Wings of the Storm

by Susan Sizemore

  There was a deafening crash as one of the merchant carts was turned on its side. Several of the outlaws began pawing through the remains. A woman cried out as she was pulled to the ground. The air was filled with screams and begging and the iron smell of blood. The last of the guards went down with a trio of arrows in his stomach. Jane saw a flash of red hair and Berthild's flailing arms and legs as the girl was

  grabbed around the waist by a big man with filthy yellow braids. She started to run forward to help the girl but was cut off by a pair of leering outlaws, both with daggers clutched in bloodstained hands. She registered greasy hair, grime-encrusted features, hungry, pitiless eyes.

  One of the men lunged forward to grab her, and Jane danced backward out of his reach. The other moved closer. She threw the heavy blue pot in her hands at his head. She turned and ran, hearing a crash and cry behind her. She also heard the other one hot on her heels.

  She ran up the hill, her heart racing/her fear laced with revulsion as she caught the heavy reeking odor of the man so close behind her. Her legs pumped. Suddenly every steep step of the hill track seemed unfamiliar, the footing uncertain. She gave one quick glance up at the castle, caught a glimpse of the gate. There were castle men there, guarding the entrance and helping the steady stream of visitors inside. Archers were perched up on the wall, ready to shoot at any invader coming too near. She caught a flash of peach and gold: Sibelle was up on the wall with a bow, ready to defend her land and people.

  Jane ran harder, hoping to get within arrowshot of the castle before the man behind her dragged her down. She felt the rush of air as he reached for her. She ran harder, feeling her breath sobbing, her ribs and calf muscles aching from the effort at speed.

  She felt the man's breath. He laughed in her ear. So close. His hands grabbed again, snatching a handful of silk, pulling her backward, pushing her down.

  She writhed on the ground beneath him, frantic to get away. She tore and clawed and kicked, actions driven by blind panic. He laughed. Laughed and brought his filthy mouth down hungrily on hers. She screamed and tasted blood from her own cut lips. He held her down, ripping away her silken dress. His hands moved obscenely over her half-naked body.

  She prayed and cursed as his laughter and grunting sounded in her ears. Her head pounded and the earth beneath her pounded, shaking like the strong hoof-beats of a charging horse.

  The outlaw's hand moved roughly between her legs, prying them brutally.apart. She opened her mouth and screamed again, continuing to scream as the man was pulled backward. Off her and onto the ground.

  The outlaw lunged forward with his dagger. A booted foot kicked it out of his hand. Jane climbed to her knees. Her eyes registered chain mail, an arrogant, hawk-nosed face beneath a conical iron helmet. Chain mail. A sword held tightly in a large gloved hand. A gray horse breathing heavily somewhere in the background. Daffyd ap Bleddyn.

  The outlaw sprang up off the ground, attacking the knight barehanded. Daffyd ap Bleddyn, his face cold as death, smiled just a little and gutted him.

  The man died holding his insides in his hands. Daffyd turned to her without a backward glance at the man he'd killed.

  14

  Jane was on her hands and knees, retching uncontrollably, when Daffyd ap Bleddyn reached her. She looked up at him. The horrible smile was gone, but his eyes as they swept over her were hard and intense. He had put away his sword and was reaching for her with gloved hands.

  She screamed and slithered backward, still on hands and knees. "Don't touch me!"

  He came closer. She tried to rise, tripped on her torn skirt, and rolled farther down the hill.

  She had to get up! She wasn't that far from the gate. She had to run before he touched her. But her limbs wouldn't obey her. There was a sharp pain in her side. She clutched at it, trying once more to find her feet. She made it this time. She struggled to run up the rutted hill track.

  The gray horse loomed up in front of her, its dangerous hooves flashing near her head as she stumbled, almost falling into the animal's path. She screamed, just barely recovering her balance. The horse was too close. The man's shadow fell over her. He leaned from the saddle, reaching with a muscular arm. He grabbed her around the waist, hauling her up before him.

