The Black Angel (The St Ives)

by Barbara Samuel

  * * *

  Tess watched the dark man depart, her hands trembling. She had never seen anyone like him, seemingly civilized in his speech, with the same lilt to his words as the Spanish traders who’d been killed. But not civilized, in his wild clothes, with the impossibly long, black hair, bound by red cloth at the nape of his neck. Not civilized, for he wore a blanket and leggings.

  Now a white man in the same strange clothes knelt next to her. At least he did not have the fierce dark features of an Indian, but blue eyes, red hair and a reassuringly crooked smile. Even his British voice was undaunting. Whatever evil the Brits brought upon Irish heads—and heaven knew it was a load—Tess had never seen them scalp anyone.

  “Your friend is quite ill,” he said and held out a hand to put on Sonia’s cheek. “How long has it been since the attack?”

  “A few hours.” Tess closed her eyes at the remembered horror. “They came so fast,” she said.

  The Brit nodded.

  “So fast,” she repeated. “It was terrible.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you?”

  “Some other men fired guns at them.” She had been breathless with exhaustion by then, but the old Indian had called, and with swift grace, the warrior dropped his knife and rode off. “I hid from them. Sonia played dead.” Tess was still furious at herself for allowing these men to find her.

  “It’ll be a true enough death if you don’t come with us. You’ll both die out here alone,” he said. “We’ll help you get where you’re going.”

  “I’m afraid of that other man.”

  The Brit shook his head. “He won’t hurt you.” He stood up. “Come on.”

  Against Tess’s neck, Sonia stirred, and a broken moan sounded low in her throat. Bleakly, Tess realized there was really no choice. “We’re going to Taos to meet my husband,” she said finally. “Can you take us there?”

  “Taos is where we’re going. Who is your husband?”

  Tess felt the pressure of lying all through her as she stared at the kindly face, but she would not deviate from her plan now. “Seamus McKenzie,” she said without blinking.

  The Brit shrugged. “Never heard of him, but that don’t mean much.” He stood and whistled, a bright, loud sound, like some exotic bird. “I’m going to get Raúl to carry your woman there. Guess you can ride with me.”

  Tess said nothing. She held Sonia close, taking comfort in her warmth. Below the blanket, she moved her hand on Sonia’s arm.

  A third man appeared, and Tess started, gripping Sonia closer. He was tall and black and had made no sound whatsoever as he came through the brush. Tess looked at his feet as if he might have floated. They were enormous, as were his hands. His sparse beard was grizzled with white, and in his narrowed eyes, Tess saw his hatred.

  Once, he too had been a slave. She would have gambled all the money in her hems on the assumption.

  “This is Raúl Libre, ladies,” the Brit said, as if they were all at a tea party in a drawing room. “They’re coming with us, Raúl. If you’ll carry Rose Red, I’ll take Snow White.”

  For a long moment, Raúl stared at them with a flat expression. It would be amusing, him thinking her a great lady, Tess thought, but it was important that she maintain the ruse or she and Sonia would be in grave danger. If he were an escaped slave, he’d know as soon as he heard her speak that she was no plantation belle. She’d have to think of a lie to convince him if it came to that.

  Jaw hard, he squatted and tossed off the blanket covering Sonia. Immediately, his face thawed. “Let’s do this nice and easy,” he said in a rough, low voice. She heard the long vowels and soft consonants of the South. “Move up and I’ll see if can lift her.”

  Tess eased forward. The man’s big hands seemed surprisingly gentle as they slipped beneath Sonia’s legs and back. With a grunt—Sonia herself was no slight maid, but a strappingly tall woman with long muscles and a babe in her belly—he gathered her limp body and stood. Tess jumped to her feet to give him the blanket, but she’d been sitting so long in the same position, her legs nearly buckled. She hobbled toward Raúl and tossed the blanket over Sonia. Raúl gave her the same odd look as the first man had given, then abruptly turned and took his burden out of the hidden place.

  The Brit steadied Tess with a hand to her arm. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She rubbed her knees and took an experimental step. The tingling eased. Picking up her once-fine blue cloak, she threw it around her shoulders and followed after Raúl, anxious not to lose sight of Sonia.

