Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  nose marked her as the mother of Eleanor’s escort, so she hobbled as much curtsy as tired limbs and a large belly would permit. A slight smile touched the rather stern mouth.

  "Come sit by the fire, child. You look half-frozen.” She had a low voice, almost a tenor. "Winter has come early and fierce as a wolf this year.”

  Wolf winter, Eleanor thought, and without a master, then shook her head to clear away the cobwebs of uneasiness that brought. Wrolf and the Fenris wolf and Rag-narok all danced in her mind. "Thank you, milady. I think I have forgotten what it feels like to be warm.”

  "You will sit for a while, and then you shall have a hot bath. My servants are warming the bathing chamber.”

  "I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more,” Eleanor replied sincerely. How long had it been? She thought of Sal’s well and felt the presence of the Lady of Willows within her, as reassuring as a mother’s hand soothing her brow. In that instant, she also knew her hostess’s name, and that of the handsome son. Sal’s whisper withdrew, and she sat down, wondering what to do with the information. A name had a curious power of its own, and she was reluctant to abuse it.

  A toddler, bolder and more curious than the rest, got up from the circle and staggered over to her, still being in that stage where walking is a matter of falling forward. He regarded her with wide blue eyes, and impulsively Eleanor scooped him up and balanced him on one knee. He patted her belly with a chubby hand, and the baby moved under his touch, so he crowed with delight. "Fish,” he lisped, patting again. She considered her unborn child’s aquatic adventures, almost from the moment of his conception back in Ireland, and found no argument with the youngster’s opinion.

  Arthur, accompanied by two manservants bearing the wagon’s worn chest between them, entered the hall, snowflakes melting in his russet hair and beard. The wind was rising outside the thick walls of the keep, and she was glad to be out of the weather. He bowed to the lady, the length of the fire sword banging his leg and the firelight playing on the jeweled hilt. Then he unclasped his tatty cloak and swept it off as if it were the

  finest silk, looking every inch a kingly man. He strode over to Eleanor, eyes watchful, and stretched his hands to the fire.

  Eleanor realized that the lady and her son were staring at the oddly blackened flesh of Arthur’s left hand, and stirred nervously. It was like the dark flame on her right palm, a token of an experience that would not be denied, but she wished his was less visible. The son took a deep breath and seemed to relax, which she found strange. Arthur was oblivious to their interest.

  "Some wine for our guests,” the lady ordered a servant, and a moment later they were served a warm, mulled drink, redolent of spices and burned sugar. Eleanor sipped hers and found it tastier than her own attempt, months before.

  But the silence of the adults was maddening over the cheerful babble of the children. The one on Eleanor’s knee demanded a sip, which she gave him. He then snuggled into the curve of her arm, around her stomach, and closed his eyes. "This is delicious... Lady Elfrida.” The woman started, then broke into a broad smile that made her face look very young. "You are she.” There was great relief in her cryptic reply.

  "I told you it had to be them, Mother. How many ... black-handed men do you think there are?”

  "Is that what you were looking for, Leofric?” Eleanor asked.

  He gave her a wide grin, very like his mother’s, and nodded. "A messenger came to Richmond from the Marshal, oh, five weeks ago. He said we should be on the lookout for a red-haired man with one black hand and a woman with hair like night. They would, he said, know us without introduction. Two days ago, a rider came from Darlington saying such a pair had been seen, but my mother was not convinced. She rarely is.” Eleanor remembered her conversation with Brother Ambrosius at the priory and his mention of Guillaume the Strong, defender of the realm, and wondered how the Marshall had known of their coming. "I see. Did he say how he knew?”

  "The Virgin came to him in a dream.”

  Eleanor sipped her wine and speculated on whether it was fair Bridget or dark Sal who had disturbed the

  Marshall’s rest. The child rested heavily against her body and snored lightly. "I am glad he ensured our welcome.”

  "He travels north to meet you,” Leofric added. "So you will rest here until he arrives.” It was not a request.

  Eleanor turned to Arthur, who was masking his confusion with wine and silence. "You will be glad to see your childhood friend, the son of your master, will you not?”

  Arthur considered this tidbit of information. "I will, indeed. And I hope he does not hurry too much, for I am glad to be warm and dry again.”

