by Lisa Hendrix
“No more than I needed you. But it cannot be, Marian. I cannot share the nights with you, much as I would like. You said that the one morning was enough, if that was all I could give.”
“I lied. No, that is not true either. I meant it at the time, but I find myself wanting more than that. And you want it, too. I know you do.”
“Not at the expense of Robin’s title.”
“No, of course not. But if not the nights, when? Our days are full of riding and puzzles and this fool’s quest of my father’s.”
“Not every hour. The horses will need rest. We will need rest or cover from the weather, or there will be times when we simply can do no more for Robin just then and can steal a moment for ourselves.”
“But will we?”
He was grateful she was behind him, so she couldn’t see the way he struggled to keep himself off her in that very moment. Knowing how she felt, how she tasted … “Yes. Yes, we will. You have my vow on—”
“I need no vow. I can feel the truth in you. Here.” She reached around him to flatten one hand over his heart, forgiving him with that simple touch, and something in the center of him seemed to melt.
This woman. He wanted this woman, as his own. And not just for swiving. For laughter and peaceful fires and watching her sew and arguments and all of it. He closed his eyes as the futility of it crushed down on him. Please, Odin, he prayed silently. Let me have her heart for just a little. Let her care for me, even for a day, as much as I already care for her. Give me that one, brief comfort in all these years of torture.
“… patience,” she said.
He opened his eyes. “Your pardon. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“I said, all I need is a little patience.”
“Aye, patience is good.” It seemed he’d had nothing but patience for as long as he could remember. He hoped she had enough for both of them now, because he wasn’t certain how much more he could manage. Please, Odin. Please.
“Here is the road. I think we must risk it, at least for a few miles. We will go east, then take to the woods again to avoid Nottingham and Sudwell.”
“Whatever you say, my bounden knight.” She wrapped her arms more tightly around his waist and leaned her head against his back with a sigh. “I am in your hands.”
And in my heart, he thought to himself. And in my heart.
ARI MADE ANOTHER trip into Retford on the very next Saturday, not because Edith or Ivetta needed anything, but because he needed something. He found the tavern keeper good to his word and passed some time trading stories for drink before he approached the wench, thoughts of whom had lured him back. He found her good to her word as well: much as she might flirt and jest, she wanted more than a story for her favors. Coin changed hands, a quiet hayloft was found, and some while later Ari headed back to the charcoal camp wearing a smile and bearing the conviction that he had gotten good value for his money.
That sense of gratified well-being faded away as he approached the camp, however, and though he wasn’t certain why, by the time he rode into the clearing, his good mood had been replaced by a full measure of disquiet. He swung off the horse and handed the reins to the little boy who ran up to help.
“You can take that to Ivetta,” he told the child, pointing to a bag of pears hanging from the saddle horn. “But do not put the horse away, as I will be leaving soon. Where is Hamo?”
“There.” The boy pointed toward the ranks of sawn logs that were beginning to fill the first layer of the charcoal pit. “He will want to tell you that they took Robin.”
“What?”
“The nun and the reeve and some others came to take Robin back to Headon.”
“Pillocks.” He started toward the pit, bellowing for Hamo.
“ ‘Twas the prioress herself,” said the collier in answer to Ari’s demands for an explanation. “She said it was their duty to keep care of the boy, especially seeing as he was hurt on priory lands. Robin said he would rather stay here, but she would not have it, especially once she saw that he still had a bit of the squinacy. And how can a man argue with a prioress? Especially this prioress.”
“Why this one?”
“She’s a fearsome thing, stiff as a poker and hard as stone, and she has been at Kirklees forever and a day. She blew in here and swept poor Robin up and away like a leaf in a storm. ’Tis good she is of the Church or we would all be the worse for it.”
Ari’s gut twisted with concern, but the sun was dropping rapidly and he had little time to do anything more than worry and go off into the woods to spend the night hiding from owls. He wouldn’t even have time to get close enough to the manor that the raven could fly on to see that Robin was well.
“So will we see you in the morning, then, my lord?”
Ari shook his head. “I think I will visit Headon first. The reeve did not do well by Robin before. I want to see if this lady prioress has a kinder heart.”
“Kind is not a word I would use about this nun, my lord, but she will do better from obligation if not from her heart.”
“That will be enough. I just want to see it for myself.”
He took a few moments to down a bowl of pottage he begged off Edith, then prepared to leave.
“You are welcome to sleep here with us, my lord.” It had become habit for Hamo to offer, as it had become habit for Ari to say, “Perhaps another time. I will see you all tomorrow with word of Robin.”
He rode as far toward Headon as time permitted, passed the night avoiding owls, and went on to the manor as soon as he dressed, arriving at the village just as everyone filed in to Mass. Caught by the priest’s eye, he had to attend as well, taking a spot in the very back.
The prioress knelt at the front of the church, where all that could be seen was her black-clad back, stiff as the statue in the corner. Ari kept his eye on her all through the prayers and the priest’s rant about the sanctity of the tithe and never caught a glimpse of more than her hands. At the end of the service, when the others began to file out, he moved forward intending to greet her, but before he’d gone more than a pace or two, she said a few words to the priest, dropped back to her knees, and bowed her head.
