My name is Lora. Lora FitzGilbert.
“Me?” Her breath rattled in her throat. “The earl’s daughter? This cannot be real.”
Yet her instinct, sharp as a blade, shredded the denial. She watched her life unfurl like a scroll. Another life, another time, and as real as the earth beneath her feet. Existent or not, the images and actions reshaped her emotions, molding them like soft clay.
I am called Gareth.
Welsh fairytales keeping you awake?
You live a life of privilege.
If you had a pair of wings, would you not use them every day?
Her feelings rose and fell without mercy or warning. It was a strange and relentless assault. “Make it stop,” she cried. “Please. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.”
“Simply breathe and feel my presence.” Iorwerth’s voice slid into her ear. “There’s nothing to fear, Lora. Accept what you see as truth, but understand these memories no longer have substance. They cast no shadows.”
Lora filled her lungs once more, gripped Iorwerth’s hands, and faced the continued onslaught, surprised by a growing sense of fascination.
We’re all free to love as we choose
Gareth saved my life tonight.
Where’s the medallion? Do you have it?
Don’t play me for a fool, Lora.
The woman I love still lives.
Make love to me, Stonemason.
Lora’s blood warmed…and then chilled.
“Oh, God. He killed him.” Her eyes misted as she glanced at the well. “Edward killed Gareth.”
Iorwerth shook his head. “Your wish changed everything. Remember that.”
“The pebbles.” Her eyes widened. “Papa threw them at me.”
Iorwerth chuckled. “I know. I was with him at the time.”
“You were?” She gasped. “Gareth. His ghost. It… he came to me at the abbey. He gave me…”
“The medallion.”
“Yes. Oh, Iorwerth, I loved him so much.”
“I know.”
“And Papa. Mama. How they suffered.”
Iorwerth squeezed her hands. “No longer. They’re happy now.”
“I returned from the abbey. With Renald.”
“Yes.”
“And you were here also.” She frowned. “You interrupted my first wish.”
“Intentional. Your initial words were not well chosen.”
“The earl. He helped me choose.”
Iorwerth inclined his head.
“I…” Lora drew breath as a sense of wonder warmed her spirit. She raised her eyes to the heavens, where the twinkle of a few delicate stars announced night’s imminent arrival. “I touched them, plucked one from the sky.”
Iorwerth shrugged. “An illusion, no doubt, representing your choice of a new destiny.”
Lora shook her head. “It was no illusion.”
He smiled. “Magic, then.”
“Perhaps.” An emotion squeezed her heart and an understanding took possession of her soul. In a matter of moments, she realized, her naivety had been erased by the emotions and memories of a young woman almost twice her age. “You said these past events no longer exist. That my wish erased them all.”
“As it did.”
“No.” She pulled her hands free from his. “One survived. Or has, at least, been resurrected. I have questions, Iorwerth. Will you hear them?”
“Of course.” He glanced about. “Though I fear we have exhausted our supply of privacy here.”
Lora nodded her agreement. Torchlight now leached into the fringes of night. Voices of guardsmen echoed across the bailey. Bats, not swallows, foraged the sky for insects. Lora knew she had little time before she’d be missed, and her father came looking for her.
She cast her eyes toward the armoury and shivered inwardly. Odd, she thought, that a pain so newly acquired felt so familiar. “This way.”
Before, the loft had always been a benign space, one used to store broken weaponry and armour. Now it also stored memories, sweet and bitter. Lora hesitated as she approached the dark threshold.
“Remember what I told you,” Iorwerth said, apparently sensing her trepidation. “Whatever happened here has been erased from time. Let me lead. Darkness is no hindrance to my eyes.”
He is surely a warlock, Lora thought as she followed him up the steps. What else could he be?
I am a traveler, my lady. Time has many paths, and I’m free to walk them all.
