The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1)

by Avril Borthiry

  “Then why should I not—?”

  “She won’t be there, William. Lora is leaving the abbey this morning. She’s been summoned back to Rothwyn. So, walk with me. There are things to be said.”

  “Summoned?” William’s heart clenched as he stumbled to catch up with his friend. Dear God, no. Not that. “Is it Beth?”

  “Nay, so set those fears aside.”

  “Then…why?”

  “The earl is ailing.” Iorwerth, gaze lifted to a flock of swallows soaring overhead, continued his stride. “Has been for some weeks. I can only surmise he wishes to make peace with her.”

  William, his mind not yet clear of turmoil, struggled to make sense of what was being said. “He’s dying?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why else would he wish to make his peace?”

  Iorwerth sighed. “Because he believes he’s dying, though his physician can find no apparent reason for the malaise.”

  “I see,” William muttered, actually seeing little beyond the fact that his daughter had gone. He voiced his innermost thought. “Will she return, I wonder?”

  Iorwerth gave him a sideways glance. “Here? I hope not. For your sake as much as hers.”

  William halted, eyes widening as understanding dawned. “God’s teeth. How daft am I? Of course! She’ll be able to make her wish.”

  “We can but hope.” Iorwerth maintained his pace. “Keep up, Will. I don’t like speaking over my shoulder.”

  “She has the medallion, Iorwerth.” William took several hurried strides and caught up with his friend. “Gareth returned it to her. Or at least, his ghost did. Is that not a miracle?”

  Iorwerth smiled. “A good portent, at least.”

  “You don’t seem too surprised by the revelation, I must say.” He blew out a breath. “And will you slow down? My poor heart is begging for mercy.”

  “On that subject, how have you been feeling lately?”

  “Um…” Flustered by the unexpected question, William hesitated, gathering his scattered wits. “As it happens, I’ve been a little out of sorts these past weeks.”

  “Define that.”

  “I feel anxious most of the time. Unsettled. And I’m often unable to think clearly, as if something has addled my brain. I have no explanation for it.” He eyed his friend with a frown. “I presume, though, you’re about to provide one.”

  “Ripples, I suspect,” Iorwerth replied, his expression thoughtful. “I believe the earl is afflicted by them, too. A sure sign.”

  “Ripples. Right, well, that makes sense. A sure sign, as you say.” William tried to suppress a burst of frustration, but failed. “A sign of what, for Christ’s sake? Stop spouting your devilish riddles, will you? Just give me answers, answers a simple man can understand.”

  Iorwerth raised a brow. “Afflicted by ill humor, too, it seems.”

  “Aye, well, ’tis something of a shock, all this. Lora summoned back to Rothwyn. You, appearing out of nowhere after all these years and still speaking in circles.” William swallowed over a sudden lump in his throat. “No more mysteries, I beg of you. I’m weary of feeling as I do. Weary of waiting. Please, tell me what you know.”

  “No matter what I tell you, mysteries are bound to remain.” Iorwerth’s expression softened. “I don’t have all the answers, Will.”

  “Then at least share the ones you do have as plainly as you can, beginning with these ripples of yours.” He rubbed his temple. “By all the gods, I need to know I’m not going mad.”

  Iorwerth chuckled. “You’re probably the sanest man I know. Now, let me see if I can explain what I…” He drew a breath, his eyes narrowing as he fell silent, his focus obviously turned inward. “Imagine your life as a journey across a vast stretch of water,” he said, at last. “There’s an underlying current carrying you along, but the surface appears calm, reflecting with clarity all your life’s experiences as you travel. These images lie behind you, in your past. But then something disturbs the water ahead of you, in your future. You’re not aware of it, because you haven’t reached that point in your life yet. This irregularity disturbs both the surface and what lies beneath, disrupting the flow. Ripples spread out, traveling in all directions until eventually, they reach you. You can’t see them, but you feel the unsettling force of them. Do you understand what I’m telling you so far?”

