorus growing louder, then receding, only to grow again.
With apprehension Leandra watched the first blazing torches emerge from the fog, their smoke adding to the murk. The heralds came first on foot. Then came a rider followed by rank after rank of singing monks, their slow steps as harmonized as their mournful voices. On their shoulders rested an ornately carved casket. The sad hymn surged to new heights and surrounded the Tremelyn company.
Brenna cowered inside her cloak and whimpered, “I hate the sound of a death march."
Reassuringly, Leandra patted her cousin's arm.
The rider at the head of the cortege was a lady in fine black wool. Torchbearers marched at her side, and behind her filed the eight black-hooded monks bearing the funeral bier.
Leandra watched Sir Garrett inspect the group, a suspicious gleam in his eye. Had the man faith in no one, not even a widow?
The well-dressed lady stopped to exchange greetings with Garrett, and Leandra overheard some of the conversation.
"...died in the inn in London. So I bring him home to lay to rest in his family's crypt.” The lady's voice was strong and hard, long accustomed to issuing orders.
L
eandra urged her horse forward to greet the widow. “Will you pause and take refreshment with us? Prayer with Father John and Father Rhys might be of some comfort."
Garrett shot her a frown. She smiled back at him amiably. “'Tis the least we can do,” she added.
"I would like that.” The widow introduced herself as Lady Adelle Chygwin.
The monks set down the bier. Proudly, Widow Chygwin insisted that Leandra and Brenna and the churchmen view her handsome dead husband. Brenna slunk away. But Leandra dutifully admired the deceased, a kindness she would do for any of her friends or villagers. She thought him a handsome, if sharp-nosed man. The fact that his widow could afford to hire the monks for this last journey home bespoke of considerable wealth.
"He was a good man, my husband, but so busy was he currying favor in court that he did not even spend his last Christmas at home,” the widow complained over the cup of wine Leandra offered her.
"Our petition for the return of disputed lands is still not settled. That is what required his presence at court. I hope my nephew will take up the cause,” the widow explained. “With the king away in France, the process will take even longer."
Widow Chygwin did not tarry long over the bread and cheese she shared with them. Leandra saw her go on her way once more, the monks marching along with their sad burden.
After the widow departed, a pall settled over the spirits of Tremelyn company—pilgrims and ladies alike—and the moor's gloom settled even darker upon them.
* * * *
THE ORANGE BEACON fire flamed low in the eastern sky over Bodmin Moor—a misty, uncanny sight. Garrett stared at the fiery ball and debated the wisdom of making an early camp for the night. He'd been unable to shake off the melancholy that had settled over him after they'd met the funeral cortege. Maybe a good night's rest would do them all good.
"Is there water at the rock?” he asked Father Rhys, who'd proved to be a wealth of information about all the sacred corners of Cornwall.
"Yes. There's a good campground. We must stop. The hermit on the tor is an old friend of mine, and the place is most sacred. ‘Twas once the hermitage of St. Roche, the first bishop of Cornwall."