The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Glancing at Brian, Rhys complied. As she took Rhys’s hand, Brian muttered, “I did not tell her why she was needed. There is no secrecy in this camp.”

  Sasha did not look at him as she said tartly, “I have eyes and did not need to be told. Do you think I cannot see the blood on his sleeve or dripping from his wrist? I will need my herbs to properly tend this. Fetch my casket from wherever you have hidden it.”

  A brief image of baggage flashed through Brian’s mind, accompanied by Gaelic words she was glad not to understand. At a nod from Rhys, Sir Brian left them, and she tamped down the desire to watch his direction. No doubt, the chest would be hidden elsewhere after she used it.

  “A hair’s-breadth closer, and the tendon would be severed,” she murmured, inspecting the injury. “Your arm would be useless.”

  “Should we use the hot iron?”

  “Cauterizing may stop the bleeding, but it may still fester. I have herbs to heal, although I will need to close the gash with needle and thread.”

  “Sir Robert will want to see the herbs you choose,” he said after a moment, and she glanced up at him.

  “Do you fear I will poison you?”

  “Judging from recent experience, it is not out of the realm of possibility,” he said dryly.

  “Bah. If I had wanted to poison you, you would all be dead.”

  “So you have said. Should you decide to do so, keep in mind that there is not a man here who would hesitate to see you slain for it.”

  “My lord,” she murmured, “it’s not been out of my mind for the past three days.” And she meant it.

  RHYS STUDIED THE top of her head as she knelt before him and bent over his arm, fussing with herbs and salves approved by Sir Robert. Though her lip had curled with scorn, she had not interfered with the inspection, merely muttered a few words in Arabic. In his time in the Holy Land, he had learned a few phrases out of necessity, but most of the language eluded him. It was oddly fitting that he had spent two years in the Kingdom of Jerusalem and thought it behind him, yet now it had followed him to Wales.

  “Your name is not native to your country,” he said as she spread a salve on his wrist, and she looked up at him.

  “You do not know my country,” she said simply and continued with her task.

  “Do you seek to be mysterious, little flower?” he murmured, and she reached in her herb chest for a strip of cloth, needle, and silk thread.

  “Must you talk?” she asked in an irritable tone, amusing him.

  “It distracts me from your intentions with a sharp needle.”

  “I can use a dull needle should you prefer it, but I warn you, ‘twill be painful.”

  Sir Robert chuckled, and Rhys found himself grinning at the cheeky maid. She ignored him and went on with her work, threading the needle, punching it through his skin to pull the edges of the wound closed, taking several stitches. It should have hurt, but the salve she used seemed to dull the worst of it, and she finished quickly, then bound his wrist with the strip of cloth.

  “Do not remove it. It will protect your wound and prevent your gauntlets making it bleed again. I will tend it tomorrow, but it should heal swiftly if you are careful.”

  Flexing his wrist, he was satisfied that it would not interfere with his sword arm should he need it, and nodded. “What is in the salve?”

  Sir Robert answered, “Turmeric, honey, and lime leaves. I saw it used in Damascus.”

  “Chuna,” Sasha said. “The Hindis call it chuna. It is most beneficial. Do not misplace this casket, Sir Robert. It is exceedingly difficult to replace many of these herbs.”

  “I do not doubt that,” Sir Robert replied as he closed the lid on the small chest and took it from her. “I have a great interest in the medicines found in the East. They are far superior to those we have here.”

  Sasha nodded. “There is a book describing their use in my cart, should you care to read it. Al-Tasrif—The Method of Medicine.”

  “I heard it has been translated into Latin. Do you have that edition?”

  She smiled. “Nay, I fear not. But I could read it to you should you wish.”

  “Could you? I would be most gratified, for the East has advanced new treatments.”

  Sensing that his knight was falling under the spell of a mutual interest, Rhys interrupted. “Sentries must be doubly watchful, for now we are known. Although I am not usually glad to have my orders ignored, your archers this afternoon were most opportune.”

