Not once did Odo turn to look back. Not a single sparing glance was wasted on the tranquil beauty of the lake or the lichen-covered stones of the castle walls behind him.
When the last crossbowman tramped out of sight, Amaranth released a long, slow sigh of relief.
He had not looked back.
If Tamberlane’s quiet assurances were to be believed, it meant that Odo was convinced his errant wife was not within the walls of Taniere Castle.
Marak was watching her face with interest. “Pray, is that a smile, I see?”
She turned to look at him. Was she smiling? She couldn’t tell. But the tightness was suddenly gone from her chest and the sense of dread that had hung over her since waking on a table in Marak’s chamber was gone as well.
She drew a deep, clean lungful of air and twirled about in a small circle. Yes, she was smiling and it felt good to do so again. She was hungry too, having not been able to choke down more than a few crumbs the whole of the previous day.
Marak laughed, hearing the audible grumble from her belly. “Methinks the lady has found her appetite again. The posset first, of course. I left it back in the solar, not wanting to hinder my hands if you had taken the thought to leap from the walls.”
Amie twitched her nose in a mocking grimace. “Your possets taste like the stewed underbellies of garden slugs, good sir, but I shall tip it happily.”
“And... you would be acquainted with the taste of a slug's underbelly?”
“Odo’s table left much to be desired. Even pilgrims chose to walk another ten miles rather than sit at his board.”
Marak laughed again and extended an arm. After staring at it a moment, her smile took on a wistful tilt, and she delicately placed her fingertips upon his wrist, allowing herself to be regally escorted back through the low slung portal.
Under the seneschal’s stern eye, she drank the bitter posset as quickly as her throat would allow, then stood, lacking all patience, while Inaya drew a tunic over her head and laced it at the waist and throat. It still felt odd—and oddly invigorating—to not have to sit while her hair was brushed and plaited, and she was able to join Marak out on the landing in short order to accompany him down the winding stairs. The great hall looked somewhat different than it had the previous day due to most of the men and knights being up on the wall-walks to watch Odo de Langois' departure.
There was no one seated at the dais; Tamberlane had not yet returned from the bailey.
When Marak pointed to one of the benches beside the lord’s enormous chair, Amie hesitated but a moment before taking a seat. Marak joined her and at once, lackeys rushed up bearing platters of fresh food to break their fast—hard cheese, bread, a whole roasted fowl sitting on a bed of boiled onions. Amaranth was ravenous and did not stand on ceremony, reaching with bare fingers to tear the meat from the bone and break off thick chunks of the yellow cheese. Marak ate sparingly, more amused to watch her eat than to interrupt her with conversation.
“Your shoulder is mending well,” he remarked at one point.
She glanced ruefully at the leg joint she had just torn from the fowl. It was true. Her strength was returning hour by hour, it seemed. There was still a dull ache in the muscles to remind her they had been recently torn asunder, but from the moment she had watched her husband ride away into the mist, the pain was barely noticeable.
Tamberlane entered the hall just as she was sucking the last bit of grease off her fingertips. He stood on the stone landing for several moments, his gaze scanning the enormous chamber before coming to rest, finally, on the dais. Amie was again struck by the quiet authority of his presence. Even if she had not been told who he was or how he had earned his reputation, she would have known he was a slayer of dragons, a man equal to fight at the right hand side of Richard, Coeur de Lion.
At the moment, however, he looked like he wanted to slay more than just dragons, for his expression was as black as his hair. His gaze speared into Marak first, then shifted to Amie.
“You would have done better to remain a little less conspicuous, my lady," he murmured when he drew alongside. "At least until the stench of your husband's horses has left the ward."
She looked helplessly to Marak, whose frown was visible through the shadows beneath his hood. "Hold there, Ciaran. Direct your anger to me if you must, for I seated her here."
"Then indeed I shall. Look about you and what do you see?"
