The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Immersed in thought, Sasha looked up with a start when the innkeeper’s daughter paused at their table. The maid’s eyes briefly met hers, and unbidden, Sasha had a swift impression of a recent scene in the back room. Quickly, she looked down and let Elspeth order them a meal and some ale. When the maid departed, Sasha leaned across the table, a wicked smile tugging at her mouth. “Would you like to know what yon frowsy kitchen wench was doing not a long time past?”

  Lips twitching, Elspeth said, “From the looks of her untied bodice laces, one does not need a special gift to know she’s made close acquaintance with a man recently.”

  Sasha laughed. “The miller’s son. Flour was everywhere.”

  “Sasha.” Elspeth pressed her lips tightly together in a reasonable mimicry of disapproval, but a slight quiver at the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Sasha wiggled her eyebrows, and Elspeth hid her laughter behind the bony curve of a hand. Neither of them could look at the maid when she returned with a tray of boiled mutton and trenchers of bread.

  The mutton was stringy, the trenchers of bread hard enough to use as paving stones, and Sasha lost interest in the meal rather quickly. Did the rural English ever prepare food with any method but boiling water, or with a blazing fire that charred meat on the outside and left it dripping pink inside? If so, she hadn’t yet found an inn that employed such a method.

  “Are you going to eat that turnip?” Elspeth asked, pointing with the tip of her knife to Sasha’s trencher. Sasha shook her head, pushing it toward Elspeth.

  “You are welcome to it. I’m not very hungry.”

  “If you intend to find that hedge knight,” Elspeth said shortly, “you’d best keep up your strength.”

  “His name is Rhys,” she said absently. “And I’m certain he’s more than a hedge knight.”

  “Rhys,” Elspeth repeated with a snort. “If he’s more than a hedge knight, he won’t be eager to do your bidding, my girl. You’d best look elsewhere for your champion.”

  She frowned. That might be true. A lord with lands would be none too eager to leave England. Unless she could convince him ‘twas for as grand a quest as the Crusades. That was possible.

  Rhys . . . Just his name conjured up images: a sunlit glen and eyes a smoky gray, gazing at her with frustrated desire. It had been easy to read him, even without the aid of her Gift. He’d wanted much more than a few kisses beneath an alder tree.

  She was just glad that Elspeth couldn’t read minds. There would be more than merely a severe tongue-lashing were she to know how enticing those few kisses had been. It was irritating, the way she found herself thinking about the sunlight in his bright hair, or his high, stark cheekbones and square jaw. Infuriating to recall the pale etch of the scar that curved from his left temple along the slash of cheekbone, and eyes that were fringed with such thick, dark lashes they were almost feminine. And the winsome smile that touched his hard mouth intrigued her so. . . .

  They were almost through with their meal when Sasha felt the touch of a familiar name, flicking across her dreaming mind like the sting of a carter’s whip. Rhys . . . She glanced up sharply, and when the door swung open, wasn’t surprised to see flame-haired Brian.

  The mail-clad knight who had first sensed her presence in the weald ducked through the doorway and strode into the room, then jerked to a sudden halt. His head turned, and he reached up to drag away his helmet as he surveyed the common room with a slow, narrowed gaze. Sasha bent her head, unwilling to face him. He feared her. That fear could be dangerous, even more so than open hate.

  When Elspeth made a soft, choked sound, Sasha lifted her head. Recognition flashed through the old woman’s eyes, and she darted a quick glance at Sasha to see if she had sensed it. Hedge knights, was Elspeth’s foremost thought. Do not let them see us.

  Ignoring that, Sasha opened her Gift to Brian. If Rhys was nearby, Brian would reveal his leader’s presence without knowing it. Yet the words that came to her were strange and unfamiliar, a language she didn’t know. A brief image flickered, but it was of dark trees and shadows and a robed figure that she knew to be herself. That image was quickly followed by a wrenching fear and rapid visions of flight, churning hooves and urgency, before his thoughts swung back to the common room with dizzying speed to focus on heightened awareness and distrust. Did Brian have the perception to divine her presence? He must have some sort of sensitivity, or he would not be scanning the room for her now.