“May I help you, my lord?” asked the priest.
“I wish to have a word with the prioress.”
“That is not possible, my lord. Mother Celestria said she wishes to spend an extended time in prayer. She will not speak with anyone until she finishes.”
“Mmm. Your pardon, then, Father.”
The reeve was setting up the next day’s work groups in the manor yard. Ari stood off to the side until the other men scattered to their homes, then a little longer as the man spoke with the stable master and smith.
At long last, the reeve turned toward him. “You’ll be wanting to see the lad.”
“Aye. I was surprised to learn you’d brought him back here.”
“ ‘Twas the lady prioress,” said the reeve, making it clear in those four words he would never have done it himself. “He is in the solar, set up like a little lord. He will never want to heal, for all the good food she gives him. Go on. He will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.”
Ari went upstairs and found Robin sitting propped up in one corner, eating a custard. He was so absorbed in watching a group of maids spinning in the far corner that he didn’t notice he had a visitor until Ari put his boot up on the edge of the cot. “I think the reeve is right.”
“Sir Ari! Good day, my lord. I hoped you would come. Prioress Celestria carried me away before I could say good-bye.” Robin’s eyebrows drew together. “Right about what?”
“That you will never want to leave for the good food and care.” Ari surveyed his situation and was pleased: this new mattress smelled of fresh hay instead of soured sweat and mold, and Robin’s injured leg sported new splints bound with clean bandages. Perhaps this was a good thing for the boy after all. “How are you doing?”
“Well, my lord. The journey back was far more pleasant than the journey out.”
“No doubt, as is the vista here.” Ari looked pointedly at the spinsters, some of whom were quite fair. “The colliers are good folk, but they have not a maid among them, much less a maid like that sweet one in the red.”
Robin laughed. “True enough, but even she could not keep me here if my leg were healed.”
“You want to stay, then?”
“In truth, my lord, no. But I feel bad at the colliers’. They are poor folk and every bite I eat comes from one of them.”
Ari held his finger up to his lips to shush the boy and dropped his own voice so the spinsters wouldn’t hear. “You are poor, too, Robin. Remember that.”
After his conversation with Steinarr in Retford, Ari had let Robin know that the truth was out. The lad’s relief would have been almost comical, if not for the sudden willingness to talk it had brought on. It had been a trick to keep him from revealing all before the colliers in those first moments.
The risk here would be far greater, what with the nun and her companions, plus whatever travelers passed through—any of whom might be connected with Sir Guy. After checking to make certain the women in the corner were too busy talking to listen, Ari gave Robin some very terse and precise instructions about keeping his identity a secret.
“Most of all, think first. Here.” He tapped the side of his head, then pointed to his mouth. “And then here. Not the other way around.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And your cousin’s name?”
“Marian.”
“Always, and without fail. This is for her sake, as well as yours. There are too many mouths here, and twice as many ears. You do not want someone carrying tales that would lead Guy to her. Or to you.”
Robin’s face went somber. “No, my lord. I will be careful.”
“Good. I see a morris board. Let us have a game, and you can practice your peasant wiles with me while I wait for your prioress.”
“That would be most welcome, my lord. Fair as the view is, just sitting is tiresome. And the prioress doesn’t want me carving spoons here in the bed.”
“And no wonder,” said Ari. “Patience. You will be up and around in a few days.”
They played several games, but the prioress never came. Ari finally had to bid the boy farewell and leave him to his dinner—far better than his own, no doubt. As he rode out of Headon, a quick stop at the church found the devout prioress still on her knees, head bowed. Ari cleared his throat, hoping she would say her amen and give him a few moments, but the woman was so lost in her meditations, she never so much as flinched.
Thwarted, Ari left the church and set off. His gut still niggled at him, though, and he hadn’t ridden far before he realized it wasn’t going to go away. He needed to find out what was beneath this uneasiness, and unfortunately, he only knew one way.
Pillocks. The very idea of calling a vision made his scarred palms sting with remembered knife cuts. It was bad enough when they came on their own, but the blood required to bribe the gods into speaking to him had more than once left him wishing he could die.
“It had better be good,” he said to the sky as he turned off the road, headed for a quiet pool he knew. “It had better be good.”
AT LAST.
Even for a woman accustomed to spending hours in prayer, this had been a long vigil—so long the priest himself had given up and wandered away to his dinner. Cwen rose slowly, her knees aching and sore from being on them so long. Unsteady, she made several circuits of the altar, using it to support herself as she worked out the stiffness. The raven had been with the boy far longer than she would have guessed, but she had outwaited him, unwilling to let him see her without magic to disguise her features.
Now, however, he was gone and she had ample time in which to work. She fingered the chased-gold chalice on the altar. If she hadn’t brought her stolen one from Kirklees, this would make a proper vessel for her sacrifice. She considered taking it anyway, just for the pleasure of seeing the raven blamed for the theft, but that was not her aim. She had grander plans.
