by Linda Madl
"Wystan, as soon as we get there, you'll see to setting up the camp while I take the Churchmen and the ladies atop the rock.” He ignored the pitiful look Brenna and Wystan exchanged.
When they arrived, the campsite seemed almost too convenient. Or was he being superstitious? Two days on the road and no trouble yet. Did that bode well or ill? He wasn't sure. But in another day they would reach the Tamar River. None too soon, as far as he was concerned.
Cold and gusty like a winter's gale, the wind caught at their cloaks as they began the climb up the rock. “The weather is worsening,” Garrett called to the pilgrims, quickening his step to join them, to hurry them along. “Let's get to the top and down again before it turns foul."
Father Rhys led the way, with Brother William close behind. Father John, the Penders, Leandra, Garrett, and Brenna, complaining all the way, followed. Leandra was steady and nimble, climbing easily even with her bow slung across her shoulder. They all trod with caution on the granite steps, up a primitive ladder, and through a narrow stone passage.
"'Tis a bleak place to seek God,” Leandra observed when they reached the top.
"Few distractions. Perfect for a hermit.” Garrett noticed how the wind lifted her golden hair from her temple.
The priests joyfully greeted their solitary fellow and accepted his invitation into his slate-roofed cell. Brenna plopped herself down on a rock to rest.
He and Leandra were alone. He allowed himself to admire the clean, delicate line of her profile. Desire stirred. Purposely he looked away to see Brenna join Mistress Pender at the altar. His need wasn't necessarily the work of the potion, he told himself. Other lovely women had tempted him before.
"Our journey is nearly over, is it not?” she asked. “Nothing has happened."
"Tis no time to let down our guard,” he said. “Outlaws may strike anytime or anyplace. They don't leave a trail like an army."
"I was referring to the potion,” she said. “Nothing has happened with the potion, has it? All our fears were for naught."
He forced himself to continue his study of the view. Was it possible that only he was affected and she remained untouched by the spell?
"Nothing,” he lied.
From the high tor the mist seemed lighter and the moors stretched out spring-green beyond them, dotted with other black granite tors. The wind whipped about the cliff at their feet. Behind them the beacon fire, tended by a boy, danced and spewed embers.
"I do have a question for you,” he said. “I'd like to know why. I understand that you are concerned about Lord Reginald's devotion to the first countess. But why not give nature ... or, Cupid, an opportunity?"
She blinked at him. “Why use a potion?"
"Yes. Do maids commonly use love potions?"
* * * *
LEANDRA STARED AT the moors below them, the heat of a blush warming her cheeks. She'd been afraid he might ask more questions about the potion and her motives. “I don't know what other maids do. I don't even know what wives do. You see, that's why I obtained the potion. Mother died when I was born. I've had no one but nuns for teachers."
"No mother?” he repeated kindly. “What did nuns teach you about wifely duties?"
"Well, what do you think?” she asked, the heat in her cheeks burning now. “Needlework, which I hate. Household management, and, of course, the appropriate prayers. You know, prayers to say over the butter, over rising bread, over the cheese-making or a sick child. For child-bed."
"Women pray for that?"
"For children, of course, and a safe delivery. What greater blessing?"
"I think I begin to see.” He chuckled more softly this time, a gently derisive yet understanding sound that did nothing to make her blush cool. She was certain she must be absolutely glowing. “You had so little faith in prayers, in nature, or in Lord Reginald, that you decided to use a love potion?"
"It's not a matter of faith,” she protested, annoyed with his amusement at her expense. He was a worldly man and couldn't possibly understand how wide and mysterious the future appeared to her.
"It's a matter of ignorance,” she said. “Brenna and I asked the midwife questions once, but she refused to tell us anything without Father's permission, and he said we were too young."
Her old frustrations began to resurface, and despite the delicate nature of the topic, she spoke in earnest, wanting him to understand. “Maybe men know these things already, about bedding and loving. Are you born with the knowledge? The process is not quite so obvious to a maid."
