Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

  A round of gasps rippled through the assembly, followed by a wave of whispers. When she looked back at Lull, his gray eyes shone, not with the smugness of victory, but with the comfort of peace. Whatever demons he’d wrestled with, they’d been laid to rest.

  “Here, now.” Sigi elbowed her way to Golde from the comer of the room to thrust a large mug of ale into her hand. Grabbing the cup that held the coins, she announced, “The seeress needs a bit o’ rest. She’ll be returnin’ forthwith.”

  Sigi pulled her from the chair and escorted her past a black drape that covered an opening in the back of the room. Golde glanced at a huge tub overflowing with dirty dishes, and surmised she was in the kitchen. A great pot hung on rungs over the hearth in the middle of the earthen floor and a small, lopsided table was positioned near it. Sigi led her to a stool at the table and seated her.

  Golde gulped the brew in the mug, uncaring that it was watered down.

  “What ye jest done . . .” Sigi drew her attention, and Golde looked to see the alewife’s head cocked where she stood beside the table. “’Twas true sight, weren’t it?” Golde opened her mouth to tell her ’twas no more true than the vision she’d had of Orlaf, but at the knowing look in Sigi’s sharp eyes, she bowed her head and nodded. Then she looked up. “If you knew I was a fake, why did you allow me in your establishment?”

  Sigi snorted. “Ye passed me test with that Orlaf business. I knows a moneymaking scheme when I hears one. The way I sees it, this time next week I’ll be swimmin’ in silver.”

  Golde shook her head. “I cannot stay. I but need enough coin to secure passage to the mainland.” She inclined her head at the money cup Sigi held. “I believe I already have funds a’plenty.”

  Sigi gave her a doleful look. “Ye don’t wish to stay? We’d be rich in less than a fortnight.”

  “Would that I could, if only for the kindness you have shown me.” At Sigi’s disconsolate pout, she offered, “You are welcome to my portion of the profits from the rest of the day.”

  Sigi sighed. “We would o’ made a great pair. ’Specially seein’ as how yer so quick to give in to me greedy nature.” She winked. “The rest o’ the day’s profits, ye say?”

  Golde couldn’t help smiling. An avaricious woman who made no bones about it. Sigi reminded her of herself.

  “The rest of the day’s profits,” Golde repeated, then added, “You had best fetch me another mug of ale, and not that watery slop you serve your patrons. I am in need of the real thing, lest I collapse from fatigue.”

  Sigi frowned. “Ye do look a bit pale. Mayhap ye should lay down upstairs. I don’t be needin’ money that bad.”

  Golde held out the empty mug. “Let me finish the afternoon to pay for a bed. I’ll need one come nightfall.”

  Sigi squinted, then took the mug. “If ye insists.”

  Watching her depart, Golde frowned as she recalled Lull’s glowing gray eyes. The boy might be happy with what she’d seen, but she felt dismal. Of what help had she been? His mother was dead and she’d been unable to tell him who his father was. And the village seafolk yet appeared most hostile toward him.

  Sigi came back through the curtain and Golde asked, “Why does everyone dislike this Lull?”

  Sigi handed her the mug. “They are by and large jealous fools. Lull’s mum e’re treated him like a prince, makin’ him speak proper and teachin’ him manners and such. Though his mum labored at all manner of mean tasks, takin’ in laundry and mendin’ clothes, she kept to herself.”

  Sigi shrugged. “Ye knows how folks is. Wot they don’t knows, they don’t trusts. And wot they don’t trusts, they fears. Didn’t take long for ’em to start tauntin’ her, ’specially after she turned down three proposals of marriage.”

  “So what will become of Lull now?”

  “He’s managin’ jest fine. Goes out with the fleet and all. Rents a room from old man Ragenhere. He’s a smart boy, so don’t waste yer time feelin’ sorry fer him.”

  Golde grew silent and sipped the ale, enjoying its bite. Mayhap she could take Lull home with her. After all, eventually her father would need help in the fields. And he’d never have a son-in-law, courtesy of her cursed eyes.

  She lowered the mug abruptly and slapped a hand on her forehead. When would she learn? She must distance herself from her culls. Had she stuck to her vow with the baron, she would not have come to this wretched pass.

