Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  “It didn’t work. Everything is strange, Ealga. I killed the boar, but my first shot missed. And on our way back here, I saw a giant snake. The Peregrine thought ’twas my imagination, or that I’m daft, but I tell you it was real. It was longer than a man is tall, with a huge head, red eyes, fangs, and a forked tongue, and black as night. When the Peregrine came running, the snake slithered into the brush. Then that night we were in a shelter and were attacked by people I couldn’t see. We were warned because one of the Earl of Northumbria’s dogs had found us and was in the stockade with us.”

  “I’ve heard of the earl’s strange dogs,” Ealga answered. She finished her assessment and dropped Leonie’s skirt. “They say they are kin to the black dogs of Hell that roam the moors at night, but his dogs hunt the black dogs and other spirits. ’Tis all verra strange, lass. Do ye think ye lost your talents when ye were injured in the forest?”

  Was that it? Had the injury to her head damaged her mind, then, and her Faerie ways were gone forever? “But that does not explain the snake or the boar. Nor how the earl’s dog found us. Nor, for that matter, how the Peregrine found me so easily.”

  “And none of it explains why ye have decided to accept the marriage ye fought so hard against.”

  “How was I to fight him, Ealga? I could not even walk, and with my skills gone, I am but an ordinary woman now. How can an ordinary woman fight the king’s will and one so sly as the Peregrine?”

  “If ye are but ordinary now, can it be so bad? Is it not what ye always wanted?”

  She had. She had so often said it. But now it did not look so good. “There’s that,” she replied. “None can call me witch now, can they? But I still find myself marrying a man who does not want me, who haps might kill me, and the only thing stopping him now is his promise to the king.”

  “Something he above all other men would honor, dinna ye see that? Haps ye are safe now, after all.”

  “And home, where I can help my people, as my mother did.”

  “Are you sure ye cannot close the wounds? It looks uncommon good for one naught but a few days past.”

  “I tried. I tried so hard, I nearly fell from the tree with the strain. But it did no good.”

  “Then test it.”

  Ealga seized Leonie’s dagger from its sheath and slashed a gash across her own arm.

  Leonie gasped. She grabbed the arm and clutched her hands around it, forcing herself into the flow of thought that had always worked before. Her mind began to spin in the maelstrom that was more emotion than thought, concentrating all her energy into the oozing wound. She could feel the blood seeping between her fingers and she tightened her grip, forced her thoughts deeper into her mind. Her body and her mind fought, and it was draining all her strength.

  “Best to give up, lass,” Ealga said with a sigh. “We’ll just put a bandage on it. ’Tis not a deep cut, anyway, just a bloody one.”

  Leonie opened her eyes and stared at the seeping wound. It should have been completely closed, as if it had never existed. But it was no different from the moment she had grabbed the old woman’s arm.

  “So. I am to be ordinary after all,” she said.

  But she knew the Peregrine had always been right about her. She was arrogant, willful, wayward. Bold in ways no other maid would ever dare. She was not ordinary, nor was she superior to other humans. She was simply spoiled. And she had brought danger on herself because she had no humility.

  Leonie of Bosewood, daughter of Herzeloyde, did not know how to be ordinary.

  Through the gaping doorway came Maud, the lady maid her aunt had sent with the dowry train. The lady gasped at the blood.

  “Ealga has cut herself,” Leonie said. “But I do not think it is dangerous.”

  The lady’s attention to the blood quickly faded, and she turned to Leonie. Leonie knew what was coming, for she had observed this whining woman many a time in her aunt’s home. Perhaps Aunt Beatrice had simply grown tired of the woman, and she had taken her first opportunity to be rid of her. Perhaps she had grown equally weary of Leonie and her strident ways. Perhaps Aunt Beatrice would now have the peaceful household she had always sought. Claire was always the perfect daughter. Leonie had not appreciated enough the love and nurturance she had been given.

  “Lady, surely you do not mean for us to suffer such labor,” whined Maud. “Are there not villeins enough?”

  Leonie’s lips thinned, stretched over her teeth. Beyond Maud, she saw another lady who had served her aunt, Avis, who paused with broom in hand, quietly watching. The entire hall watched.