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  A

  WINTER

  BALLAD

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  Prologue

  Thick rain, cold and bitter, poured from a dark winter sky. Four men rode through the dankness, heads down in miserable silence.

  A fifth man was flung over the body of a mule. Blood stained his hair. Rain wet the battered face. As this new woe penetrated, he groaned softly, but the others did not pause.

  Steadily, though it was Sext, the day darkened. Jean-Luc de Ventoux, till late a farmer's fourth son and not yet seventeen summers, cast a wary look at the sky. An evil portent, that blackening sky—a dire warning to halt their evil.

  But he growled the words to himself, fearful of raising the ire of the others again. They had laughed at his misgivings when they found the knight alone in the still of a cold evening, feeding carrots to a mule. Jean-Luc had quelled his nerves and joined in the ambush with vigor. It was Jean-Luc, he thought proudly, who'd delivered the silent powerful blow to the head that laid the knight low.

  But even as the knight had fallen, a beast roared out of the woods, yellow eyes unholy as it leapt upon them with fierce, low growls, madly tearing at their clothes, so violent it took several long moments for anyone to react. One of the kidnappers suffered a long rent to his leg, and they lost another to a torn throat before Claude, their leader, kicked the beast squarely in the chest. It made a high-pitched yelp of pain as it flew, and landed in the grass of the meadow. There it lay, unmoving, tongue lolling.

  By then, the marauders feared discovery by the soldiers camped not far distant, and bundled the body of the knight to the mule to make their escape. Claude wore the knight's sword hanging from his belt.

  Now the sky darkened, more and more, ominously. Jean-Luc heard a snapping in the woods and peered nervously into the trees, unable to quell a finger of dread. He saw nothing.

  The rain ceased, but still the sky did not lighten. Jean-Luc glanced uneasily toward the knight. There had been two men willing to pay richly for this man—one to have him dead, another to be borne back to France in secret. He was at the heart of some plot. Jean-Luc wondered what it might be.

  All at once, the world was plunged into a darkness as dense as full evening. Jean-Luc cried out in fear, and could no longer hold his tongue. "'Tis an evil portent!" he cried. "Please… let's leave the knight before we are damned."

  An uneasy murmur of half-agreement met his words, but Claude turned fiercely, holding to the stallion they'd stolen from the knight as it reared and whinnied nervously. "Fools! 'Twill be your heads—and your purses—that will suffer if you succumb to this foolish superstition."

  Jean-Luc swallowed. "But—"

  "Enough!"

  The knot of horses lifted their heads restively as the stallion snorted and danced almost out of control. As if in reaction, from the woods came a high, mournful howl.

  The sound traveled around the knot of men and horses. At first there was only the one howl, joined by another, then another and another, until they were surrounded with the eerie noise, echoing and bouncing, circling them. The stallion snorted, eyes wild.

  In terror, Jean-Luc looked back to the knight, and it seemed the golden hair glowed with some inner light. Ropes about his wrists had made a chafed mark. And with a certain horror, Jean-Luc s
aw that only the mule was calm as the other animals danced and skittered in response to the stallion's fear.

  A great bolt of lightning cracked through the darkness and struck a tree nearby with a booming explosion. The stallion reared and screamed in wild terror, then bolted through the forest in a frenzy. The other horses followed.

  Jean-Luc clung to his mount as the creature crashed without grace through thick trees. He kept his head low to the horse's neck, his fingers woven through the mane. Around them was the wild pounding of the horses through dense forest and the wolves baying—surely the sound of hell, Jean-Luc thought in terror. It began to rain again, hard. Lightning flashed in the evil daytime darkness, and thunder boomed with a rocking violence.

  Jean-Luc's horse suddenly reared. He clung mightily, hearing a shout and a sudden, quick cry of pain amid the cacophony. Through the rain, Jean-Luc saw Claude had been thrown from the stallion, who bolted away through the trees. Furious, Claude jumped to his feet, brushing his clothes and cursing as he pointed after the beast, sending one of his men after it.