  Sasha turned deliberately so that her profile would be visible. A rush of fear filled Brian, and his heavy boots scuffed across the inn floor as he bolted for the door. Words in the unfamiliar language assaulted her, rushed and tumbling and afraid, punctuated by Rhys’s name. Then the door banged shut, and she looked up to see that he was gone.

  Is it the rogue knight from the weald? Elspeth’s hands were knotted tightly around the hilt of her eating knife. Sasha nodded.

  Yea, Rhys was close by, and his knight had gone to warn him. Dismay filled her. Would Red Brian stop him from coming in? She stood up from the bench and went to the shuttered window, opening it to peer out. Where was he? A dusty band of mounted and dismounted knights milled in the courtyard. Then she saw Brian move to a familiar horse, and Rhys straightened from examining the great hooves to talk to him. After a moment, he glanced toward the inn, and she quickly closed the shutter before he saw her peering out at him like a common goose maid. Did he mean to come inside?

  Saints above, what if he did? Her hair was windblown, she smelled like a horse, and why hadn’t she worn a better cotte?

  Sasha, what are you doing, child? Where are you going . . .?

  As the door to the common room swung open, Sasha lifted her skirts in both hands and fled toward the back.

  Chapter Three

  “SHE’S HERE, I tell you.” Brian sounded frustrated and anxious. “The Elf Queen is close. Mount. Let us ride on.”

  Rhys glanced toward the Boar’s Head Inn. “Did you see her or just hear faerie bells again?”

  When Brian hesitated, Rhys shook his head. “Nay, don’t answer, for fear you’ll perjure yourself. The men are weary and wish to tarry with food and drink. If it will ease your mind, I’ll see with my own eyes if the dangerous Elf Queen loiters inside the common room. Mayhap, she’s sprinkling faerie dust in the ale, and should be stopped before we all turn into toads.”

  Thrusting Malik’s reins into Brian’s hand, Rhys brushed past him. A cloud passed over the sun, darkening the sky, and a brisk wind sprang up. He heard Brian’s muttered prayer and ignored it. Ducking under the low doorway of the inn, Rhys paused just inside the door. Other patrons looked up, one of them muttering about the door left open to allow in damp winds. Rhys pushed the door closed, squinting in the dim light afforded by lanterns and candles.

  He didn’t see her. No dark-haired maid lurked in shadowy corners or in the brightness by the fire. Only a few travelers and tradesmen dined at the long oaken tables or sat on benches drinking ale. A boar’s head carved in wood leered down at him from a soot-streaked wall, and the smell of roast meat and hot bread made his stomach growl, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since sunrise.

  But there was no maid. No laughing eyes and teasing smile, no exotic perfume—though he could almost swear there were traces of jasmine among the scents of smoke and mutton, which only went to prove that the mind could play powerful tricks on a man at times. Nay, Brian had been mistaken. Again. Since that day in the weald, every time Brian heard bells, he clutched at a charm he’d purchased from a wizened crone ugly enough to frighten the hair off a dog, then began muttering a chant.

  No Elf Queen loitered among the smoky tables of a village inn, nor even a graceful maid with dark, mysterious eyes and a penchant for dancing in meadows. Which was probably for the best. Jésu, he had enough things to think about without fanciful dreams clouding his attention. Yet the past sennight had been spent t
urning restlessly in his blankets while vague images of the maid lingered in his head so that he could not sleep.

  After a final glance assured him she did not grace the common room, he stepped outside again. Brian stood near the door holding Malik’s reins; he clenched his talisman in his free hand. Had he ever been as credulous as the faithful Brian? If so, he couldn’t recall it. His life had been harsh and informative, allowing him little opportunity to indulge in flights of fancy or belief in things unseen and unexplained. Yet he could spare a certain affectionate sympathy for Brian’s naïve beliefs without condoning them. Rhys moved forward and put a hand on Brian’s slumped shoulder.

  Giving a start, Brian looked around, his blue eyes wide and searching. “She turned you loose, milord?”

  “Your charm worked. There is no sign of her in the common room. ‘Tis safe for us to bide a while.”

  “You need a charm more than do I,” Brian said, and Rhys shook his head.

  “I do not hold with those beliefs. My sword is my charm.”

