Dragon Tree

by Canham, Marsha

  “I am certain I would not,” she said dryly, returning her gaze to the stables. Roland followed her glance and chuckled.

  “If you were hoping to win a better offer elsewhere, you will only be wasting your saucy glances. Lord Tamberlane has no interest in a pretty little minx with doe eyes and soft bosoms.”

  Amie turned, astonished by the accusation. “I assure you, I am not glancing saucily at Lord Tamberlane... or indeed, at anyone else.”

  “Many before you have tried to be sure," he said, ignoring her protest. "But not a one has succeeded. You are aware, are you not, that he has taken vows of chastity. That he was trained and schooled since boyhood for the Order of the Knights Templar. I grant you, he no longer bends a knee to the dictates of the church, but he is still a monk in his own mind. One who takes every vow he makes... or has made... serious unto death.”

  Admittedly curious to know more about the enigmatic knight, Amaranth feigned the ignorance a village maid might possess. “What do you mean, he no longer bends a knee?

  Roland leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “He was defrocked. Cast out of the Order in disgrace and excommunicated by the pope himself. He bides here only by his uncle’s good will and generosity—some of which I wish had been accorded to me before I was bound into his service.” He held up a hand. “Nay, read nothing untoward behind my words, for he is an excellent master and teacher with unparalleled skills. A warrior the likes of which I have never seen before. But alas, who do we train to fight? Squirrels and deer, ferrets and boars? He has not ventured more than a few miles beyond the gates in over three years. He will not even seek out a tourney where the mere name of the Dragonslayer would cause men to bash their heads against their own shields in a panic to avoid answering a challenge.”

  “Perhaps he seeks something other than glory or riches.”

  Her words caused him to puff out his chest with indignation. “There is no greater glory for a knight than to win battles and bring honor to his name.”

  "What of the other knights I have seen in the hall?"

  Roland shrugged. "Where do soldiers go when they have no wish to soldier any longer? When the alternative is to beg their bread in the streets or hire themselves out to slit throats? They come here by twos and threes, sometimes alone, and they do not seem to mind the solitude, the very thing that makes my feet itch to leave this place. Some are simply war-weary. They stay for a time and then leave when they feel whole again."

  “And Marak?” she asked.

  Roland nodded. "A Saracen, bleached of color. He has a wizard's way with healing, as you know yourself. And not just with wounds that you can see."

  “A Saracen would seem an odd choice of companion for a Templar. Even a defrocked Templar.”

  “I am not privy to the entire history of their friendship, though I know it began in Outremer. It was Marak who saved him from being skinned alive and carved up like a goat's ass by desert Turks. Whispers say that he cast a spell on them so that Lord Tamberlane could escape. He knows the secrets of alchemy and—” he lowered his voice as if the birds might carry his words to other ears— “sorcery. Indeed, I have seen proof.”

  “Sorcery?” This made Amie smile, for what impressionable young maid would not have instantly thrown herself into the squire’s waiting arms seeking protection from such a word?

  When she did not, he frowned.

  “Disbelieve me if you wish, but I have seen him work his magic and conjure things with mine own eyes. A ball of common lead was transformed to pure gold. A noisome child was turned into a piglet for a full afternoon. A blind man was made to see again.” The squire’s voice dropped even lower. “What is more, he is neither a man nor a woman beneath those robes. I am told he lacks that which makes the one, and has no pouch for the other. Not a eunuch proper, but not an epicene either. So you see,” he straightened and added by way of conclusion, “if you had hopes of finding yourself invited into either bed, consider yourself well advised not to wait too long for the fires of hell to freeze over.”

  “The notion never once crossed my mind,” she said evenly. “I have had enough of men to last me this lifetime and the next. That would include you, sirrah, so if you had a hope of luring me behind a haystack, you may regard it here and now as being a fool's errand.”

  Roland only grinned. “High airs for a milkmaid, minx. And we shall see about that. We shall just see about that."

