by Shari Anton
However, Emma could peer into water and call forth a vision. Nicole could hear voices of the dead. Knowing the suffering those abilities had caused the sisters in the past, Alberic had to wonder if being a female in the line of Pendragon wasn’t more a curse than a blessing.
And what turmoil that heritage could cause his own children, he didn’t wish to contemplate.
“Oh, Emma, I hate to ask it of you, but knowing where they are would aid us greatly in deciding what must be done,” Gwendolyn answered with a mix of true regret and a spark of hope.
Emma straightened and looked to her husband for guidance.
“The decision is yours, sweetling,” Darian said, “but pray, do not put too much hope on the outcome.”
Emma’s visions always told true, but she didn’t always receive the answers she hoped for.
She glanced around the hall, where servants bustled about to make the hall ready for nooning. “Not here.”
Alberic could clear the hall with the wave of his hand, but that might cause idle speculation among the servants, and ’twas clear Emma wanted full privacy.
“Our bedchamber,” he said.
In agreement, all four headed up the tightly winding stairway that led from the hall to the upper floor, Alberic’s hand at Gwendolyn’s back to keep her steady.
Children’s laughter greeted them in the upper passageway, and Alberic wished he were heading instead for the nursery, where under the watchful eye of a trusted nurse, his son Hugh, named for Gwendolyn’s father, and daughter Elena, named for his mother, were entertaining Emma and Darian’s son Wyatt, who was barely old enough to toddle across the floor.
Within the lord’s bedchamber, Gwendolyn fetched the silver pitcher and washbasin from the bedside stand and placed them on the round oak table in the center of the room.
While Emma eased into the armed chair, Gwendolyn poured water into the basin. When the water’s surface was both smooth and clear, Emma leaned forward and for a long while stared at the water.
The room was silent, Emma’s concentration complete.
Alberic let loose his held breath when Emma finally closed her eyes to break the lure of the water.
Darian strode over to stand behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders in a loving and protective gesture.
Emma reached up to touch Darian’s hand. “I am fine, dearest, truly.”
“Take whatever time you need,” Darian said gently.
Alberic reined in his impatience, knowing if he tried to rush Emma he’d draw Darian’s wrath. Truly, he liked and respected the man too much to risk a breach in their friendship.
“I saw them,” Emma reported. “They are walking along a road, slowly. Rhodri appears to be using a walking stick, but whether from necessity or not I cannot say. I do not believe they are on their way to Camelen. Were they coming toward us, I might have seen their faces, but I did not.”
“You are certain it was Nicole you saw, not some other woman?”
“I am certain the woman was Nicole, so I assume the man is Rhodri.” Emma held out a hand, which Gwendolyn grasped hold of. “I sensed no fear on Nicole’s part. Nor does she appear to have suffered any physical harm. I truly do not feel she is in any danger, at least not from Rhodri.”
Tears again sprang to Gwendolyn’s eyes, her emotions so easily swayed and visible these days. This time her tears were of happiness, for which Alberic was grateful.
She hugged Emma. “I know how much you dislike courting a vision. My thanks, dearest, for relieving my mind on Nicole’s well-being.”
Alberic wasn’t as relieved as his wife. Nicole might not be in immediate danger of harm, but the little minx was likely headed toward Wales, precisely where she shouldn’t be going. Surely by now Aubrey de Vere had also informed King Stephen of Nicole’s disappearance, and the king would not be pleased that his ward was gone, and in the company of a Welshman.
Unhappy kings could cause problems for the family of errant subjects.
Darian’s expression revealed that his thoughts were running along the same path.
Alberic hated leaving Gwendolyn so close to the babe’s birth, but better he try to retrieve Nicole before either the earl’s patrols caught up with her or, worse, she crossed the border.
Surely he could do so in less than a fortnight.
“Think you we can find them before they enter Wales?” he asked Darian, whose talents would be most useful during such a venture.