  Sir Robert inclined his head, looking slightly askance. “I am not commonly in the habit of countermanding you, my lord.”

  “I know that well enough. Sleep well, Sir Robert.”

  His knight departed, leaving him alone by the fire with Sasha. She sat watchfully, like a small, golden bird with darkly mysterious eyes, a faint smile curving her lips. A log collapsed in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks that quickly disappeared.

  “You are learned in the art of healing,” he said, and she nodded.

  “Yea, beau sire. I learned it early, for my mother was a healer.”

  “You said your mother was English.”

  “So I did.”

  “Yet your father was . . . Cyprian?”

  “Nay, as you must know well. You were on Crusade with King Richard. Surely you know the difference between Cyprus and Tikrit.”

  He smiled a little. “Tikrit? Do not tell me your father is Saladin, for then I would be afraid to leave you alone with my soldiers.”

  “You should be afraid anyway,” she said pertly. “They are ignorant and smell very bad. I am tempted to cover them in clove oil.”

  “Clove oil has a pleasant scent in small doses,” he said.

  “‘Tis too bad the same cannot be said for your soldiers. Alas, there is not enough clove oil in all of England to remedy that.”

  “You judge them too harshly, I fear. I chose them not for their fragrance, but their ability to fight and their loyalty. I prize both virtues equally.”

  Shrugging, she said only, “Those are worthwhile qualities for soldiers.”

  “And for you?”

  “Am I required to don armor and fight, my lord?”

  “Who are your enemies?”

  “At the moment, I am not particularly fond of Malcom, although I do not consider him an enemy. More of an annoyance and inconvenience.”

  Studying her for a moment, he was half-tempted to admire the adroitness with which she evaded his questions. But he must discern her motives in seeking him out and if she sought to aid his enemies.

  Leaning forward, Rhys cupped her chin in his palm, holding her to face him. “We feint and jab, but I grow weary of the play. I ask you again—why did you seek me out?”

  He felt her sigh. “You do not believe me when I speak the truth, so am I to invent another tale of demon assassins? You are the gryffin of the prophecy and a warrior. I have searched for you these ten years past. Now I have found you.”

  “The prophecy.” Firelight gleamed in her eyes and on the sweet curve of her cheek. Lovely dark rose, soft and tempting, and without a shred of truth in her. He released her chin. “And who is this great seer, that you mistake me for a mythical beast capable of recovering your lost home?”

  “Rina. Her prophecies are true, for many have come to pass that she said would do so, and I believe you are the One.”

  “Such childlike faith. Am I to fly to Tikrit? Tear enemies apart with my eagle’s beak and roar like a lion?”

  She flushed. “I never said Tikrit was my home. And of course you will not fly. We will take ships and knights and soldiers to scatter my enemies. My lands were stolen, my parents killed, and I must avenge them.”

  “And my reward for being so bold a champion?”

  “Gold, for even the floors are made of gold and
ivory in my father’s house. You may have jewels a’plenty, and if you wish, many wives.”

  Despite his irritation, he found himself amused. And he had sympathy for her need to avenge her parents. Their situations were similar in some ways. But he would not let sympathy overcome caution.

  “What would I do with many wives, little flower? In England we are allowed only one at a time.”

  She waved an impatient hand. “Concubines, then. It matters little to me whether you have wives or gold or both, as long as you recover my home.”

  For a moment he said nothing, gazing at her as if seeing her for the first time. There were many layers to this changeling creature, but he suspected her mercurial moods hid strong resolve. To have survived assassination this long, she must be clever as well as resolute. To live by her wits, she must be adept at assignation and trickery to fund her travels. Ofttimes, spying paid well. Yet he found himself wanting to believe her, fool that he was, for she had exhibited no reason to be trusted.

  “Tell me again where your home lies,” he murmured, watching her face.

