by Lisa Hendrix
Steinarr felt something hard press into his palm and glanced down to find himself holding the medallion that Guy had been thumbing. No, not a medallion. “A coin of gold? ”
Guy nodded. “A new sort, called a florin, for the city in which it is struck. Pure gold, and worth a mark in silver. Take it as surety for your good work. You will have the rest when I have my cousin.”
Steinarr tested the coin with his teeth, and satisfied by the metal’s softness, dropped the coin into his purse. “’Twill be a pleasure to ride for you, my lord. You say your cousin and this le Chape set out to follow the riddles your uncle left. Do you know which way they went?”
“Only most roughly. A servant followed them some way, out of concern for my cousin. Before they eluded him, he heard them ask about a certain Lady Well.”
“A Lady Well?” Steinarr glanced sharply at Guy. “Which one? ”
“If I knew that, I would fetch her back myself. I only know they were headed into Nottinghamshire. That is why I came here. They were last rumored to be in the company of an old man in a cart, but all three seem to have vanished.”
“Have they? ” No. It couldn’t be. Or could it? “What do these two look like? ”
“Robert is thin and red-haired, perhaps a half-a-hand taller than I. He often wears a green hood, thus his byname. His chin bears a scar. Here.” Sir Guy touched his chin, drawing a slant down in a place that matched the mark beneath a certain young pilgrim’s wisp of a beard. “My cousin stands as much shorter than me as Robert does taller. She is as fair as they come, with a mouth like ripe strawberries and hair the color of spun gold.”
An odd way of describing a cousin, Steinarr thought, but such a good portrait of the maid he knew as Marian that he could see her and taste those strawberry red lips. Still … “Are either of them called by other names? They, um, may use them to hide their passage.”
Guy stroked the underside of his chin with one finger. “I have heard Matilda call the scoundrel Robin. And she is sometimes called Maud by familiars, of course.”
Of course. Maud was short for Matilda, like that would-be queen of theirs back a century or two, the mother of the second Henry. He should have remembered that—the incessant battles between Matilda and King Stephen had made it all but impossible to find a quiet patch of forest. That had been one of the times he’d tried Scotland.
And the maid was noble. That explained much.
’Twas all he could do to keep from grinning. He knew exactly where she was, she and the orphan thief who pretended to be her cousin. But did he want to find her, when he’d gone to so much trouble to be rid of her? And what about young Robin? He had little use for the lad—less now that he knew what mischief he was up to—but did he really want to kill him for this popinjay?
But Sir Guy was already at the door, calling for a page to let Lord Gervase know that their business was concluded. He turned back to Steinarr. “A month, la Roche. No more.”
Steinarr hesitated. He wanted out of this already, or at least a part of him did. The other part wanted the excuse to track down Marian, to see if he was right about what he thought he’d seen in her eyes when he’d kissed her. Not that either part mattered a whit; he had given his word. Even if he had not already shaken hands and accepted money, his word was enough to bind him to the task. He would find Marian—Matilda—Maud—and return her to her home and her true cousin, who would take her father’s place in seeing her well wed. And he would deal with the treacherous Robin, who was likely seducing her this very hour. The thought of the puppy between her thighs made the idea of killing him sit much easier.
“A month, my lord.” He bowed slightly to his new employer and took his leave.
Lord Gervase was speaking to the steward at the bottom of the stairway. He looked up as Steinarr trotted down. “Is all … arranged? ”
“It is, my lord.”
“Good hunting to you, then.”
Steinarr bowed once more and left the hall, crossing directly to the squat building where he had collected his reward earlier. He showed the gold piece to the clerk. “Is this real money?”
“A florin.” The clerk peered at the coin, confirming the marks and examining the edges for clipping, then bit it the same way Steinarr had and checked to see how deeply his tooth had marked the metal. “These are yet rare in this part of England, but ’tis real enough. How do you come to have one? ”
Steinarr ignored the question. “How much is it worth in silver?”