“Perhaps.” Darian shook his head. “There are only a few roads they can take west, and fewer places where they can cross the rivers. Were I Rhodri, I might make first for Gloucester. Or he might make for Bristol, where he could hire a boatman to take him and Nicole to the nearest Welsh port. Problem is, to which town are they headed?”
A problem, indeed, and one Alberic must solve quickly. And when he did, and Nicole was safely in hand, he had several pointed questions for Rhodri ap Dafydd, who had best have good answers.
“I need to rest, Rhodri, just for a moment or two.”
He cast her an irritated sidelong glance. “I know what you are about, and I order you to cease.”
Nicole sighed and kept walking. The stubborn man was determined to put another full day’s worth of leagues between them and Oxford, regardless that if he continued on this unwise course, she feared he might not be able to walk on the morrow.
Reckless, to her way of thinking.
“You are no good to me if you go lame!”
“My ankle is merely sore, not broken, and as long as I leave on my boot, I can walk on it.”
“Not if you continue to abuse it! You only aggravate the injury. Come one morn soon, your ankle will refuse to hold your weight.”
“So be it, just so long as when that morn comes, we are farther from Oxford.”
And closer to Wales. The nearer to the border, the less chance of being captured by one of the earl’s patrols. She knew that as well as Rhodri did.
She should probably be content that he’d agreed to use a walking stick, and she’d won the battle over whether or not to use the road. Walking was less strenuous on a rutted dirt road than through the forest’s brambles and fallen logs.
They’d left the road only twice today to hide in the thicket. The rumbling cart that had come up behind them had scared her most but proved to be no more than a cloth merchant, probably on his way to Oxford. The second had been to allow a group of young men on horseback to ride by, headed in the direction of Bristol.
Neither had proved an immediate threat, but Rhodri didn’t want anyone to see them who might eventually learn the identity of the man and woman they’d seen walking on the road and report the sighting.
Each time they left the road, Nicole worried over what else could go wrong on what might prove to be a very long journey afoot. And she felt horribly guilty for goading Rhodri into chasing the pig.
Because the thought of roasted pork made her hungry again, she turned her mind to other things, like the prospect of passing through Bristol.
She’d never seen Bristol, but her father and brother had told wonderful, colorful tales of their visits. The seat of Robert, the powerful earl of Gloucester, the town and castle had provided a haven and stronghold for the empress Maud, Robert’s half sister, during much of the war with King Stephen.
Her father would be upset to know Earl Robert had died, ripping the heart out of the rebellion, and furious to learn that without the earl’s leadership the rebel cause had floundered. Shortly afterward, Maud had returned to Normandy, to her Angevin husband. Their son, Henry, who’d since grown into his manhood, now took up the fight his mother had begun.
Nicole remembered her first days at Bledloe Abbey when, in her youth and despair, she’d plotted to escape and join the cause her father and brother had fought and died for, utterly sure Maud would welcome a child into her service at Bristol Castle. A silly notion.
Still, perhaps a measure of her rebelliousness had survived, because now she would pass through
Bristol to reach an even more rebellious place. Wales.
“Tell me of Glenvair.”
Rhodri shrugged a shoulder. “Not much to tell. The manor has not changed since you were last there.”
“Connor has made no improvements?”
“It is the Norman way to construct large, imposing buildings and surround them with walls to protect them, not Welsh.”
“Had Connor built a castle, I would surely have heard of it from Gwendolyn. Is there no new well, or a repair to the mill? A storeroom added?”
“No.”
Irritated by his crusty answers, Nicole was almost ready to leave him to his black mood. Almost.
“Do butterflies still frequent the long grass near the stream?”
“I would not know. Likely.”
“The children I played with—did most remain at Glenvair when grown?”
“Most.”
Nicole surrendered. If the man insisted on being surly, he could damn well keep it to himself.
They walked in silence for at least another league before he surprised her by asking, “Do you remember Winnifred?”