  They finished their wine, and Lady Elfrida bustled them off, Eleanor to the bath chamber under the care of a sour-faced servant who obviously viewed the steaming vat of water with suspicion. Eleanor soaked the ache out of her bones, dried herself on a rough towel, and put on the cleanest shift she had, plus the violet gown that had been the gift of Bera the Hag, belting it above the swell of her belly. The servant sniffed at her, then grudgingly produced warm hose and a pair of leather shoes, a little large in the toe, which Eleanor donned with pleasure. Then she suffered the woman to yank the snarls out of her hair, braid it, and coil it on the back of her head.

  A trestle table had been erected in the great hall, draped with a linen tabecloth and set with metal trenchers and real glass goblets. Eleanor knew this was meant as a great honor and wondered only if it was meant for her or Arthur. Leofric took the head of the board with his mother to the left, and Arthur and Eleanor to the right, while an assortment of family and chivalry, men-at-arms and wives, filled out the rest. A merry, red-cheeked girl of twelve turned out to be Leof-ric’s sister Hilde, while a wizened beldam who gummed her well-hung mutton with the concentration of one who values life’s flavors because there were few left, was his father’s mother.

  Sharing a plate with Arthur, Eleanor worked her way through a hearty array of meat, fowl, and fish dishes, all a little sweet and spicier than she liked, while a sort of desultory conversation whirled about her. There was the ever popular topic, the weather, which branched out into whether the roof on the Three Acre Barn needed repair, was there enough fodder, would wolves come down from the hills, and other matters of intense interest to the agriculturist. Neither of them were addressed directly except to ask if they wanted more food. It was a feast of welcome but a tentative welcome, and Eleanor noticed more than one curious look at Arthur’s hand. Obviously, the Marshall’s message had been somewhat ambiguous.

  Replete with more food than she had consumed in weeks, Eleanor enjoyed the warmth and the commonplace chatter of the people around her. They were a healthy, hearty lot; good, stout Yorkshiremen to whom the Shadow was a distant rumor. Leofric looked as if he would like to ask some questions, but Lady Elfrida’s rather stem countenance prevented that. She sipped hard cider and listened.

  Finally, Leofric pushed his tall chair back from the table a little and stretched out his lanky frame. "My lord,” he addressed Arthur, "my servant tells me you have a harp. Could you be persuaded to play us some music? Our harper died last winter, and we have missed him.”

  Before Arthur could reply, a groom appeared with the shabby, leather-covered instrument. He exchanged a quick glance with her, and Eleanor shrugged slightly. "I think we have to play it by ear,” she murmured, and he gave her a broad grin, then began to unlace the bindings. A rush of servants cleared the board in record time, then hauled the table off its supports, leaving the diners holding goblets, mostly wooden or metal, for the fragile glass ones were only for the lord and his guests. The old grandmother complained at this for a moment, then went silent as Arthur removed the Harp. A slight, rustling sigh went around the hall, and the fireplaces seemed to burn more brightly.

  Arthur seemed a little unnerved by the intent regard of his audience, but he was too much a Plantagenet to let it show for more than a second. He touched the strings lightly, twisted a peg here and
there, though Eleanor could detect no need for tuning, then ran his fingers up the scale.

  An uneasy melody hummed on the strings, and

  Eleanor sipped from her cup to cover her confusion. It was very like the music he had written about Doyle but subtly altered, so that the nerves were jangled. Then it changed again, going from the minor to the major key, speaking of sunlight and summer. Arthur’s voice rose, and Baird was present, two-eyed and golden, though Arthur had never seen him like that. The words floated out onto a bittersweet lay of rivalry and defeat. As she listened, Eleanor felt a pain she had been unaware of ease and reflected that Arthur could have chosen no more perfect entertainment for these descendants of the fierce Norsemen. Doyle and his brother were the stuff of scaldic song, and any other form was too fragile to support the weight of their lives. He must have made the verses as he sat on the wagon’s hard seat, and she wondered what kind of ruler he would make who could command such music.