  In the confusion, Jean-Luc saw his chance. Nickering gently at his mount to calm the beast, he steered the gelding from the pack and retraced their steps as well as he was able. The mule had not followed the wild bolt through the forest, but Jean-Luc found him calmly standing under the sheltering arms of an ancient rowan tree, as if to protect its rider.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Jean-Luc dismounted, and with a grunt, pulled the dead weight of the knight from the beast. The man slumped on the ground, rolling to one side with a stuporous moan. He did not wake.

  Jean-Luc took his knife from his belt and crouched to cut the ropes binding the knight's wrists and ankles. As the ropes fell free, a shout from the others reached him. "Jean-Luc!"

  He jumped to his feet—and at that moment, the sky lightened abruptly. Stunned, he looked toward the brightness, letting the rain wet his face before he fell to one knee and genuflected.

  "Jean-Luc!"

  Taking the rope around the mule's neck, Jean-Luc mounted his horse and led the mule away. As he rode toward the others, an extraordinary calm filled him. Purses and heads were nothing in comparison to an immortal soul.

  It was that thought that lent him courage to lead the men in circles, far from the sheltering branches of the rowan tree, when they went back in search of the knight.

  Defeated, weary, and not a little frightened by the afternoon's events, the men at last headed home toward Provence, leaving the body of the knight where it lay.

  Chapter One

  The body sprawled beneath the bare branches of a rowan tree. In the thick fog that laced through the trees and clung to the cold winter earth, it was invisible until Anya's black gelding shied and whinnied softly.

  Geoffrey, Anya's page, made a frightened noise. "Is he dead, my lady?"

  "I cannot tell." Anya dismounted and tossed back her hood. Warily, she crept forward, listening cautiously to the deep silence of the forest. There seemed to be no one else about. The horses stood quietly.

  Anya eased closer, noting the quality of the knight's mail and the good condition of his hauberk. Any helm he might have worn was gone, and his head had suffered the loss. Blood, thickened by cold or time, clotted his hair.

  Kneeling beside him, she examined him for signs of life, her hands clutched close in her lap. Tangled long hair the color of ripe wheat covered his face, and below the heavy leather on his chest, she could see no movement.

  "Is he dead?" Geoffrey whispered loudly from his mount.

  Anya lifted her shoulders, for it was impossible to know. Bracing herself for the eerie feel of dead flesh, she reached out to touch his hand. It was cold and marred with chilblains, but not dead-flesh cold. Nor stiff, either. Heartened, she reached forward to brush the hair from his face.

  He moaned and shifted a little. Anya started and jumped back a pace, shooting an alarmed glance toward Geoffrey.

  "See if he is armed before he awakens!" the boy urged.

  "Why must I do all?" she protested. "You are to serve me, child!"

  "But you are the older, my lady."

  The knight moved no more, and Anya bent to check his sleeves for daggers. No belt or scabbard hung around his waist, though a shiny place on his hauberk showed where it would go.

  The small shift of the knight had put him flat on his back, and now she could see his face. Blonds were often pallid and delicate. This wounded knight was neither. His flesh was tanned, the sharp cheekbones a touch sun- or wind-burned. A high brow and the straight clean lines of nose and jaw bespoke intelligence. His mouth, in his stupor, seemed peculiarly vulnerable.

  She knelt again, no longer afraid, and probed his body for signs of injury. There were bruises along one side of his face, and the bloody cut on his head. One shoulder seemed cocked at an odd angle, but it was impossible to see what sort of injury made it so beneath the mail. When she pressed along his sides, he made no sound of pain. With both hands, she checked for breaks in his limbs. None.

  "Come, Geoffrey. Help me get him on my horse."

  The page stared at her.

  "You'll not be much of a knight if a near-dead man frightens you so."

  "What if he is a demon come from hell in the Great Darkness?"

  Anya sighed. Two days before, the world had been plunged into an eerie, engulfing darkness at midday. Geoffrey had suffered nightmares both nights since. "He is only a man, child. One who will die if we leave him here."

  Still he made no move to dismount. Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips. "Dismount and help me, young Geoffrey, or I'll see you sent to bed with no supper."

