Wings of the Storm

by Susan Sizemore

  Sir Jonathan rose. He called, "Stephan?"

  Stephan's eyes left his lady's long enough to answer his friend. "Yes?"

  "I see you plan to exercise your conjugal rights before your wedding day."

  Both Sibelle and Stephan blushed to the roots of their hair, pink and pale skin going almost identically red. The hall filled with ribald laughter as the young couple exchanged a quick, furtive glance. Stephan's arm came protectively around the small girl's shoulder.

  "The lady is my betrothed," Stephan announced proudly. "I would wed her this moment if—"

  "Such haste is not possible," Jonathan cut him off. "As long as you honor the lady, I will be content. But

  I did promise Lord Guillaume and the baron to remind you of your duty." He bowed toward Sibelle.

  Stephan frowned at his friend but nodded. "I understand your concern, good Jonathan. I will make Lady Sibelle LeGauche my wife."

  He tilted her face up to gaze in her eyes.

  "Tonight," he said, loudly enough for all to hear, but obviously speaking only to Sibelle, "I will make you my lady love."

  Sibelle took Stephan by the hand, not the delicate touch of fingertips to wrist, but warm palm to warm palm. Smiling, shy but unafraid, she let him lead her up the stairs. They left to the sound of laughter and applause.

  Jane breathed a hearty sigh of relief as the noise died down. She, Marguerite, and Alais shared triumphant looks. She was also tempted to share high-fives with them but supposed the hand-slapping gesture would only confuse them.

  She rose from her chair, full of enough leftover benevolence to wish Sir Jonathan a sweet "Good night."

  "God go with you," he replied, also getting to his feet. "I think I will spend some time praying in the chapel before I find sleep. Would you join me. Lady Jehane?"

  Pray? Was it really prayer he was interested in? She eyed his pleasantly inquiring expression suspiciously. "I think not. Sir Jonathan. J say my evening prayers alone," she added.

  "Solitude is not a common practice in the abbey."

  "True," she agreed hastily, "but it is my habit, and will remain so until I may enter an abbey. Good night," she said again, and turned toward the stairs.

  Nikki and Vince joined her as she started up. She looked back to find Melisande stretched out on the rushes next to Michael. The boy had an arm thrown over her back. Her head was on his shoulder. Jane

  smiled at the dog and boy.

  "You take good care of him," she whispered to the dog. "Poor homesick thing. Looks like maybe he's the runt of the litter. Come on," she added to her canine companions, who bounded quickly after

  her.

  17

  Jane woke in the last stretch of darkness before dawn and lay on her back, eyes tracing the thick lines of rough wooden beams supporting the low ceiling. She knew she'd dreamed of Berthild, reliving the sight of the outlaw dragging the struggling girl away. She'd dreamed of other things, too. She didn't want to try to catch the disjointed images just waiting to jump up to bedevil her waking thoughts. Some of them managed to flit to the surface despite her efforts to ignore them. She'd dreamed of Daffyd ap Bleddyn. She'd often dreamed of Daffyd ap Bleddyn, but never before had he been holding a gun.

  The incongruity of the weapon he held on the would-be rapist in her dream was enough to take much of the horror from the situation for her. She couldn't help but see the dream image again: the half-clothed outlaw, the armored fighter holding out a weapon. Instead of a disemboweling sword stroke, a silent shot was fired. Then Daffyd ap Bleddyn blew on the smoking barrel of the gun and bolstered it in his sword sheath. It was completely ludicrous.

  It was just her technologically oriented subconscious trying to help her put the trauma in perspective, she told herself. It was just weird. You'd think she'd be more prone to a wake-up-screaming-with-rivers-of-sweat nightmare than to weird, almost funny, images. Still on her back, she shrugged.

  The movement reminded her she'd been bruised and mauled. Some of the marks were still sore. But whatever had happened to her, she recalled grimly, was nothing compared to what Berthild was going through. She wished there was something she could do to find her. Maybe she could talk to Sir Stephan. Get him to help Daffyd hunt down Sikes, perhaps.