  A brittle silence greeted Baird’s passing, and Eleanor looked around to see several sleeves being used for hankies. Leofric grunted, cleared his throat, and sipped some wine with a hand that shivered slightly, so droplets of wine dripped on his tunic. "That will teach me to be careful what I ask for. Strange. The man you sang of passed through here, I believe, just before midsummer. Some said he was Thor, though all know the old gods died with the birth of the Savior.” His voice carried little conviction on this theological matter. And the expressions on the faces of some of the men-at-arms showed they had not forgotten their berserker patron.

  "It was not my choice, precisely, Lord Leofric. The Harp... has a mind of its own.” And wi th that, he struck up a brawl-gaye which had a circle of dancers out on the floor in a flash of skirts and booted feet. This was more to their liking than sagas, however heroic. Eleanor relaxed a little and hoped the Harp wouldn’t veer off into "Eleanor Rigby,” which would bemuse this audience beyond endurance. Beyond the thick walls, she could faintly hear the wail of the wind, and she was simply grateful to be warm, clean, dry, and, for the moment, safe.

  The second morning at Richmond brought a frost that turned the earth to iron. The wind rose, and before nightfall, there was a real snowfall of a few inches. Lady

  Elfrida looked anxious, as if anticipating that she might have to house her guests over a snowbound winter, for by mutual consent, Eleanor and Arthur had remained anonymous. She helped with a case of chilblain, fondled children, and oversaw the making of a new outfit, for Lady Elfrida had declared everything in her wardrobe useless but Bera’s tunic. She gained an enormous respect for the occupation of medieval homemaker and was a little ashamed at her lack of domestic skills. What passed for scissors was an awkward U-shaped spring with two small blades at the ends, quite useless for cutting anything more than threads, and she watched a little awed as twelve-year-old Hilde cut a tunic from thick woad-dyed wool with the edge of a knife. No measuring tape, either. The girl used her hands and arms to gauge Eleanor’s form.

  Just before nightfall their fourth day at Richmond, there was a muffled clamor on the cobblestones in the courtyard. A hubbub of voices rose and fell, and a few minutes later the doors of the hall opened to admit a dozen brown-caped men stamping snow off their boots and dragging damp leather gauntlets off cold-reddened hands. They scattered to the fireplaces, revealing Leof-ric and another man still poised under the lintel.

  Eleanor studied the man and wondered how even a war-horse could bear him, for he was a giant, larger even than Doyle or Baird. He swept off his cloak as Leofric shut the doors, and she saw his hair was brown and curly, touched with gray, with a shiny scar on the brow running into the hairline. She guessed his height at six feet eight and his weight at two-fifty plus, though all of it was hard, fighting muscle. His eyes searched the dimness of the hall and paused on her for a second .

  Then they swept past to Arthur, who was just entering. As restless as herself at enforced inactivity, he had spent the day cutting wood with several other men. He was licking a blister on one palm, and his hair was darkened with moisture. Dressed in a leather tunic and cross-gartered leggings, he might have been anyone.

  The big man gave a bellow of greeting and loped across the hall in a few strides. "My lord. My king. You are returned!” With these words, he knelt on one knee and kissed Arthur’s somewhat grimy hand.

  Arthur urged him up, ignoring the startled reactions of the men-at-arms, and embraced him, becoming almost invisible in the larger man’s bearlike hug. Eleanor let out a great sigh at the obviously joyous reunion and watched her companion emerge from the hug with his eyes bright with tears. "William! For a moment, I thought you were a ghost, so like your father are you.” He patted a great shoulder as if to reassure himself that it was flesh and bone.

  Then he drew William toward Eleanor, brushing aside a tear and leaving a smear of dirt on his cheekbone. "My lady, this is William, Marshall of Albion and Earl of Pembroke.”

  "Nay, sire. They call me Lord of Striguil but earl no more. King John has removed that honor, as he would have taken the marshall’s, could he have found anyone to put in my place.” He made a wry face and spat on the floor. Then he bowed over Eleanor’s hand and rose with a wide grin. "So, you are the little lady who has been walking in my sleep.”

  Amused by his bluntness, she replied, "Have I? I hope I did not disturb your virtuous rest.”