  He obeyed. As he came to stand beside her, looking with some dread at the knight, Anya touched the boy's blond head gently. "Truly, Geoffrey, he is no danger to us."

  The boy nodded. "What shall I do?"

  Anya tossed her braid over her shoulder and eyed the man. He was quite large, though, thank the saints, slim enough. "Twill be no easy task. We must take as much care with that shoulder as we can, and his head will bleed again." She sighed. "There's no help for it."

  Between the two of them, they managed to drag and half lift, half throw the man over the back of Anya's mare. He groaned again, a low, agonized sound, but did not waken. Anya frowned. It would have been better had he roused. She held little hope for his life.

  Once he was settled, Anya took the reins to lead her mare back to the castle.

  Geoffrey suddenly screamed.

  Anya whirled, heart pounding, to look for bandits. She saw nothing. "Geoffrey," she said sharply in reproof.

  The boy pointed toward the spot from which they'd lifted the man. A lean, ragged dog skulked close to the place, his tail down. He sniffed the area and whined.

  "A wolf!" Geoffrey whispered.

  The creature looked as if it feared beating, but even the fear did not keep it from edging closer to the man on the horse. It whined again, a sorrowful sound.

  "Not a wolf," Anya said. She thought it might be half, but would not give Geoffrey anything else to panic over. "'Tis only the knight's dog."

  Gently, she reached out a hand, murmuring nonsense in an encouraging voice. She had a fondness for beasts of any sort. This one, though ragged and dirty, showed signs of great handsomeness. At her gesture, he crept forward slowly and licked her fingers. She touched his head, scratching below his ears. "I don't know what we can do for your master," she said, "but for you, there are scraps and a warm place to sleep tonight."

  She straightened. "Geoffrey, I want you to put your hand on the knight's head, keep it from bouncing too much."

  For once, perhaps because he felt sheepish over his myriad fears, the boy did not argue. They made their way through the forest back to the Hall.

  At the gates, there was a stir over the wounded knight, but unlike Geoffrey, the men-at-arms did not argue with the lady of the manor. Female she might be, and ruined besides, but they recognized her authority. In the continued absence of her brothers, one on a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, another a canon at the cathedral in Lichfield, Anya was the only clear mistress they had. For five years, she had run the manor ably—far better, she knew, than her brother, who'd nearly ruined the fief in his sorrowing and drunken haze.

  The men carried the knight to a chamber behind the Great Hall, close to the hearth, where it was warm and dry. They settled him on a straw mattress, then stood waiting. Anya dismissed them, except Geoffrey, whom she sent to the kitchens for the supplies she needed.

  The dog crept in, head down, and when Anya didn't shout at him, slunk close to the knight's feet. "I fear your master has little time left to him," she said as she began to remove the hauberk and mail, gently as she was able. The knight groaned softly, shifting away from her hands. His flesh burned with fever, and Anya could smell the sour odor of illness about him.

  A little pluck of regret touched her. The lean body, muscled and hard beneath his clothes, matched the extraordinary handsomeness of his face, visible even through the grime and bruises and days' worth of unshaven beard. She pressed her fingers to the high brow. "How long did you lie there?" she asked, knowing he could not hear. "How came you to our forest?"

  A maidservant appeared with a bucket of water and strips of cloth. She set them beside Anya with a grunt, and her attention fell to the knight, naked on the straw mattress. A quiet murmur of surprise and pleasure escaped her mouth.

  Anya looked at the girl, and caught the greedy gleam in her eye. "I will call you, Tillie, if needs be."

  Left alone, Anya dipped her cloth in the warm water and began to wash the sweat and heat from the knight's body. First his face, so bruised and battered. One eye was swollen and a gash marked his jaw. She paused to look at the wound, but found it mending already beneath the caked blood. His lips were cracked, too, as if from thirst. He must have lain in the forest, wounded this way, for at least a day and a night.

  Her estimate of his chances of survival plummeted again.

  The head wound was deep and oozed with a muckish substance, but even it was not the worst of his injuries. She had prayed the shoulder had only slipped from its joint. Once she removed the mail, it was plain the bone above his chest was broken, and a great red bruise marked the place, as if he'd been given a blow.