Then Deirdre’s breath rushed back into her lungs with the sharpness of a hundred thousand knives. She probed his gaze and defied him wordlessly to hold her own still. And he did, as no man had ever dared. A seed of fluttering wonder blossomed in her heart, for among the passions raging in his eyes, not one among them was fear.
With a groan, he released her chin and seized her arms. He pulled her up close, close enough to feel the angry heat of his breath on her face, close enough to see the bristles on his cheek and chin, close enough to see the gold sparks in his silver eyes. He smelled of sunlight and sweat and, strangely, like steel, like chain-mail links warmed by the sun—oddly familiar, for it sent a sharp and sudden ache spearing deep through her, and for one brief moment she ached for the touch of his lips so sharply that her body began to quiver.
Her senses reeled. He deepened his search into her gaze, probing, questioning, and she felt the force of his examination as if his broad, callused hands raked over her naked skin. Her legs were no longer capable of holding her full weight. Had any man ever looked into a woman so intimately? She felt as if he saw through all the ugliness and evil shining through her eyes into the part of her soul, buried deep, deep within, that was still good, that was still pure, the part that defied all who called her evil.
This was the reason she’d been wrapped as taut as wool upon a spindle these past days. Here was a man who did not stumble back at the sight of her “devil’s eyes.” She’d never known there existed such a creature. Now she filled her lungs with the man-smell of him, gorged her sight upon his height and breadth, and felt her heart flutter on wings as light as air that for once, for once, God had smiled upon her.
He shook her, suddenly, hard. “Damn you, woman.”
Confusion rippled through her senses. This was not the soft voice of a lover, this was not a lover’s nail-tight grip upon her arms.
He said, “Damn your eyes.”
Words rumbled in her throat, but her tongue lay too stiff to murmur them. Not you, nay, not you, doctor—you can look into my eyes without flinching—surely you among men can see past the horror—
“Aye, woman, your secrets throb in those cursed eyes—I know those secrets better than you do.”
Then the moment of hope which had risen in her heart shattered like ill-made glass. Ice seeped through her veins, chilling the vestiges of her euphoria. What a fool she had been. The madness racing in her blood had weakened her defenses and blinded her to the danger. Now another fear stirred in her. Perhaps this doctor had been sent to determine the truth—to seek out the worm of Lucifer in the heart of a young girl.
And destroy it.
“Here’s one secret I know.” He shook her. “You dreamt of your brother’s death while he still lived. There’s no use shaking your head, I know it was that which put you in your sickbed. Tell me this now: Did you dream of me, woman, before my coming?”
Later, much later, when she relived this moment in her mind until the fabric of the memory frayed, she wondered what fount of self-possession had kept her from sliding into a trembling heap onto the floor. Was it the firmness of his hands on her arms? Or was it, as she suspected, the stark terror of being so baldly found out which forced her to keep her wits about her?
At the moment, she did not think. She couldn’t, for it seemed that the bells of Easter morning rang in her ears. He couldn’t know—he couldn’t know. She blinked at him, and it was as if the world around her spun and slowed, and in the second her eyes closed, something cold bit into the back of her neck and sucked her into the horror of memory. Against the veined inside of her lids, she saw it all again—the fire-lit room, the monotonous chanting from the shadows, the frankincense burning her nostrils, strange hands clawing the flesh of her wrists.
But that was memory, nothing but memory, of a time long, long ago, when she’d been too young to know better than to tell everyone of her dream of Mama’s death, the first of many dreams she spent her life praying to the saints to stop.
Is it my fault that I have these dreams which show me what will come to pass? Is it my fault I cannot stop them? Would I willingly call upon myself the sight of my mother’s death, the sight of my brother’s death?