  Jane tried to pull away, but she was quickly pressed to his chest, her arms pinioned. He said something. The words were soft but they were just sounds to her, drowned out by the screams and laughter filling her mind. He smelled of blood. Her bare flesh was pressed to unyielding armor. She squeezed her eyes shut, all fight going out of her. He held her tightly, urging the horse forward. She held on, her fingers digging into the heavy iron mesh covering his shoulders, sobs shaking her.

  There was more shouting, and the sound of running feet. Jane ducked her head lower, trying to hide, to curl up into a tiny ball. But she was caught in the man's iron grip. There were more hands, and voices. She was pried away from the man and lowered to the ground. So many hands touching her!

  "How badly is she hurt?"

  "I don't know! She's hysterical. Someone get her inside!"

  "Did the bastard ...?"

  "He didn't have the time. Care for her. What about the others?"

  "Where were you and your men? This wouldn't have happened if you—"

  "We were stopped on the road by a messenger from the king. I'm sorry. My men are still chasing the bastards. I've got to go."

  There was a loud clattering of hooves. Many voices surrounded her, some warm and soothing. Jane latched on to the comforting sounds. She was

  wrapped in some rough cloth, helped to walk. There were stairs, then a bed. Wonderfully cool, wet cloths washed her. A cup was held to her lips; its warm contents smelled of chamomile.

  jane opened her eyes, recognized Switha bending toward her, holding the cup to her lips. Beyond Switha was Sibelle. Marguerite stood gravely in the doorway, the alcove curtain held back with one hand.

  "Berthild?" Jane asked.

  Switha just shook her head. A look passed between her and Sibelle. "Drink," the wisewoman urged.

  Jane opened her mouth and gulped the liquid down. She dropped her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes once more.

  When she woke it was night, but a lamp had been left burning, placed on a small upturned wine cask. The familiar weighty warmth of the dogs surrounded her feet. The panic was gone. She knew she could think if she wanted to. But she didn't want to think. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want anyone near her, either. She knew she never wanted to stir from what little safety this place offered. She hurt. She was bruised all over, outside and in. The whole world was tainted with fear.

  She didn't want to remember. She couldn't help but remember.

  In her memory it all happened slowly. Especially the laughter, and the screams both distant and her own. She fell asleep again to the memory of screams.

  She woke next at the sound of footsteps moving closer. She heard the chink of mail. Terror was like bile in her mouth as her hand flew under her pillow. The curtain was shoved aside. She kept her eyes on Daffyd ap Bleddyn as he walked softly into the room. His face wore the mask of a smile. She stiffened with fear, waiting without moving as he bent over her.

  Before he knew what was happening she had a handful of his soft, golden hair twisted in her fist. She pressed the sharp tip of her dagger into the unprotected flesh at the base of his exposed throat.

  "Don't touch me!" she hissed.

  The man lifted his hands out at his side. He spoke quietly, his deep chocolate-and-cream voice infinitely reasonable. "I won't touch you."

  He moved his head slowly, pulling against the pressure on his hair. He managed to bend his head far enough so they were gazing eye to eye. He ignored the dagger point even though a tiny line of blood trickled from the mark where it punctured his skin.

  "You don't have to be frightened," he reassured her. "The man who hurt you is dead."

  "I've had enough," she told him. "I want to go home."

  "You
can't," he said. "Jerusalem's a very long way away. You're safe now. Safe here. This is your home, Jehane."

  He couldn't understand.

  "What are you doing here?" He wasn't going to touch her. She wasn't going to let any man touch her. Never again.

  "I was concerned, my lady. I wanted to make sure you were all right. You're obviously still upset."

  She almost laughed. How could she possibly ever laugh again? But it was funny to hear a man she was holding at knifepoint calmly tell her she was "upset."

  "Yes. Smile," he urged. "It's good for you."

  She hadn't seen his hands moving, very slowly.

  She'd been looking into his eyes. Strong fingers suddenly clamped onto her wrist, pulling it down and away. A quick twist and the knife was in his hand now. Daffyd jerked his head back, freeing his hair from her loosened grip.

