Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  “You have two brothers and two sisters, Sigge.”

  “I know, but he still wouldn’t like it.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to be a blacksmith, then.”

  “I want to be a knight,” Sigge replied. “I’d ride on a huge white charger to war like the Peregrine, and slay lots of enemies so the king would make me his favorite knight.”

  “His horse isn’t white. It’s grey.”

  “Mine would be white.”

  His dream tugged at her heart. She knew what it was like to have dreams that could never come true. “You know it is not likely, Sigge.”

  “That’s what Papa said, too. A blacksmith’s son is always a blacksmith’s son. And then he’s a blacksmith himself.”

  “’Tis an honorable heritage. And your father is Lord Geoffrey’s armorer, not just any blacksmith.”

  “But he can’t ever be a knight. So I can’t be either. But my grandfather was a knight. Only he had to go be a traitor. I guess my father was lucky the king let him live.”

  So he was. Leonie had heard the story told in the hall when she was very young. Some even mentioned Emilien, the Norman given name Harald had disowned. But Harald was valued and honored in this household, so no one mentioned it anymore.

  Today she had to smile. There was nothing wrong with Sigge’s foot now besides an ugly red scar, and Sigge would be far less likely to get into trouble if he went with her.

  “Can you show me how to find the good mushrooms, Leonie?” he asked as he bobbed along beside her.

  “I don’t know them, Sigge,” she replied. “I always go get old nanny Brigid to look at them.”

  He swaggered a bit as he walked. “I know some of them.”

  “No, you don’t. You only think you do. Only old nanny Brigid can always tell. When you are older, we will ask her to show us both.”

  “Aw.” He kicked at a stone in their path. “Ow!”

  Leonie smirked. Bright as the boy was, he seemed always to have to learn the hard way.

  “We’re looking for sumac leaves today. I want to see if they make better dyes when they first get their autumn color, or if it helps to wait till they fall. And while we’re there, you can show me the piece of metal where you cut your foot.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Can you make something really bright yellow, so I can have a tunic of it? I’m getting tired of green.”

  Leonie laughed. “I am too. Yellow is hard, though. Some of the leaves may work better this year, but most of them aren’t very bright or the dye fades too quickly. I need a different mordant to set them, I think. The coneflowers were the best last year. I’ll have you pick them from the herb garden when we return.”

  Sigge whistled as he danced along the path. Leonie began to feel the now familiar dread soaking into her, as it had all week, and she took a deep breath. She had taken to thumping her fingers against her palm as a way to remind herself not to become embroiled in ridiculous fears. Now she thumped her hand with increasing ferocity. If one had reason to be afraid, that was one thing. But not silly fancies. That was cowardly.

  The first sumac was turning a brilliant scarlet, and Leonie picked some of the lower leaves from a climbing vine. She sent Sigge to find yellow ash leaves that had drifted to the ground near the forest’s edge. Whenever he moved out of sight, she called him back and changed his task. The boy was too curious for his own good.

  Toward the middle of the small forest, she edged closer and closer to the place where Sigge had cut his foot. She thought of calling to him but he was close enough for her to see him. So she exhaled hard and walked over the old leaf debris until she stood near the base of the big beech tree.

  How strange it was that there was no sign that the decaying leaves had ever been disturbed. They had that greyed look of leaves dried out where they were exposed to air and filtered light. She picked up a dead branch and stirred up the leaves, revealing the dark humus beneath them. Gingerly, she scooted more leaves about, trying to make herself come up with the courage to bend down and dig with the small trowel she had brought along. Instead, she just kept stirring, as she might a dye pot.

  “Leonie!”

  The hairs on her nape spiked at the terror in Sigge’s voice.

  “Leonie, run!”

  She whirled about. Her heart stopped cold.

  The thing. Standing between her and the boy, tall as the tallest man. Grey bones hung with rotting rags, but its armor gleamed as if freshly sanded. Bloodred eyeballs fixed on her. The hand of bones raised a sword into the air.

  “Run, Sigge! To the castle!” She spun back toward the path, stumbling on an old oak’s roots, and dodged behind the tree, then scrambled through hazel bushes, heading for the beck.