She crushed her terror into a tiny ball and crammed it in that secret place in her heart. Terror would make her panic, terror would make her rash. She could not be rash, for this time, she was a woman, full grown, not a child in the thrall of a demon. No charlatan of a doctor could pry the truth from her lips. Not after all these years of practiced deception. Not after being tied to the rood screen at church. This time, Inquisitors roamed France searching for women like her, fodder for their pyres. For she’d been taught from her mother’s dying day that her dreams were the devil’s work, and when she allowed them, she became the devil’s handmaiden.
But he was still glaring at her, his sword-sharp eyes slicing away the shell of pretense she’d spent years building around her, mocking all her bravado. Who was this man, what power did he hold? She could not hide from that piercing gray gaze, any more than she could hide from the burning vault of the open sky.
She pushed out of his grip, her nails snagging upon his tunic. She stumbled back in sudden freedom. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Moira suddenly rising from behind the bed, where she’d been tucking the linen, apparently ignorant of all that had passed between her and the doctor.
Deirdre mustered her courage in that single moment and straightened her spine to face the doctor. “The portals are narrow in this house, doctor. See to it that your swelled head doesn’t get stuck in the door.”
She swiveled with a swirl of cloak and strode toward the shadowed hall. Once under the cover of darkness, she set off at a run. Her booted feet scraped on the old floorboards. She hurled herself down the back stairs and lurched against the garden door, banging it open to the light and air even as panic blinded her.
She stumbled through the garden, her feet slipping over the grass, her heart setting the pace of her flight. She grasped her skirts in her hands. She heard no footsteps crashing behind her, yet she raced as if chased by a demon, clinging to the dark, chill edges of the path, a sister to the shadows, but even then the sunlight sought her out—not even here could she hide from the truth and the light. The thunder of her heart pounded in her ears, as she reached the moss-laden stones that formed the far end of the small garden. She pressed her cheek against the gritty wall. She sank to her knees in the corner along with last year’s crackling leaves.
Then, without a whisper of notice, a cloud passed over her eyes.
No!
She curled her hands into fists. She struggled against the gray vapor that blurred the edges of her vision. No! No! This evil within her emerged only when her strength ebbed, and now, now with all the fight drained out of her, she was helpless against the fog which thickened until the black haze cut off the brilliance of the day. The vision came, writhing like a serpent. Tall, silvery forms shimmered through the fog, moving more and more slowly until they stilled and solidified into the shapes of trees. This grove lived, for it had warmth and a welcome she fought against even in the mute silence of her thralldom. Blue green light filtered through the vaulted verdure to cast an uncertain glow upon her bare skin. Somewhere close, fire crackled high and hot. Above, in the star-studded skies, an unearthly moon-sun burned metallic and white-hot.
One part of her thought, this place is Hell, even as another part of her thought, this is where I belong.
One of the trees birthed a shadow which unfurled into the silhouette of a man. The creature approached. She stretched her arms to welcome him . . . and the creature embraced her and there was nothing but warmth in his arms, a sigh, and a dangerous homecoming. He wore a dark cloak which shimmered with gold crescents—a pagan thing which he shed effortlessly. The heat of his breath fanned her cheek, redolent of rain and dew, and his large hands rasped on her bare skin—Oh. She arched beneath the caress of his hand and the fire flared, higher and hotter. She felt herself yea
rning to open herself to this creature of her dreams and let him ease the growing ache in her body, this lonely void in her soul. And she sensed all around them the bated breath of hundreds of unseen creatures, watching, watching and waiting.
Then the scene dissolved into mist, and like every other time, she fought to stay with the creature that filled her heart. She wanted to look upon the face of her lover, to finally capture in her memory the beloved features that always swirled in darkness. She struggled to probe through the veils that kept this last bit of knowledge from her . . . but inevitably the shadowy images receded.
The smoke obscuring her vision thinned to filmy whorls and then dissipated altogether. She found herself propped against the garden wall, staring up at a stretch of white cloud in a stark blue sky. Hating herself for her weakness, hating herself for her fate. And more, hating herself for yearning for that fate—something no Christian woman should dare contemplate: the dark, forbidden merging of her body with some creature of that other world.