  Amaranth expelled a sigh and pushed to her feet, having had enough pointless banter. She had taken but a step or two into the sunlight when a high-pitched scream rent the air. Roland froze as he was leaning over to grasp her arm. With a muttered apology and an order for Amie to remain on the bench, he broke into a run and headed for the stables.

  Any thought Amie had of obeying vanished when a second pitiful scream echoed off the stone walls and she found herself hurrying instead toward the sheltered end of the stables.

  ~~

  The inside of the long wooden structure was gloomy, the floor littered with sticks of straw that stabbed into the soles of Amie’s feet. The air was thick with dust and smelled fiercely of horses, manure, and leather. She saw Roland and another hostler standing in front of one of the open stalls. Inside, a large mare lay on her side, her belly heaving, her head jerking and thrashing with the pain of birth. Amie crept silently forward, passing three empty stalls before stopping alongside one that held a whining donkey. She knew asses were often used to calm the bigger warhorses but to all appearances, it seemed the ass was the one in need of reassurance now.

  She placed a hand on its rump to soothe the worried beast, and moved up to the wooden bar that separated the two stalls. The screaming had stopped, replaced by heaving breaths that sounded like a smithy's bellows.

  Marak was on his knees, his sleeves pulled back, his one arm buried almost to the shoulder inside the mare’s womb. Tamberlane sat with the animal’s head cradled in his lap, his hands stroking the velvety snout, his mouth bent close to her ear murmuring words meant to calm and reassure her. The mare whinnied and grunted, her eyes wide with fright, but she seemed to be listening to his voice, hanging on to his every softly spoken word.

  There was a good deal of blood and slime in the straw beneath the mare’s rump and at first Amie did not see the newborn foal. But it was there, covered in birthing fluids, its legs still curled against its body, not moving. Marak pulled out the sac containing the afterbirth then swore softly when he saw the gush of bright red blood that followed.

  Amie had seen enough animal husbandry to know there was a deal more blood in the straw than there should have been. Marak had already started packing the womb with fistfuls of herbs and moss. His hood was pulled back and his expression was grim, although when he spoke to the mare, his words were laden with the same gentle encouragement Amaranth had heard murmured over her own sickbed.

  Amie tipped her head slightly, trying to see with more than one eye around the thick post. The movement, slight as it was, was noticed and Marak waved her over with a bloodied hand.

  “The foal needs help, he's not breathing. 'Twould be a shame to lose it now after all this pain.”

  Amaranth quickly ducked beneath the wooden bar and sank down on her knees beside the unmoving foal. The eyes were sealed shut, the nostrils clogged with mucus. She used her fingers to clear the slippery mess away then grabbed a handful of straw and began wiping down the foal's body. A leg twitched, then another and with something akin to a sneeze it began to breathe and squirm. One large brown eye rolled opened, blinking as it looked around and inspected this strange new world.

  Amie continued to wipe him down, using fresh handfuls of hay. There was a bucket of water nearby and she dampened the tips of her fingers, using them to clean around the eyes and nose. The foal was kicking out stronger now, trying to straighten the long, spindly legs.

  One kick hit Amie on the knee and she flinched back, hitting the water bucket with her arm, and overturning it. The contents spilled out but instead of spreading in
a puddle, she heard it drip down between the wide, straw-covered planks that formed the floor and land with a hollow echo somewhere below.

  Marak, meanwhile, had managed to stop the mare’s bleeding. Tamberlane’s steady murmurs and long, stroking fingers had soothed the beast enough that her eyes lost the look of wide, glazed panic and she was actually trying to lift her head, to see behind her where the foal had begun to bleat and squeak.

  “There, you see?” Tamberlane’s voice was so low it barely carried beyond the mare’s ears. “You have a son, my beautiful Isolde. A son who will grow to be as fine and strong and proud as his sire. Look you how he struggles to put his legs beneath him, how his eyes gleam with wonderment. Look at the breadth of his shoulders—the shoulders that caused you so much distress—look at the power they show already. He will be a champion.”