  The thing behind her roared.

  Hazel bushes snagged her clothing. She tore free and sped through a gap.

  “Run!” she screamed.

  “I can’t! I can’t move! Help me, Leonie!”

  It roared again. In front of her. It blocked her path. She had to get to Sigge. She turned back again. Now it was behind her. Another to the side. Another and another. Her heart pounded and raced as she gasped tiny, worthless breaths.

  Four of them, all around her, leaves clinging to their rags. Leonie turned in a circle, moving slowly, looking for escape. The tree—could she climb it? Could they come up after her?

  She jumped to grab the lowest branch, wrapped her legs around it, and swung herself on top of the branch. She grabbed the branch above it.

  In a flash, long bones wrapped around her neck and jerked, crashing her to the ground on her back, knocking her breathless. She gasped, her lungs burning, fighting for air.

  The monsters closed in. She pushed to her feet.

  “Leonie!”

  “Run!” she gasped. “Sigge, get help!”

  “You!” said the thing, pointing its fleshless finger at the boy. “You cannot speak.”

  Sigge’s mouth hung open, silent, as if he couldn’t close it.

  Bright stars flashed in her head, blinding pain, and she fell back to the ground, fighting as she faded.

  The thing leaned down and touched its bone fingers to her forehead. Lightning sprang from the bare bones and streamed through her skull, pulsing and twisting like bright ribbons into her head.

  “You,” it said. “You cannot remember.”

  The monster became flesh and blood, clothed in fine silks. It was no monster that leaned over her, but the king’s courtier.

  Philippe.

  He smiled as he caressed her cheek. The warmth in his Frankish honey-brown eyes gleamed and lit a reddish fire that turned to malice. He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed.

  She clung to the light in the farthest corner of her mind, for it was her life, its circles of colored bands receding and merging with red, green, dull blue, each band smaller and smaller to a pinpoint, fading into an alien blue glow.

  Philippe.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PHILIPPE NEARED CASTLE Brodin as the late afternoon sun slanted long rays through the trees onto the beck’s sparkling waters. The day was cool, unlike the sticky, hot day a few weeks before when he and his men had bathed here.

  He frowned, remembering the prickly feeling of someone watching them as they bathed. He supposed, though, all manner of persons might find it interesting to watch formidable knights frolicking in the water like young boys. The dip had cooled and refreshed them all, and that was what mattered, and so he had let it drop. Then as they had approached the castle, still no more than half-dressed, he had seen the sprite-like Leonie fleeing across the meadow, long-legged and graceful as a leaping roe deer. Then he had known who was watching them. And now he laughed to himself. He hoped she liked what she had seen.

  The weariness of the long ride had preyed on Philippe since early afternoon, but he had pressed onward, wanting to reach Brodin before nightfall. The king’s courier had caught up with him and his knights only yesterday with word that Malcolm was on the move back t
o Scotland, spurred by rage, where it was suspected he meant to gather his army and invade. And Rufus was coming north to head him off. Philippe had immediately dispersed his men to spread the news to castles nearby and ridden alone to take the word to Brodin.

  Now, as he snapped the reins and urged Tonerre through the shallow waters of the ford, a new sense of urgency filled him. The castle was only on the far side of the woods that lay on the other side of the beck. He had been looking forward to reaching the castle and throwing off the mail that chafed through his tunic, to drinking deep of the castle’s fine ale. And a long night’s sleep. In the morning, he would have to rise and leave before the castle folk broke their fast. But he would rest and eat with his old friends this night.

  And the audacious Leonie. He chuckled aloud. Though she vexed him deeply, he would rue the day she married, for something in him was aroused to life by her untrammeled spirit. What would happen to her? If only Rufus could find a gentle man like the uncle who had raised her and doted on her too much. But men like Geoffrey or Hugh were hard to find and usually of modest means, or too mild of manner to become a marcher lord.

  He frowned. Perhaps when Rufus came, he would plead for the girl—as long as Rufus didn’t mistake his intentions.

