Autumn's Flame

by Denise Domning

  Beyond these defenses was a third wall, this one belonging to the city that lived alongside the king's castle. Only a small portion of the houses crammed within the city's wall were visible. Rude dwellings with walls of mud and manure stood alongside the more refined half-timber buildings, their upper stories all white walls framed by dark beams.

  The sight of the better abodes made Elyssa homesick for her house at Nalder, for it was of that same sort. In her memory, she wandered from her home's cellar and storeroom to the first-floor hall, where her few male servants slept and the household took its meal. The second floor was her own private domain, making it most precious to her. Spacious and airy, that room had wide windows with shutters that could be thrown back so summer might stream in and a fine brick hearth to chase winter back outside the walls. In that room did her two women spin, weave, and sew, as per her contract with Freyne, and she and Clare embroidered, their work donated to Nalder's monastery.

  She drew a shaking breath, thinking of all the happy hours she'd spent listening to the dialogues between Jocelyn and his tutors. No more. The very thought of returning to Nalder without her son made tears sting in her eyes.

  As they drew nearer to the keep, Elyssa wrinkled her nose. The setting sun's breath brought with it the acrid smell of burning pit coal, torn from yon gaping trenches. If wealth could be judged by stink alone, then this was a rich place indeed. With the stench came the echoes of smiths at their work, a steady clanging of metal against metal.

  "Is this Crosswell?" From her horse in its position behind Elyssa, Clare asked this question of one of their escorts.

  "Aye, my lady," a man replied.

  "Thank the Lord." Even though Clare was much more comfortable in a saddle, there was the same tone of exhausted relief in her voice that Elyssa knew at his answer. "It’s such a short distance. Might I ride beside Lady Freyne for the remainder of our journey?"

  The man must have agreed, for Clare drew her horse alongside Elyssa’s. “Lyssa!" she said, the word a sharp cry. “You look ready to drop at any moment. Why did you persist when what you do threatens your babe?"

  "What care I for whether the babe stays or goes?" Elyssa replied, her answer made harsh by the regrets now nipping at her. "I warn you, if you plan to carp and chide every moment over this babe you may as well leave for Nalder on the morrow. Begone with you."

  "Nay," Clare replied with enough strength in her denial to startle Elyssa into glancing at her. Her cousin's eyes were narrowed with surprising determination. "You need me. I will be the one to treat your bruises when your warden gives way to rage and beats you for your misbehavior. I only pray he does not murder you as he did his poor wife. If you care so deeply for Jocelyn, how could you goad the sheriff as you did?"

  "No more, Clare," ELyssa begged with a catch in her voice. "Do you think I've not been asking myself that same question over these past hours?"

  "I suppose you have," Clare offered in soft apology. "Why did you do it?"

  "I do not know," Elyssa sighed, fighting her desire to weep until she could cry no more. "I suppose because he made me angry when he said he'd abandon us to the road.”

  "Whatever shall I do with you," Clare said tightly. "I think me you'll not live to childbirth if you don't learn to hold your tongue."

  "I will try," Elyssa offered, "for your sake if not for this babe's. I know how precious he is to you."

  He? Elyssa frowned. When had she started assigning gender to this seed growing in her? Well, that had to stop. She absolutely refused to think of what grew in her as a being. She wouldn’t do it.

  In that moment, her palfrey stumbled slightly and the creature's lurching motion sent her stomach into a sudden sickening dance. Elyssa’s hand instantly flew to her abdomen as if to shield her baby. She sighed and relaxed in acceptance. This babe was already well and truly locked within her heart, belonging to her as much as Jocelyn did. How foolish of her to imagine she could love what grew in her any less than she did his elder brother.

  A tiny smile touched her lips. As if she had any choice in this. Already in this short time she knew this child was different, owning a strength of will that surpassed that of either Jocelyn’s or her Kate’s. Perhaps even her own. She only hoped he had more sense than his dam.

  As always, Crosswell's oppressive atmosphere reached out to envelop Geoffrey, dragging his soul down with its dreariness. He glanced up at the two massive gatehouse towers. Thick and ugly, they framed an entrance that was more tunnel than gateway. Each time he entered he thought of a hell's mouth, the gaping maw waiting at Satan’s gate to consume a grievous sinner.