Marak and Amie both followed his glance. The clusters of candles, wall sconces and tall, spidery iron candelabra were lit, with metal shields on some to concentrate the brightest light on the dais. With much of the rest of the chamber in heavier shadow, anyone sitting on the dais would draw attention, especially if that someone had short, glowing blonde hair and the face of a cherub.
"The same number who rode through the gates," Marak pointed out quietly, "rode out again this morning. I counted them myself."
"Not before their overlord announced a reward of ten gold crowns to anyone bringing news of Elizabeth de Langois' whereabouts."
Amie gasped. Ten gold crowns was an unimaginable fortune to common villagers; the amount would tempt even the most loyal knight or guardsman. She looked around the shadowy hall with new eyes, imagining everyone staring, wondering, weighing loyalty against the ease such wealth would provide.
“We have matters of some importance to discuss,” Tamberlane said brusquely. “But not here, there are too many eyes and ears about.”
Marak nodded. “I will take Amaranth to my solar and await you there.”
Tamberlane nodded and remained on the dais a few moments longer. His eyes were dark and dangerously alert as he watched to see if any of the lackeys or the knights who had begun to amble back by twos and threes to the hall, paid any heed to the two hastily departing figures.
~~
Marak led Amaranth toward the far end of the great hall and the narrow stone corridor that led to his tower rooms. Once inside the musty, dark chamber, he left her standing by the door while he lit a taper and touched it to several candles. Over each of these, he placed a long glass tube which was tinted in such a way as to allow the light to shine through but softened the piercing yellow eye of the flame.
Amie looked around, her gaze touching on the shelves with their bottles and pots, the long oaken bink littered with the implements of an alchemist, and even stranger objects for which she could not even guess the function. A mortar and pestle she recognized, but little else. The table upon which she had lain for so many pain-filled days now held books and papers, assorted quills, brushes, and pots of ink.
Walking closer, she caught sight of writing on the top of one page, the Latin words set down in bold black ink: Praxis Magica.
Beneath this was a beautifully illuminated drawing of a circle with four serpentine arrows pointing outward to four strange symbols. Between each symbol was a smaller icon and the whole was encased in a ring decorated with other symbols and odd lettering around the circumference. Below the drawing were lines of script in an language unfamiliar to Amie. The first letter of each word was highly stylized and painted with inks of gold and red and blue.
Her eye was caught by a dull gleam of metal and Amie nudged aside a sheet of parchment to run her fingertips over a round medallion. The depiction on the front was the same as on the paper—identical, in fact, and she was angling it to the light to examine it more closely when Marak came up beside her.
“Peasants are simple people,” he remarked. “They wish to believe in magic, and therefore are willing—nay, even eager to attribute all manner of wondrous things to amulets, medallions... even vials containing water scraped from the nearest pond and proclaimed to be the bile of Christ. That particular medallion, for instance, when worn over the breast promises to give the owner immunity from all manner of ferocious animals. It also gives the one who possesses it knowledge of their secret language, and, when certain words are invoked, drives maddened beasts away in terrible fear. To ensure proper potency, it must be fastened
about the neck on a ribbon of red silk and worn in conjunction with this...” He leaned over and picked up a ring, the head flat and square, engraved with a pattern of double X’s. “I made it for the village smithy, a man of copious strength and body size who freezes and turns as gray as ash when he comes upon a squirrel in the forest.”
When there was no smile forthcoming to acknowledge his cleverness, Marak blew out a soft breath. Ciaran's words had put the fright back into her, he could see it in the thin set of her mouth and the constant movement of her eyes, suggesting much thought was going on behind them.
“This might interest you,” he said, turning the pages in the large volume until he came across another beautifully illustrated depiction of an elongated octagon with the head of a unicorn in the center ring, surrounded by more symbols and mystic lettering. “Ah yes... this spell claims to make the most taciturn man unburden his soul to the one who possesses it. By laying one’s hand flat over the talisman and encompassing it in the palm thus—” he took Amie’s hand and placed it over the drawing— “and pronouncing the words noctar...”