  Brian flushed. “I only seek to protect you from harm,” he muttered.

  “Aye, Brian. You’re a good man, I know that well. But there are some things no one can save another from.” He caught up Malik’s reins and gave them into the hand of his squire. “Give him an extra ration of oats, Morgan,” he said, “for he performed well today and deserves reward, as do we all.”

  Rhys turned back to Brian. “Come, my faerie-wise friend. We’ll test the inn’s wine, and perhaps a trencher or two of beef instead of mutton. We’ll all be in much better tempers after that.”

  Though he ate and drank with his companions, Rhys found himself glancing around the common room from time to time and realized he searched for the nameless maid of the weald. In truth, the fey maid had not been long from his thoughts. He still thought of her, and it left him restless. If he didn’t know better, he’d take a vow that she had indeed spun a magic spell over him to make him think of her so often. It had been a morning such as he had not enjoyed since he was a lad, one of sweet innocence and respite from war and horror. If the maid possessed powers of enchantment, it was for that, for relieving him of brutal memories and the ever-present need of expecting battle, even for a short time.

  “Milord? D’ye not hear us, milord?” asked Sir Robert, and Rhys glanced up.

  He shrugged when they all looked at him. “Grant pardon for my inattention, Sir Robert.”

  Sir Robert exchanged a glance with Brian before repeating, “We asked if you wish to bide here for the night. We can still meet the foot soldiers in Wytham and be at Glynllew in a few days if we leave at first light.”

  Rhys had already had the same thought. It had been a long day. And a tiring one. On the road from Coventry, they’d been set upon by a large body of mercenaries waiting around a narrow curve. The fight had been brief and vicious, but they had killed some, and the others fled. An odd thing, for well-armed outlaws to attack a band of knights. Few would dare be so bold, yet these men seemed to have lain in wait for them. It left him uneasy.

  With all this traveling about England, his men were weary. In truth, they deserved a night spent in more pleasurable pursuits. Glynllew was within two days’ hard ride, but Owain’s courier had bade him ride first to Oxford to meet with Prince John’s herald. Rhys needed rest, as well, and the thought of sleeping in a soft bed was alluring. He nodded slowly.

  “Aye, we’ll stay the night here. The morrow will be soon enough. We must meet a courier in Oxford before we can ride to Glynllew, though it’s uncertain what we’ll find when we arrive in Wales.” Rhys frowned into his pewter cup. He caught a few glances his way and knew they wondered what lay ahead. Without looking up, he said, “Owain’s messenger brought the Glynllew standard and word of another assault. He was near caught and had to hide for three days in the reeds before making his way to Coventry.” He paused, then said flatly, “‘Tis rumored that Sir Nicolas of Raglan formed the rebellion that saw my father and brothers slain. Now Nicolas and his men think I’m still on Crusade and unlikely to return alive.”

  Rough exclamations and loud oaths greeted this news, then turned to boasting promises of Raglan’s fate. Rhys finally lifted a hand to quiet them when the innkeeper came to protest, and the uproar died down.

  “This smacks of Prince John’s fine hand to me,” Brian muttered with a grimace. “He’s famous for stealing the lands of absent barons, then setting Welshman against Welshman, Irish against Irish—he is still angry that King Richard named Arthur of Brittany as his heir.”

  Rhys shook his head. “Even that brash prince would not risk Richard’s wrath by taking lands belonging to one of the king’s loyal knights. He’d surely know the king would frown on any such action.”

  “And has that stopped John before?” Sir Robert asked gruffly. “I have not noted any reluctance in seizing lands that are not his. Even William the Marshal was not exempt from his thievery—”

  “Enough.” Glancing about the crowded common room, Rhys motioned him to silence. “Best not give keen ears the chance to hear what is said.”

  Sir Robert looked around uneasily, then nodded. “Aye, lord.”

  Rhys leaned forward, lowering his voice to tell Sir Robert he would explain all on the journey to Wales, when something caught his eye. It was a slight motion, as if a gust of wind had caught the hem of a cloak, but it arrested him. A flash of green and purple vanished behind a curtained alcove at the rear of the common room.