  Home. She concentrated on the thought, savoring the word like a delicious sweetmeat. Away from Skyenvic. Away from the swarthy Gavarnie Delamaure who brewed unspeakable, all-consuming passions in her.

  She stared into the mug. What was it about him that so fascinated her? He was far from pretty, though she would admit there was a rough handsomeness to his face. His smile was appealing, not due to its warmth, but rather its dark cynicism that so matched her own. The bitterness she’d seen claim his features on occasion bespoke great adversity, yet his deeds and mannerisms indicated a strength of character that would withstand any tempest.

  She almost choked on the ale. Faith, she sounded like a simpering, love-struck girl. The baron had not refuted her insinuation that Nicolette was not his. Nor had he denied murdering his wife.

  Nay. Instead of responding to her accusations, he’d chosen to lure her into a pit of rutting lust, despite the fact he knew nothing of her. Indeed, he knew not how she looked. Yet his seduction had been bold and sure.

  Why?

  She took a deep swig of ale. He’d wielded her body’s desires against her like a depraved demon. Like a man— She shifted on the stool as a horrible thought took seed. Having spent the majority of her life in Mimskin’s company while her father toiled in the fields, she’d learned a great deal about human nature. There were men a’plenty who despised women; who took perverse pleasure in humiliating females to prove their superiority.

  Was the baron one of those men?

  An image of the mutilated blond-haired woman from her swevyn assailed her. ’Twas not difficult to envision the half-clothed, dark-fleshed lord standing over the lady, a dripping blade in his hand. Had he killed his wife not only for her infidelity, but to satisfy some sick bloodlust?

  Maid Sigi interrupted her chilling thoughts. “Are ye all right, girlie? Yer lookin’ paler by the moment.”

  Golde blinked, concentrating on connecting the two Sigi’s that swam before her eyes. “Faith, ’tis a potent brew you’ve served me. I can scarce see.”

  “Made it meself,” Sigi crowed, then frowned. “But it don’t look like it’s set well wi’ ye. Mayhap ye should lay down after all.”

  Golde shook her head, anxious to avoid being alone with her thoughts at the moment. “Nonsense. Never felt better. We have a bargain and I intend to fulfill it.”

  She drained the remainder of the ale and sauntered back to the front room, Sigi guiding her by the elbow. It appeared more crowded and noisy than ever, and she didn’t see Lull anywhere. Ah well. She shrugged and took her seat.

  A pleasant, fuzzy glow encircled the oil lamps that hung on the walls, melting her troubled spirits. She smiled at the red-bearded man who came to sit across from her. He handed her his coin and she flipped it into the money cup that Sigi set beside her. Clasping his hands, she drew a deep breath and began with his health.

  The afternoon dragged on. Sigi continued to bring her ale until all the fortunes grew jumbled in her head. By the time dusk settled, she was having difficulty recalling what she’d told to whom. ’Twould be most unseemly to tell the same thing to more than one person. She giggled, then covered her mouth when she hiccuped. Her next cull had trouble understanding her, and she had to repeat herself with increasing frequency for the dunderwit.

  Well, she conceded, her tongue had grown a bit thick.

  “Enough,” Sigi barked at last. “The poor dearie is too tired to continue.”

  “A moment, Maid Sigi,” a raw-edged voice called from the entrance of the alehouse.

  Golde swiveled her gaze in the door’s direction. It so
unded just like his toadship, Sir Gavarnie. She squinted, but could see naught for the bodies that blocked her line of sight.

  “There is one more fortune to tell,” the voice continued.

  A path parted in the midst of the patrons where Sir Nigel led the baron toward Golde. Her lip curled heartily as she anticipated the fortune she was about to tell. Delamaure would learn here and now that to play with fire was to be burned. The steward seated him at the table, then stood to one side, avoiding her gaze.

  “So, mistress of darkness,” the baron challenged. “Say me my fortune.”

  ELEVEN

  OTHER THAN THE SOUND of shuffling feet as the peasants made way for several men-at-arms, the alehouse had grown silent. Golde smiled grimly.

