Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  “Noon. I see. Thank you, Thomas.”

  He grunted, rubbed the back of his neck with a grubby hand, and eyed her with an expression of disapproval. Kate lifted her chin as she turned away, but felt his gaze following her as she crossed the courtyard. She resisted the temptation to look back, knowing she would still see a disapproving frown on his face. Why did he always make her feel so guilty?

  Once out of Thomas's sight, Kate trotted alongside the west wall of the manor, ducked under the dining hall window and paused outside the kitchen door, which stood slightly ajar. There, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and listened. A loud crash, followed by a curse and a sudden burst of laughter, made her jump. Kate grinned and pressed a hand over her galloping heart. Sir John treated his few servants well, but they would not dare to be quite so rambunctious if he were at home. His absence, like that of the proverbial cat, tempted the taking of a few liberties. Kate couldn't castigate them. She was about to take some liberties of her own.

  She glanced around to seek reassurance of her solitude. Behind her in the stable, one of the horses whinnied while another responded in kind. A few hens scratched at the dusty ground, clucking quietly as they pecked at the meagre offerings. Satisfied her movements were not being noticed, Kate slipped out of the courtyard and onto the path leading to the shore. For a moment, a small pang of guilt fluttered in her chest. She loved her father above all others, and knew he'd be disappointed if he learned of her disobedience. A heartbeat later, she pushed the guilt aside, lifted her skirts, and broke into a run.

  Unhindered by cloud cover, sunlight spilled over the earth and Kate soon regretted her choice of dress. The dark fabric snatched the heat from the air and held it to her skin. She slowed to a walk and wiped a flush of sweat from her brow. The sun still had quite a climb before it reached its apex. She had plenty of time.

  At the end of the path lay a long strip of wiry sea-grass that ran the length of the visible shoreline both right and left. Below that, a thin stretch of pebbled sand sloped down to the damp, wrinkled basin of the bay, which awaited the certain return of the tide.

  Kate paused, filled her lungs with salt air, and drank in the beauty of the morning.

  Grey and white gulls wheeled above her, haunting the sky with their mournful cries. Far to the west, an army of thunderheads rested on a hazy horizon, apparently gathering strength before continuing their advance over the bay. From somewhere way up high, sweet lark song drifted to earth. Kate searched the skies until her neck ached, her hands shading her eyes against the glare, but she failed to find the tiny bird who soared aloft.

  Around her feet, purple and white heads of sweet clover bowed beneath the caress of a perfect summer breeze. They shared their space with small white daisies and bright tufts of sea-pinks, which sprang up here and there out of the sandy soil.

  Kate kicked off her shoes and buried her feet into the cool grass, picking at the blades with her toes. Then she grabbed her shoes and a handful of skirt before stepping onto the pebbled beach, where small, sharp stones clawed at her bare soles.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” she yelped, her pained feet dancing down to the cool, wet sand where small puddles still lay in the indentations left by the retreating waves. There she let out a sigh of relief, and licked the salt from her lips.

  Guilt forgotten, her spirit alive with enjoyment, Kate wound her way along the beach until at last she reached the base of the cliffs. Shoes in hand and gritty sand between her toes, her eyes wandered up the steep, crumbling limestone slope to the dark cave, which yawned at her from cliff face. Her mind drifted back to that morning, and what she thought she'd seen standing in the opening. Her heart took a strange little leap as another thought materialized. Could I? No, not dressed like this, I couldn't.

  Kate grimaced and tugged at the itchy fabric of her dress, toying with an idea that should never have been allowed entry into her mind. Yet...there was no one around, and she had a cotton shift on underneath, so...what harm would it do?

  ~ ~ ~

  Owen stretched out on his side atop the headland, his head propped up by one hand while the other twirled a mangled stalk of grass in his mouth. After crossing the bay during the night, he'd wandered up to the cliff top at dawn, driven by simple curiosity. As he watched Wraysholme emerge from the twilight, its hard grey edges softened by morning mist, a sense of reverence consumed him.

  Adela had lived and died there. Since her death, her story, intertwined with that of the Saxon knight, had become a legend among her people. Owen half expected to see her pale ghost stepping out of the mist to wander along the shore.

