by Sandra Lee
“Why are you on duty so early in the eve?” he demanded.
“Sir Sperville ordered it,” the watch replied, a note of uncertainty in his tone. “Is all well?”
More footsteps sounded from the stairs, then thumped on the landing. “Mi’lord, you called?” Roland asked, his voice winded.
“I want my sons.” He paused to take a steadying breath. “And my daughter brought to me.”
“But they are already abed,” Roland puffed.
“Dare you question my command, boy?”
Before Roland could reply, he heard a door squeak down the corridor. Then Ronces spoke. “We are not asleep.”
Gavarnie concentrated on wiping all trace of anger from his face before turning to his son. “Come.” He held out his hands.
“You go,” Alory whispered. “Papa is angry.”
“Pigeonheart,” Ronces hissed back. “Papa won’t hurt you.”
Even a deaf man would have heard the exchange. A knotted feeling clogged Gavarnie’s chest. Alory feared him?
Eustace cleared his throat. “Is that all, my liege?”
Gavarnie nodded absently. ’Twas a moment until he felt a small hand clutch his. “Ronces?”
“Aye, Papa.” The boy squeezed his hand.
“Where is Alory?” He yet held his other hand open.
“He is here.”
Gavarnie nodded, determined not to reveal the bitter disappointment that threatened to squeeze the breath from him. “Mayhap Alory could lead the way to my bed,” he coaxed.
At that, he felt his younger son take his hand, and he was slowly turned about.
“A moment.” He halted. “Roland?”
“Aye, mi’lord.” The squire’s voice was filled with— was it pity?
At the thought, anger swept over him. “Fetch Nico—my daughter,” he ordered harshly.
Ronce’s hand stiffened in his, and Alory’s trembled, as if they could not stomach Nicolette in their presence.
“The two of you have some objection?” His words seethed.
“Nay!” Ronces squeaked.
At the boy’s frightened tone, his anger dissolved as if in a heap of dead ashes. It was not Nicolette who disturbed the boys. Rather, it was their fear of him. Unbidden, Golde’s words rang accusingly in his head. If you would cease bellowing like a bull, you might hear what goes on about you.
“Your forgiveness for my sharp tongue,” he apologized. It required no effort to sound sincere. “Alory, if you would, lead the way.”
Did his sons move slowly to accommodate his blindness, he wondered as they shuffled forward; or did their feet drag with dread?
Within moments Ronces said in a subdued voice, “Here, Papa.”
Gavarnie forced a smile and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come and join me,” he invited, patting the covers to either side of him.
He felt the mattress give as the boys did his bidding, though neither said a word. The smell of dirt and sweat accompanied them.
In an attempt at levity, he waved the air in front of his nose. “Faith, have the two of you been mucking the sheep pens? When was the last time you bathed?”
“Bathing is for babes and girls,” Alory declared, distracted from his silence by an issue to which he obviously attached great significance.
“It is not,” Nicolette snapped from the direction of the door.
“Your . . . uh, Nicolette,” Roland announced.
“Come, daughter,” Gavarnie emphasized the word, motioning with his hand. “I would that you join us. Roland, close the door and await without until I summon you.”
He paused for Nicolette to climb abed, and when she did not, he prompted, “I have asked you to join us.”
“Thewe is no woom,” the girl groused from near his feet.
He raised a brow. “Mayhap you would deign to sit on my lap, mistress.”
“Papa!” Ronces’ tone was disbelieving, and he felt the bed shift to his left.
“She is your sister as far as I’m concerned.” Gavarnie measured his words as Nicolette settled herself in his lap.
“She is not,” Alory huffed on his right.
“Who told you she is not?” Gavarnie demanded.
Silence.
Plague take his acid tongue. He must control his temper. He must.
Hoping to smooth the children’s rift, he cleared his throat and concentrated on speaking evenly. “I learned some distressing news this eve. Mistress Golde tells me . . .”
His words trailed away. What was he to say? I understand the three of you hate one another?
His mouth grew dry. He knew not exactly what they’d said to Golde. He’d been too busy sampling her charms—which she’d so freely offered. The deceitful witch.