A tingle ran down her spine. He’d been there in her other life. And now here, in this one. The concept of how and why likely lay far beyond her understanding, as did much of what had occurred that evening. They climbed into the loft, Lora’s last memory of it being the night Edward had discovered her with Gareth. There had been candlelight and furs. Soft words. Blood and death.
Keep the faith, cariad. For me.
Memories of an abolished time. Nothing more. They hurt, nonetheless. Lora turned to face Iorwerth. In the gloom, his pale features appeared gray and ghost-like.
“You said the memories had no substance,” she said, swallowing over an obstinate lump in her throat. “That’s not true. It seems my love for Gareth has survived and has more substance than anything I’ve ever known. You knew him in my previous life. Do you in this one? Is he still alive? Will I see him again? Please, Iorwerth. I must know.”
His sigh drifted out of the dark. “He lives, aye. But I’ve yet to meet him. Your destiny–his destiny–remains to be seen.”
Lora grasped at a straw of hope. “But the well. The stones. You admitted you arranged for the crown to be built. Surely, then, he’s meant to be here as he was before.”
“What he did before is no longer of any consequence.” Another sigh. “I hear your hope, Lora, and I share it. I also admit to some manipulation with regards to the well and its new crown. But I cannot say, with any certainty, if Gareth has a place in your future. My influence in this matter has already been considerable.” His fingers toyed with the medallion. “I’m bound by certain limits, and fear I’ve pushed them far enough. From now on, if it’s meant, it will be. I can do no more.”
Lora watched Iorwerth’s fingers as they caressed the symbols on the medallion. “Can I wish it?” she asked, regretting her words a heartbeat later. “No, of course not. Gareth wouldn’t want that.”
Iorwerth smiled. “No, he wouldn’t. Let him find his own way.”
“Will you tell me, then, where you got that?” Lora gestured to the medallion. “I threw it in the well. The pebbles, too. So how is it you have them?”
His soft laughter drifted through the darkness. “For you to understand, you’d have to ignore all you believe to be true and see past the mortal barriers of time and place. That said, you’ve already witnessed some of what is possible. The memory of a cold, moonlit night at Whitestone has been returned to you. Gareth’s visit from beyond the mortal realm–one you doubted till you found this piece of gold on your table. As for the pebbles…” He dug into his sleeve again. “My intention was always to return them to you, hiding their true identity behind the brief tale of a courageous young girl. You now know that tale as your own. Here. Please take great care of them. You’ve already witnessed their power.”
“Thank you.” She closed her hand around the small leather pouch. “I shall treasure them always.”
“I’m curious to know how you feel, given what has taken place tonight.”
She chewed on her lip. “I feel…older. Wiser, of course. And grateful, somehow, but I’m not sure why. There’s a hollow place in my heart, though. But I think you know that.”
Iorwerth touched her cheek. “You must keep the faith.”
Lora sighed. “Gareth told me the same thing.”
“Come.” He held out a hand. “We’d best get you back before your father sends out a search party.”
“Papa’s bound to notice a change in me,” Lora said as she followed him down the stairs. “Mama might not, but Papa misses nothing.”
<
br /> Chapter 24
“I’m trying to decide if you’re late breaking your fast or early for supper. Which is it?”
Lora started and blinked up at her father who had settled at her side. She glanced around the great hall, all at once aware of her solitude.
“Oh,” she said, straightening her spine. “I…um, no. I mean, neither. I was just about to leave.”
She moved to push herself upright, but a large hand on her arm stopped her.
“Tell me what’s troubling you, little ’un.”
“Nothing. I’m a little tired lately, is all.”
“You’re not sleeping?”
“Some, but I’m restless.”
“Hmm.” William placed a gentle hand on her forehead. “No fever. But I know something’s been gnawing at you this last while. Can you not tell me what it is? Has someone upset you?”
“No.” Lora shook her head. “I mean, it’s nothing, really.” Except I’m reliving a life I never knew I’d had until two days ago. And I’m in love with a Welsh stonemason who I might never meet. Other than that, everything is quite normal.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe the physician should have a look at you.”