Hot tears streaked her face. She’d never called this upon herself. She’d never blinded babes in the womb or stopped a cow from milking or summoned hail down into the fields. She’d never do such a thing, even if she knew the way of it. Now, someone had discovered her secret again. Now the Church would have no choice but to do again what it had tried to do all those years ago and failed: Exorcise the demon from her body and hurl it from this world.
She fumbled with the laces of her sleeves, jerking them tight to her wrist, and then trying, in vain, to tie them into knots, all the while watching the garden door, waiting for them to come and take her away.
It was over now, she told herself. All those years of struggle, of subterfuge—it was all over. There’d be no more lonely isolation, no more silent mockery, no more pain.
She waited and wondered if the flames she had perceived in the distance of her vision were the burning stakes of her own witch’s pyre.
Fourteen
It was over.
Conor curled his hand around a pitcher of wine. He strained his ears until he could hear her frantic footfall in the hall no more, his body still bruised with the imprint of hers. It was over now, all over. He’d guessed right thinking that no one knew she had the power of the Sight. She’d done well hiding it all these years, though he was sure she’d had little choice. Such a gift as that wouldn’t be understood, and the consequences of being marked the devil’s handmaiden in this time and place were fierce: Torture, to elicit a confession. Then death by fire.
She’d looked upon him as if he held the torch.
He slammed the pitcher upon the table harder than he intended. She hated him now, he’d done a fine job of that. There was no doubt he’d crushed whatever fragile lover’s dreams she may have harbored. This girl called Deirdre would fear him now. She would dream of him no more.
Good.
He strode out of her bedchamber, shouldering by the maidservant so roughly that the plates on her tray rattled. He plunged into the hallway and swiped the air with his hand, trying to wave away the fragrance of honeysuckle she had trailed behind her when she’d raced out of the chamber. He stormed into the room he’d been sleepless in for too many nights, the stale refuse of last night’s bread crackling beneath his boots. Octavius’s pallet was empty, but a lump lodged like a fattened tick in the pile of furs on Conor’s bed.
Conor spied one of his old boots, swept it up and hurled it at the lump. With an outraged howl, Octavius jerked out of his nest.
“Pack.” Conor kicked aside a dirty pair of braies. “We’re leaving this place before the Terce bells.”
He slammed the door on the Irishman’s incredulous sputtering and strode toward the stairs. Soon he’d be rid of that worthless sluggard as well as everything and everyone else in this house. He didn’t know why he suffered that lazy thief, except that the creature was tenacious, and Conor had too much else on his mind to spare him a thought. But no more. She was healthy, so his duty was done.
Damn the gods. For seven hundred years he’d battled the wisps and mists of their making, and now they mocked his efforts by leading him to her, reborn, as innocent as a child of all that had passed before, and ignorant of how every gesture, every glance, every word from her lips, skewered him to the bone.
He halted in the gloom of the hallway and pressed his fists to his pounding head. Even now, a thousand crazed whispered voices whirled in his mind, stirring up a thick bog of conflicting emotions. She is here again, she is mine, and I can live again. How many hours had he tossed and turned in the night thinking of the possibilities, feeling as he had not felt in centuries, letting that whole first life unfurl before him. He remembered too well. Memory was why he’d leave her in peace. She would remain here, to live a better life without fear, anguish, and loneliness. He would not take the forty, fifty, even sixty years he could have with her. To him, that was a blink of an eye.
In the end, she would still die in his arms.
Conor walked down the stairs. In the solar of the main floor, the boards of the trestle tables leaned in a heap against the wall. A rat, gnawing on something discovered amid the rushes, darted off, and slithered through a crack in the warped corner plank of a large cupboard. Sir Guichard lolled in a seat by the hearth, swinging one leg over the arm of the chair as Conor turned off the stairs.
“Ah, Mézières, here comes the man who raised your golden goose from the dead.”