Still, as he recalled—Alory scrambles to hide . . .
Ronces curses Nicolette. . . . Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother—
“Golde tells me . . Again he paused.
Lackwit! he railed at himself. He should have thought the matter through before dragging his children before him.
“Why awe you shaking?” Nicolette broke into his frantic thoughts. “What did the bad witch say?”
’Twas all he could do to draw breath. “You hate one another,” he wheezed. “I cut your mother—” He gasped for air.
For a long moments, no one spoke or moved. Then Nicolette rose on his lap to hug his neck. “She is lying. I tole you she was bad.”
Gavarnie clutched the small body to his and rocked. Then Alory burrowed under his arm and Ronces patted his back.
What could he say to them? How could he possibly tell them—
Abruptly he stilled as Nicolette’s words sank into his head.
Golde had lied?
She’d lied!
By all that was holy, she would pray for death before he was through.
TEN
GOLDE WANDERED along the slick cobblestone quay in the village of New Market, her shoulders hunched against the early, cloud-chilled sea breeze. Would that she had returned to Nicolette’s bedchamber this morn to fetch her cloak from her chest. But she had been too frightened.
Nay, she admitted, she’d been too embarrassed. She winced, recalling her lurid behavior last eve. That she had actually begged the baron to “have done.” Heat stung her cheeks anew and she hugged her stomach. How sorceled she had been by his touch, his seeming acceptance of her. But of course, he couldn’t see.
Grimacing, she glanced at the overcast sky. ’Twas difficult to believe the sun was more than a quarter of the way to its noon position. Indeed, dawn had never broken. For that reason, she had waited far too long to leave her perch on the castle’s wallwalk where she’d spent an uncomfortable night berating herself. By the time she’d reached New Market, where she planned to secure passage across the Solent, she had already missed the fishing fleet.
A half-dozen gulls clamoring over a bait scrap pulled her from her brooding. The birds screeched at her approach, then flew away when she drew near. The slimy object of their quarrel smelled even more rank than the general fishy odor that permeated the quay, and she wrinkled her nose. Now she would have to await the fishing fleet’s return and hope she could persuade someone to carry her to the mainland.
Her steps slowed and she gazed out over the gray choppy water. Persuade them with what? Her wholesome looks? What little coin she’d brought lay at the bottom of her chest in Nicolette’s chamber. She blinked against the threat of tears. “Stupid girl,” she grumbled. She’d thought no further than escaping the castle earlier this morn.
Her stomach growled and she made a sour face as another thought occurred to her. Not only did she lack the means to purchase passage for herself, her belly would needs go a’begging. Rubbing her arms against the cold, she turned and retraced her steps along the cobblestones.
What was she to do? She’d never really needed money. Even the coin she collected from her fortune- telling would not be needed until her father grew too old to work.
She halt
ed and scanned the ramshackle, battered buildings along the quay. That was it! An alehouse. All ports provided a place for thirsty sailors. If she could convince a proprietor to allow her use of a comer in his establishment, she could cast fortunes.
A raindrop struck her head and she swiped at it. Aye.
She’d have to share a portion of the profits with the alekeeper in exchange for a table. But even so, she’d have enough money by nightfall to pay for her own fleet.
She strode briskly across the quay to an open-air booth where a fishwife was cleaning wooden bins in preparation for the day’s catch. The woman directed her to a weather-grayed, two-story building.
As she neared the windowless alehouse, she saw that both stories sagged in the middle. Just when she would have knocked on the splintered door, it was jerked inward. She jumped aside as a heavy, ruddy-complexioned woman flung a pile of refuse into the lane.
Realizing she’d just missed heaping the stinking filth on Golde, the woman snapped, “Them that ar’nt got sense to stay clear o’ doorways in the morn deserves wot they gets.”
Golde raised an imperious brow at the mean-tempered shrew. “I would speak to the owner of this establishment.”
The woman tilted her head back and laughed, a harsh, strangled sound, which erupted into a coughing fit that bent her double. Straightening, she poked her face nearer to Golde’s. “Speak, me lackwitted dearie. Ye’ve got me ear.”
