by Wendy Vella
“… beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptíste,” Brian wheezed.
Enough. If he didn’t halt this, his men would be scattered through the weald like crows. He kneed his mount forward, but Turk only pranced nervously, tossing his head and snorting instead of charging. Rhys swore, uncertain if he was more angry or amazed at the horse’s refusal to obey a command. Finally, the figure moved. One arm lifted slowly. A small hand was barely noticeable beneath the flowing garment. Rhys saw only a deep shimmering green on the underside; no weapon was visible in the folds.
The horses grew still, and an unnerving hush descended on the forest road. Tiny bells tinkled on the wind, and from the shadows of the hooded cloak came words in an exotic language Rhys had never heard—high, soft, and mysterious.
Again the stallion shuddered, sleek black muscles rippling as he pranced in quick, mincing steps. Rhys tried to control the animal, but with a jangle of curb chain and bridle bit, the great head shook hard enough to whip the long mane about in a stinging brush. It wasn’t until the figure spoke again that the stallion calmed, but the voice was almost drowned out by Brian’s droning Latin prayer.
“… Sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus sanctis, et tibi pater …”
Brian’s confessional entreaty grated on Rhys’s already raw temper. Devil, faerie, or enemy, this creature would not be allowed to make a mockery of him.
Clenching his teeth hard, he snarled, “Move from the path, or be ridden over. I have no time for this foolishness.”
A snort of unfaerielike laughter greeted his command, and a gust of wind blew, shaking tree limbs. His eyes narrowed. No mystical faerie bells, just the wind.
“… quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et òpere …”
“Enough, Sir Brian.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder in exasperation. When he turned back, the purple robe was gliding toward him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Nay, this was no reckless man barring the road, but a woman. There was a fluid grace and fragility to the dainty form that could not be achieved by any man he’d ever seen. It was almost as if this were a faerie on winged feet.
His mouth tightened. Curse Brian’s talk of elves and faeries—he had no intention of allowing those superstitions to affect him.
None of the men had moved after the horses quieted, and Rhys felt their gazes on him as they waited tensely to see what he would do. Wind rustled tree branches overhead with an eerie clacking sound, then it grew very still. No birds chirped, no normal forest sounds could be heard. Mist crawled along the ground, rising slowly, curling around the specter.
Irritated by an unexpected chill coiling down his spine, Rhys stared coldly at the robed figure barring his way. “Why do you block the road?” he demanded, switching from French to English. “We would pass.”
A sudden wind eddy lifted a spiral of dry leaves into the air in a slight whisper, and the figure stepped forward. A graceful lift of one hand pushed back the hood of her cloak. Rhys stared at her.
She was beautiful. Faerie-fragile and as luminous as moonlight on dark water, the maid staring up at him with a faint smile left him speechless. Lustrous hair, black as a raven’s wings, straight and shining, fell around her dusky face, and her eyes—Jésu, but her eyes were as deep and dark as the night. She stared directly at him, and he was caught by the intensity of the eyes holding mysterious promises in their depths.
For what seemed like hours but in truth could only have been a moment, he stared into that liquid gaze. Until she broke the spell.
“Greetings, fair knight,” she said in soft, perfect French. “I bar your path only to warn you. The bridge ahead has been washed away, and is not easily seen until too late to stop. I thought you should know of the danger.”
“God’s mercy on you for the warning.” He cleared his throat and gestured with his sword. “I barely saw you in the road. Did we frighten you?”
A burst of laughter was accompanied by the tinkling of tiny bells as she shook her head. The movement dislodged a skein of her unbound hair; it fell in a gleaming ribbon over one shoulder to her waist.
“Nay, brave knight. I was not frightened. Were you?”
“Frightened? By a wisp of a maid? Do you think we are children?”
“I thought perhaps you would fear the Beltane Eve, as many do.”
Christ above, but she was bold to taunt him with a subtle, feline smile and sly words. “I fear nothing,” he said shortly.