  She rose from her bed, determined to talk to the young man as soon as possible. She should have thought of this yesterday, she chided herself sternly as she pulled on her shift. The servant was up and gone from the outer room already, but there was a bucket of water left for her. Jane bathed quickly, then finished dressing while chewing on a hazelwood twig. Sibelle had told her it was a Welsh trick for cleaning teeth taught to her by her granny Rosamunde. Jane was grateful to dear Granny Rosamunde for such helpful household hints.

  It was barely light when she came into the hall, but all the servants were up, ready to make the most of the longer hours of daylight. Sir Jonathan was seated at the high table alone, dipping his fingers into a bowl of cheese curds. He watched her come across the rushes, a welcoming smile lighting his square-jawed face. He gestured her to the seat beside him. It would have been rude to make a run

  for the open air of the courtyard.

  She settled onto the chair, bidding him, "Good day. Sir Jonathan."

  "God's blessing on you," he returned. "You don't look as if you slept well," he told her after studying her face for a few moments. "A lady as beautiful as you should never have to look so sad."

  Jane's lips twitched up shyly. "I slept well enough."

  "But for the dreams," he added for her. The look in his eyes was one of gentle understanding. She looked away, a knot tightening around her heart. "Stephan and his lady won't be joining us this morning, I don't imagine," he went on conversationally. He gave a low chuckle. "I'm glad now I came on this visit. Not that my hosts will be much company. You'll entertain me, I trust. Lady Jehane?"

  She turned back to him. "I'm not very entertaining," she answered stiffly. She didn't know if his words were meant as teasing or as ardent courtship. She didn't want to find out. "I have a great deal of work to do."

  "Stephan thinks you're especially clever," he went on, oblivious of her response. "And I agree. I've seen it myself. Look at how you managed with the maiden. The way Stephan dragged his heels back here, I was certain there would be no wedding for years. Yes, very clever," he repeated, sitting back on his chair and crossing his arms across the wide expanse of his chest. "But will you make a good nun?"

  She gave an exasperated sigh. "It is my only choice," she told him. "Therefore, I will make a good nun."

  "Stephan doesn't think so." He tilted his head to one side. "Looking at you, I think I might be inclined to agree. You're far too lovely to take the veil without any vocation."

  "I'm not lovely," Jane snapped. "Sibelle calls me an ugly giantess." And Daffyd . . . Daffyd doesn't. What was she thinking about Daffyd for? As if that arrogant pig's opinion mattered!

  Jonathan's eyes roamed gently over her form. Though he didn't touch her, she wanted to shudder

  and run away.

  "You are quite beautiful," he told her. "A slender form of graceful and proud carriage." She sat and listened with her fists balled into hard knots as he one by one described her features. "Eyes brown as peat and deep as the forest, with bark-brown hair to match, if those high arched brows are any indication. Such expressive eyes! So full of all the joys and pains of life. You have a woman's face and form, Jehane, not a girl's. So slender, yet so alluring, a tall, willow-woman's body. Your lips are wide and full, smiling easily. Lips to make a man wonder if they would open as generously beneath his touch as they open to give kind words and comfort. Your skin has a sun-ripened seductiveness. It looks so warm, so earthy. The fine, strong lines of your jaw and shadowed hollows of your cheeks speak of strength and vulnerability. You

  have great beauty, Jehane."

  Jane found herself gradually relaxing as his words reminded her of her femininity. He was reminding her of a part of her life she knew it was best to forg
et. She had to abandon the flesh. She wanted to. Didn't she? The flesh was too easily hurt. Too easily humiliated. Yet his words brought her no pain. She wasn't flattered. Or offended. She was just . . . reminded.

  She looked at him, a film of tears obscuring her

  vision slightly. "Why are you saying these things?"

  "Because I think it's wrong to enter the religious life without a vocation," was his answer.

  "It happens all the time!" she protested. "Unwanted women thrust into a life they don't want. It nearly happened to Sibelle. At least I am making a choice."

  "Without a vocation." He peered at her intently. "There is another honorable way to serve God, Jehane."