  There was no doubt that serving as Crosswell’s sheriff was akin to residing in hell. The illusion was aided by the city, which shared with the fortress the reek of its ever-burning forge fires, the creaking of the water-driven machines working the raw iron ore, along with the constant clamoring of hammers. But, if Crosswell was dirty and harsh, it also represented a strength that Coudray lacked. Here could Cecilia find shelter from a world that had already wounded her near to death and lurked outside these walls to finish the task, given the chance.

  Passavant crossed the wide outer bailey at a walk. This was a crowded place, hosting endless rounds of travelers, messengers, and complainants. Only the nights were quiet. Day’s end sent soldiers retreating to hall or garrison, while a goodly number of those who served the keep's daily needs departed Crosswell for home and family in town.

  Geoffrey glanced ahead of him, his gaze catching on three tiny whitewashed cottages set near the inner gateway. Although standard housing for the impoverished sort of noble widow who came seeking a sheriff's protection, these houses were a poor substitute for a home, not unlike Crosswell's hall. But, no matter how tiny and inconvenient, within these cottages’ walls the women would find a privacy not available to them in any other part of Crosswell.

  No smoke rose from any of their rooftops. Geoffrey frowned at this. He'd sent a man ahead with the order to make one ready for the widow. Someone would rue this day if his message had been ignored. He'd not have the widow and her noble cousin sleeping in the hall, only to cry rape the next morn. He let his thoughts shift from Lady Freyne to her son.

  The chaotic moment of their meeting left Geoffrey with an image of a pasty-faced lad who was too thin for his gown. From what he remembered of Aymer of Freyne, the man had been a great bull with too-loud laughter and a cock standing ever ready to find a sheathe, however perverse. How could such a man have gotten so whey-blooded a son from the bold bitch who was his wife?

  Against his will the image of that fiery vixen, unclothed save for her glorious hair, flashed before his inner eye. Geoffrey caught his breath as the picture brought his body to instant aching. He stifled a groan. Why her, when not even the prettiest of whores stirred his blood?

  Passavant gave a startled snort, waking Geoff from his own perversity. Ahead through the opening of the gate that separated this bailey from the inner courtyard he could see a child, one of the many who worked within the keep, sprinting toward him. For a moment Geoff's heart took flight, dreaming it might be his daughter come to greet him.

  The child and Passavant entered the brief dimness of the gateway at the same instant from different ends. Geoff, ready for Passavant’s reaction, held the horse steady as the child raced on past him just as he had expected. By the time Geoff guided Passavant onto the cobbled apron at the keep's base, he was nigh on drowning on what his false hope had cost him.

  "My lord!" The cry came from above him.

  Geoffrey looked up, his lopsided vision framed by the arch of his helmet's nasal into its brow. His undersheriff, Martin de la Bois, flew from the keep's door and down the stairs to ground level. On the young knight's heels came the servants and soldiers who'd been in the hall. "Freyne's heir escapes!"

  "Hie, all you men and after him!" Geoffrey shouted as he spurred Passavant into a turn and came face-to-face with a crowd of mounted men.

  Stirred to violence by the cries and
the surge of men and horses around him, the big gray raised himself to strike. Cursing quietly, Geoffrey worked with hand and knee to convince Passavant this was no battle. Men tried desperately to wrench their mounts out of the way. A massive iron-shod hoof caught a smaller palfrey on the shoulder, sending the poor creature stumbling and shrieking, while its rider fought free of the saddle.

  Only partially reassured, the big gray circled once more and settled, head toward the keep's door. Geoffrey stared at the portal in surprise. Standing on the landing in full view of the courtyard was a tiny figure. Although what little light escaped the hall left her face in shadow, he knew her.

  Cecilia.

  His daughter clung to the stair rail, the lift of her chin indicating she peered toward the inner gateway. Geoffrey let his vision fill with her. Her dark hair was wild, meaning she yet resisted her caretaker's comb. The dress she refused to relinquish was rent and worn in places and now too short. In the next moment, her head lowered and she scanned the inner courtyard where he sat on his mount.