His expression sobered. With a glimmer of hope, she realized that he was considering her words. “No, we are not born with the knowledge,” he admitted. “Men also need to learn. A woman of experience is usually the best teacher."
She looked away. A pang of envy stung her heart. Who had his teacher been? Where was the lady now? Did he still love her? Before she realized how the words might sound, the question slipped out. “Did she have dark hair?"
"Did who have dark hair?"
She huffed. “Your teacher. Who else?"
He laughed. “Why, yes? How did you know?"
She gave an elaborate shrug to her shoulders and turned away, feigning indifference. “'Tis unfair. Women are not allowed men teachers."
"Are you jealous?” He leaned toward her. She recognized the teasing tone in his voice. “Has the potion taken effect yet? Are you seized with overwhelming desire? Is it passion that pinkens your cheeks?"
"Of course not,” she snapped. “Nor do you appear to be enthralled by my presence."
He chuckled. “Have you discovered how we will know when the potion takes possession of us?"
His laughter was so goodhearted that she smiled and decided to join in the teasing. “If the nuns are correct in what they taught me, I shall be seized by an irresistible obsession to embroider your tunics, and you'll spend endless hours below my window, reciting poetry."
"Yes, only a miraculous spell could do that,” he agreed.
The image was so ridiculous that they both began to laugh.
He sobered and again looked out over the moors. “Now you have no potion to give Reginald. What do you plan to do?"
The humor of the moment disappeared. A cloud as gray as the moor mist settled over her spirits. She wanted so desperately for Reginald to be pleased with her. She longed to be as loyal and steadfast a wife as the Widow Chygwin had been. “I must simply do my best,” she confessed. The thought of loyalty reminded her of another matter. “Sir Garrett, there is something I should tell you about the Penders. Yesterday, at the well..."
"Yes, what about yesterday?"
"We saw—” A tug on her cloak startled Leandra, and she whirled around to find Mistress Pender at her elbow.
"Sorry, me lady, I didn't mean to startle ye,” the old woman pilgrim said. “Please, pray with us. We're giving thanks for the safe journey."
"Mistress Pender, yes, a worthy prayer,” Leandra said. “I'll be right there.” She glanced at Garrett, curious about his pensive expression. Maybe this was not the time to tell him of the strange incident at the well. “We can talk of this later. Excuse me, sir."
* * * *
GARRETT NODDED TO the ladies as they left him and turned back to the moorland view before him, oddly aware of a sense of loss when Leandra left his side. He was unable to be angry with her any longer. The use of a potion made sense as she explained it. She secured the spell as an aid in her duties and responsibilities as a wife. She meant no harm to Lord Reginald, and she was so young. Too young to have to carry the weight of Lyonesse on her shoulders alone.
"Sir Garrett? Sir Garrett?” Alfred, the Penders’ boy, loped up from behind. “Father John wishes to see ye in the hermit's cell. He says ‘tis important."
Annoyed with the interruption of his thoughts, he frowned at the odd boy. Alfred ducked his head as he always did, refusing to meet anyone's eye.
"He wants ye right away,” the boy added, and fidgeted impatiently with the corner of his cloak ho
od.
"Very well.” Garrett walked toward the stone cell where he'd seen Father John, Father Rhys, Brother William, and the hermit enter earlier. When he reached the door, he knocked. No one answered.
"Go in. He expects ye.” The boy pushed the door open for Garrett.
Against the opposite wall he saw the four churchmen bound and gagged on the floor. He swore aloud—at the boy, at his own idiotic lapse.
He whirled around, bringing his elbow up to catch the boy's chin. But he was too late. Alfred recovered. With the strength of a man the boy-man slammed a shoulder into Garrett's stomach. The blow nearly knocked him off his feet. He grunted with the pain and staggered farther into the cell. Fighting to recover his breath and his balance, he reached for a wall. He found none and stumbled to the floor.
Old man Pender appeared from behind the door and kicked him in the ribs. Chain mail gave no protection against the pilgrim's wooden clogs. The ceiling flashed white and black, but Garrett refused to lose consciousness. Another kick rolled him over. A clog stomped painfully into the small of his back. Cold steel pressed against his jaw.