  He stood and handed the dagger to her, hilt first. "Very wise to keep this within reach," he commended her. He touched his throat. "But I prefer some small expression of gratitude to a death threat." It was a gently spoken, though sardonic, reminder that he'd saved her life.

  Jane's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She wasn't sure she had anything to be grateful about.

  "It's all right," he soothed from the distance of the doorway. "You're not ready to talk to anyone yet. The man who attacked you," he went on anyway, "was named Pwyll. One of the leaders of the outlaws."

  "I don't want to know his name!"

  She didn't want to give that animal an identity. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to think. Pwyll. She'd heard many stories about Pwyll since arriving at Passfair. The peasants feared him more than they did Sikes, the outlaw leader. Pwyll's temper was unpredictable. He preferred torture and killing to simple robbery. It was said he hated the Normans for killing his own wife and children, that he had a reason for hating.

  He'd so enjoyed taking his hatred out on her.

  Her stomach lurched painfully. The drink Switha had made her swallow came up out of her stomach. Daffyd was holding her head when she stopped vomiting. He wiped her mouth with a cloth.

  "It's all right," he soothed. "You're strong, Jehane. You're going to be all right. You're never going to be quite the same, but you will be all right." He moved back by the doorway.

  She was beginning to feel something other than fear and the memory of fear. Remembering the stories about Pwyll reminded her of the people who'd told them to her. "The village?" she asked. "How many were hurt?"

  "The five guards were killed, two others besides." "I'm sorry."

  "The merchants lost most of their goods. I don't think there'll be a fair here next year."

  "What happened to Berthild?" she wanted to know. "My maid," she added in case he didn't know the serving woman's name.

  "Switha's sister?" He gave a curt shake of his head. "They took her with them."

  "No. Oh, no." The words came out a tired whisper. "You have to find her."

  Daffyd ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair. He looked tired. "When I find their camp, I'll find her. I hope. But I can't mount a massive search for one peasant woman. If I could ..." He gave a fatalistic shrug. "That's not the way the world is run, Lady Jehane."

  "You won't look for her?"

  "It's no use."

  His flat-out refusal infuriated her. No, of course that wasn't the way the world worked. He wouldn't do anything. She couldn't. Chatelaine she might be, but DeCorte would laugh at her if she tried to get his men to search the forest for one village girl who'd been dragged off to serve the lusts of an outlaw band. What difference did it make? There were plenty more peasant girls where she came from.

  No one had any value if they weren't born into the noble class. Nobody cared about the life of one expendable peasant woman. She looked at Sir Daffyd with loathing, hating him and all his kind.

  She didn't argue. She wanted to, but she couldn't find any words. The ones she knew, like equality, and justice for all, might be known to him. But her meaning and his would not be the same. She wanted to shout and to rage and to defend Berthild's rights. But the man was an alien. Their minds simply couldn't touch. His comprehension was so different from hers that it might have been easier for her to communicate with a being from another galaxy. Too much time and change separated them.

  She didn't say anything to him. She just lay down and turned her back to the door. The dogs had gone away while she'd slept. She missed their warmth and companionship. She heard Daffyd as he stood in the doorway for a while, his breathing, the soft shooshing of surcoat rubbing against chain mail. She could almost feel his eyes studying her. She ignored everything. Eventually he went away. Yet when he was gone, she wanted to call him back.

  She sobbed into the pillow—crying for herself and Berthild, and the world she'd never see again and the world where she'd thought she could belong but never really could—until eventually she cried herself to sleep.

  15

  By dawn, Jane felt better. Or at least able to cope. She didn't want to be alone anymore. By mid-moming she worked up the courage to dress and step from the alcove to the storage room. She moved slowly, stiff with bruises. Her awareness was a fragile thing. She felt insubstantial as a soap bubble. Or trapped behind a wall of glass, perhaps.

  A woman who was not Berthild was waiting for her, seated patiently on the sleeping pallet. She stood when Jane came around the curtain. Jane ignored her. The woman dutifully followed her down to the hall.