  He hadn't expected to see her daughter.

  He recognized the girl from Thomas's descriptions, which had also included mention of her spirited and disobedient ways. Owen's face wore a grin from watching Kate's antics. Despite his amusement, however, he tangled with a mild feeling of anxiety. It bothered him to see the lass alone and unprotected, although he guessed she'd probably ventured from the protective walls of Wraysholme without permission. He knew John Harrington would never knowingly let his daughter wander away from the house unescorted.

  Perhaps, he thought, he should descend the cliffs, introduce himself and see her safely home. Then again, a strange man appearing out of nowhere might frighten her, and he didn't want to do that. He reconsidered, and decided he'd merely observe for now to make sure the wayward lass didn't get into any trouble. Besides, it was too soon to make himself known. He still had much to do, and the thought of what yet lay ahead wound a pain around his heart.

  If everything went as planned, there would be time for introductions later. Owen sighed, because if they failed...if he failed...God help him. The back-up plan was not one he wanted to think about.

  As Kate approached the cliffs, the overhang of the precipice blocked Owen's view, and he lost sight of her. With a yawn, he rolled onto his back and stretched out like a contented cat, enjoying the warm cloak of morning sun. His stomach growled, but his breakfast, hidden with his horse and other belongings in a nearby patch of woodland, would have to wait for now.

  He threw the stalk of grass aside and folded his hands behind his head. Like clouds across the sky, his thoughts wandered, carried on the virtual winds of past and future. The past had already been forged by time. Who knew what the future held?

  A gull, floating on outstretched wings, rose above the precipice and let out a shriek, which was followed by another from the shore below. Owen sat up and held his breath, wondering if his ears were fooling him. Had the second scream been that of a woman?

  Katherine?

  A heartbeat later, when another distressed cry carried through the air, his doubt vanished. His gut tightened as he leapt to his feet. He grabbed his sword, dashed back along the cliff, and skidded down the path leading to the dirt road that ran along the base of the headland.

  “Arrio!”

  Like some mythical beast, a white Andalusian stallion emerged from an ancient grove of oak trees. Ears pricked, he danced across the earth on ebony hooves, his arched neck draped with a silver mane, nostrils snorting with pleasure at Owen's return.

  “Easy, old man, easy.” Owen swung into the saddle, pressed his heels to the horse's sides, and leaned into Arrio's gallop. Moments later they charged onto the shore, where Owen reined the stallion to a halt at the sight of Kate's footprints. His eyes followed them across the sand, all the way up to the rugged slope. A chill ran down his spine when he saw Kate's dress tossed onto an outcropping of rock.

  “What the hell?” He pulled his sword, slid from Arrio's back, and scanned the rocks and shrubs at the base of the cliffs. “Where are you, lass?” he muttered. A whimper of fear caught his attention and Owen's blood turned cold.

  Clad in only a thin shift, Kate was sprawled at the bottom of a rocky slope beneath the cave, her long dark hair spilling out over her shoulders like a cloak. Owen saw the panic on her face as she tried to stand, and watched her stumble onto her hands and knees.


  “My lady!” He took a step forward, but stopped at the sound of her frantic command.

  “Nay!” she cried, crawling toward her dress. “Stay where you are. I have...I have a dagger, which I shall not hesitate to use, and...and my father will be here any moment. I swear he'll kill you if you touch me.”

  Owen guessed John Harrington was not about to appear. He also doubted Kate had a dagger, although the terror on her face tore at him like a blade.

  “And I swear before God I mean you no harm,” he said, sheathing his sword. “I heard your cries and came to help. Will you let me?”

  Kate stopped crawling and drew a sudden, sharp breath; whether from pain or fear Owen didn't know. She twisted sideways onto her hip, and stared at him wide-eyed. He could see the tremble in her body and the brightness of tears on her cheeks. She reminded him of a young wild doe, cornered and frightened.

  “May I approach?” He held up his hands and took another step forward.

  She nodded once; a small but unmistakable gesture. In six strides he reached her and crouched at her side. To his surprise she didn't recoil. Instead, she frowned at him and brushed her fingertips across his cheek. An odd greeting, he thought, considering the fear she'd just displayed, but he smiled and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. She smiled back and his world tilted.