  The outrageous explanation, fabricated or not, went beyond anything William could have imagined. It toyed with his beliefs, tested his faith, and mocked the level of his knowledge. Yet he had always recognized the worth of an open mind, and applied it now. He was, after all, a man who straddled an ever-widening chasm between old and new religion, embracing what lay on both sides of the rift. And, curiously enough, Iorwerth’s explanation made sense where nothing else did. Indeed, the comfort gleaned from it warmed his face as he answered.

  “Aye, I think so. An event that has yet to occur is affecting the way I feel?”

  Iorwerth nodded. “Sometimes referred to precognition. Indeed, there are folk who are highly sensitive to such things. I happen to know you are not, William, which tells me this future disturbance must be one of some magnitude. That’s why you’re feeling it, as is the earl. Can you guess what this disturbance might represent?”

  William had already surmised the cause but took a slow breath before answering. “Lora’s wish.”

  “Aye. Lora’s wish.”

  “So, does this mean she’ll be successful?”

  “Therein lies the mystery, my friend, for there’s no way to be sure at this point. Ironically, if Lora does succeed in changing the past, you’ll know nothing of it when it happens. Time will shift and this life will cease to exist. You’ll be back where you were, at the mercy of a different current. The correct one, I hope.” Iorwerth’s gaze darkened. “Your fate, and that of everyone else affected by the flow of this errant tide, lies with your daughter. It’s a daunting responsibility. Above all else, she must take heed of her chosen words—”

  “For they may have far reaching consequences,” William murmured, a sudden chill brushing across the nape of his neck. He had heard those words once before.

  Their echo pulled a memory from his mind, an image recalled from a desperate meeting that had taken place nigh on thirty years earlier. A moss-clad cottage nestled in the folds of a forest. A witch’s eyes, their dark, ancient glaze belying her younger appearance.

  That image provoked a second memory, this one more recent, it being but twelve years old. Another discussion, this time between two men during a night spent in the woods. Iorwerth’s face, lit by the glow of the campfire, his mortal eyes seemingly darkened by an unearthly soul. An illusion, William had decided at the time, created by dancing shadows. He now questioned the merit of that decision, blinked the images away, and scrutinized the man at his side.

  In the pale light of morning, Iorwerth’s eyes appeared quite normal, although they perhaps glimmered with mild amusement. “Do you have more questions, Will?” he asked.

  “One more, aye.” William replied, after a moment. “Just who are you, Iorwerth?”

  Chapter 18

  Lora felt the blood drain from her head. Sir Renald obviously noticed her change of pallor, for he reached out, steadying her as she swayed, and answered a question she could not recall voicing.

  “Your mother is quite well,” he said, one strong hand curled around her upper arm. “’Tis my lord who ails. Perhaps you should sit down, my lady.”

  The earl? A rush of relief gave way to a slight twinge of guilt. She pulled herself free of Renald’s grasp, finding her feet as the dizziness faded. “Nay, I’m all right. A little taken aback, is all.” She searched her conscience, seeking an elusive fragment of sympathy for the man she once called father. “Is he…is the earl gravely ill?”

  Renald grimaced. “Not precisely. He has no fever, no infection. He’s burdened by a strange malaise that drains his vitality, though his physician can find no reason for it. We see little of him anymor
e, since he spends most of his days in seclusion. With respect, my lady, I pray your return might cure, or at least alleviate, whatever ails him, and thereby bring positive changes to Rothwyn.”

  Lora managed a smile. “I’m sure my return will indeed bring change, Sir Renald, and I also pray it will be for the better. But I regret I cannot leave today. Not yet, at least.”

  “And why is that?” Renald asked, raising a brow.

  “Because…” Too late, Lora realized her slip. As far as she knew, the earl was unaware of William’s visits. Then again, if things go as planned, none of these current events will matter. “Because I’m expecting a visitor.”

  The abbess clucked her dissent. “Sir Renald cannot be kept waiting, Lora. Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything to Master William. I’m sure he’ll understand. Indeed, I’ve no doubt he’ll be pleased you’ve been given this opportunity. No, there will be no delay. Off with you, now, and collect your things together.”