  “Again? I do not recall ever saying, although I may have for it has such a lovely palace, with gleaming white towers, and my father was a vizier—but he is gone now, and my home is no longer mine. Stolen from us by treachery.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, a silvery gleam in the faint firelight.

  She would not be the first woman he’d known capable of producing tears without sorrow, but he could swear genuine distress filled her dark, glistening eyes.

  “I am familiar with treachery,” he said after a moment, and she nodded, saying nothing as she folded her hands in her lap and stared at them. “It is a bitter end for those who suffer it. I do not deal kindly with traitors of blood or acquaintance.”

  A glance up at him through dewed lashes, then she said so softly he had to lean closer to hear, “Nor should you, beau sire. Those who disavow a promise are not honorable.”

  For a moment he remained silent; she had neatly trapped him with his reckless promise to wage combat on her behalf. It was a lesson well-learned. “Do you consider a vow made under a false façade to be binding, demoiselle?”

  He didn’t expect an honest reply, only more evasion. She surprised him.

  “Nay, I do not,” she said and lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “It was unfair of me to try to deceive you. I release you from your vow. Yet I implore you to consider my plight, and once your matters in Wales are settled, to fulfill the prophecy. You are the only hope I have to regain my inheritance.”

  Rhys had no ready reply. He’d expected more lies and was given truth. He recognized it. As she had granted him honesty, he must respond in kind. But he could not grant her request.

  “Your admission is well-met, demoiselle,” he said. “I admit, I did not think you would be so forthright. It eases my mind considerably that you have not continued your deception.”

  “Then you will—”

  “Nay. I cannot pledge to wage war in the Holy Land for your cause. That is where you wish me to travel, is it not?”

  Her swiftly in-drawn breath was released slowly. “Near Baku, in Shirvan. On the Caspian Sea.”

  “You are Seljuk?”

  “My mother was English and Christian. My father converted. It—it did not please his family, so his cousin came with an army.”

  When she lapsed into silence, he could well imagine the rest. All would be slaughtered, no one left to defy the conqueror. It was a method King Richard employed as well. War left few families unaffected.

  “Yet you escaped,” he said finally, and she nodded.

  “My mother’s servant and I were smuggled away, but we could trust no one. We have wandered a long time across many lands.”

  Her life sounded familiar. So had he done in his youth, although included in a household in service to the king. “And you came to England to be with your mother’s family?”

  Sighing, she said, “I misrepresented my intention. Elspeth’s village is our destination, as I am unknown to my mother’s family.”

  That opened another door to her past that he decided not to enter. He had truth at last. She was no faerie, no elf queen, just an exiled sojourner determined to regain her heritage. As was he. While he could not yield to her entreaties for vengeance and restoration, he could see her safely to her maidservant’s village once he had resolved his position as lord of Glynllew.

  Yet why did the thought of parting with her unsettle him? She was only one maid among many he had known. If she spoke truth, she had suffered much in her score of years, just as had most of England and Wales. Floods, fires, wars, and the caprice of overlords visited devastation on all without regard to station or country. She was not alone in knowing loss. Nor was she alone in wanting vengeance and restoration of her heritage. He sympathized with her, but he was not the champion she needed.

  And yet . . . and yet, he had an inexplicable yearning to ride to her cause, to wear her colors in combat to regain all she had lost, to present it to her as if a knight in a chanson de geste, a gift to a beautiful lady from her lover. Preposterous, of course. He was no white knight, and she was no fair maiden. Their night at the inn may be hazy, but he recalled golden skin, sultry eyes, a heated passion infusing him, and a desire that had not been quenched by the one night.