“Thirteen shillings,” said the man without hesitation.
“I was told a full mark.”
“Aye. But if you want the silver today …”
“Lord Gervase wants his due, eh?” asked Steinarr. The clerk lifted his hands to show his helplessness in the situation, and Steinarr plucked the coin off his palm. “I’ll let him steal four pence from me on another day. This is easier to carry.”
He sauntered toward the gate, tossing the florin in the air a few times just to watch the flash of gold. It had been an age since he’d had his hands on gold in any form, and the weight and warmth of it conjured up memories of the old days. He would hang on to this bit as long as he could—and with another nine pounds and a third part of a tenth yet to come, that might be a good, long while. He shoved it to the bottom of his purse.
The whore was still there, fingering the ends of her laces as she watched the passing crowd, but next to the possibility of even one afternoon with Marian, she was as appealing as a moldy piece of bread. Steinarr started forward, intending to toss her a farthing to make up for the time she’d spent waiting for him, but as he crossed the road, two men called to her from the seat of a passing cart. The woman looked them up and down and called back, “Three pence for both.” The men leapt to the ground, the nearer one reaching for his purse. As they reached the doorway, the whore finally noticed Steinarr. With a grin, she took the coins the men handed her, mouthed Later, then turned with a flip of her braids and led the fellows inside.
As the door swung shut, Steinarr burst into laughter. Two men on one woman? He found far more delight in two women on one man, but to each his own vice. There was a farthing saved.
He made his purchases quickly, buying some good hunting points and the two thickest, sturdiest saddle pads he could find, and then headed a street over for stores: two loaves of good bread and a week’s worth of the common sort, two bags of oats for the horses and for eating, two fat cheeses dipped in wax—one each for him and Torvald—and a small flitch of well-cured bacon. For that last, he spent the coin he’d intended to give to the whore, deciding it would be good not to have to hunt for meat while he was running down Marian and Robin. Pleased with the prices he paid, he toted everything back to where the horses waited patiently in the castle foreyard.
As Steinarr swapped the new pads for the old and reloaded the animals, he considered the pledge he’d made to Sir Guy, reviewing the exact words they had used. No, nothing about returning Marian a virgin—likely because Gisburne suspected she had already given her maidenhead to Robin. Steinarr once more frowned at the thought.
It would take him two days, perhaps three, to find her. He could figure out some way to be rid of the boy, then lure Marian to some woodland bower and spend the rest of the month peeling away her defenses and her clothes. And at the end of it, he would return her to Huntingdon to be married, and any babe he happened to put in her belly would be taken for either Robert le Chape’s or her husband’s.
If there was a better way to earn ten pounds, he could not imagine it.
There was only one problem—the nights. Torvald would be there to keep her safe from the lion, of course, but Torvald was as much in need of a woman as he, and Marian would be a temptation. Steinarr looked at the stallion thoughtfully. He would have to leave a message anyway, explaining what they were up to and why. He would simply let Torvald know that he had more personal plans for Marian and remind him that there would be plenty of money for women afterward. As for tonight …
&n
bsp; “Don’t worry. I kept back coin enough for you,” he said under his breath in Norse as he checked the stallion’s girth strap. “We will stop close enough to town for you to come back. There’s even some for a jar of ale afterward.”
That would hold him. Steinarr flipped the stirrup back down and mounted up. As he rode toward the gate, he saw Sir Guy and the sheriff watching from the window of the solar and gave them a nod. In the street, he turned toward the east gate of the city, riding past the whore, who was now back out on the street looking for business.
He didn’t give her another thought.
THE WATERS OF the Well of Wyrd were stirring once more.
Even now, so weak and locked away behind these stone walls, Cwen could sense the dark eddies beneath the movements of the world of man. She had been unsure of them at first, but the currents had grown stronger over the last weeks, and now, with the moon hanging dark in the sky outside her cell, she felt them sweeping her forward.