  Geoffrey froze, incapable of breath as he awaited her reaction to his presence. Her gaze barely touched on him before she was gone, vanished as if she were spirit rather than flesh. His heart died, just as it had all the other times she rejected him.

  Once, eons ago, she had loved him. Although it had been almost a year since he'd last held her, Geoffrey could still recall the sweet smell of her as she lay her soft cheek against his neck. There had been joy in feeling her small hands locked in perfect trust around his neck.

  His jaw tight against the pain of losing her yet again, Geoffrey dismounted. Why did hope persist? He thrust Passavant's reins at the gray's regular groom, then yanked off his helmet. He needed to accept that the daughter who had loved him was gone, destroyed by the same madness that had consumed her mother. All he had left of his Cecilia was an empty shell, speechless and fey.

  He turned, meaning to follow after the boy only to discover Crosswell's men were yet in the courtyard and still mounted. "Damn you all," he shouted, and the pressure in his heart eased. "Do not sit there with your fingers in your ears. Dismount and help Sir Martin fetch back that boy."

  As men scrambled from their saddles Osbert's voice echoed off the tall inner walls. "My lord, we have him. He but wished to greet his lady mother."

  "God be praised that there are a few men in this keep with wits in their heads," Geoffrey snarled, then turned on those in the courtyard. "Get you all within your barracks and out of my sight. Brainless asses, every one of you." He strode for the gateway.

  "Welcome home, my lord sheriff," one of the guards called to him. "We didn't recognize the boy, else we'd have stopped him."

  Geoffrey grunted in surprise at the greeting. Generally, his passage to and from the keep was completed in silence on both sides. He glanced ahead of him and saw a ring of men, some mounted and some on foot, surrounding the woman and her child. At his quiet word, the men turned away as grooms came from the stables to take the horses. Within a moment only he, Sir Martin, and Lady Clare remained to watch this meeting between mother and son.

  Lady Freyne sat where she'd dropped after dismounting, her hands now cupped against the boy's beardless cheeks. Tears glistened in the widow's eyes. The chin piece of her oh-so-proper wimple was already damp with the fruit of her heart.

  Irritation woke in Geoffrey. Lord, but the woman was worse than a monk's water clock. Drip, drip, drip. He glanced at Lady Clare. The second noblewoman stood well back from her cousin, her stance saying she felt she had no place in this meeting.

  Lady Freyne drew a shaking breath as a smile trembled on her pretty lips. "God be praised. Jocelyn, my dearest boy, how I feared for you."

  Envy, sharp and painful, rose in Geoffrey as the lad hugged his mother. She could speak with her child, touch him, and be touched in return, while his daughter refused him because of what her mother had laid upon his face.

  "Aye, and so you should have, for it was terrible," the boy said with a deep and tragic sigh. "Maman, you must save me from these cruel men. That one"—he pointed a quivering finger toward Martin—"made me sit before him on his horse, even when I told him I must never ride. And, when I warned him I could not bear the wind in my ears, he but laughed and said it would not kill me."

  Geoffrey's brows rose in admiration at the boy's cleverness. In one breath Jocelyn of Freyne fed his mother's worries for him while he worked a subtle attack against the man he viewed as his kidnapper. And the boy received a swift and satisfying reward for his efforts. While Lady Freyne cried out in dismay, Crosswell's undersheriff pounced on the insult the same way a hawk took a lure.

  "What sort of nonsense is this?" Sir Martin snarled. Dark of hair and beard, the young knight's brows drew sharply down over eyes equally as black. Anger made dusky color creep over his bold features, staining his olive skin. "You complain when you are none the worse for your journey, save for the pinch hunger puts in your belly. And that’s your own fault, since you refuse to eat with us."

  Geofrey glanced askance at the man. Martin de la Bois was cursed with an overwhelming good nature. That one so eager to inflict happiness on others could be goaded by a boy into such a show of impatience did not speak well of his new ward.

  Jocelyn of Freyne turned on Martin, a scowl on his small face. "I told you I was ailing, but you only laughed at me," he retorted.

  Not only was there a touch of vindictive triumph in the lad's voice, but an utter disregard for the respect due a man who was both ten years his senior and knighted. This show of spirit, however ill meant, made Geoffrey eye Freyne's heir a little more closely. Henry was wrong; the boy was not the weakling the world believed.