  Rising from the bench, Rhys ignored the surprised faces of his men-at-arms and knights as he gave pursuit to the shadowy figure. When he reached the alcove and snatched aside the curtain, he wasn’t as surprised as he might once have been to find it empty. A hint of jasmine was all that remained, invisible but distinct. She had been here. He turned around.

  No sign of her was evident. The pathway behind the common room was dimly lit and smelled strongly of fish and garlic. It led to the kitchen across worn, paved stones. Rhys strode to the kitchen door. Heat from a fire in a massive oven greeted him first, the smell of meat turning on a spit filling the air. He startled a serving wench, who dropped a basket of bread loaves with a loud squeal. Another wench studied him with a bold eye and broad smile, putting one hand on her ample hip.

  “‘Tis hasty ye be, winsome knight. D’ye seek a fair maid?” She stepped closer to give him a coy, simpering smile.

  Rhys halted. Faces had turned toward him, with round eyes and open mouths, and he belatedly recalled that he was still in full armor. He glanced again at the maid. She leaned toward him, giving him a generous view of her plump breasts. He ignored that.

  “I seek a maiden who just came this way. She wears a green cloak. Did you see her?”

  The maidservant arched a brow and moved forward, hips swaying beneath her stained cotte. Light brown hair hung in curling ringlets that were damp from steam and kitchen heat. Though her face might have been pretty, tiny scars and pits marred her skin. Rhys took a step to one side.

  “Nay, brave knight, do not flee. No other maid came this way. Yet if ‘tis a maid you seek, then ‘tis one ye have found,” she murmured.

  Rhys shook his head. “I know she came this way. Her fragrance lingers.”

  Laughter greeted that comment, and the wench gave him an arch glance. “Tell me what scent ye prefer, bold sir, and I will wear it wherever ye wish me to wear it . . .” Her hand drifted to her bodice in an unmistakable gesture.

  “Leave him be, Hlynn,” a man said sharply. Rhys glanced around to see the innkeeper at the kitchen door. His fleshy face was bright with embarrassment. He moved quickly to the maid and took her by the arm. “Grant pardon, m’lord,” he said ingratiatingly, “but me daughter meant naught harm.”

  “None has been done.” Rhys felt ridiculous. He must look a cursed fool, chasing after shadows and scents. Even to these villagers he would never see again. He stepp
ed toward the door.

  “Is’t there ought I can do for ye, milord?” the innkeeper asked as Rhys made for the outside door. “I would no’ want ye to be taken unkind by me daughter’s boldness.”

  He stopped and turned back to the innkeeper. “I will need rooms later, and room in your stable for my soldiers.” He gestured. “I saw someone in the shadows of the alcove behind the curtain. They fled before I could catch them.”

  “Aye? ‘Twas naught of me work, milord. No robbers would dare invade me inn to—”

  Seeing that the conversation was about to degenerate into a lengthy defense of the virtues of the hostel, Rhys interrupted impatiently. “It was a maid.” He clenched his teeth when the innkeeper’s anxious expression altered to a sly smile.

  “Oh, aye. A maid. Well, I did see a dark-haired lass hasten toward the stables, milord. But she warn’t—”

  “God’s mercy.” Rhys pivoted on his bootheel and left the kitchen before the innkeeper or his daughter could offer further comment. His sheathed sword clanked against the rough stones of the outer wall behind the inn. Several long, low buildings of mud and wattle flanked a courtyard and a garden, housing horses belonging to lodgers. Daylight faded.

  Rhys strode swiftly across the bare ground and ducked into the stable. Despite the mud and muck in the outer yard, the stable itself was fairly dry. The familiar scent of horses, hay, and leather greeted him. But no jasmine. It appeared to be empty of anyone but a dozing hosteler seated in a clump of hay just outside the wide doorway. Hazy streamers of light filtered through small windows and chinks in the wall. Several animals nickered softly, and he moved through the dusty gloom toward a familiar dark shape at the far end of a passageway flanked by stalls and hayricks. A nicer stable than most inns boasted.

  When he reached Malik, the stallion nudged him, his massive black head so steady and strong against Rhys’s shoulder that it took him an involuntary step backward. He clubbed a gentle fist against the horse’s broad neck and murmured an affectionate greeting.