  "No! I don't want a husband," she snapped. He couldn't understand, but for some reason she wanted to tell him. Jonathan Citrom seemed to be the sort of man it was easy to confide in. So instead of telling him what she must do and why she must do it, she told him her plan instead.

  "I am going to found an order of nuns." It should be cloistered, walled aloofly away from the world, she knew. Instead she heard herself saying, making the decision even as the words came out, "A charitable order. One that will work among the victims of war. There's so much violence. I can't stop it, but perhaps I can help those who suffer from it." Perhaps it was wrong. She might do something to change history. But she was no longer so sure changing history was such a bad thing.

  "I commend your charitable spirit." His eyes looked thoughtfully into hers. "But are you sure you prefer good works to the secular joys of marriage and motherhood?"

  She pressed her lips together in a thin, tight line. After a few seconds of angry silence, she said, "I'm not going to marry you. No matter what Sir Stephan commands me to do. I'm not marrying you, or anyone. I'm going to be a nun."

  Far from being annoyed, or even shocked by her willfulness, Jonathan gave her a delighted smile. "Your obedience and humility, sister Jehane, are less than perfect. Don't worry, sweet Jehane," he added, patting the spot just beside where her right hand now rested flat on the splintered surface of the table, "I'm not here to marry you. I'm here to marry Stephan and Sibelle."

  She stared at him in confusion. "What? They're marrying each other."

  "Not without a priest they're not." His square face was wearing a very satisfied expression, amusement filling his bright blue eyes. "I," he concluded, "am a priest."

  She continued staring hard at him. She eyed his unfashionably short hair. "I don't see any tonsure."

  "I let it grow out on my travels." He put a finger to his lips. "Seems a bit more politic, times being what they are. Though my order has no quarrel with either your king or the archbishop who pronounced the excommunication."

  The man was a knight. He carried sword and shield openly. He looked every bit as hard and capable and deadly as Stephan or DeCorte or Daffyd ap Bleddyn. "What order?" she demanded.

  A glint of fervor showed for an instant in his blue eyes. His answer held both pride and modesty. "A brother of the Temple of Jerusalem. I think you know my order's reputation, being from the Holy Land yourself."

  "A Templar," she answered immediately. A Templar. A member of the greatest Western paramilitary force ever to wage holy war. One of the few, the proud, the fanatical, who took the term onward, Christian soldiers quite literally. Wow.

  He didn't seem like a fanatic. He seemed so genuinely nice as he watched her out of mild blue eyes. "A priest," she said. "You're a priest. A Templar priest."

  "I am a priest."

  "But what good will your being a priest do if you can't perform any of the sacraments?"

  His faint smile widened. "I told you my order has no place in the quarrel. We are not subject to Canterbury. The archbishop may frown, he may thunder, but there are a few of us not subject to the English church, who go quietly about our business without being afraid of the thunder. I agreed to come to Passfair with Sir Stephan to perform the marriage. Actually," he went on, "the idea came from my lord Guillaume's wife. The countess dotes on young Stephan, but she wouldn't let him tarry too long among her women when he had a lady at home waiting for him. He kept using the interdict as an excuse. The baron of Sturry kept sending messengers asking when he could expect to be a grandfather. Finally, the countess had a word with me." He spread his hands. "And here we are."

  "And here we are," she repeated.

  "Fortunately the work you did while Sir Stephan was away saved my having to drag the man bound hand and foot to the ceremony. I do thank you for that."

  She tapped her fingers on the table. A wedding, she thought. There was going to be a wedding. "When can you perform the ceremony?" she asked.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. "As soon as they can be dragged out of bed, I suppose. But I think the girl might like a bit more celebration after her long wait."

  "You're absolutely right," Jane said with an emphatic nod. She stood, full of determination and plans. "I have so much to do. Please excuse me. Sir— Father—Jonathan."

  "Of course. Lady Jehane." He waved her on with a wooden spoon. "Gather the women, inform the cook, do whatever you must. And when you are all done, I will be waiting in the chapel to say mass and hear

  your confessions."