With her legs feeling better, she walked back to the manor and enjoyed her dinner at the high table in the hall. A few words to a servant set things in motion, and a little later she climbed the stairs carrying a cup.
The boy lay sated and dozing after his own meal, but he roused as she entered. “Good day, Lady Mother. I hope your prayers went well.”
“They did. How are you, my child.”
“Even better than this morning, Lady Mother.”
“I think not,” she said. “Listen to that throat. It still aches, I think.”
“Only a little, Lady Mother. I talked a great deal while Sir Ari was here.”
“Still, I think you should be bled,” she said thoughtfully. “ ‘Twill clear the foulness from your veins. Neither your throat nor your leg will heal properly ’til that is done.”
The boy frowned. “I hate being bled.”
“We seldom like what is best for us. We must do it anyway. Here, I have brought you something to make it easier for you. Drink.”
He took the cup and sipped at it. Not long after, the door opened on two maidservants, one carrying a basin covered with a cloth, the other, a second basin and a ewer of steaming water. They set their burdens down on the little table beside the cot. The cloth was pulled aside to reveal a sharp blade and the hollow shaft of a feather, which could be used to keep the vein open.
“Close the shutter and pull the screen around the cot to block the draft,” directed Cwen. “He must be kept warm so that the blood flows.”
When all was arranged to her satisfaction, she sent the women away and barred the door before she carried the basins to the cot.
“It will not take long,” she said. Already sleepy, he looked away, and with a quick slash, she opened his arm with two parallel cuts and slipped the basin into place.
“Ow.”
“You bleed well,” she said as the basin began to fill. Such red blood. He was young and healthy—and a virgin, too, or so she’d decided from watching how he was with the maidservants. No matter. It was his connection to the raven she wanted, and to the cousin who had gone off with the lion. With some careful spell-casting, she could use that blood both to increase her powers and to see why the gods had brought her to Headon.
She bled him until he fainted away, then a little more, so he would stay asleep long enough for her to transfer most of the blood to a ewer she had set aside. She hid that ewer away in the triple-locked chest where her other magical tools rested, then mixed water with the remaining blood so it appeared to be more.
He looked so peaceful lying there, almost as though he were dead.
But not today. Today she only needed his blood.
His death would come later, when the time was ripe to do harm to the raven and the lion. And when it would most honor the gods.
TUXFORD SAT ON the ancient great road that ran from London to York. Every nobleman in England traveled that road at some point in his life, most passing through Tuxford on their way between estates, following the king’s court on progress, heading to London, or going off to battle. On any given day, dozens of England’s bravest knights and fairest ladies might pass through the town heading north or south.
And every single one of them, Steinarr now realized, was a danger to Marian.
In truth, they were no more dangerous now than they had been a week earlier when he and Marian had ridden south from Harworth, but that was before they’d run into Baldwin. Now he understood how many people could recognize Marian, how many might know her from visits to Huntingdon or Locksley or the great house in which she’d fostered, an understanding reinforced by the near disaster in Sudwell. Now he knew that every eye was a fresh threat. If he was going to carry her into the heart of another town, he was determined to reduce that danger as much as possible.
He left the rouncey in the care of a farmer in an outlying village. They could pick him up later, but a packhorse would slow them if they needed to make a quic
k escape. From the farmer’s wife, he borrowed a saffron-colored wimple that completely covered Marian’s hair and a good portion of her face and gave her a sallow, unhealthy look. Just before they rode into town, he had her smudge her lips with a bit of chalk to take away some of the red.
For his own part, Steinarr pulled on his deerskin cap to hide his hair and drew his cloak close around his shoulders. With nearly a sennight’s growth of beard, he looked even scruffier than usual, and that was good. Far fewer men knew him than would know Matilda Fitzwalter, but he wanted none of them taking note of his presence. Reports that he’d been seen riding the shire with a woman behind him might get back to Guy and the sheriff. Not only would it put them on his trail, it would draw them too close to Robin; Headon was only a few leagues north of Tuxford, through the woods.
“Keep your head down and your voice low,” he reminded Marian as they approached the edge of town. “And English only. No French. You sound too fine when you speak French. And pretend you cannot read.”
“Aye, my lord. I will be ware,” she said, uncommonly biddable—a sign, he hoped, that she recognized the danger, too.
What should have taken two days by the main roads had taken almost four by forest paths. The only blessing had been that the extra time in the saddle had given them more opportunity to talk through the riddle. And talk they had, grinding over and over the subject endlessly, sometimes serious, sometimes foolishly tossing ideas about. It had been late the day before that Marian had finally hit on a possible solution.
They had been once more discussing barleycorns and the ale and barrels and taverns they might hint at, when Marian had mused, “I wonder what sort of mill Tuxford has. Water or wind or ox.”
“Wind.” He remembered the first time he’d seen it, better than a hundred years earlier. He’d thought some fool had dragged a ship to the hilltop. It had turned out he was the fool. “And a small ox mill. The nearest water mill is a league off, on the River Maun.”
“What if the barley is not meant for ale? What if it is meant for flour and the other bits for parts of the mill: the stone, the wooden shaft—”