The name sounded familiar.
“Not clearly.”
“She has a scar over her left eyebrow.”
His description jolted a memory of not only the girl, but the other children she’d asked about earlier.
“Winnifred served as a maid to my sisters and me, did she not?”
“I believe she did. Anyway, she married Beven, has two children of her own now.”
Nicole realized he’d made a peace offering, of sorts, by speaking to her devoid of his earlier sharpness. So what could she ask of Winnifred to keep him talking?
“Is she happy in her marriage?”
“I should think so. Beven provides her with a snug cottage, does not beat her, and has given her children.”
As if those things alone would make a woman happy in her marriage. But then, Nicole knew women could do worse in a husband than one with whom she found contentment.
“Why have you not married?”
The question brought no startled or indignant look from Rhodri, for which she was grateful. Truly, it was a very personal question she shouldn’t have asked, and she wouldn’t be surprised or offended if he didn’t answer.
“Have not found the right woman.”
A man as well put together and talented as Rhodri ap Dafydd could have his choice of numerous eager women. That he was also a bard would have them swooning at his feet. And she would be willing to wager he’d sampled more than a few of the swooners. So must this right woman be an ideal of beauty and grace, or must she come with more than a lovely face and shapely body?
“The right woman, or a suitable dowry?”
“Both. Such a woman is hard to find.”
“Perhaps you ask too much.”
“I think not. She must come with land, of course, a cantref at the least, and a sack full of shiny gold coins. And ten horses, all brown with white socks.”
Nicole’s jaw dropped in astonished awe at his precise and rich requirements, but before she could comment, he continued.
“Naturally, she must also come with portables—a chest filled with embroidered table linens, bejeweled goblets, and pewter platters. Also spices. Sugar, salt, rosemary, and cinnamon. I am particularly fond of cinnamon. Two cows, six geese, a flock of doves, several bunches of turnips and onions, and a large cauldron—”
Nicole groaned loudly enough to halt his litany, finally realizing he teased.
She laughed lightly. “’Tis no wonder you have not married. So many turnips would be hard to come by.”
“Aye, always the turnips prove a difficulty.” He turned his head slightly, distracted. “Someone comes.”
Nicole didn’t need to be told to leave the road far enough so she couldn’t be seen. Rhodri limped into the woods behind her but, with his lack of grace, didn’t handle the suddenly steep slope of the forest floor as nimbly as she. He stumbled, lost his footing, and slid down the small hill.
She glanced behind her toward the road. They hadn’t gone far enough for safety. Even if they pressed up against the hill, they could be seen by anyone who cared to take a close look.
And the only ones who might look closely would be members of the earl’s patrols.
“Nicole, come down here,” he ordered.
Rhodri would not be pleased with what she was about to do, but damn, the possibilities running through her head were simply too insistent to ignore. She stood up, wrapped the brown blanket around her to cloak the blue of her gown, and headed back toward the road.
Rhodri harshly whispered her name. She ignored the summons, crouching behind a leafy bush, straining to see what they’d heard. A cart came into view, pulled by two oxen.
No patrol, this!
She hurried back down to Rhodri, who fair glowered his displeasure. Nicole ignored his anger, caught up in her excitement.
“’Tis a farmer, his wife, and three children that I can see. The cart does not appear full. Rhodri, perhaps we can beg a ride, maybe even a night’s lodging in their barn.”
Rhodri shook his head emphatically. Nicole wanted to shake him.
“You must rest your ankle,” she argued, “and I do not wish to spend the night in the open if we need not!”
He still shook his head.
The sounds from the road changed subtly, from the cart coming toward them to passing them by. Why would not the man see reason?
“If we ride, ’twill give us the day’s distance you desired, in comfort. Rhodri, I beg you, allow me to ask their assistance.”
He sighed. “We have no means to pay them.”
“People have been known to extend hospitality out of the goodness of their hearts. We cannot know unless I try. I vow, I will do so with caution.”