"Make a sound, and I'll put this sword through yer face, Sir Knight.” From the corner of his eye Garrett could see old man Pender standing over him, tall and straight with sword in hand. “Take his sword, Alfred."
The boy's hood fell away, revealing a small, wiry man—with coarse features like a dwarf. He thrust a knee into Garrett's back, cut away his sword belt, and began to bind his hands and feet.
Garrett resisted. Pender's steel pressed tighter against his jaw. Blood trickled down his chin. Garrett allowed himself to be gagged. A warning call would only bring Leandra to the cell, not send her flying in escape as he wanted.
"Now, Sir Knight, let's finish this business quickly.” Pender got to his feet, grabbed Garrett by the hair, and yanked his head back, peering into his face.
Garrett understood exactly what was coming next. Why had he been so foolish as to not look for weapons on pilgrims? His anger gave him strength. He wasn't about to die like a butchered sheep with his throat cut.
He ducked his head, rolled onto his side, brought up his knees, then struck out with his feet. He put all his strength into the strike. The kick caught Alfred solidly on the shin.
The pop of a breaking bone could be heard. The boy-man yowled and hobbled backward, out of Garrett's reach.
Pender cursed, finding his hand full of nothing but strands of hair. Savagely he swung his blade up. “Give it up, Bernay. There's no escape. Yer going to die."
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Chapter Ten
GARRETT LAY STILL on the cold stone floor, staring up at Pender's sword poised over his head. His ribs ached. Every rasping breath came with pain and effort. But he had no intention of making anything easy for these devil's spawn—his murder or Leandra's kidnapping.
He caught Pender's gaze and held it.
He willed a moment of indecision. Just enough time ... The ploy worked. Pender faltered with his blade hovering in midair. Garrett's feet caught the man in the stomach. Breath whooshed from him. He clutched his belly and doubled over. The sword clattered to the floor as Garrett rolled away. Staggering backward, Pender plunked to the floor.
Hobbling, Alfred charged Garrett. He kicked at the boy-man. Alfred flattened himself against the cell wall just beyond the reach of Garrett's booted feet. His eyes bulged in panic at the sight of the infuriated knight. The downed Pender moaned. Alfred grabbed the sword and one arm of his gasping partner and dragged him from the cell. He slammed the door behind them.
Garrett could hear the two muttering to each other as they frantically lashed it closed. Through the window he heard Leandra call out, her voice full of concern.
"Where is everyone? Garrett? Brenna?"
Brenna screamed.
Garrett struggled to his feet and made his way to the window. Father John, Father Rhys, the hermit, and Brother William mumbled and muttered at him through their gags. Garrett ignored them. In the growing darkness he could see Leandra still standing near the fire, her face tense, a pale oval against the gray mist. Her alert gaze was fastened on the altar where Mistress Pender and Brenna had been. Those women were beyond Garrett's view. He saw no panic in Leandra's face, but he knew—whether Brenna deserved it or not—that Leandra would never hold out against a threat to her cousin.
"The priests are bound and gagged in the cell. No one is going to come to your rescue, lady. Your knight is lying on his back as helpless as a turtle."
Under his breath Garrett cursed the near truth of Pender's statement.
"So do as we tell ye, and we won't hurt your cousin,” Pender said.
"Who are you?” Leandra demanded.
She was stalling, probably hoping, as he was, that Wystan would realize something was wrong and raise the alarm. He cursed himself for leaving his brother below at the camp.
"No questions,” Mistress Pender ordered, her voice sounding more youthful than she had seemed earlier. “Come over here to me, or I'm going to make little slices of your cousin."
Leandra made no move to obey, and glanced in the direction of the cell again.
"Leandra?” Brenna whimpered.
Garrett saw Pender cast Mistress Pender, who was still out of his sight, an uncertain look. No doubt Leandra's cool hesitation surprised them. They'd expected him to be the problem, not the lady.