  He glanced up and noticed that Amie was watching. Their gazes locked and she felt such a strong wave of heat pass through her that she could swear it left part of her melted. His eyes were rife with emotion and in that single glance, she saw the full, haunting depths of a self-imposed isolation that forbade him from allowing anyone to get close to him. She was able to recognize the emotion because the same sense of loneliness was present in her own breast. A dog, a horse, a small child... these were safe because they gave love unconditionally and asked nothing in return. They did not know how to deceive, how to hurt, how to lie or cause pain. They did not know how to take something that had been full of hope and beauty, and twist it into ugliness, fear, and pain.

  Amie forced herself to look away, but Tamberlane continued to stare, drawn by the silky wisps of hair that lay against her cheek, the slender arch of her throat where a beam of sunlight traced a soft pattern. His fascination was observed this time by a pair of pale, almost colorless eyes and to conceal his surprise, Marak moved to examine the foal, running his long fingers gently over the trembling body, down each of the thin, bony legs.

  “He’ll be big, like his sire, Tristan, with the same piebald coloring.”

  “What of Isolde?” Tamberlane asked.

  Marak glanced back at the mare. “We must keep her quiet until the herbs take hold. In an hour or so, she might try to stand... which will be a good sign. If she makes no effort...” He offered up a slight shrug. “But she is strong and has a brave heart. I expect she will be nipping your ears again before the sun sets on the morrow. As for you, Little One,” he said, frowning sternly at Amaranth. “If you do not wish to undo all my good work , you will return to your solar at once, find your bed, and remain there until I give you leave to rise again. Roland... your arms will do. Carry Amaranth back to the keep and make no stops along the way.”

  "I am perfectly capable of walking," Amie protested.

  "And I am perfectly capable of having you slung over a shoulder and carried back like a sack of grain. Roland...?"

  The squire grinned. “Only say the word and it shall be as you command.”

  Tamberlane stood and used a scrap of cloth to wipe his hands. When he was finished, he reached down to Amie, his mouth twisted in a bit of a smile as he shared a secret.

  "I, myself, have yet to win an argument with the faithless heathen. You would do better to save your breath and concede now."

  She looked at the outstretched hand for a moment and knew a peasant girl would hardly refuse a command by her overlord. She put her much smaller hand into his and when he pulled her up, she was aware of an energy, an underlying power he held carefully in check. She could well imagine that power exploding. She could believe him capable of slaying dragons and the thought sent a flush of sensations rushing from her fingertips all the way into her toes.

  In the next instant, Roland was by her side, lifting her with an easy swing of his muscled shoulders. Her hand slipped out of Tamberlane’s and the contact was broken. For a very long moment she wished it was the knights arms that were holding her close against his chest, and in that same moment, she thought she saw a flicker in the dark green eyes that mirrored her own desire. In the next blink it was gone and Tamberlane turned away, leaving Roland to carry her out of the stable and back to the keep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Roland was diligent in his duty and insisted on carrying her to her room high in the tower. He ignored her protests, once they were out of sight of the stables, and merely crooked an officious eyebrow when she said she could walk the rest of the way herself. He carried her through both wards and up the pentice, which required him to bend forward enough that his face was nearly pressed into her breasts. He strode through the great hall and all the way up to the narrow landing outside her chamber where, finally, the look in her eye and the set of her jaw finally stopped him—that and the silent presence of Inaya, who stood on the threshold guarding the inner solar like a silk-clad barbican, her eyes daring him to step across it.

  With obvious reluctance, Roland set Amie down and retreated before the glowering, kohl-rimmed eyes. Inaya took one frowning look at the strain showing on Amaranth’s face and shooed her into bed, filling her with hot broth and a posset that had her sleeping soundly before the liquid had dried on her lips. She slept through the rest of the afternoon and evening and well into the night, waking only briefly when Inaya brought food and added more wood to the fire.