  “I have seen your fushure.” She frowned. Though her pitch was loud enough to carry through the room, which was as she desired, her tongue was being uncooperative. She slowed her delivery and concentrated on speaking clearly. “’Tis a red tail and horns that await you.”

  Ha! she congratulated herself as murmurs wafted through the crowd. Take that, mi’lord lecher. Before she was finished, he would appear more dim than an empty oil lamp.

  Instead of scowling, as she expected, he smiled. Leaning his elbows on the table, he rested his chin atop his hands. “I already possess horns and a tail. I have a forked tongue and fangs as well, if you will recall.”

  Indeed, she could attest to his venomous bite, and the carnal poison it contained. A hiccup threatened, and though she managed to prevent its escaping her mouth, her head bobbed. Marshaling her thoughts, she pointed out, “Vipers have weak moments, particularly after they have fed.”

  “None would know better than you.”

  Golde narrowed an eye. Was he remarking on the fact he’d fed upon her, or did he insinuate she was the viper?

  Before she could decide, he continued. “Let us have done with this banality. You tell me naught which I do not already know.”

  His black eyes held a challenging glint, and his smooth lips . . .

  Nay. She would not fall in that trap again. Another hiccup assailed her and she clamped her teeth together as her head jerked. Faith. It felt as if her eyes might float from her head. Praise God the man could not see, else he would know she’d overindulged.

  She blinked until Delamaure became focused in her vision. “Very well, mi’lord. Do you wish to hear of the blond woman whose blood soaks your bed?”

  A chorus of gasps resounded from the crowd. The lord lowered his hands to the tabletop and leaned forward, his eyes suddenly barren as a frozen wasteland. “Maid Sigi, tell the fortune-caster of my wife’s precipitate demise.”

  Golde glanced at the alewife. Sigi’s florid complexion had paled and she was shaking her head. “Now why would ye want me to be sayin’ tales ’bout that, yer lordship? Ever’one knows—”

  “Precisely my point, Sigi.” The baron’s tone was chilling in its flatness. “Everyone knows I murdered my wife when she confessed her infidelities. I would have murdered her lover, too, only the skulking bastard managed to get himself sent to Northumbria, where he took a Scotsman’s spear in his chest and died.”

  The numbing ale-haze that clouded Golde’s senses cleared, and its warmth seeped away. That he would boldly admit to such an atrocity. And far from feeling remorse, ’twas as if he dared anyone to gainsay him.

  “The law makes allowance for the murder of an unfaithful wife,” he said in an even tone, “as it does for those who use fraud to part hardworking folk from their coin.”

  His nostrils flared, and Golde’s breath caught at the deadly glint in his eyes.

  “Now, great seeress, if indeed such is the case, I would hear my fortune. And it had best be sound, lest you find yourself charged with thievery.”

  A disgruntled buzz rose from the assembled seafolk. Glancing about, Golde saw a number of hostile looks directed at her. ’Od rot the baron’s twisted soul. She shivered as fear fluttered in her breast. Was it his intention to see her hanged?

  Why?

  She had done nothing to him. ’Twas he who’d spurned her. She stared at his hard features. Her eyes rounded as she recalled her earlier thoughts concerning woman-haters. Mayhap the baron’s particular obsession was to rid the world of all loose women.

  There had been just such a man who’d lived in Cyning during Mimskin’s youth. He’d lured young girls to lie with him, promising to wed them. The moment they gave themselves to him, he pronounced them Satan’s spawn. Four had been murdered before one managed to escape and the man had been caught.

  A sharp elbow to her back startled her and she glanced up to see Sigi give her a pointed look. “Have another mug of ale, dearie. It may be yer last.”

  At least Sigi’s intent was clear, Golde reflected dismally. Though the alewife wished her no ill, she would not defend Golde if it meant endangering herself.

  Golde picked up the mug and drained its contents. The bitter taste mirrored her thoughts, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Why had she ever come to this wretched isle?

  “Your time grows short, wench,” the baron prodded.

  Gooseflesh rippled over her body as she recalled the savage vision of the dead blonde. His wife, she amended. Could she withstand another such experience?