  "Why, you nasty brat," Martin cried.

  The young knight advanced on Jocelyn, his hand raised to deliver the correction the lad so richly deserved. Geoffrey stepped forward and caught his undersheriff's arm to stop him. A slight shake of his head was enough to remind Martin that such chastisement was not his to give. Left unchallenged in his misbehavior, the boy's mouth quirked upward in brief triumph then drooped into a sad expression.

  Jocelyn turned on his mother and coughed weakly. "Maman, I ache. The air catches in my lungs, and my skin warms with fever."

  Instead of scolding him for his disrespect, Lady Freyne laid her hand on her son's high forehead. "Aye, you are a bit warm," she agreed, then leaned her head against his chest to listen. A tiny frown appeared between her brows. "Your breathing is clear enough, but I think me we must have a care with you over these next days," she said in gentle remark.

  She looked up at Geoffrey, a new humility touching her face. "My lord, Jocelyn will need to remain within doors for the next week, else he'll be taken by a cough. This cough of his is a terrible thing, wracking him for for weeks, leaving him gasping for every breath."

  Geoffrey stared at her. Her meek manner was but a shield behind which she hid an iron command. Why in God's name was he drawn to her? She was like her son, offering not the slightest shred of the respect due him.

  "My lady, Jocelyn is no longer your concern, but mine." He offered this as a blunt statement, praying it sufficed to stop her.

  Her shoulders bent in what seemed acceptance, but in the next instant her spine stiffened and her jaw squared. "So he is, but if he's to become Freyne's lord, you will need to heed my warnings as to his health."

  Jocelyn shot her an astonished glance. "Maman, you know full well I'm to be a monk, not Freyne's lord. Tell him so." The boy looked up at his new warden, every inch of him radiating defiance.

  "A monk!" Martin retorted, his words sharp. "Not even the Church would want you, not until you've had some manners beaten into you. Now there’s something I’d happily offer to do for them."

  Lady Freyne gasped in shock at the young knight's threat. "Nay, do not speak so to him, for it only sends him into melancholy." She grabbed her son to her, a hand stroking his back in an effort to soothe.

  From above his dam's head, the boy shot yet another triumphan
t glance at Geoffrey's undersheriff, then stepped back and turned a commanding look onto his mother. "Maman, I hate this place. On the morrow we must leave for Nalder."

  Geoff choked on his dislike for the lad. This whole encounter might have been hilarious except for the fact that he was the one stuck with the spoiled and overbearing brat. He slipped off his steel-sewn gauntlets and tucked them into his sword belt. "Jocelyn of Freyne, I have heard enough of your rudeness,” he said, catching the boy’s attention with his announcement.

  Jocelyn watched him warily as Geoff continued. “Know you that from this moment on, any display of so unruly a tongue will bring you the sting of my discipline." Here, Geoffrey paused, holding up a bared hand to indicate exactly what would sting the lad. "Now as my squire, take you my first command and hie yourself back into my hall."

  Lady Freyne gasped, but the boy only turned his back on his new lord. Grabbing his mother by the shoulders, he shook her. "Maman, you must get me away from this place," he said, as if she were his servant and not the one who'd given him life. "I am growing ill, I can feel it."

  Geoffrey's hand flashed from his side, catching the boy across his face with a blow calculated to startle more than bruise. So it did. Jocelyn stared at him for a brief instant of surprise, then dropped to the ground, sobbing.

  "Jocelyn!" His mother scooped him into her arms. When she looked up to their warden, her coppery eyes were wide with fear for her child and filled with new tears. "My lord, I pray you do not abuse him so. Did I not beg your pardon?"

  Geoff stared at her, shocked again by her bold insult. Damn him, but Henry was right. She meant to put herself between him and the boy at every turn. On irritation's heels came regret. He shouldn’t have suggested that he might hurt her child because of her actions.

  "You name rightful correction abuse? My lady, no blame rests upon your doorstep for this incident. Jocelyn has behaved rudely, and that is what I seek to correct. Now that he has earned his just reward for his behavior, the matter is quit between us."