  "Yes, Father," she said, pausing before hurrying away to bend her head with as much obedience and humility as she could muster.

  18

  The steps to the top floor were still wet from Michael's latest accident, Jane noticed as she started up. It had been an incident with a water bucket this time. She pulled off her shoes; the rough, wet stone felt good beneath the soles of her feet as she made the ascent to the bower. Sibelle, with Marguerite and Alais, loaded down with toweling and fresh under-shifts, followed quickly in her wake. The men were finished with their bath; now it was the women's turn.

  Michael, she thought, splashing into a small puddle on the top step, was proving to be a menace: a very dear menace, but a menace. He was the despair of Bertram and Raoul DeCorte. The older men agreed the boy was amiable, biddable, and hardworking. They were also frightened that every task they set him would turn into a disaster of biblical proportions. Jane, they said, spoiled him. She did. She didn't care.

  The boy could play the lute; he had magic in his fingers, fire in his soul. He'd told her he'd been studying with a master troubadour in Guillaume's service since he was six. He was both sad and proud when his father had sent him with Stephan to learn to be a knight. He was eager to please his father, hoping someday to make him proud. But longing to please his father didn't stop him from missing his mother and his teacher. She thought that even at his tender age his heart was torn between love and duty.

  So she let him practice his music far more than the older men approved of. She pointed out that when he was practicing the lute he wasn't breaking, stampeding, accidentally setting fire to, or tearing anything beyond repair. The men had to concede her point. Melisande was devoted to the boy. Sir Stephan was wisely staying out of his squire's education until he was "settled in" to learning the duties of a page. After a few years, supposedly under the civilizing influence of the ladies of the house, the lad would be turned over to him for further instruction.

  It had been six days' settling in since Stephan's party arrived home. Even Jane sometimes agreed the old stones of Passfair might not be able to take much more settling. But Michael tried so hard—even while spilling buckets of water he was supposed to be carrying up the stairs. Jane was grateful Michael hadn't been involved in wrestling the big tub up from the wash house.

  If they'd lost the big wash vat, Passfair's laundry might never get done again, she thought as she reached the door. She waited for the others to join her. When they entered, Sibelle led the way. Inside waited three of the serving women and the tub full of fragrantly steaming water. Jane sighed happily at the

  sight, quite pleased to be taking part in the traditional wedding bath. It was customary for the bride and groom to share the bath with their friends, hence the need for a container large enough for com
munal bathing.

  Sibelle had balked simply at using the wash house, insisting she needed the privacy of the bower. Stephan had agreed his lady was far too delicate to bare her lovely form in such crude surroundings. He'd decreed she should bathe where she always bathed, in the bower. It had taken Jane and the household staff an entire day to organize the proceedings, but now she decided the effort had been worth it. Communal or not, she always looked forward to a real bath. She hoped her orders to have the water changed after Stephan, Jonathan, and Raoul were finished had been thoroughly carried out. There had been grumblings among the staff over all this fuss with hot water.

  The loom had been carefully pushed against the wall to make room for the tub. The room itself was full of containers of wildflowers placed on every possible surface. Switha and the other village women had brought in the flowers from woods and fields as a colorful, fragrant wedding gift for their lord and lady. Jane breathed deeply and drank in color and the wonderful blending of scents as her serving woman helped her undress.

  When Sibelle saw her head bared, the girl's eyes widened. Jane's hand flew to the top of her head as Sibelle exclaimed, "Jehane, your hair's so short!"

  She came forward to touch Jane's shoulder-length brown curls while Jane fluffed out the veil-flattened mass with her fingers. "I've seen curly hair and I've seen straight hair." She giggled. "But never hair that was curly and straight at the same time."

  The other women gathered around to finger her curls and laugh at Sibelle's joke. She laughed along with them but shook their hands away. "I was sick with a lingering fever during my journey from the Holy Land," she explained. "Much of my hair broke off. And now it is growing in straight. It must be because of the fever." The salon where she'd had the now growing-out perm done had actually been called Fevre, come to think of it. Very trendy. Very expensive. A very long time from now.