Golde took a backward step. The woman’s breath smelled rancid with onion, and her oily, gray-brown hair likely hosted numerous vermin. “You are the owner?”
The dowd squinted at her. “Ye ar’nt from ’round here if ye’ve not heard o’ Maid Sigi’s alehouse. Off with ye, girlie.” She turned and waddled back inside.
Golde followed and caught the door when the woman would have slammed it shut. “You are Maid Sigi?”
The dowd turned and looked up at Golde, not the least impressed with her height or her eyes. “Ye are worse than a pesky flea. Wot is it ye want? I ar’nt got all day to stand about gossipin’.”
’Twas not an auspicious beginning, and Golde bobbed her head in an attempt to appear humble. “1 would present you with a proposition, mi’lady.”
“Mi’lady!” Maid Sigi slapped her leg and hooted, then her eyes narrowed. “If ye’ve come to charm me money from me, have done. I ar’nt dull of wit and I’ll wager I been plied with ever’ scheme ye can think of.” Golde stifled a grin. Here was a woman she could come to like very well if given a chance. “’Tis not my wish to part you from your coin, but to add to it. I am a seeress and have need of a table to cast fortunes.”
Maid Sigi gave her a hard look. “Don’t allows witchery in me place. I gots me regulars wot don’t take well ta’ sorcelry.”
Golde glanced at the lopsided tables, the soot-blackened walls, the dirt floors littered with fish bones. There was little to give her any indication of Maid Sigi’s life, other than a tattered gray sail tacked to one wall.
“Very well, Widow Sigrid.” She affected a mysterious tone, praying the sail belonged to the woman’s departed husband, and that Sigi was short for Sigrid. At the woman’s startled look, she continued. “There are other alehouses I could have approached. I knew not why I was directed here until this very moment.”
When she paused, Maid Sigi grew impatient. “Go on.”
’Twas so simple to cozen even the most shrewd of persons. Once the initial facts were established, there were naught but three things left to foretell. Health, wealth, and love.
“Your departed husband, the fisherman.” At Maid Sigi’s nod, she clasped the woman’s roughened hand and closed her eyes. “He wishes, foremost, to say that though you had many quarrels”—that was true for everyone—“he loved you deeply. He has sent me to you, knowing you are in need of funds to repair your household.” That was obvious from the dilapidated condition of the building. Now came the difficult part. “He is jealous, though,” she intoned, and cracked one eyelid to see how Maid Sigi was taking everything.
At the alekeeper’s round eyes, she knew she’d guessed a’right. There was not a woman living who did not secretly cherish a man other than her spouse. “The man whom you have grown fond of . . .” She paused to be certain.
“Shipmaster Arguì!” Sigi gasped.
Golde closed her eye. “That is the one. Your husband does not care for him, but he understands your longing for a mate now that he is gone. And since he knows you have a long life ahead of you, he will bide quietly until you meet in the hereafter.”
She took a deep breath and shuddered for effect, then opened her eyes.
“Ye are indeed possessed of the all-seeing eye,” Sigi breathed reverently. “’Twas truly me dear Orlaf speaking through ye.”
Golde nodded. “If you will allow me a table, I will split my earnings, one-third to you and two-thirds to me.”
Abruptly Maid Sigi sobered, and a cunning look crossed her features. “’Twill be half to me and half for ye.”
Golde studied Sigi’s determined, square jaw. She could not afford to miss the opportunity. Looking heavenward, she sighed. “Orlaf told me you would drive a hard bargain.”
By midmorn the clouds had opened to spill their rain-filled bellies. Due to the inclement weather, the fishing fleet had returned earlier than usual, and the men had sought refuge in Maid Sigi’s alehouse. Though it had at first appeared no one would avail himself of her second sight, Sigi herself had sworn to Golde’s abilities. The room had grown silent when she’d forecast her first cull’s fortune, and after that, more and more people came forward.