  'She's a pretty lass,' Thomas had said. Pretty? The man had obviously spent too many years in a stable. Katherine Rose Harrington was a rare beauty, with her tumble of dark hair and soft grey eyes that stared up at him as if he were a vision. Owen shook off the strange notion that she recognized him.

  “What happened? Why are you...,” he glanced down at her shift, having the good grace not to squander his gaze on the gentle swell of her breasts, “...in a state of undress?”

  Her eyes continued to search his face and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. Was it shock that held her tongue? Had the lass hit her head, perhaps? Worried that he'd missed something serious, he cast a more critical eye over her body.

  “Where are you injured, mistress?”

  “You're real,” she whispered.

  Gratified by her response and somewhat amused by the expression of child-like wonder on her face, he chuckled. “Aye, I'm real.”

  “Your name. Please, sir. I must know your name.”

  “My name is Owen.” So, the time for introductions, he mused, had arrived earlier than expected. “Owen ap Madoc.”

  “That's a Welsh name, is it not?”

  He fought an urge to touch her hair. “Aye, it is.”

  “My mother was Welsh.”

  “Indeed?” Careful, Owen. “Was, you say?”

  Katherine nodded. “Her name was Adela. She died soon after I was born.”

  “I'm sorry. May I know your name, my lady?”

  Her face brightened and Owen's heart did a flip.

  “I am Katherine Rose of Wraysholme Manor.” She pointed toward her home. “The daughter of Sir John Harrington.”

  “Katherine Rose of Wraysholme Manor,” Owen repeated, his eyes following the direction of her finger. “Well, 'tis an honour to meet you, Katherine Rose, although I regret the circumstances. Are you in much pain?”

  “Some. 'Tis my ankle on the right side, and I grazed my...my knees.” She blessed him with another smile. “And you may call me Kate if you wish.”

  He raised a brow, surprised by her informal manner, though her cordiality pleased him. It might serve to make his mission easier. “Kate.” His hand hovered over her right foot. “May I see?”

  Circles of colour warmed her cheeks. “Yes, of course. I trust you completely, Owen.”

  The faith embedded in her words stirred something within him, like a dormant spirit awakening after a deep slumber. It joined with his blood and flowed through his veins, seeping into every part of him. He'd never known anything like it, yet it felt as familiar as it did foreign.

  He took a deep breath, forced himself to focus, and pushed Kate's hem up as far as her knees, cringing at the colourful graze that decorated each of them. “That must sting,” he said, and offered her a sympathetic smile.

  “Only a little.” She flinched beneath his touch.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, shaken by the strong thud of his heart as he brushed the sand from her legs and probed the delicate contours of her ankle. Her skin, the colour of ivory, felt like silk beneath his fingers. Even her grubby feet, with their perfectly formed toes, tempted his caress. The hairs on his arms lifted and his groin tightened.

  Unsettled by the arousing effect she had on him, he rose and took a step back. “You are fortunate. Your ankle is swollen, but only sprained, I think, not broken. You'll be fine.”

  Panic flitted across Kate's face. “Where...where are you going? Please don't leave me.”

  “I'm not leaving you, Kate.” He gestured along the cliff. “I'm going over to the Holy Well to dampen a cloth for your knees and your ankle, and then I'm going lift you onto Arrio's back and escort you home. Alright?”

  She sighed and nodded. “Thank you. May I have my dress?”

  Owen grinned and reached for it. “Aye, you'd best put it on. Leave your shoes off, though. Will you need help?”

  Kate blushed again. “No, thank you. I'll manage.”

  He nodded, took a cloth from Arrio's saddle-bag and headed to the crevice in the rocks where the spring, considered to be blessed with healing properties, bubbled up from deep in the earth. Arrio, as faithful as any dog, followed his master and guzzled the cold, fresh water with obvious pleasure.

  “So, what do you think of Adela's child, old man? A stirring sight, is she not?” Owen dipped the cloth into the spring. “Between you and I, she's not the only one on this shore with a swelling.”

  Arrio stopped his slurping, lifted his nose and shook his great white head, showering Owen with cool droplets.

  “My thanks,” said Owen, “but I fear I need to immerse myself in it completely.”

