by Anne Stuart
The servant nodded, bustling off toward the rolling prison, and Simon breathed a faint sigh of relief. Things were working well so far. He could only hope that Alys would recognize Sir Thomas's blue eyes beneath the shabby disguise, of a servant and know that the binding would fall away with the right amount of effort.
Ah, but Lady Alys was observant and brave. She was the least and the greatest of his worries.
He turned to look at his liege lord, and his smile was wintry cold. "As my lord wishes," he said.
Richard de Lancie laughed. "That's my Grendel." And he spurred his horse down the steep hill toward the bustling town of Watlington.
The stage was set. Thomas had done his work well�a word here, a word there, and the townspeople were prepared, agog at the notion of a real live wizard in their midst. Lord Richard of Summersedge wouldn't lower himself to talk with the local peasantry; he would never hear that Simon of Navarre was the first magician ever to stop in their ratty little market town.
Braziers had been set at the four corners of the platform that had most recently held wrestling matches. The ropes had come down, and someone had managed to secure what doubtless passed for a decent chair here. At least they'd piled it with tattered velvet. Richard could watch the show in a manner befitting his station, on a makeshift throne.
They shouted the wizard's name as he and Richard rode through the surging crowds. Richard wouldn't like that, but he smiled benevolently. "You're popular already," he murmured to Simon above the roar of the crowd. "Do not shame me in front of these good people."
Simon glanced at him with icy curiosity. "Good people?" he echoed.
"They'll be my people before long," Richard said. "I want them to know I can control the powers of darkness. Fear is a wondrous motivator."
Simon could feel the icy trickles form in the pit of his stomach, something he hadn't felt in more than a dozen years. He hadn't cared enough about anything to feel fear. He felt it now.
"You are very wise, my lord," he said. An urchin appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the reins of his horse as he threw them down. Lady Claire was equally as filthy as her beloved, and well nigh unrecognizable in the boy's garb she'd managed to filch. Only her beautiful eyes would give her away, and she was wise enough to keep them lowered.
He mounted the stairs to the platform, keeping his right hand well-hidden in the folds of his long black tunic, and the crowd chanted his name. Not his name�they called "Grendel, Grendel, Grendel…" and he paused with a theatrical flourish, waiting for his lord to precede him.
The carriage had halted by the corner of the platform, and someone had drawn the curtains. Alys sat in her prison with a cloth across her mouth, her hands bound tight in front of her, and he knew a moment's panic. Had Thomas been able to do his part? If he'd failed, this would all be for nought.
"My lord," he said to Richard, gesturing to the throne-like chair. Richard seated himself, prepared to be entertained, and laughed heartily when Simon tossed back his left sleeve and presented him with a goblet of sweet red wine.
It was a simple enough trick, but the crowd roared with approval, and Richard held up the goblet in an elaborate tribute before quaffing it.
He drained the goblet. Simon watched him do it out of slitted eyes, and when Richard finished he smiled, cat-like.
Richard was right about one thing—fear was a powerful motivator. The simple peasantry of Watlington knew their demons well. Simon moved to one brazier and sprinkled the first mix of herbs on the hot coals.
The explosion was muffled, the red smoke billowing outward in thick, fat roils. "I call on Belial," Simon intoned in his rich voice, "on the powers of darkness that fell from heaven, to aid my quest and do my bidding."
The townspeople gasped in horror at the demonic words, crossing themselves as they moved uneasily.
He moved to the opposite brazier. This time the explosion was louder, the smoke deep blue, wafting over the crowd. "I call on Astaroth, ruler of western regions of hell," he intoned, checking from beneath slitted eyes. His own horse had been tethered close to the stage, impervious to the smoke and noise, but the two by the wagon were moving restively. Everyone was too fixated on the wizard to wonder why two filthy creatures were standing ominously near the wagon with a pair of fine horses. Unfortunately, Alys was equally fixated, staring at him, making no effort to release her bindings. If she hadn't recognized Thomas she might not even know that she could.
He went to the third brazier, and the wagon was out of his view. It was the signal Thomas was waiting for, and there was nothing Simon could do to make certain she escaped.
He stood over the brazier, sprinkling the dust that Godfrey had gathered, and green sparks began to shoot outward, like crazed fairies. "I call upon Amon, demon of the underworld, who sets all prisoners free." He raised his voice to a shout, and opened his hand over the fire.
The explosion rocked the stage. He staggered back, coughing, unable to see through the billowing smoke. There were shouts and cries from the crowd, screams of terror, yet he could do nothing but pray.
He hadn't asked a thing of a merciless God in over a decade. He asked now. "Save her," he said.
Richard hadn't moved. He was sitting in his chair, stunned, and Simon had no idea whether the poison had done its work or not.