  Lora opened her mouth to argue, but paused. The abbess spoke true. William, once all else had been considered, would be pleased. Beyond pleased. The day they had waited for was here at last. The future, and also the past, beckoned. But, Papa, I would have loved to see the look on your face when I told you, the hope in your eyes, to share in your anticipation.

  The sound of Renald clearing his throat drew Lora from her musing. She sighed and gave the abbess a compliant nod. “Then will you please insist he rests, Reverend Mother, before he makes his return journey? He tires easily of late. And tell him…tell him I’m certain I’ll see him again very soon.”

  “Of course.” Eyes bright with tears, the abbess stepped forward and touched Lora’s cheek. “I pray you find resolution, child, and may God keep you safe. We shall miss you.”

  *

  After spending twelve years of her life within its walls, Lora’s departure from Whitestone Abbey was swift and unceremonious. With her escort of several swarthy knights, she sat in her horse-drawn wagon and watched the sacred gray buildings dissolve into the morning haze.

  She harbored little regret. At that moment, her years at Whitestone felt like nothing more than a temporary interlude. Any nostalgia for the place stemmed solely from personal experiences, learning the truth about the man she’d known as Master William and, of course, Gareth’s incredible visit. Memories such as these would be her invisible traveling companions, leaned on for support if necessary.

  Most of her tangible possessions had been stuffed into a simple cloth bag, which lay at her feet. Her most treasured items remained, as always, close to her person. The medallion rested next to her heart, while her father’s pebbles sat secure in a small linen pouch sewn into her pocket.

  With that thought, her gaze drifted west, over the gentle rise and fall of England’s pleasant countryside. Somewhere out there, her father was trudging toward the abbey with eagerness in his heart. Her own heart ached as she imagined his initial disappointment at finding her gone.

  Keep the faith, Papa. I swear I’ll put all this right. I swear it.

  Unlike her possessions, her emotions could not be packed away quite so neatly. For now, at least, they remained scattered, tossed by conflicting waves of determination, fear and excitement. With each passing mile, her nerves stretched tighter. The mere thought of seeing her mother again, wondering how she might be, if time had been kind, made her stomach churn.

  Over the years, they had exchanged a fair amount of correspondence. Those written words, however, had been as raindrops upon stone, glossing over a rough surface without penetrating what lay beneath. Lora knew of her father’s past heartbreak, but her mother’s suffering had yet to be shared. As for the earl, she tried to imagine what she might feel when presented to him. Sorrow? Resentment? Pity? She resolved to address him only as my lord. The title of father now belonged to someone else.

  Yet, these future trials became inconsequential when compared to the most daunting challenge of all.

  The wish.

  Her wish.

  Choose your words, the voice had said. It was a solitary quest, burdened by the weight of untold responsibility. She had given it much consideration, so far to no avail. Something in her past had to be changed, some event that had knocked destiny off its previous and proper course. But what? What change could be made that would not adversely affect anyone else involved?

  Oddly, at times, it seemed the answer lingered on the obscure periphery of Lora’s thoughts. Like a long-lost memory, it needed only a song or an aroma to rekindle it. Perhaps the return to Rothwyn would help her discover the answer.

  She closed her eyes and imagined standing by the stones Gareth had chiseled. They now served as his headstone and the well his sarcophagus. Ah, but his spirit had escaped its wretched tomb. In a miracle that still astounded, he had come to her on a cold, moonlit night to give her the medallion. She touched her lips.

  And a kiss.

  Now it was up to her to free him once more, to restore his mortal soul by changing time, and the direction of his fate. And should I succeed, will our paths still be destined to cross? Or will you be lost to me anyway, destined to find love elsewhere?

  Tears dampened her lashes.

  “Take heart, my lady.” Renald’s voice, edged with concern, drifted into her ear.

  Lora opened her eyes and looked up into the concerned face of her escort’s commander, who had proven himself to be a staid, but kindly man. Protective, too. Seated astride his glossy chestnut gelding, he had remained beside Lora’s wagon rather than taking his conventional place at the contingent’s head.

  “Forgive me, sir.” She scrubbed an errant tear from her cheek. “I’m a little overwhelmed by everything.”