Leandra began to sidestep toward the rock's edge. “Release my cousin and I will consider going with you. Otherwise, I jump. Take that knife away from her throat, I say."
Sweet Jesu, what was she doing? He heard Brenna whimper again. Then the girl scrambled into his view. She stumbled, casting fearful glances over her shoulder, and then threw herself at her cousin's feet. Leandra never flinched. She stood with her head high, her chin jutted forward, her gaze steady.
"Your courage is magnificent, lioness,” he muttered into his gag. He would have smiled if the gag would have permitted it. “Are your wits up to the challenge? You don't have to keep your word."
He closed his eyes and prayed that Leandra would forget her offer to go with the Penders, and grab her cousin and run for the stairs. They were only a few yards from the steps. But when he opened his eyes, the two hadn't moved. Still she'd refused to put herself within Pender's reach. The fraudulent pilgrim motioned toward the hoist used to bring wood and supplies to the tor top. It dropped down the side of the tor hidden from the campground. Out of Wystan's sight.
She walked obediently toward it. Garrett groaned. Pender reached for Brenna again. The girl screamed.
"Louder! Louder!” Garrett shouted into his gag. Wystan, where are you? Behind him the churchmen's gagged protests grew clamorous.
Leandra pulled away from Mistress Pender, who stood by the hoist. “Let Brenna go."
Immediately Pender released the dark-haired girl. She scuttled beyond his reach.
Garrett was beginning to understand what the Penders were going to do.
A wood cart probably waited at the foot of the rock. Perfect for hiding someone. The commonplace vehicle would drive away, and no one, not a single guard in the entourage below, would think to ask questions. He cursed and began to struggle against the rope bound about his wrists.
When he looked out the window again, he saw Leandra offer her unstrung bow to Mistress Pender. When the crone reached for the weapon, Leandra brought it up under the woman's chin. Her head snapped back. She clutched her throat and fell backward over a stone stool.
Pender dived toward them. Leandra saw him coming and caught the man against the side of his head. Yew cracked. Pender yelped and staggered away. Then Alfred was on her.
Garrett roared frustration through his gag and threw himself against the tiny stone window until the pain in his shoulders stopped him. Silently he praised her courage and prayed now for her safety.
The boy-man threw her to the ground and held her down while Pender staggered to his feet and found a bag to pull over her head.
&n
bsp; Struggling against the two men Leandra turned toward the cell. Garrett realized that she'd caught a glimpse of him. Her expression tore at his heart. He knew he would forever see that look on her face—reassurance masking carefully restrained terror. Never fear. I will endure until you can come for me. I know you will come for me, she said with her eyes in that briefest of glances.
The bag covered her face.
Garrett's heart stopped beating.
He pulled away from the window, unable to bear the sight of her bagged and tied. He cursed the Penders again, himself, the Fates. The only comfort he found was that these people obviously wanted her alive. If they didn't, she would be dead by now, just as he was supposed to be. Mistress Pender was with them—a rough woman, but a woman. Surely that ensured Leandra's safety against abuse. But he couldn't be certain.
The pulley on the hoist squeaked. Garrett peered out the window in time to see the Leandra-size bag disappear into the mist. Pender lowered the rope slowly while Mistress Pender watched over the edge.
A muffled shout finally penetrated his musings. For the first time he truly heard the strangled protests of the churchmen seated against the wall of the cell. Father John in particular seemed to be saying something vital into his gag.
Garrett knelt with his back to the priest. Father John leaned forward, bringing his face as close to Garrett's hands as he could. The action was slow and torturous. He couldn't see what Father John was doing. He could only do his best to free the priest's gag. During the agonizing moments, he listened to the squeak of the pulley. He knew that with each creak of the wood and rope, Leandra was being taken farther from him.
On the third try he had the gag out of Father John's mouth. “They took Lady Leandra?"
Garrett nodded.
"I'll try to untie your hands,” Father John said, going to work on the leather on Garrett's wrists with his teeth.
"They were fakes all along,” Father John mumbled as he worked.