He looked at her expectantly and tipped his head, waiting.
“Noctar,” she murmured, feeling foolish.
“...rathban...”
“Rathban.”
“...and sunandam...”
She started to pull her hand away with a small shake of her head, but Marak held it fast. When her gaze lifted to his, the light from one of the hooded candles was reflected as a tiny, bright point in each of his colorless eyes, the effect unnerving enough to make it impossible for her to look away.
“Sunandam,” he repeated quietly.
“Sunandam.”
Whether it was her imagination or the effect of his eyes burning into her, Amie felt the parchment grow warm beneath the palm of her hand. The heat spread up her arm and prickled across her chest, rising even up the back of her neck and making her lips part with surprise.
He smiled. “Now, even the most stubborn man of your acquaintance will be compelled to unveil his secret thoughts and longings to you.”
She jerked her hand away. “But it is only a picture of the charm, not the talisman itself.”
Marak shrugged. “Nine tenths of what may be perceived as magic is dependant upon what is in the mind, not the hand.”
“I prefer to believe what I can feel and touch.” She hesitated and added, “Which leads me to wonder, however, if you have a charm for finding lost things?”
“You have lost something?”
"My cross." Her hand crept up to her throat. “I have no idea where I may have lost it. I remember having it in the village, but...”
A different kind of light came into Marak’s eyes and he held up a hand. “Of course, how thoughtless of me.”
He went back to the long worktable and opened a small carved box. Amie caught the glint of metal and when he returned, he carried a crucifix in his hand, the face clean and polished like newly minted silver. The edges were plain and squared, the cross itself thick and of a substantial weight. Far more weighty than her own thin crucifix.
“It is beautiful,” she said wistfully, “but it is not mine.”
Marak placed the cross in her hand then flicked a small, hidden catch with a thumbnail and opened the outer casing to reveal a second cross encapsulated within.
“The one you wore bears the device of the Plantagenets,” he explained. “You could run as far as the land of elephants and saffron, yet one glance at the cross would betray your royal lineage.”
“The cross belonged to my mother and I value it above all else.”
“Even your life?”
“If need be, yes.”
Marak moved his hand over hers and closed the front of the outer casing again. “Then look upon it whenever you feel the need, Little One, but while you wear it, wear it in safety.”
The worn leather thong that had held the cross around her neck had been replaced by a fine chain of metal links. It felt cold against her neck, as did the crucifix when it was tucked beneath her bodice. It slid down between her breasts, the metal warming in short order from contact with her skin.
“You have been very kind to me,” she said, chewing pensively on her lower lip. “You and Lord Tamberlane both.”
“And so you begin to believe we are not nearly as fearsome as the rumors would make us out to be? Not unless provoked, of course. Then I would say but a few words, scatter my wrath upon the flames and—” he extended his hand in a quick motion, passing it over one of the hooded candles and almost instantly the flame shot up above the glass rim with a great whoosh.
Amie jumped back, landing squarely against the solid wall of Tamberlane’s chest. He put up his hands to catch her upper arms and steady her.
“Pay no heed to the Saracen’s tricks,” he murmured. “Show a trace of awe and you only encourage him.”
“Tricks?” Marak protested and touched a pale hand to his breast. “You wound me.”
“You would be wounded, old friend, by nothing less than a truncheon.”
Marak waved the same hand and muttered what only Amie could hear, “Noctar, rathban, sunandam."
Ciaran turned away, missing the look on Amie's face.
Marak only winked and smiled before he addressed the knight. "You said there were matters of importance to discuss?”
Tamberlane glanced at Amie before walking to the window embrasure, which bore heavy shutters to keep out the light. “I am come reluctantly to your way of thinking, my lady. Your husband may be delayed by this summons from Lackland, but he will not be easily dissuaded from his search. He is convinced you were in the village, is certain you live still, and is determined to recapture you by whatever means necessary. Ten gold crowns is meant to buy a Judas."