He crossed to the brazier in front of Lord Richard. "I call on Fleurety, demon of poison herbs. Do my bidding!"
He'd overestimated the amount needed for the final brazier, but in the end it didn't matter. The final explosion was so powerful that the metal brazier split apart, sending shards of fire through the quickly scattering crowds. The smoke was thick and black and oily, and Richard rose to his feet, swaying, his pale eyes glazed.
"I want a woman," he said in a thick voice, oblivious to the chaos around him.
"It's been known to have that effect," Simon replied.
Richard's eyes opened wide. "You bastard," he said, drawing his sword and stumbling toward his sorcerer. He caught him in his burly grip, imprisoning Simon's left hand, holding a knife at his throat. "What's the antidote, Grendel?" he demanded hoarsely. "Tell me or I'll cut your throat."
He couldn't move his left hand—Richard had it imprisoned, and the bite of the knife was sharp against his skin. He couldn't even turn to see if Alys had made it safely away.
"There is no antidote," he said, flexing his crippled right hand.
"Damn it," said Richard. "You've killed me."
"Not yet." And lifting his right hand, he drove the knife into Richard the Fair's black, dead heart.
"Alys, come!" Thomas du Rhaymer's voice was urgent, but she couldn't move. The stage was covered with smoke, but somehow she could see the two men struggling and the flash of metal.
Thomas flung the cage door open and reached in for her. She'd already managed to rip off her bonds, but she hadn't realized the lock was broken. She should have known that Simon wouldn't leave anything to chance.
Thomas hauled her from the cage just as another explosion rocked the stage. She struggled against him, desperate. "I can't, Thomas! I have to find him!"
"It's no good, my lady," he shouted at her. "He's done this much for you, let him be." He scooped her up around the waist, ignoring her struggles.
"He'll kill him."
"Come." He picked her up and carried her through the teeming crowd, and she might have been as insignificant as a feather, for all that her struggles affected him. Her sister was waiting at the edge of the rioting crowd, barely controlling her horses.
"No," Alys cried, as she realized how they expected to get her away from the town.
"Yes," said Sir Thomas, tossing her up onto the beast's high back and following after her.
Her struggles were panicking the horses, but she didn't care. She screamed, fighting like a madwoman, determined not to leave Simon, but clearly Thomas had had enough. She never even saw the blow coming, only the merciful blackness that closed over her.
* * *
Chapter
Twenty-Five
There had been a time when returning to the Convent of Saint Anne the Demure had been all that Alys wanted. As they rode through the stone gate that surrounded the abbey she tried to summon up some pleasure, but her capacity for it was as dead as her heart. She simply lay back against Thomas du Rhaymer's strong chest, imprisoned by his arms, astride the huge, monstrous horse that would likely trample her to death if Sir Thomas hadn't been controlling the creature.
She had gone beyond fear as well as hope. Even the sight of Sister Agnes's plump, welcoming face was no comfort.
They helped her down from the back of the horse, and she went with them willingly enough, shuddering with stray relief to be away from the creature. A moment later Claire was beside her, drawing her into her arms, weeping with joy.
"He's dead, Alys!" she said triumphantly. "I saw him fall! He'll never come near you again."
Alys froze in sudden despair. "You saw him? Are you certain?" If Simon was dead then she didn't want to live. It was that sinful and that simple.
"Without question. The blood was everywhere," she announced in ghoulish delight.
Alys swayed, feeling suddenly faint. "Who killed him?" she managed to gasp.
"That creature you married," Claire said in a disapproving voice.
Alys looked up at her in shock. "Simon killed himself?"
"Don't be ridiculous! Simon killed Richard."
Alys, with true sisterly devotion, grabbed Claire by the tattered tunic and shook her. "I don't care what happened to Richard!" she shouted furiously. "Where is Simon?"
"My child." Brother Jerome appeared out of the gathering darkness, gently removing Alys's grip from her sister's clothing. "No one knows what happened to him. Word has been flying through the kingdom. According to the witnesses, he disappeared in a puff of smoke."
"I believe it," Claire said cynically, as Sister Agnes swiftly crossed herself to ward off a curse.
"He couldn't have," Alys said flatly.
"He did," Brother Jerome assured her. "He's gone back to the realms of darkness from whence he came. We won't be seeing him again."
"He didn't come from darkness," Alys said in a cranky voice. "He's as human as you or I."
"None of us has the ability to disappear at will. It is said that his withered hand miraculously healed itself at the last minute, and it was with it that he killed Lord Richard."
"Miraculous," Alys muttered.
"You must face the truth, my child," Brother Jerome said solemnly. "He's well and truly gone."
She wanted to scream her denial. She wanted to fling herself on the ground and kick in rage and fury. They watched her, all of them, with wary eyes, as if they feared the dreaded sorceror had bewitched her as well.