  “The men have their own tasks, ensuring our safety,” Leonie replied. “If I can sweep, you can sweep.”

  “Nay, lady, I offered to keep you company, not labor like a common woman. I shall appeal to your aunt.”

  Fury rose like hot blood, but Leonie remembered her sweet and gentle aunt. What would she do? And then she knew. What must be would be.

  “Do that if you wish,” she replied. “I’ll gladly return you. In the meantime, if you do not wish to sweep, you may have another task. Go to the river and fetch a pail of sand so that you may scrub the trestle table clean for our dinner.”

  Maud’s face paled, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Leonie cut her short.

  “If the table is not clean enough for tonight’s meal, you shall not eat. And if the hall is not clean enough for fresh straw tonight, you will sleep in the filth. You will not sleep nor eat with those who have done their part.”

  “I appeal to you, lady. I was gently born.”

  “None of us begged for this situation, yet here we are. And we shall only prosper if we all do our part. So you must choose, Maud. I leave it to you.” For a brief moment, Leonie felt a pang of guilt, for Maud had likely never put her delicate hands around a broom handle before in her life. And yet—now she understood so much more.

  Leonie stretched a grim smile over her face. Always she had quietly watched the ladies in her aunt’s household jostling for power and position, but sweet Aunt Beatrice had in her own secret way been too strong for them. Maud might have thought to find better pickings in the household of a young and inexperienced bride, but Aunt Beatrice had not neglected her niece’s education. Leonie caught Ealga’s eye. They needed no words between them, and both of them began to sweep, turning their backs on Maud.

  So the Peregrine thought her unwomanly, did he? Not a lady, was she? Haps he simply did not know what a true lady was, and it was a lot more than someone who sat in the solar and pushed a needle through a cloth.

  “Don’t you realize she saved your ugly hide?”

  Philippe glared at de Mowbray. “She’s a woman, de Mowbray. Is that something you don’t know? It’s not her place to be saving me. It’s mine to protect her, even if it means forfeiting my life.”

  “You damn fool. I hope next time she lets you have your way. You would’ve been dead with the first blow. Fulk would have seen to it. And then how would you save her? My men could have taken them, but not in time to save either of you. She was the only one who could have done what she did. You can’t let Fulk have her, lad.”

  Philippe frowned, fighting the ugly rage within him. Of course he knew that, but damned if he understood it. What kind of man would allow his wife to defend him? He couldn’t imagine this braw and crude Earl of Northumbria ever letting a woman fight his battles. What was de Mowbray up to, then?

  “You used to be the bishop’s friend.”

  “Aye. But I tell you, William of St. Calais is not his own man now. He is lame in the head. And Fulk of Durham is not the man I once knew. ’Tis the Warrior of God they call him, but it’s not God who gives him strength. I’d vow it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. ’Tis something—and not a holy thing. Don’t let him have the lass, if it means all our lives.”

  “Why? Why should I believe you?”

  De Mowbray shook his head. “You must, lad. That I know.”

  Their eyes met in a
steady gaze, Philippe searching the black eyes that seemed to blaze like the fires of Hell. Aye, they were hellish eyes, yet he read truth in them.

  “The man lied,” he replied, “and Leonie realized it. That’s what provoked her, I think.”

  “Aye. She mistrusts him.”

  “But she mistrusts me too.”

  “Aye. She believes it was you who attacked her in the forest. The rumor of it has spread through all the northern folk.” De Mowbray narrowed his eyes, quietly assessing Philippe as he tapped a blunt finger against the hard leather of his saddle. “But that’s something else I know. I don’t think she is right. It’s something else—something I have seen, but I cannot put my finger on it.”

  The man rubbed a beefy hand over his thick, tangled black beard. “There are things in the North you’d never imagine, Peregrine. Some folks say ’tis best to keep your shutters closed at night. You cannot tell what the night air brings in.”

  “I don’t suppose you might give me a hint. Do you mean witchcraft? Sorcery?”