  The trail through the woods was narrow, meant only for walkers. But it was a shortcut, and he felt a longing to reach the castle that grew by the minute. He dismounted, leading Tonerre, but still had to dodge low-hanging branches. The path broadened and cleared as he reached a stand of ancient beeches. He walked easier, catching occasional glimpses of the meadow through the brush, but he was still too far to see the castle.

  Across the path to his left, he spotted an odd patch of something about the color of hay, dappled by light sifting through the leaves. Odd, for a forest. It looked like someone had dropped a cloak of a dusky golden color. It reminded him of the impossible mane of curls on the little lioness’s head. He drew closer, not taking his eyes off the splash of color.

  It could not be an animal. He knew of none that color.

  Quickly, the pale golden mass came into view, spread out at the base of a huge old oak among the beeches, amid a mass of old, dry leaves.

  The reins fell from his hands. His heart stopped.

  Leonie!

  He dashed to the tree and knelt beside her where she sprawled nearly facedown, her wild hair flung over her face.

  “Leonie!” he shouted, brushing away her hair.

  Her skin was chilled. Blood caked on her scalp and splattered her clothes. He turned her ashen face upward and saw dark bruises on her throat.

  “Leonie, wake up,” he cried. He felt for a pulse at her neck but found none, nor at her wrist.

  He leaned over her, his cheek to her face, and felt no hint of breath. It could not be! He’d warned Geoffrey something could happen to her. She was so vulnerable and didn’t know it.

  Like Joceline. God help him, he didn’t want any woman murdered like Joceline!

  He scooped her into his arms and sat among the thick roots of the tree, cradling her, rubbing his cheek against her matted hair. He should have made Geoffrey lock her up where she’d be safe. Too late, too late. You’ve failed again. Someone evil has killed her and you could have stopped it. Yet what could he have done? Something, surely. He had sworn never to let a woman go unprotected.

  Did her hand move? Or had the shaking of his own body jostled it? He frowned, watching her fingers for any twitch.

  Nothing.

  It was too late. His throat ached with pain and he wanted to throw back his head and scream his rage to the sky. But he leaned his cheek against her face, waiting with patience strained to breaking. He thought—or was it a breath of breeze he felt? Did he merely fool himself?

  There. Aye!

  Quickly, he stretched her out again on the ground, placed his mouth to hers, and blew a breath into her. He sucked it out, took a deeper breath, and closed his mouth around hers to blow again. Over and over he did the same.

  Her hand flopped. Again. Did he imagine it, or had he shaken it somehow? He breathed more air into her.

  “Leonie, breathe. Come on, breathe.” He blew some more.

  And he could see, she was breathing. He found a faint pulse in her neck.

  “Leonie, can you hear me?”

  If she did, she gave no sign.

  Philippe jumped to his feet with her in his arms and carried her to his horse, where he lifted and pushed her limp body over the saddle, facedown. He mounted behind the saddle, then shifted her into his arms as he worked himself into the saddle’s seat. With spurs to the grey warhorse, he rode toward the edge of the wood. In the meadow beyond, he spurred the horse to a gallop over the meadow and up the slope to the road to the castle gate.

  Villagers, soldiers, knights, all saw them. Cheers went up as they ran with them, but he ignored them, focusing on the open gatehouse. He galloped through the passage into the lower bailey, across it and up the slope to the stone-paved upper bailey, and didn’t stop until he reached the wooden doors of the hall.

  The knight Gerard ran out and reached up for Leonie. His heart still pounding, Philippe lowered her into the knight’s arms. As he released her to the knight and dismounted from his horse, all his strength fell away, a black nothingness taking over. He thought he would collapse to the pavement, but he grasped Tonerre’s stirrup.

  As Gerard rushed into the hall, Geoffrey and Lady Beatrice ran to him, screaming and wringing hands. Gerard kept on going through the doors as if they were not there. The crowd cut in front of Philippe so he could soon no longer see.

  “Come, Philippe.” He turned to see tiny Claire, who took his arm despite the fear he saw in her eyes. “You look as weak as a new kitten. Into the hall, now.”