  She awoke again, much later, having had an odd, disjointed dream wherein she had been holding the newborn foal in her arms. She had been stroking its neck, smiling at the tickle of the soft fuzz on its snout when a larger, more calloused hand had covered hers. The hand had raised her fingers and pressed them against a mouth that was warm and exquisitely tender. The eyes above the mouth were crystalline green, and they were telling her how beautiful she was, how desirable, how precious to him she was. They were also filled with such unspeakable longing that the shock of it had brought Amaranth wide awake and sitting upright in bed.

  The image of those green eyes lingered a long, dreamlike time before it faded away in the harsh reality of stone walls and a smoldering fire. The candle that marked the nocturnal vigil was burned down to the bottom line that was scored in the wax, indicating it was nearing the hour of Prime.

  Amie swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked on slightly tender feet to the garde-robe. Inaya had scolded her earlier in her own strange language over the cuts and scrapes on the soles of her feet, and Amie noticed that pair of soft leather slippers had been placed by the side of the bed.

  She returned to the warm nest of linens and furs, but in the end, when further sleep eluded her, she removed the top blanket and draped it around her shoulders. Her hair had been brushed out of its tight braid for sleeping and it fell in a thick cloud of russet waves to below her knees. The absolute stillness of the hour before dawn had always been her favorite—a time for gathering thoughts and, in more recent months, courage to face the day ahead. Tucking her feet into the slippers, she walked toward the long woven tapestry that hung in the corner of the solar.

  Purely by accident Amaranth had discovered the staircase hidden behind the tapestry. During one of her many episodes of pacing back and forth across her room she had paused to rest and nearly tumbled on her arse when she leaned against what she thought was a solid wall. Recovering her wits, she had inched the tapestry aside and found the concealed steps that led up to the roof.

  With the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and stray hairs snagging on the close stone walls as she climbed the narrow spiral, she made her way up through the darkness and emerged onto the roof through a low arched portal. The sky above was still black as a sinner’s heart, but the easterly horizon was beginning to show a wash of paler blue. The moon was long gone and the stars were fleeing before the dawn. The four corner towers of the keep rose above the darkness, the stone crenellations jutting up like square teeth along the parapets.

  Amie walked to the nearest gap in the stone and looked out over the absolute stillness.

  There was no wind, no breeze to rustle the tops of the trees that followed the shoreline. A laye
r of morning mist hung thick over the surface of the lake and as the light grew stronger in the eastern sky, it turned the shifting mass a luminous gray. Somewhere on shore, night birds called to one another before retreating to their niches for the day. Sounds were amplified and the plop of a frog jumping into the water came to Amie as if it happened a foot away. The arched window in her solar faced out over the lake, but the sill was so deep, she would have had to be as small and agile as Jibril to peer over the stone casement.

  When the light allowed, she found a second staircase that led down onto the main roof of the keep. She followed the parapet along to the section that overlooked the baileys. She could just make out the emerging shape of the stables at the far end of the outer ward and she wondered how the foal and mare had fared during the night.

  From such a height she could see the sleeping village as well, the thatched roofs of the cottages nosing up a darker shade of gray through the mist. It was still too dark to see any manner of road or path leading up to Taniere Castle, but she assumed it followed the curve of the lake and was therefore hidden within the trees. The forest itself stretched out vast and unbroken for miles in all directions. The only cleared acreage appeared to be behind the village and she could well imagine the neatly laid out squares of cabbages and turnips and grain.

  There were faint lights glowing through the slits in both of the massive barbican towers that guarded the main gate. A scraping sound, followed by a brusque laugh had her hopping up and leaning far over the store ledge between the merlons, whence she was able to catch sight of two lackeys walking across the inner courtyard toward one of the outbuildings.

  It was while she was in this ungainly position, with her rump hoisted and her toes dangling inches above the parapet that she became aware of someone else on the roof. She heard the drag of his robes first before a soft footfall placed him directly behind her. With a sigh she pushed back from the lip of stone and touched her feet flat again, anticipating the look of disapproval on Marak’s face well before she saw it.