Amaranth felt a chill scratch up her spine. "But he rode away. He did not look back."
"Less than half a mile from the shore, a party of knights and archers under the command of his cousin, Sigurd de Beauvais, broke away from the main host and doubled back, no doubt given orders to watch the castle."
"Sweet Jesu," she whispered. "It will never end."
“This convent to which you were bound—?”
“The Holy Sisters of Mary Magdalene.”
“Tell me again why your Friar Guilford thought it would be the safest place to hide you?”
Amie clasped her hands together in front, lacing her fingers so tight the knuckles turned white. “The prioress is...was... his sister—his natural sister. He claimed that no meaner shrew walked the face of the earth but that her devotion to God and her adherence to the laws of sanctuary are inviolate. Even Prince John has no power over her for she is adamant in her loyalty to King Richard. He also said... though it was but a whispered rumor and I think it mortified him to repeat it... that she took the vows herself in order to remain loyal in body and spirit to the king’s bishop, Hubert Walter. She had a great love for him and took the veil rather than enter into a marriage with another man."
“Is it still your wish to go there?”
Amaranth hesitated for the first time since leaving Belmane Castle. It was not so much that she was suddenly adverse to the idea of spending her remaining days cloistered behind the cold stone walls of an abbey—a month ago she could not have envisioned a more perfect refuge. She could not even say, or think, what made her hesitate now but in the end, she squeezed her fingers tighter and nodded. “I can see no other choice readily at hand.”
Tamberlane's stare lingered over her mouth long after the words had been spoken. At length, he gave a short nod. “Then that is where you shall go. I will escort you there myself with a few trusted men. I do not doubt there are keen eyes on the gates, so we will have to leave by way of the catacombs. Take only what you need to stay warm." He glanced at Marak. "If you have any spells or talismans to ensure a safe journey, I suggest you conjure them now, for we will leave tonight, at moonrise."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Amaranth spent a restless afternoon and eveni
ng waiting. She prowled a quadrangle from the door to the bed to the window to the hearth and back to the door. Each time she neared the door, she stopped and listened hoping to hear the scrape of footsteps on the landing. Each time she passed the window she paused to listen to the rush of the wind outside. At the hearth she stood and contemplated the glowing embers, wondering each time if she should add another log or let it die out.
Tamberlane had said they would be leaving before moonrise, but he had neglected to add anything beyond a vague mention of midnight. He had given her orders to sleep, but that was impossible. Marak had sent one of his possets but for once, she had taken a sip then spilled the rest down the garde-robe. Her stomach was sour enough without adding the taste of slug underbellies.
At one point, and with much hesitation beforehand, she knelt beside the bed and clasped her hands beneath her chin. She had no idea if God listened to the pleas of disobedient wives and would-be murderesses, but she thought it could do no harm to try. The prayers, recited every day of her life for nearly two decades, stuck at the back of her throat and would not come forth. Words, phrases she knew by heart no longer gave comfort and she squeezed her hands so tightly around the silver crucifix that the edges left imprints on her fingers.
What if something had gone wrong? What if the plan had changed and no one thought to tell her?
What if? What if? What if?
With the failure to gain spiritual solace, the next time she paced the room, she went out to the landing, her heart pounding at the base of her throat. The stairs were in darkness but for a pale bloom of light showing around the lower curve of the spiral. It was enough to give her feet surety as she crept down the stairs, and at the bottom, she was guided along the corridor by the torches that flickered and stained the stone walls with spirals of sooty smoke.
She approached the end of the corridor warily and peered around the corner. The great hall seemed gloomier than ever, with the candles unlit behind the dais and no one seated at the boards eating or drinking. A single curl of smoke rose from a cooking fire at the far end of the hall; the lackey who attended it was rolled up asleep beside the warm bricks of the pit.
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