  Therein lay the danger: desire. He wanted her. Nay, he craved her, as a man craves water in the desert. He thought of little else despite the pressing demands upon him, the maid slipping into his mind unbidden when he should be thinking of strategy, of negotiations with two princes who held his lands in thrall—Brian was right. She had bewitched him, although not with magic and potions, but with clever impertinence and bold demands. No woman of his acquaintance had ever dared what Sasha risked, nor presented such exasperating choices. She was by turns a sloe-eyed nuisance or a beguiling enchantress, both petitioning him for favors but offering sensual rewards he found nearly irresistible.

  She would be his undoing if he allowed it.

  A log popped in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, smoke flattening against the rock shelf above it, spicing the air with the scent of burning oak. It stung his eyes as the wind shifted direction. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Come, demoiselle, and I will escort you back to your guards.”

  Emotion flickered in her face as she stared up at him. “You do not believe me still? I am no threat to you, my lord.”

  “Perhaps you are not a threat, but you must be kept safe until I can see you delivered to your destination.”

  “My destination—Elspeth’s village? Enta mabtesmaʿnīš! The prophecy—”

  “Enough of the prophecy. I sympathize with your great loss, but I am not the champion you seek.”

  She rose to her feet, holding his gaze with her own, studying his face as if she could read his thoughts, then shook her head. “We will discuss this again once you regain your lands from your cousin.”

  When she turned away, he grasped her arm. “What do you know of my cousin?”

  “Only what I have heard.”

  “Who has spoken of him to you?”

  She stared up at him, unblinking, and he wondered how she knew of Gareth when he had not yet told his men. Only Wallis and Brian knew.

  Shrugging, she said, “I know no names of most here. I cannot tell you who said it.”

  There was an informant in his camp, or at the least, a man who did not know how to keep his counsel. Someone must have overheard. If not, there must be a spy in his camp. Few knew of his cousin, for there had been no feud between them before now.

  “I will escort you back to your guards,” he said when she moved as if to step away. “It is for your safety as well, so do not attempt to avoid them.”

  She paused, eyes widening, absorbing light from the fire. “Are we in danger of attack?”

 
“There is always danger of attack, but we are prepared.” He didn’t elaborate. There was no point in alarming her with the risks. But then, this was a woman who had journeyed from the Caspian Sea, somehow escaping pursuit, outlaws, and deprivation.

  “Now I feel much better,” she said curtly, and her tone gave the lie to her words. He did not bother with a reply to that, but walked silently beside her through the camp.

  He found Malcom sitting by the fire with companions, inspecting his longbow. He stood up quickly when he saw Rhys, holding his bow in one hand.

  “Keep her safe and close,” he said to the archer, and Malcom nodded.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Sasha wore a strange little smile on her face when he left her, and Malcom wouldn’t look directly at the maid, avoiding her gaze. It was obvious he was leery of her, and Rhys didn’t blame him. She could be formidable.

  Sir Robert sat before the fire with a comrade and rose to his feet when he saw Rhys approaching. “My lord, we were just discussing the best method to assault the castle. Sir Clyde suggests siege engines until the rest of your troops arrive. A steady barrage should at least harass Sir Nicolas and keep him well-occupied until we can form an effective assault and free other men to harry any troops in the area.”

  It was a tried and true method of warfare. King Richard had applied it at Acre and then Jerusalem. One had been much more effective than the other, and he was well aware of how long such a strategy could take, as well as the variable factors that could mean success or defeat. But meanwhile, Gareth was busily deploying men and forwarding petitions to the Prince of Deheubarth and Prince John in England.

  “‘Tis a good suggestion, Sir Robert, but there are other facts you should know.” He bent a glance toward Sir Clyde, who had stood when he appeared, and the knight took the hint, taking himself off. Rhys looked back at Sir Robert. “Sir Nicolas is not in command of Glynllew. ‘Tis my cousin, Gareth of Glamorgan. So now we must worry about an enemy at our backs as well as before us. But I have an idea that may gain us much swifter entry into the keep than a long siege.” He smiled. “It’s a bold plan, and daring. If we succeed, we win all. If we fail . . . if we fail, we lose all.”