  He laughed, a gusty rumble. "Nothing disturbs my rest, virtuous or nay, and some might argue that I have none, though I am as God-fearing as the next, as long as the next is not a bishop.” The thought of bishops seemed to tickle some fancy, for he chuckled again. Then he sobered slightly, though his gray eyes remained alight with merriment, and Eleanor thought she had never met anyone who crackled with quite such energy. "’Twas the feast of St. Bridget when first I dreamt you, and but for your dark hair, I would have thought it was the saint herself. Then again on May Eve, all bright with moonlight, and finally on the Feast of the Ascension. My good wife Was not pleased, for she does not approve of my dreaming of pretty women, even on saints’ days. But she has ceased to be vexed by my visions, having become accustomed after many years, for she knows they are a favor of our Blessed Virgin.” Eleanor warmed to the large man, blessed of the goddess by whatever name he called her. "I am glad you came and that you have faith in your dreams.” She did not add that she was relieved that someone who knew Arthur had appeared, for she had begun to fear it was another untidy loose end that Bridget had overlooked. She had a foolish nightmare of knocking on the walls of London, saying, "I’ve brought King Arthur,” and being laughed at.

  "A man who does not have faith in the Blessed Lady is hardly fit to be called a man. Now, my lord, we must go to York.”

  XXXII

  Eleanor had heard the Marshall’s words with a sense of release, that her part in the adventure was safely past and she could settle down to the real job of completing her pregnancy. William was clearly better equipped to stage-manage the young king’s return, and except for the small matter of the fire sword, an object that she considered a very two-edged weapon indeed, there seemed to be no reason for her to go any farther on what promised to be an arduous journey.

  She said as much to Arthur that night. The vehemence with which he disagreed surprised her. "Oh, no, you don’t. I will not go a step without you, and that is final.”

  "But Arthur,” she answered reasonably, "your duty is to Albion and mine—”

  "Albion be hanged. I have spent less than a year of my life in this land, and I have less feeling for it than I do for a good horse. I will do my duty but not without you. You, I trust. I need your sharp eyes and quick wits with me as much as I need William’s hefty arm. The matter is settled. We leave in the morning.”

  "Now just a minute, you arrogant—”

  "Shh.” He put his black hand over her mouth lightly. "You are dear to me, and I will not lose you, nor leave you among strangers, however kindly disposed.” He stroked the dark hair with his other hand. "I can fulfill my d
estiny with one blighted hand, but without you I would be missing an arm.”

  Eleanor leaned her head against his shoulder, considering this declaration if not of love, then of something as worthy. It was true he trusted her, and she him, and that they worked well together. A look between them spoke volumes. Still, she recalled her flight of visions, the moment Arthur faced Baird, which had already passed, and the moment she had foreseen when she might wed him. Then she drew a deep breath and surrendered. She played with his red beard and said, "Well, if you insist... and I won’t be in the way.”

  "A man could not ask for fairer impedimenta.”

  The wagon she rode in to York was sturdier and warmer than the earlier one, but as Eleanor huddled inside it while a man-at-arms drove, she regretted the comforts of Richmond Keep. The wind roared down from the north, cutting past cloaks and tunics with icy knives. It rained, snowed, sleeted, and hailed. The road was alternately a mire and a frozen slide. The only respite was that there was a keep or castle or farmstead to stay in most nights.

  It amazed her how cheerful the followers of the Marshall remained. More swelled the ranks daily, for William had sent several of his knights off to gather forces. Her driver changed daily, and to ward off boredom, she often sat on the seat and tried to engage them in conversation. A few were loquacious and regaled her with their master’s exploits against the Darkness. Each night she searched the faces of the newcomers for those who might be Shadow-touched, for she feared some treachery, and if she singled out a man to Arthur, he was gone in the morning, usually upon some spurious errand. Eleanor felt she could do no less than surround the young king with men whose light was clear and untainted, even if it cost her some suspicious looks.

  Her position was anomalous in any case, for she had Arthur’s confidence, but she was not part of the recognized hierarchy, and pregnant in the bargain. There were some knowing smirks when it was explained that her husband was dead, and she learned to live with the fact that a man may be good and true and still be a jackass. She enjoyed brief fantasies of endowing the smirkers with braying heads, like Bottom, and was ashamed of herself for contemplating such a misuse of her powers. And Arthur met demands for further elucidation about her with curt arrogance.