“Monsieur, I’ve been waiting for you.” Monsieur Mézières approached in a cloud of orange scent. Freshly shaven, his blunt-cut, silvery-white hair shimmering with care. “Forgive my absence these past days. The fair is a harsh taskmaster.”
“It was your daughter I came to heal.”
“And that you’ve done well, by the sound of laughter coming from her room this morning.”
“Which is why I’ll be leaving today. My work here is done.”
“Please, please, doctor.” The burgher raised a single finger to silence him. “We’ve a fee to discuss, and it will be a generous one, but this is neither the time nor the place.” The burgher clapped twice, the fur-trimmed edge of his scarlet tunic flapping. A servant bustled into the room with a pitcher of wine and three gem-studded chalices. “First, we three must celebrate.”
Conor’s jaw stiffened. Through the cocked window wafted the babble of the crowd, a stew of fetid scents, the bustle of anonymity, while he stood still and chafed, bound by the strictures of polite society.
The burgher handed Conor a chalice. “To your patient’s brilliant health, doctor.” He raised his own. “For my daughter’s happiness.” He held out the third chalice to Sir Guichard. “And to your future wife, Sir Guichard.”
At that moment, the bishop’s cathedral clanged the hour of terce. The bells reverberated through Troyes, joined by another chiming, augmented by the bells of a third church, then a fourth, the cacophony clattering through the city until the vibrations penetrated the house’s timbers and seeped into the marrow of Conor’s bones. He clenched his jaw as the clamor gonged with chaotic abandon, until bell by bell, peal by peal, the din thinned until nothing remained but distant echoes and an ear-numbing hum in the air.
“A fine omen, this.” Monsieur Mézières glittered with pride sharper than any of the cut jewels on his fingers. “I wanted you to be one of the first to hear the news, doctor. If it weren’t for your skill, this day would never have come. The arrangements were completed just this morning, with Sir Guichard’s consent.”
Sir Guichard barked a humorless laugh. “I consented to keep my fine family name out of debtor’s prison.” The nobleman swung his knee still farther over the arm of his chair. One of the ties of his stockings hung undone, revealing a fleshy strip of upper thigh. “Even the noblest fields need a little manure now and again.”
Conor’s hand instinctively stole to his hip, but the leather he clutched caved under his grip. It was the battered skin of his doctor’s bag, not the worn hilt of his sword. The sword was nothing but a faded memory
, as was—until this moment—the powerful, primitive urge to wield it.
“To Deirdre’s health.” The burgher hefted his chalice, his smile triumphant. “And to a rich and fertile marriage.”
He told himself that this is what he wanted as the chalice burned in his palm. This was for the best. For all his blustering, Sir Guichard would make a better husband than ever he could. The nobleman could give her children. The nobleman would grow old with her. So he choked off the surge of possessive fury and raised his thoughts to the Otherworld.
Play another tune upon your willow-reeds, old gods of mine. I’ve danced to your music before. I shan’t dance to it again.
The cold rim of the chalice bit Conor’s lips. His throat fluxed as he forced himself to swallow.
Then she entered the room from the kitchens, her saffron cloak billowing around her skirts, her golden hair tangled and wild, the chimes of her belt jarring. Conor gripped the chalice harder, for she was the gods’ most potent weapon, the spearhead lodged in the beating muscle of his heart.
She stopped abruptly as she noticed the three of them. She knotted her hands together and swept her gaze to the floor.
“You summoned me, Papa?”
Monsieur Mézières spread his arms wide. “I have news for you, the most joyous of tidings.”
There was a pause, infinitesimal, but Conor knew the way of his own wife’s face. Her gaze glanced upon him, and then glanced away, and he saw terror, uncertainty, the fear of oncoming doom, followed quickly by confusion, and then a rush of relief. She looked like a hanged man granted an unexpected stay just as the rope scraped his collarbone.
Twice Upon A Time (The Celtic Legends Series) Page 20