“Is that so? Courage is always needed in these fearsome times.” She took a step to one side, scattering shreds of mist that curled up around her like smoke. The mocking smile still played at the corners of her mouth.
Provoked, he said, “Times would be fearsome indeed, if the king’s knights were to fear a simple maiden in the midst of the road.”
The maid paused. Her gaze was eloquent, and rich with scorn. “Yea, English knights are valorous indeed, as courageous as the king is said to be. Yet I’ve heard that Richard slaughters children.”
Rhys swung his shield over his shoulder again. A sharp ray of sunlight caught the metallic edge and flashed into his eyes. Blinking, he looked back at her. He could hardly deny it when it was true, but it didn’t sweeten his temper to be reminded of it. “Are you Richard’s enemy?”
The air grew radiantly bright. A thin shaft of light speared the gloom to fall directly on the maid’s face. She waved an imperious hand, and the sunlight shifted from her eyes as if commanded away.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” Brian choked out, striking his chest with a mailed fist, and Rhys turned to give him a quelling glance.
When he turned back, the maid had faded into the shade of an ancient hawthorn; snow-white flower petals trembled delicately. Shadows darkened, obscuring all but her voice. “I am no man’s enemy. And I fear no man.”
Rhys blinked again, and the dwindling sunlight disappeared with a startling swiftness, as if an oil lamp had been doused. Staring into the black void, his first instinct was to call her back. “Demoiselle—come here. You should not be alone in the night.”
Faint laughter drifted back on a sudden gust of wind. The sweet scent of hawthorn blended with a vaguely familiar, intriguing fragrance. In a trice, Rhys dismounted to follow her. His spurs chinked softly as he strode toward the trees.
Despite his fear, Brian flung himself from his horse, catching up to Rhys to tug frantically at his mantle. “Nay, Rhys—do not! If you follow her, she will take you into the faerie world and you will never escape.”
Rhys shook his arm loose impatiently. “Don’t be a fool, Brian.”
But when he moved close to the line of trees into which the maid had disappeared, he saw no sign of her presence. No broken branch gave indication of her passage. Only the faintly familiar whiff of fragrance remained as a teasing reminder. He jerked at a handful of hawthorn flowers, and swore softly when a barb found its way through the metal links of his gauntlets to prick him. No one could just disappear like that, like—like mist.
Brian nudged close to him, his voice rough with fear. “I cannot say if the maid was elf or faerie, but whatever, she has frightening powers.”
“Do you think she summoned the dark?” Rhys mocked to hide his own misgivings. “She’s only a simple maiden warning us of danger ahead. If she has any sense, she’s wise enough not to become too friendly with roaming knights.”
“Still, I cannot like this,” Brian muttered. Rhys fell silent. There was no point in arguing deeply held superstitions. Pointing out to Brian now that dark oft came abruptly in the deep forests would do nothing to abate his belief that the maid had summoned the night. Nay, it would be a waste of breath even to attempt it.
The maid certainly wasn’t a faerie. But who was she? If she was from the village they had left, she was too far from home and safety. No young maiden should be alone in the forest, day or night. But was she alone? She could be a ruse, a distraction, while villains lay in the trees ahead to fall upon them. Mercenaries could alw
ays set upon them, for the forests were thick with thieves on the roads leading to Wales.
Yet it was not a mortal enemy his men feared.…
Just a glance at their strained faces and wide eyes was enough to convince him they would be worthless the rest of the night. It would take a miracle to put them at ease—or more magic to counter what they feared.
He managed a tight smile. “There’s a clearing not far behind. We’ll halt and light a coelcerth for the Beltane Eve.”
Some of the Welsh soldiers nodded in relief. Rhys hoped it worked. A ritual bonfire to chase away the demons should restore their courage, so that the morrow would find the men free of the numbing fear that seemed to grip them now. When they returned to the clearing, the sounds of making camp lent a reassuring normalcy to the night. Welshmen readied themselves to gather the sticks from nine different kinds of trees to perform their ceremony, removing all metal from their bodies, including mail and swords.