  “Naught to forgive.” He turned his gaze back to the road ahead. “We’ll be stopping for the night soon. I secured a room for you at the inn on my way to the abbey. I daresay you’ll feel better when fed and rested.”

  Chapter 19

  “Rothwyn, my lady.”

  Lora, her mind wandering, lifted her head at Renald’s quiet announcement. Her heart threw out an extra beat as she half rose from her seat and squinted into the late afternoon sunlight.

  Ahead, still some distance away, the crenelated crown of Rothwyn’s mighty keep towered above the treetops. Stomach churning, Lora settled back and drew a slow breath.

  “We can delay a while if you wish to gather yourself.” Renald’s calm voice cut through her angst. “We’re not yet visible to Rothwyn’s watchmen.”

  Over the past seven days, the knight had ingratiated himself to Lora with his seemingly genuine displays of concern for her welfare. She was not blind, either, to the gleam of admiration in his eyes that had brightened as their journey progressed. Nevertheless, he and his fellow knights had maintained an appropriate distance, both verbally and physically, always maintaining their proper civility. Not once had Lora felt discomfited in their presence.

  She shook her head and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you for your consideration, Sir Renald, but no, there’s no need for any delay. I’m fine, really.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  Lora gathered her bag from the floor of the wagon and hugged it to her chest as if to stifle the fierce thrum of her heart. She reminded herself that these next few hours were merely the final stepping stones across a river of time. What lay on the other side of that river was, as yet, a mystery, although she had all but decided on her wish.

  After much consideration, the most obvious answer seemed to lie with the earl’s accident. Had he not fallen from his horse, he would not have injured himself and been taken to her mother’s home. Surely, then, it made sense to wish for him not to have the accident.

  Yet, a niggle of uncertainty remained, pestering her like the irritating buzz of an insect. It seemed to imply she had missed something that lay in plain view. But what? Perhaps, once returned to Rothwyn, she’d hear the mysterious voice again. Perhaps it might give some clue as to what her chosen words should be.

 
; She leaned forward and watched as they approached the castle’s moated walls. When they drew near, she heard a shout, followed by the clank of chains as the portcullis lifted.

  Renald urged his horse to the head of the contingent. Moments later, the horses and wagon rumbled across the bridge spanning the moat, passed beneath the arched gatehouse, and entered the security of Rothwyn’s heart.

  Their arrival caused an immediate halt of activity within the bailey. Silence descended like a fine rain, its presence despoiled only by the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves on cobbles. Renald raised his hand, and Lora grabbed the side rails to steady herself as the wagon lurched to a halt. She glanced about, trying to sense the mood of her audience. Twelve years before, on the day of her departure, the bailey had been empty.

  A concession on my part for which you should thank me, the earl had said. Or perhaps you’d have preferred to be ogled and spat upon.

  No such concession now. A swarm of stares, thick with blatant curiosity, surrounded her, each pair of eyes reflecting a single shared thought.

  The disgraced daughter has returned.

  Lora felt neither disgrace nor shame, but cursed the tremble in her legs and hugged her cloth bag tighter. Unbidden, her gaze drifted past the blur of faces to the direction of the well, obscured as it was by the corner of the keep. Her spirit, seeking affirmation from beyond the mortal world, reached out. Are you here, Gareth? Are you watching me, unseen? Do you know I am returned?

  At that moment, a shadow, fleeting as an arrow, cut across her line of view, darting up and over the wall. But not before she’d seen a brilliant flash of indigo wings. She smiled and touched the spot between her breasts, where the medallion rested.

  “Welcome home, my lady.” Renald stood at the back of the wagon, his hand outstretched. Lora took it, grateful for its steadying support, and stepped down onto Rothwyn’s cobbles.

  “My thanks,” she murmured, frowning as she regarded the main door of the keep. The closed portal sent a dispiriting message. Then again, what could she rightly expect? A welcoming fanfare? A surprise celebration? Nay, nothing quite so unrealistic. Was it unrealistic, though, to hope for her mother’s appearance on Rothwyn’s threshold after twelve years apart? Caught unawares by a sudden flare of self-pity, Lora blinked away tears.