  It took him a breath’s time to absorb what she was saying. He nodded. Just having her beside him seemed to restore his strength.

  “Where did you find her?”

  “In the forest. On the path from the ford.”

  She frowned, tilting her head to one side. “But the forest was searched. I was there, myself. It is her favorite place, so we went through it again and again.”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “This is all I know. She was lying beneath an oak tree amid a stand of beeches, off the path to my left. I could see her hair from the path. I thought at first it was a piece of cloth. But no other has hair like hers, so I knew.”

  “Who could have done this thing?”

  “A fiend.”

  She nodded. “Is she alive?”

  “Barely. How long has she gone missing?”

  “Since yesterday. She went into the woods with Sigge, the blacksmith’s son, to collect leaves for dying. Whatever happened, Sigge can’t even talk, not even a sound. Whatever he has seen, he is struck dumb with terror.”

  “She has been brutalized,” he said. “A blow to the head and bruises on her throat. I cannot say what else.”

  “Do you think—”

  “I do not know. She should have never been let to roam the way she does.”

  “There was no stopping her, Philippe. Come inside.”

  A page held open the door for them. “I must leave you now. Mother becomes distraught at times like this. Father is not much better. Someone must take over and manage things.” She gestured to a servant. “Leof, fetch water for the Peregrine, and food and wine. A place to lie down.”

  The thought of food roiled Philippe’s stomach. “I’ll just wash and drink some ale. I’ll fast and go to the chapel to keep a vigil through the night.”

  “Say a prayer for her in my name too, sir knight. I fear I shall have a very long night.”

  “God bless you, Claire. Thank you for your kindness and your calm. Take care of her.”

  Claire licked her lower lip and bright moisture formed in her eyes, bringing tears to his own. She nodded, even attempted a smile, then hurried toward stone stairs at the far end of the hall.

  “Claire,” he called, and she turned back to look at hi
m. “I nearly forgot my purpose. Your father will not forgive me if I fail to tell him Rufus is coming.”

  “When?”

  “Likely in a day or two. Malcolm has seized his daughter from the convent and hastened back to Scotland. There may be war on the border.”

  “Do not fear, sir knight. I shall handle it.”

  Philippe nodded and found a hint of a smile for her. She surprised him. He had thought her a mere fragile petal of a rose, easily bruised.

  He soon lost patience with the young servant Leof, who hovered over him, and he begged the boy to go be of help to the family. Then, freed of his mail and wiped reasonably clean, he entered the chapel.

  It was cool and dark, quiet in a hollow kind of way. He approached the altar, which was draped in a cloth edged with Leonie’s easily recognizable embroidery. He dropped to his knees. In his lonely silence, he prayed with no words, only offering up the ancient wound in his heart that had never healed. The horror of Joceline’s death revisited in the violence done to Leonie. Men could die horribly; that he could accept. But such a young, innocent girl? It should not be.

  For hours, he stayed on his knees. Family and servants came and left, all finding a few moments to fall on their knees in prayer. And very late, even the distraught Geoffrey, whose tears became sobs. Philippe’s heart was torn at the man’s grief.

  When Geoffrey had shed all his tears, he rose from his knees and touched Philippe’s shoulder as he left the chapel. But Philippe had no other way of helping, so he kept his vigil.

  At last, exhaustion from the nearly three nights he had gone without sleep claimed him. He prostrated himself on the cold stone floor before the altar.

  Please, God, don’t let her die. I am deserving of death. Take my life instead.

  The sorcerer’s cloak swirled like rising smoke as Philippe ran after him, and he caught but a glimpse of the prisoner. Joceline, his Joceline, captive of the evil Clodomir.

  There they were, cornered in the tower chamber, as she begged him to save himself. But the sorcerer’s spell bound Philippe like chains.

  “Yield if you want to save her,” shouted the demon from Satan. Philippe knew it was true. Joceline, his wife, given to him by the Conqueror. He would lose her if he didn’t give Clodomir what he wanted. But to put his wife above his liege lord and king—to betray his king...