Rhodri stared at her a long time, the sound of plodding oxen and creaking cart wheels becoming fainter. “Tell them I will make the trouble worth their while.”
Elated, Nicole didn’t ponder how Rhodri intended to do so, just swiftly climbed the hill and ran up the road, hailing the farmer.
Chapter Ten
Rhodri’s goal in life was to become a pencerdd, the duties of which included training future bards.
Right now, seated on the dirt floor of a one-room cottage, he taught a wee girl to pluck out a tune on his harp.
The girl’s eyes shone with joy at her accomplishment, and the mother’s gratitude for entertaining the girl while she and Nicole cleared away the remnants of the evening meal gladdened his heart and made him feel less a burden on people who could hardly afford the generosity of two added people at their supper table.
Damn, but the simple hot stew had tasted of heaven. The bread might have been made of coarse brown flour, but it satisfied in ways only poetry could describe.
On the morrow, he would make a spectacular recovery. Before he and Nicole left, he would help the farmer and the two young boys with morning chores. For now, he would sit here and play the invalid because it so pleased Nicole.
Earlier, she’d coated his ankle with moss, wrapped it in linen, and ordered him to stay put. She’d made such a fuss over taking care of him that he’d lost the heart to tell her, again, that his ankle didn’t hurt as much as she believed.
She flashed him a smile as she passed by, hauling cleaned bowls to a crate in the corner. Earlier, she’d chopped cabbage to add to the stew, working alongside a peasant as if she weren’t a noblewoman. As if she knew how to cook.
The farmer’s wife knew the difference. She’d called Nicole “milady” from the first and given her the simplest of tasks.
While Rhodri enjoyed his meal from his place on the floor, Nicole had eaten at the table with the family, all smiles and good cheer, most agreeable to comparing remedies for various aches and ills with the farmer’s wife.
Talk at the table had turned to news of the area, and Rhodri had a better notion of how far he and Nicole had come. This farm was a bit west of Swindon, t
he small market town he and Nicole had skirted around this morn, where the farmer had traded eggs to a blacksmith for mending a kettle.
’Twas also where Nicole had slowed when, at the end of town, they’d come upon a church and its graveyard. Whether a spirit had called out to her, or if she answered, she hadn’t said. Nor had he asked her, too wary of the strange ability she claimed to possess to want to know more.
In his head, Rhodri knew that henceforth he must guard against surrendering to Nicole’s whims. Had he not chased the damn pig because Nicole craved roasted pork, his ankle wouldn’t be sore, and she wouldn’t be overly pampering him. But then, had he not recognized her desperate need for a roof over their heads tonight, they wouldn’t have enjoyed so good a supper.
Resisting Nicole’s pleas proved almost futile. Each time she cast her doe-brown eyes his way, his insides reacted foolishly. Betimes he softened to dangerous weakness, and at others he felt able to slay the dragons of old. And always he wanted her, his desire becoming an uncomfortably familiar ache in his loins.
He shifted slightly to resettle the little girl on his lap so she wouldn’t feel his body’s response to the lusty thoughts he shouldn’t be allowing.
The girl’s mother saw him move and clapped her hands. “Come, minx. The harper’s legs will be going numb if ye do not get off them. ’Tis time for ye to ready for the night, anyway.”
The girl rose reluctantly and went straightaway to her mother, who scooped her up and climbed the ladder to the loft.
Nicole sat down beside him. “You do well with children,” she said quietly, referring to his entertaining the little ones at the abbey.
“’Tis the harp they are drawn to, not me.”
“As you say,” she commented, not truly taking him at his word. “How does your ankle? Does the wrapping ease the pain?”
The memory of Nicole’s hands patting the moss around his ankle, her gentle fingers causing tingles to creep up his leg, made other parts of him beg all the more for attention. He refused to burst her current contentment by telling her the coddling hadn’t been necessary.
“Why the moss?” he asked, truly curious.