Rhys looked down. He still held his naked sword. Slowly, he sheathed it. This sword had been used on the field of battle at Acre, and was forged of the finest steel, with a hilt of carved copper and bronze. He had captured it while on the Crusades with Richard, and it had served him well.
He thought of those distant, sun-drenched lands where towering stone fortresses stood stark against barren hills. It hit him then, as he stared into the enveloping darkness, that the intriguing fragrance he had detected was Turkish jasmine.
“That was foolish,” Elspeth said sourly.
Sasha flushed with indignation. Her chin came up instinctively as she caught Elspeth’s unspoken words Reckless—and proud as Lucifer’s own daughter …
Ignoring the thought and addressing the spoken reprimand, Sasha said, “What, to warn the knights of the bridge? Nay, ’twas only kindness.”
“They could have killed you. I’ve noticed no kindness from wandering knights to solitary maidens.” Elspeth shook her head. A long shadow wavered on the cave wall. “Your Gift won’t protect you from folly. It was foolish.”
Sasha didn’t want to admit how unsettled the encounter had left her. She managed a careless shrug as she seated herself before the fire and held her hands out to warm them. She was still shaking with reaction. Faintly amazed at her own daring, she’d not expected to have such an effect on the knights. She couldn’t say she was sorry for frightening them, but she had expected the full use of her Gift to learn how best to approach the tall, lean knight who was their leader.
Instead, she’d encountered only a brilliant silence when she bent her talent toward the knight. No identity, unspoken words, or images had come to her when bid, only that bright, brittle band of silence. Alarmed, she’d turned her talent to the two-score men ranging behind the blond giant. Jumbled impressions couched in foreign languages had come from the armed men with him, restoring a shaky faith in her Gift. It was not gone, only powerless with this one man. She’d found the lack bewildering, then frightening.
Why couldn’t she read his thoughts? It had never happened to her before. So she’d stood staring up at him while mist coiled along the ground in annoying shreds, dampening her cloak and veiling the knight in gauzy streamers. And then, bright and swift as a bolt of lightning had come the illuminating explanation: He must be the answer to the prophecy.
Elspeth made a soft clucking sound in the back of her throat, and Sasha looked up. Firelight danced over craggy walls and ceiling. Tucked beneath a shelf of rock and heavy brush not far from the road, the cave was well hidden and not easily seen, a perfect spot for travelers seeking safe shelter for a night. The low roof grew higher toward the back, and a bone-deep chill emanated from the rock walls. She also felt the chill of Elspeth’s disapproval, and Sasha answered her at last.
“Not so foolish, if you will. My Gift has always given me the ability to see the true nature of men. The blond knight is not evil. I knew that when I spoke with him, even without using my Gift.”
“Bah. He is arrogant and proud,” Elspeth grumbled. “You should have fled, as did Biagio and I.”
“Biagio fled with you?” she murmured. “ ’Twould be the first time that brash youth abandoned danger.”
Elspeth shrugged. “I did not say he came with me willingly. But at least he gave heed to my warnings. If those men had taken you …”
She let her voice fade, but Sasha did not need to hear thoughts or spoken words to know what she meant. Outlaw knights had little compunction about taking a woman against her will, even killing her. Richard was on his Crusades, and all of England had been left in the hands of his brother Prince John. With a villain as their ruler, villains roamed freely.
“Where is Biagio now?” she asked to avoid more censure from Elspeth. “We must re-pack the cart for the morrow.”
“He went back to look for you.”
Elspeth turned her head, but Sasha intercepted a brief mental vision of Biagio’s face, contorted and angry, his words sharp. Dio—I am going back … I will find her … should not have left … Then Elspeth firmly focused on the leaping flames of the fire, and her mental images of Biagio disappeared to be replaced by a resolute study of the flames.
Sasha’s cheeks puffed out in a sigh. Elspeth and Biagio worried unduly. But she couldn’t change that. And in truth, there was often reason for apprehension. “I hope Biagio is careful,” was all she said.