The time neared.
She sat on the edge of the hard cot and slowly unbraided her hair. Loosed, it rippled around her shoulders in waves, still dark and rich. She raked through it with her fingers, the luxury of a comb being forbidden in this place. Long hair was forbidden as well; her head was shaved clean every few months. But it took such small magic to regrow it that she had worked the simple charm in order to honor the Dark Ones with unbound hair when she supplicated herself to them.
Her hair smoothed, she stood and quickly stripped away the thin kirtle she wore at night, then unwrapped the linen bandage that bound her chest. Her bare skin felt strange, so seldom was she able to undress completely. She examined her body in the light of the single candle.
Still young, of course, but thin. Far too thin. And that scar.
She touched the spot, tentatively probing the angry red lesion. It ached, and her fingertips came away damp, for even after all these years, the wound she’d taken the last time she’d encountered the Northmen still wept, unhealed.
Cwen grimaced at the remembered pain. There had been too much goddess magic with them, much more than she’d expected. She had barely escaped, using every scrap of power in her to vanish into mist. When at last she’d been able to gather her body back into its physical form, she had been wounded and feeble. She’d wandered England, slowly making her way south until she stumbled into a place like this one. There she had taken shelter, but by then the wound had festered, and though shielded from death by the magic she’d worked so long ago, she spent years recovering.
Too many years. By then, they were beyond her reach: the eagle, his lady, and even the girl-child she had so coveted. All gone, except her.
And them, of course. The bear, the raven, and the other beasts.
They still hunted her, as they hunted their tokens, and she had too little strength to fight them. So she moved from cell to narrow cell, secreted away where they would never think to look. Generations passed outside the gray stone walls that sheltered and imprisoned her, and still she did not fully heal. But now the waters of Wyrd called to her, and healed or not, it was time to invoke the gods and see if they would deign help her at last.
She found the loose stone in the corner of her cell and wiggled it free so she could remove the items hidden in the space behind it. She fingered each object in turn before laying them out in a circle on the floor. A wand, cut at sunrise from a yearling holly. The feather of a black swan. A knife of purest steel. A cord of flax, never tied. A skull stolen from the crypt. Four stones, white, red, yellow, and black. Twigs of rowan and ash and willow. Root of bryony, harvested on a Monday and wrapped in a piece of a dead man’s winding sheet. She had begun to gather these things long ago, even before she’d sensed the coming confluence. It had taken her years to bring together the forbidden items, but she had, to ensure they would be here when she finally needed them.
She reached once more into the wall to pull out the final item, a gold-chased chalice, stolen from the chapel just for tonight. The boy accused of the theft had paid with his skin, taking thirty lashes, but his blood had been an honor to the gods even if he did not know it. She set it in place.
All was in readiness. Smiling, she turned to open the shutter that blocked her window.
Chill night air washed over her bare skin and she sighed with pleasure. It was always so airless within these walls. Even in the garden, she found it hard to breathe. She stood there for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the breeze cleanse her of the taint of this place. She hated it, despite the sanctuary it provided. She hated that she needed sanctuary. She was Cwen. Kings had once bowed to her and begged for the honor of her protection, and now she was reduced to this.
But perhaps no longer, if the Old Ones saw she was ready again.
She stepped into the center of the circle, and took up her knife. A quick slice laid her hand open, and she held it out to stream blood into the chalice. When she had enough, she began to weave the spell. Stone, knife, cord, bone, wood, blood, root. They all worked together as she called to the gods. The power rose, dancing over her skin like lightning.
But the gods failed to answer. She spilled more blood, poured her will into the gathering magic to show them, to prove to them she was worthy. The stars spun in the heavens outside her window, marking the passing hours, and still she worked. The darkness began to fade, and still she conjured.
“A sign, Old Ones,” she begged into the vanishing night, her wounded body sagging with the effort of stirring so much magic. “I have been and will be your faithful servant. Help me regain the power I once held in your name. Show me you will aid me.”