  “Haps. ’Tis not all. Many evils. The gholin bone Ilse brought. Bone demons, some call them, for they’re mostly bones, but I do not think they are demons. Haps they are lost souls who are summoned from the grave by some awful power, and they cannot refuse.”

  “So you would know. Aye, I think you’re right, the dog has a way about her. What about snakes? Dragons?”

  De Mowbray shook his head. “I’ve seen no snakes. Nor dragons. But be you ware of black dogs with eyes of red. They’ll steal your soul, should you find yourself alone on the moors at night, and there’ll be no trace of you on the morrow.”

  Philippe pursed his mouth and rubbed his beard, which had grown rough since he had left Castle Brodin. Though he detested magic and its evil, still he’d hoped it might explain Leonie’s sighting of the snake. But if anyone would know about it, de Mowbray would.

  They turned and watched four women emerge from the hall, tugging sacks and tossing various things out the door. Leonie was in the midst of them, carrying what no lady ought to touch. She beckoned to a village man, who rushed up, tugging his forelock and bowing. Quickly the man called other villeins to haul away the garbage into a pile, which would likely be burned. A rat ran from the pile, and with a shriek of vengeance, Leonie took a broom to it, chasing it until it vanished again beneath the garbage. Unwomanly she might be, but he had to admire her ferocity. Remorse tugged at Philippe for his stern words to her. “I cannot deny she’s tough enough for this wild land, de Mowbray.”

  “Aye. She’s an uncommon one. She’s what I’d expect of Herzeloyde’s daughter.”

  “What is all this about Herzeloyde? Why is she so important here?”

  “You’d have to know her. She’s known and admired by all throughout the North for her kindness and generosity. But then, she was like them—not Norman. You don’t know how fortunate you are, laddie.”

  Philippe’s jaw clenched grimly. Oh nay, he was not fortunate. If the girl were plain and meek, a woman he could mostly ignore, he might have some hope. But already he could tell, Leonie of Bosewood was on her way to becoming as much a legend as her mysterious mother, and the more Philippe saw of Leonie, the more he comprehended the elusive Herzeloyde. There was something in Leonie that called to mind the Norse legends of Valkyries, and ancient Celtic stories of warrior women like Queen Boadicea, who led her people against the Romans. Something told him Leonie could be such a leader of men. He had to laugh at himself that only a few weeks before he had considered her little more than a child.

  He watched her as she worked with the other women, women so common they might never have come close to a lady, yet she wielded her broom as deftly and purposefully as they. She was taller than every other woman he had ever seen, a full head and shoulders over any of these, slender as a reed, yet curved the way a comely woman ought to be. She was too busy now to remember to be haughty, but the way she strode made the hem of her kirtle wrap around her legs as she walked.

  His shaft grew suddenly hard, and he had the sinking feeling she was a woman he would more than admire. But he must not. Somehow he must keep his heart in check or he would doom her. As well as his shaft, which he knew all too well would lead his heart astray.

  He turned the conversation back to de Mowbray’s last words and the question left unanswered.

  “You can’t convince me you don’t know Herzeloyde lives. I hear it in your words even though that is not what you say.”

  “Is it? Haps it’s a spirit that will not fade from men’s hearts and minds. But don’t you dwell on such things. You have another task. You must marry the lass quickly before Fulk finds another way to wrest her from you.”

  “Would it make a difference? He could simply kill me and make her a widow. Aye, we’ll do it quickly. I promised Rufus. It’s a shame, though, she cannot have at least a decent wedding feast. If we’d had the time to go to my manor in Sussex, or one of her properties, or even return to Brodin, there could have been a fine wedding and feast. But here we have nothing, and no time to get it.”

  “’Tis what must be.”

  “Aye. Still, I remember my first wife, Joceline, telling me it’s every maiden’s dream to have a wedding worth remembering. Leonie did not want this marriage, but that does not stop her from doing what she must for people she has not seen since she was a babe. She deserves at least a feast, but I cannot give her even that much.”

  “My lord,” said Hugh’s voice behind him. A grey-bearded man in a plain brown tunic approached in Hugh’s company. From the looks of him, not a man of wealth, but one of some importance. Philippe summoned the man forward with a nod.