  He wasted no time returning to Kate's side, where he washed her grazed knees and placed the wet cloth on her ankle.

  “This might help with the swelling,” he said. Behind him, Arrio snorted.

  Kate let out a soft sigh. “I knew you'd have a white horse.”

  Owen paused in his ministrations and raised questioning eyes to hers. “What do you mean? How could you know that?”

  A fresh flush of pink settled on her cheeks. “What I meant was...um...I would imagine that a man so gallant must own such a magnificent animal.”

  “Gallant, am I?” He gave a nonchalant shrug, yet her compliment warmed a spot in his heart. “I'm just glad I was here to help.”

  “I'm glad too. I'm indebted to you, Owen.”

  “That you are, and I expect payment for my trouble.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment, like a shadow, crossed her face. “Then I'm sure my...my father will agree to pay you. I hope your price for helping me won't be too unreasonable.”

  “Not unreasonable at all.” He smiled inwardly at her apparent dismay. “'Tis not coin I want, lass.”

  She shook her head. “Then what do you want?”

  Owen stood, stuck his thumbs in his sword belt, and looked down at her with what he hoped was a stern expression. “I want an explanation, my lady. I want to know why the daughter of a knight is wandering about unescorted and clambering over the rocks with nary a stitch on. You might have been killed, or more severely injured, or trapped by the tide. What if I had not been here?”

  At least, he thought, she has the grace to look contrite.

  “My father left on an errand this morning, so I sneaked out.” Kate closed her eyes for a moment. “It was foolish of me, I know. By the time I got to the cliffs I was very warm, and my dress made it more difficult to climb, so I took it off. I wanted to see inside the cave. I've been fascinated by it ever since I can remember. I just wanted to see where it lived.”

  Owen looked up at the dark opening in the cliff face. “It?”

  “The wolf. My
father killed the wolf that used to live there. The story is well known in these parts. Are you angry with me?”

  'Tis not anger that stirs my blood, Katherine Rose Harrington.

  “No,” he said. “I'm not angry with you, but I'm curious to know what your father would think of your antics this morning.”

  “Oh, he'd not be pleased at all, but I don't think he'd be too surprised either.” She dropped her gaze and fiddled with a loose thread on her dress. “Do you mean to tell him?”

  Owen laughed and scooped her into his arms.

  “You're about to ride into Wraysholme's courtyard on the back of a white Andalusian stallion with a strange man at its head. That, aside from your injury, is not likely to go unnoticed, and will require an explanation to someone, whether it be your father or not.” He settled her on Arrio's back and grinned up at her. “But I'll try not to feed you to the wolves.”

  He could hardly wait to see the look on Thomas's face.

  Chapter 3

  The priory of St Mary and St Michael had stood on its foundations for more than a century, its church tower a welcome beacon for all, but especially those who had plodded the treacherous path across the bay. At this hallowed place, weary travellers found rest, took sustenance, and gave thanks for their safe deliverance from the perilous tides and greedy quicksand.

  Akin to an infant clinging to its mother's skirt, the village of Cartmel snuggled up to the priory walls; an assorted collection of humble cottages, a blacksmith's shop, and an inn of good repute, which stood on the edge of a cobbled market square. On this bright morning, a westerly breeze nudged the weather-vane on the church roof and teased the feathered branches of gnarled yew trees dotted around the priory grounds. To the north, the rugged mountains of Westmorland and Cumberland formed a hazy purple backdrop against an impressive blue sky.

  Aye, it was a peaceful enough scene when viewed from afar. Yet, as one drew near, the air around the village vibrated with the clatter and clang of rural commerce, while the breeze became a dispatcher of various odours, some less agreeable than others.

  John Harrington, feeling a pinch of dismay, reined in his horse at the entrance to the market square and eyed the chaotic tapestry spread out before him. Livestock, from chickens to pigs, were either penned or stacked in cages around the square's perimeter, awaiting sale or barter. Across the centre of the square, two rows of stalls sagged beneath a variety of wares, ranging from fabric to fish. Enthusiastic human voices vied to be heard above the plaintive cries of beast and fowl, while a wayward gang of grubby-faced children played a noisy game of tag around the legs of their elders.