Finally, as the sky lightened more and still there was no sign, she admitted defeat. There would be no sign, not tonight.
Working swiftly and silently lest the others wake early and hear her, she cleared her tools from the floor and returned them to the hollow in the wall. The stone went back into its place with barely a scrape, and she rebound her chest and slipped back into the discarded kirtle.
She had just finished rebraiding her hair when the bells pealed the approaching dawn. As she had every sunrise for years, she began to dress, drawing on the heavy robes and swathing her head in the wimple that hid her too-long hair. The robes were black, the color of the Old Ones—strange, when the god these Christians worshipped was so new and weak, but she was glad that at least her garments honored her own. She tied the heavy rope around her waist, hung the cross about her neck, and went down with the other nuns to pray.
CHAPTER 4
THE COLLIERS MADE camp outside Retford in a misting rain, but by the time they set out the next morning, the weather had once again cleared. Fortunately for Matilda and Robert, the route to the abbey lands beyond Headon took the little train of oxcarts right past the Lady Well that was their goal.
Unfortunately, Hamo took a liking to the well’s sweet water and decided they must empty all their water barrels and refill them. Watching them dumping and filling, bucket by bucket, Matilda began to fear they might decide to make camp right there for the night. Not that she would fault them. The wayside was fair and flat, and the glade a soothing place, with the spring bubbling up at the foot of a bramble-covered hillock.
However, she and Robert couldn’t do what they needed to do with a score of colliers watching, so it was a relief when, as Robert helped James hoist the last barrel into his cart, Hamo began bellowing for everyone to load up.
“Are you certain you will not come with us?” asked Hamo, as he mounted the fat little pony that usually trailed behind his wagon. “We can always use the extra hands. And Osbert has taken a fancy to Marian. Stay with us and there’ll be a wedding, I wager.”
“’Tis tempting to throw our lot in with such good companions,” said Robert, his eyes twinkling as he shot Matilda a sidelong glance.
“But no,” she added firmly. Widowed Osbert was fat and bald and as coal-blackened as his cousin, and he had a dozen children for which he needed a mother—though even Osbert and his litter would be
less insufferable than what awaited her if this adventure did not succeed. “We have our journey to complete, and our pilgrims’ pledge to fulfill before all else. Come, Robin. We owe prayers here at this shrine before we find our beds tonight.”
Hamo had already recommended they seek shelter in Headon. Now he said, “We go now to the manor to ask the steward where he wishes us to cut. If ’tis close, we will go ahead and may not see you again, but I will tell him you are coming and say you are under Lord Matthew’s protection. He will give you bed and board. If you change your minds, come find us. You will always be welcome in my camp.”
“As all of you will be welcome in whatever home I have,” said Robert. He let Matilda say her good-byes and thanks, then, as she moved off to kneel before the little shrine next to the well, he reached up to shake Hamo’s hand. “Our thanks for your kindness and protection, Hamo Collier.”
“Travel safely, young pilgrims,” said Hamo. He whistled sharply and watched as the oxen plodded off with much creaking of wheels and cracking of whips, then turned his pony after them.
Robert waved them away, and then came over to stand behind Matilda. “What are you doing? ”
“Praying, Cousin,” she said. “Kneel with me.”
“But we aren’t—”
“They can still see you. Kneel.”
“Sometimes you worry me, Maud. You lie too easily.”
“Marian. Blast it, Robin, kneel!”
He did, but he looked uncomfortable. “It feels like a sin, to pretend to pray, and at a Holy well.”
“Then do not pretend. We owe a prayer for the benevolence of Lord Matthew and his lady.”
“Aye, we do,” said Robert, sounding happier. He crossed himself and closed his eyes, and as his lips began to move, Matilda followed suit. The rumbling of the oxcarts slowly faded as they prayed, and by the time Matilda crossed herself and rose, the last cart was disappearing around the bend.