  She gritted her teeth. She could ill afford not to. Summoning her courage, she set the mug on the table, then reached over and placed her fingertips atop the baron’s where they rested on the scarred, wooden surface.

  His flesh felt hot beneath her frozen touch, its color darkly robust compared to the purplish tint of her own. Though her hands would never be considered small, his dwarfed them.

  She shifted in her seat as heat from his fingers curled its way up her arms and slid down her body to settle in the crutch where her thighs met. Her gaze jerked to his unyielding face and she cursed her hands for trembling. Like the evening before, she wondered how she could feel thus, knowing his rancorous intent.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the ruthless appearance of his features. A vision. The pain and fear of second sight would be a welcome release from the baron’s black hold over her body. She focused her thoughts and waited for the soul-piercing light. In the silence that surrounded her, she listened for the stirring of wind.

  Nothing.

  Desperate to feel something, she tilted her head from side to side, hoping to unbalance her senses and thus foster the proper atmosphere. She sighed gratefully at the faint dizziness that touched her. But it was not enough, and she leaned farther and farther . . .

  Abruptly the chair tipped. Her eyes flew open and she clutched at the baron’s hands, to no effect. She toppled sideways, grunting when she hit the ground. Ribald laughter scalded her ears.

  ’Twas as if she were an ugly little girl again and the village children were ridiculing her. Scrambling to her feet, she edged around the table, then bolted for the door.

  “Stop ’er!” a woman shrieked.

  Angry shouts erupted around her, and clawing hands grabbed at her tunic and arms. The odor of fish combined with ale-soaked breath and rotten teeth until she thought she would be sick.

  She fought against the grasping clutches, kicking with her booted feet. If only she could reach the door. She bit an arm and heard a howl of pain above the din.

  Just as a fist came flying at her face, her legs became entangled in her skirts. She stumbled to her knees and the intended blow sailed over her head, barely grazing her hair.

  Before she could rise, someone placed a wooden-soled shoe to her backside and shoved. She snarled as the force pitched her forward to land on her hands.

  “Don’t look like no sage now, do she?” a man jeered.

  “Looks like the cur she is,” a woman cackled.

  Golde fought to gain her feet, but everyone within reach began pummeling her. It felt as if her arms and legs were being hammered. One boot caught her beneath the chin, snapping her head backward.

  Stars danced before her eyes. She s
wayed.

  A shin slammed into her ribs and she dropped on her side. Covering her head with her arms, she curled in a ball.

  The enraged mob was going to kill her. She wanted to scream, to curse them all before her breath deserted her. Most of all, she longed to plunge a dagger in the baron’s chest. To have the satisfaction of seeing his life seep from him.

  A ragged sob burst from her mouth.

  “Enough!” the baron roared from somewhere near her feet.

  Instantly the clamor abated. Feet scuffled away until the room grew still. Hope flared in her breast. Mayhap she would live after all. At least long enough to slit Delamaure’s gullet.

  Cautiously she lowered her arms from her head. The movement aggravated every bruise on her body, and she clenched her teeth. Cracking an eye, she surveyed her immediate surroundings. One of the baron’s liegemen stood directly in front of her, brandishing a sword. The baron himself stood an arm’s length from her feet, another liegeman guarding his back.

  Golde squinted, puzzled. Sir Gavarnie’s blade was drawn, his features savage. What had he to be angry over? Had he not wished her dead? She rose to sit, that she might have a better view, thinking surely her eyes had deceived her.

  She was scarce upright before burning pain tore through her ribs. Her gasp added fuel to the fiery agony and she held her breath, praying for surcease. Were her ribs broken? She leaked the pent breath from her mouth, and gradually the pain lessened.

  “Disperse yourselves,” the baron ordered.

  “Wot abouts our money?” a man demanded. Delamaure snarled. “Your coin is forfeit to me, in exchange for the illicit sport you have enjoyed this night.” His blind gaze burned as it swept the onlookers. “Now get yourselves gone, for the next person who dares question my command will forfeit his life.”

  Golde winced with each shallow breath she took. The baron’s actions were a mystery. First he threw her to the wolves, then became enraged when they mauled her. To what purpose had he rescued her?

  TWELVE