By noon she was doing a brisk trade, and the ale-loosened tongues of those present grew raucous. The place was packed with unwashed bodies until Golde felt certain her nose would never recover from the odor of fish. Some of the men had run home and fetched their wives and children to come witness the spectacle. No sooner did one person vacate the chair across the table from her than another filled it.
The room was smothering with smoke from the hearth, and Golde cast a bleary-eyed smile at her most recent cull as he rose and thanked her. Tired beyond measure, her voice fast growing hoarse, she was ill prepared for the grime-encrusted, ragged boy who next sat in the empty chair.
Inexplicably, the child, no more than ten, annoyed her. Still, she could not have others believe her unkind, so she forced a gentle tone. “Off with you, little fellow. There are those with pressing needs and you steal their time.”
The boy gave her a sullen, gray-eyed look. “I gots a silver piece, same as ever’one else.” He opened his begrimed hand to reveal a shiny coin, along with several fish scales that clung to his thumb.
’Twas not his looks so much as his manner that reminded her of Ronces. She stared at his pinched little face as several drunken adults in the room snickered.
“Look at ’im,” she heard a woman say. “Dull Lull. Think he’d know by now ’is fancy sire ar’nt cornin’ to fetch ’im.”
Golde bristled at the cruel words and held out her hand. “Well, Sir Lull, let us see what your future holds.”
The boy dropped the coins in her palm, his stony features near to crumbling after the insulting remark.
Golde deposited the silver in a cup, and reaching across the table, clutched both the boy’s hands. His small fingers were chapped and cold. Closing her eyes, she prepared to spin a fantastic tale that would wipe the look of misery from his face. But before she could speak, the same blinding light that had savaged her senses in Skyenvic’s hall tore through her body.
Her head jerked and she gasped against the searing pain. She tried to open her eyes, but ’twas as if they were permanently sealed.
Abruptly the light dispersed into a host of blinking stars and she found herself on a deserted, windswept moor. The smell of damp gorse and heather rose from the ground, and the wind blended into a rhythmic pattern until she recognized it as breathing. She didn’t walk; rather, she drifted toward the sound with no effort.
Wait for me, a man�
��s husky voice whispered. Swear it.
Squinting, Golde saw two shadowed figures entwined below her, but the starlight was not bright enough to see them clearly. Still, she felt a strong bond between them and knew she witnessed more than fleshly desire.
By my mother’s soul, a woman whispered. I will wait for you.
Golde knew the woman lied, but ’twas without malicious intent. Before she could determine the purpose of the falsehood, the woman’s belly glowed as if a host of candles burned within her. In that moment Golde saw the man’s lean, powerful face. A lord. And the woman.
Though her features were twisted with the fierceness of her love, Golde recognized beauty in her face.
Then they melted away as the sun rose over the barren moor, its light growing more intense with each moment. Colors changed from mauve to pink to yellow, and Golde gritted her teeth against the pain that stabbed her more deeply with every change in hue. Her hands shook. She bent her head, trying to escape the piercing brilliance she knew was near upon her. Just before the fiery light consumed her, she saw the lord’s silhouette and heard his agonized cry of rage.
She flung the boy’s hands from her and clutched her eyes. Her heart hammered in her chest and she sucked air as if each breath might be her last. ’Twas no easy task to remain in her seat. Dizzy, she longed for nothing more than to curl in a ball on the dirt floor.
She forced her eyes open to stare at Lull. His features appeared anxious and drawn. The room had grown silent and she looked beyond the boy to find everyone’s gaze fixed on her, speculation mixed with fear. Had she spoken aloud? Did they know what she’d seen?
She gave her attention back to Lull. He would never understand the implications of her vision. “Fetch your mother,” she directed. “I will tell her—”
“Me mum’s dead.”
“And so she is,” a snag-toothed woman squawked, coming to the fore of the crowd. “Now, wot did ye see?”
Golde leveled a frosty glare upon the overbearing hag. “Were I you,” her tone carried low and menacing, “I would have a care with my tongue. Though I know little of the boy’s mother, his father is a lord of the moors. And the man loved his mother true and sure.”