“No! Please.” She chewed on her lip. “Perhaps it’s, you know, a lady’s problem.”.
“Ah.” He fidgeted and cleared his throat. “In that case, then, you’d best speak to your mother.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Lora couldn’t help but smile at the obvious discomfort on her father’s face. A rush of affection seized her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I love you so much, Papa.”
His mouth twitched as he raised a brow. “Ah, so that’s what it is. A guilty conscience. What have you done now? You know I’ll find out eventually.”
“Nothing bad, I swear.” Still smiling, she looked past him. “Where’s your warlock friend today?”
“Iorwerth? He’s gone. Left this morning.”
“Gone?” A chill ran across her skin. “But he…he can’t be gone. He never said goodbye to me.”
“He didn’t?” He patted her hand. “Ah well, don’t feel bad. ’Tis simply his way. He’s always been a bit of a strange one. Harmless, mind you. We hired a stonemason this morning and Iorwerth left soon after. I suppose he felt he’d done his part for that pagan well he cares so much about. God’s bones, lass, where are you going?”
“Forgive me, Papa.” Giddy with anticipation, Lora hoisted her skirts and clambered over the bench. “I just remembered something I was supposed to do. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Lora, wait. What the devil…?”
She flew from the great hall as if she had wings on her feet. After everything she’d been through, after waiting for so long, Gareth had at last returned–although in his mind, of course, he’d never been to Rothwyn before. What does it matter? He’s here!
Lora’s heart thundered as she ran down the steps and along the wall. The sweet song of hammer and chisel echoed across the bailey, luring her to the source. To him. She ached to see him, to hear the music in his voice. At the corner, she halted, chest heaving, and stared at the man who stood poised over the stones. Her heart stilled as he paused in his work and met her gaze.
“Mistress.” With his forearm, he swiped a lock of damp, gray hair from his brow, frowning as his eyes raked over her. “Was there something ye wanted?”
Muted by shock, Lora responded with a slight shake of her head. She battled a wave of dizziness, commanding her heart to cease its clatter and her knees to stop trembling. Despite the massive weight of disappointment pressing on her, she could not, would not, faint at this man’s feet.
This stranger’s feet.
“Mistress,” he said again, in a voice rougher than crushed rock. “Can I help ye?”
Lora laughed through her tears, spun on her heel, and walked away.
Over the next few days, her false smile and cheerful outward demeanor fooled everyone, it seemed. Except her father. She often felt his scrutiny, aware that it saw past her bright, fragile façade. He asked no questions, but concern lingered in his eyes and poked at her conscience, motivating her to try and reject her sorrow. No easy task. She was, she realized, mourning Gareth all over again.
Lora kept busy, spending much of her time helping her mother or Lady Margaret. Nighttime offered a different challenge. The solitude and silence between darkness and dawn rarely brought peace. Lora usually lay awake, searching her soul for what little remained of her faith. She missed Iorwerth. He was, after all, the only one who knew of her torment. Understood it. His leaving without so much as a farewell both injured and puzzled her. He must have known how disappointed she’d be upon seeing a stranger building the well’s crown. Why, then, had he not stayed to offer some kind of comfort? Some hope? Was it because no hope existed?
At times, Lora wished she’d never learned about her love for Gareth. Then she’d castigate herself for even thinking such things. The memory of his voice, his touch, had engraved itself on her soul. He was part of her. Always would be.
Several days after Iorwerth’s departure, on a morning when flimsy clouds skittered across the sky, Lora decided to spend some time in Rothwyn’s herb garden, pulling weeds and tilling the earth. It seemed she’d learned much at Whitestone, and her newly-acquired knowledge of horticulture was put to good use. The physical effort offered something of a release, as did time spent in nature’s company. Hours later, satisfied and somewhat sore, Lora cleaned off the tools and headed indoors to refresh herself.