  “Forgive me, my lord, I dinna mean to hear what is not mine to hear.”

  “This is Cyne, Peregrine,” said de Mowbray. “Once a thane in times past, before we Normans came to make a fine mess of his life.”

  Philippe nodded his acceptance of the man, wary all the same. Very few of the old Saxon thanes had been allowed to live, even in poverty.

  Cyne bowed low, and Philippe quickly formed his opinion. He did not seem to be a man who harbored a hatred for all Normans. But it was not wise to forget the fate of the two previous castellans of Bosewood.

  “Lord,” said the man, his eyes properly downcast, “our village is poor. We cannot give much, but we can give a wedding feast. We have food, though it is simple fare, and we can dance and sing to the pipes.”

  Philippe’s mind leaped eagerly to the picture of the villagers caroling hand in hand, a long line weaving through the village to the sound of bagpipes, circling a bonfire against the dark sky, and all the way back up the hill to the castle. He’d seen it, and it was a thrilling sight.

  He arched his brows. “Why would you do that?”

  “’Tis your due, lord. ’Tis for Herzeloyde’s daughter and her lord.”

  Philippe glanced at Hugh, whose eyebrows rose expectantly. He turned to de Mowbray, whose eyes gleamed in that way that made Philippe wonder if the man was from Hell or Heaven. Nay, though, not from Heaven. Of that much he was sure.

  Philippe turned back to survey the incomplete stone curtain wall, judging the efforts Hugh and his men had made to bridge its gaps with timbers. “You’ve done well already, Hugh. Will the timber walls hold?”

  “If we’re lucky. Fire would bring it down.”

  “I have an idea on that. We’ll turn the weakness into a trap. But we’ll do that tomorrow. For now,” he said, his thoughts going gleefully shrewd, “let us plan a wedding. And let us do one thing more—make it a surprise.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LEONIE GROANED AS she stood. She’d been on her knees, chiseling some unknown substance off the flagstone floor, and her back must surely hurt more straightening it than it had being bent. At the ching-ching sound of mail, she looked up to see the Earl of Northumbria crossing the hall to where she stood.

  “Lord Northumbria,” she said with a small nod, for even her neck hurt.

  “Lady Leonie,” he said, almos
t with a smile, which she could tell only by the way his great black mustache broadened slightly. “’Tis the first time in years Bosewood’s floor has been seen by the eyes of man. You’ll make a fine hall of this yet.”

  She rubbed the small of her back, although the ache was already beginning to dull. “We have cleaned out the solar and unloaded the dowry wagons. Haps by tomorrow the odor will go away and the bed can be put back, with the feather bed my uncle had the fine foresight to send. At least the kitchen is usable. Naught but the table is salvageable in the hall, I’m afraid. Some of the benches are so rickety I would not dare to sit on them.”

  “Don’t worry tonight, lass. ’Tis time to prepare yourself for your wedding. The Peregrine says he wishes you to wear your pretty green kirtle and have your hair done in long curls like you did at your uncle’s feast at Brodin.”

  She sniffed. Now he wanted her hair in ringlets? “There’s no time for that. There’s too much to do if we are to have a table for our supper and a hall to bed down for the night.”

  “Nay, lass, the wedding’s to be this day. You won’t be safe from Fulk until you are wed.”

  “As if a wedding would stop him. Haps I’ll just send an arrow to nail his randy shaft to his hide.”

  “’Twould not be a ladylike thing to do, lass.”

  “Indeed not. But then, have you men not already decided I am no lady?”

  “Now, lass, you mustn’t blame the man for worrying about your safety. You don’t have much time, so go and dress. I’ll be waiting here to take you to the church porch.”

  Leonie exhaled a long, hard sigh, and with a hurried motion at Ealga, walked to the solar.

  Despite all their work, the smells of old sweat, smoke, and rotten food still permeated everything, even the walls. The Peregrine was right, they ought to burn it down. But she was not ready to give it up just yet.

  A pail of clear water sat on a stool, and Leonie lavished the cool water over her face and body. It felt like the greatest luxury on earth. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she was going to wash her hair, an even greater pleasure, now that Ealga was here to help her.