  Sibelle came to her as she approached the hearth. The girl's face had changed since yesterday. There was more strength there than Jane remembered seeing before. She flinched as Sibelle's arms came around her but appreciated the warm embrace and returned it after a moment.

  "I was so worried," Sibelle told her. "But Switha said it was best to give you time alone. That you

  would come to us when you were ready."

  "Switha was right," Jane acknowledged tiredly.

  "You don't look well."

  "I'm better."

  Sibelle crossed herself. "At least you're alive. We buried the dead this morning." She gave a sad shake of her head, and her braids swung gently. "We're going to have to pray very hard for an increase in births to rebuild our hearts and our losses. Come." She lead Jane to a chair. "Rest today. I will deal with what has to be done."

  Jane didn't argue. She didn't care. Passfair could fall down around her ears and she wouldn't care. Her new servant brought some sewing and took a seat on the floor beside her. Bertram came in from the pantry. He and Sibelle went off together. Other people came and went about their duties. No one paid much attention to her. Jane watched, feeling as though she weren't really there. She tried to pretend she was back at the Time Search Project, observing with equipment that provided video instead of the energy readings she'd painstakingly learned to interpret.

  After several hours the hall began to seem small to her. It was a cloudy day outside, the light coming in the narrow windows above the table was thin and uneven. She found herself wanting to instruct the lights to turn on. Her lips twisted in a sour smile: in her up-to-date town house, talking to the appliances was standard operating procedure. Here telling the light to shine was blasphemy. Possibly witchcraft, if it actually worked. Or a miracle if the situation was politically correct.

  I want out. She squeezed her eyes shut hard in frustration, hands bunching into fists. I want out so bad!

  She'd been resigned. She'd been content. She'd played happy housekeeper and fairy godmother and fooled herself into thinking she belonged in this horrible place. Well, yesterday reality had reminded her of just what was really going on here. She wanted out.

  She got up and walked out of the hall.

  It was better in the open space of the courtyard. She stood on the castle steps, drinking in great gulps of mist-laden air. Much better. The cool breeze was reviving. The world out here was alive. Full of everyday sights and sounds. There was smoke coming from smithy and kitchen. Children were playing near the gate, lunging b
ack and forth, using sticks as swords. The goosegirl was chasing after her charges. They'd somehow strayed as far as the inner bailey this time. Her little brother was toddling after the geese while she kept calling for him and them to go home. It was nice to know the children were all right. It was good to hear their shouts and laughter. They were so alive.

  The adults she saw went more somberly about their duties, but no one seemed to be hiding away today but her.

  She walked away from the castle, down the hill to the village, passing guards patrolling near the gate. Along the way she deliberately stopped at the spot where she thought she'd been attacked. Rain had washed away any hint of bloodstains. She didn't want to know what had happened to the body. She did kick at a muddy clod of earth.

  "It's over," she told herself. "It happened. Don't let it haunt you. You can't let it haunt you if you're going to survive. The people here live with disaster, day in,

  day out. Maybe they're stronger than you. Leam from them."

  The feeling of being an observer lingered. She didn't know if or when it would fade. She knew there was nothing she could do but go on. So she straightened her spine, tried to put confidence in her walk, and went down into the village. She spoke to no one, disturbed none of the women working near the huts, but she was very glad to see them. Glad they were alive and unharmed. She made a quick tour of the village, then headed back up the hill.

  The guards at the outer gate were peering attentively into the distance as she finished the climb. "What?" she asked. Fear grabbed at her, but she pushed it back. Turning, she looked where one was pointing.

  "Riders," he said, though she could clearly see the line of horsemen from this vantage point. One of the men disappeared. A minute later Raoul DeCorte was at the gate, and a group of archers were on the platforms at the top of the wall. Jane was relieved to see the precautions being taken since yesterday's attack.

  Not that they mattered, of course. By now the big black stallion and tall, thin rider leading the line of horsemen were clearly recognizable. It seemed that without word, without warning. Sir Stephan DuVrai was coming home.