Partway across the bailey she paused, her attention captured by a swallow who circled her twice before skimming over her head and disappearing beneath the stable roof. She smiled, acknowledging a welcome lightness in her spirit that she hadn’t felt in days. Then she heard it. The ching ching ching of the stonemason’s tools.
Since the day she’d all but fainted at the stranger’s feet, Lora hadn’t been near the well. She couldn’t bear to see the progress of his work. Each stone laid lessened the chances of Gareth’s return.
The old familiar ache arose in her heart, but Lora thrust the pain aside. Once, in another time, she’d chosen her words and made a wish. She had to live, then, with the consequences and find her way along this different path.
Resolute, she entered the keep, eager to find her mother and immerse herself in the ongoing joy of Lady Margaret’s condition. As she passed, she noticed the door to her father’s office stood slightly ajar, allowing his voice to drift into the hallway. Grumbling, he was, and to himself, no less.
Curious, she tapped on the door and stuck her head around it. “Is everything all right, Papa?”
He turned and gave her a wry smile. “Oh, just another day at Rothwyn. Never a dull moment. You’re looking better, I must say. Got roses in your cheeks. It pleases me to see them.”
“I’ve been working in the garden.” She stepped into the room. “So, what’s ruffled your feathers? Anything I can do to help?”
He chuckled. “Thanks, little ’un, but no. ’Tis merely a series of unfortunate events. A barrel of wine leaked all over the cellar floor last night. One of the kitchen maids nearly set the place on fire this morning, and someone decided it would be amusing to put a frog in the chapel’s holy water.”
Lora laughed. “He’s truly blessed, then, that frog.”
“Aye.” He grimaced. “Something tells me your brother had a hand in it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to see if Mama needs me for anything. I hope your day improves.”
“As do I.” He started to turn back but stopped. “Oh, yes. And the stonemason fell down the steps last night and injured his arm. In his cups, apparently.”
Lora absorbed the information with a frown. “He’s still able to work, though.”
Her father scoffed. “Menial tasks, perhaps.”
“But… I heard him just now when I was cross
ing the bailey.” Something fluttered beneath her ribs. “The sound of his hammer and chisel, I mean.”
“That would be his replacement. Arrived this morning looking for work. A Welshman. Nice lad. Said Iorwerth sent him. Odd how these things happen, eh? Perfect timing. Almost like it was meant to be. Christ save us, are you all right, little ’un? You’ve turned whiter than a shroud.” He stood, took her elbow, and steered her into his chair. “Here, sit before you fall down. Did you eat today?”
“Yes.” Lora closed her eyes, wondering how any mortal heart could possibly beat so hard and hope to survive. “It’s just…just a dizzy spell. Perhaps I overdid it in the garden.”
“Hmm, perhaps. Stay there and rest a while. Your color’s coming back a bit now.” He pushed a goblet under her nose. “Here. Have a sip of this.”
A short while later, Lora stepped out into the sun and raised her face to the heavens. At long last she had her wings. They were ready to unfurl, ready to take her where she wanted to go. Her first destination was no mystery. It lay a few short steps beyond the southwest corner of the keep. Yet she paused, consumed by a sudden need to acknowledge this world she had wished for, to hear it, see it, feel it. She had at last arrived at its threshold, fully prepared to face whatever lay beyond.
The clouds had all but gone. Blue skies filled the space above Rothwyn’s walls. Swallows darted here and there, their jeweled feathers gleaming. A cool breeze bore sweet aromas of apple blossom and fresh-cut hay. As Lora closed her eyes and filled her lungs, a soft trickle of laughter found its way into her ear. Familiar laughter, the like of which she hadn’t heard in…a lifetime.
“Iorwerth,” she whispered, “may God, or the gods, bless your wandering soul.”
Then she scampered down the steps and wandered across the bailey. Before she reached the corner, she paused and took a long, slow breath, readying herself. In doing so, she caught sight of her skirts, dusty and muddied from her morning’s work. Her consternation lasted but a moment. What did a little dust matter? She was not a noble lass. Merely the daughter of a steward.
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 23