He was no sorceror. He was a man, with all the strengths and frailties of the beast. She loved him beyond reason, and he was gone.
She summoned up her Good Alys smile, the gentle, obedient expression that had served her well for her twenty years. She could become Good Alys again. Sister Mary Alys, the good nun, the perfect aunt. The lost soul.
She stood silent by her bathed and beautiful sister as Brother Jerome read the marriage vows over Claire and Sir Thomas. She kissed Sir Thomas on his cleanly shaven cheek, hugged Claire, and smiled her Good Alys smile.
They put Thomas and Claire in the room the sisters used to share. They put Alys in the adjoining room, and there was much merriment from the celibate religious as the bridal couple closed the door.
Alys sat by the window, staring out into the moonlit night. Her body ached, but her heart was ripped in half. There was no way she could deny the truth of Brother Jerome's words. Simon had saved her.
Simon had left her.
She looked down at her flat stomach. Was a child already started? She sensed that it was so, but she was afraid it was merely a vain hope. She wanted his child. Most of all she wanted him.
She heard a crash from the room next door, and the muffled sound of laughter. "Yes, Thomas," her sister whispered in a husky voice. "There."
She rose abruptly. There was no way she would sit in that barren room and listen to the sounds of her sister's joy. She wished them love and happiness and pleasure beyond knowing. She just didn't want to have to hear it.
The wind had picked up, scudding the dry leaves along the empty courtyard. The good nuns were already asleep in their cells. Brother Jerome was likely resting as well. There were only three people awake in the entire convent, and Thomas and Claire were fully occupied.
A stray, sensual laugh drifted out over the night air, and she moved more swiftly, following the moonlit path to the small clearing by the stream. It had been one of her favorite places to walk to when she was a child, a place of peace and comfort, things she always longed for. Perhaps if she curled up next to the icy stream, her borrowed mantel wrapped tight around her, she could find some sort of peace. Or at least she could give way to the kind of grief that tore her heart apart. There would be no one to see Good Alys weep.
She sat on a fallen log, huddled against the cold, and tried to summon forth tears. They refused to come. She thought of Simon, with his golden eyes and his scarred body, his clever mouth and his wicked ways.
There were no tears.
She thought of the years ahead of her, stretching out, alone. If she had a babe they would take it away from her, but Claire would raise it as her own, and she would have nieces and nephews as well as her own child to comfort her empty, worthless life.
There were no tears.
She thought of marriage to a goodly knight. Brother Jerome had assured her that her marriage to the sorcerer would be declared invalid, and she would be free to find a new life. She could marry a good man and forget Simon of Navarre had ever touched her.
There were no tears.
She thought of rising to her feet and wandering ever deeper into the woods, never to be seen again. By far the most pleasant of all the futures that lay before her, but a sin nonetheless, and she should get down on her knees and beg God's forgiveness for even thinking of such a thing.
There were no tears.
She heard the faint chink of a horse's bridle, and her life-long panic reasserted itself. She rose, ready to run at a moment's notice, when the horse appeared in the clearing.
She knew him. Huge and black, more terrifying than even Claire's wild mare, the horse halted, snorting. She didn't need to look up, way up, to see Simon of Navarre watching her.
"Why did you lie to your brother?" The words were unexpected, and she stared up at him like a lackwit.
"I never lied."
"You told him that I hadn't taken you as an ordinary man would."
She could feel the blush mount on her cheeks. It was a glorious feeling. "I didn't lie," she said again. "You didn't."
"How so?"
"I could hardly speak from experience, but I decided you must be far better at it than any ordinary man."
In the moonlight she could see the smile touch his eyes as it curved his mouth. "You're pert. Someone will have to beat you."
"I hear my brother is dead. The sad duty of instructing me will have to fall to you."
For a moment he said nothing. Then he spoke. "Will you come away with me?"
She looked warily at the horse. "Where?"
"To the far reaches of the world. To the isles of the north, where the wind is like ice. To the heat of the desert, to the mountains of Switzerland. Come away with me and you may never see England again."
It was a warning. She squared her shoulders, looking up at him. "Would I have to ride a horse?"
"Yes."
She tilted her head to one side, considering him. "Do you love me?"
"Love is a trick and a sham. A foolish plague and a lie and a torment."
"Do you love me?" she repeated, quite calmly. Knowing the answer.
"Yes, may it curse my soul."
"May it save your soul," she said. The horse moved, and she knew she could be trampled beneath his huge sharp
hooves.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
"Take me," she said, holding up her arms. And he pulled her up in front of him, onto the huge warm back of the horse.
The creature reared slightly, but Alys simply leaned back against Simon as his arms came around her. And they rode off into the moonlit night, the dry leaves rustling beneath the horse's hooves.