Biagio could take care of himself well enough. The young Italian seemed to have a multitude of talents, none of them fully developed, some of them irritating, but all accompanied by a strong sense of self-preservation. He was reckless and insolent, and though she would never have admitted it to him for fear his head would swell with conceit, she blessed the day he had joined them. And she was infinitely grateful that he had not interfered in the weald.
She thought again of the knight who had resented her warning. Having newly come from the ruined bridge, they’d had only enough time to hide in the trees upon first sighting the approaching knights, peering out at them through thorny branches. The men made no effort to be quiet, and Sasha found herself greatly amused by the man named Rhys’s disbelief in superstitions. His arrogant denials had prompted her to mischief, to tweak him a little. It was easy for her to frighten their horses. And it had been worth it to see Richard’s stalwart knights struggle with uncontrollable mounts, swearing and praying and sweating. She’d not been able to contain her laughter. There was a deep-seated belief in the world of elves and faeries in all men, whether they wished to acknowledge it or not.
But then the leader had shifted his shield and she’d glimpsed a mythical beast on the hammered metal surface. The griffyn—it was the sign she had sought.
Half-closing her eyes, Sasha gazed into the leaping flames. She’d not expected the answer to the prophecy to be so young. She’d envisioned a grizzled warrior with battle scars aplenty, savage and impressive, bellowing threats and even defying the heavens. But not this, not a man who looked more like a princely knight in a chansons de geste than a fierce fighter. She didn’t want a romantic hero. She wanted a proficient warrior. That was what it would take to succeed.
Elspeth was right. It had been very foolish to stand in the midst of the forest road gazing up at an angry knight and gaping like a lackwit, but she’d been so startled by the lack of her Gift that she couldn’t react. And then she’d seen the emblem he wore, and really looked at him. That had almost been her undoing. He could have been Apollo stepped down from the sun—as blinding, blond and beautiful as the Greek god. No helmet hid his bright hair or clean-shaven features, and she’d found herself staring at him as if struck dumb, thinking that he couldn’t be the man for whom she’d searched so long.
But perhaps he was.…
There was character in his noble visage, in high cheekbones not at all marred by the scar curving from one temple, integrity in the cool gray eyes beneath a slash of dark brows, strength in the hard, arrogant set of his jaw. The very air had seemed to shimmer, as it did in the midst of a summer storm, when lightning c
harged the air … Yea, perhaps he was the man she’d been promised, the champion who would fulfill the prophecy …
Sasha.
Drifting to her through leaping flame and smoke, the unspoken word had all the raw power of a scream. Sasha looked up from the fire, reluctantly meeting Elspeth’s eyes. As usual, she knew what the older woman was thinking. She slowly shook her head, and the tiny bells sewn into the lining of her cloak tinkled lightly.
“Elspeth, I must confess. His mind is closed to me. But this is the one—I’m certain that he is the man of the prophecy.”
Elspeth stared at her. A frail hand moved up to her throat with a small flutter. “The prophecy … child, child, you were only eight years old when Rina told you of it. She was just a crazy Russian Gypsy. Who could know if this prophecy is true?”
“It’s true. Nothing else makes sense.” She drew in a deep breath. “It has to be true. I have searched so long for my champion, and now he is come.”
Elspeth moaned. “Nay, Sasha, he’s a rogue knight. He cannot be the one. You said yourself his mind is closed to you. It must be a mistake. We shall yet find the one who was promised. Perhaps when we get to my village—”
“It’s this one. I’m certain of it. Do not ask me how I know. It’s a feeling … think of the prophecy, the chance meeting with a fierce knight who is half eagle, half lion.”
“How can you be so certain it’s this one?” Elspeth’s veined hands shook as she held them out. “Your Gift cannot foretell the future—”
“You didn’t see his crest before you fled.” Sasha’s eyes began to burn, and she closed them against the smoke and doubt. “He wore the sign of the griffyn on his shield and surcoat. It was the half eagle, half lion that has haunted my dreams since I was only a child. ’Tis he, I know it. I cannot be wrong—”