by Lisa Hendrix
“What magic is this you wield?” The voice hissed out of the darkness, dripping with venom.
Eleanor twisted around to see a dark-robed figure stride out of the trees, face hidden deep within a hood. Fear, deeper than any she’d ever known, rippled through her, and though she’d only heard the name that once, so long ago, she didn’t need to be told who this was. “Cwen.”
“I say again, what magic is it you use?”
Eleanor scrambled up to put her naked body between the witch and Gunnar. “No magic. Only love.”
“That is not enough.”
“It is. He has his amulet and he has my love. That is all he needs. Begone, witch. Your power over him is done.”
“No, my lady, not nearly done.” Cwen pulled a slender chain out of her robes and dangled a silver charm from which blinked a single red stone eye. Eleanor’s heart sank as the witch chuckled in delight. “Good. You know it. The Old Ones led me to it not long after the fire that brought you and he together. I had it remade. The one your bull wears is a twin, a false copy placed where the raven would find it.”
A moonshadow passed over Cwen, drawing her gaze skyward.
“Yes, you, Raven, and my thanks to you and your visions. You make things so simple.” The bird circled awkwardly, squawking, and Cwen threw her head back to laugh. Her hood fell way, revealing her face.
“Miriam?” Eleanor gaped at the woman who had dressed her mother’s hair for so many years, who had dressed her own more times than she could count.
“Yes, Miriam,” said Cwen, slipping the amulet back into her robes. “Most trusted Miriam, weaving spells with your own hair to summon the bull back to you. Whispering in your father’s ear to warn him of the bull-knight who was spreading your legs in the woods, after the magpie and I watched you rutting with him. Telling him he must force you to marry before anyone could discover your sin, even if he must beat you into it. I hope your husband got as good use of you as your bull does.”
“But you’re dead,” said Eleanor, still too stunned to care about the hatefulness spewed at her. “I saw you die.”
“You saw me fall and watched them drag me off. You never saw me die. Nor did they.” Cwen paced a few steps back and forth. “It is almost a shame the wolf and raven spotted those outlaws so quickly. It would have been most entertaining to watch your bull had Lord Tunstall’s men raped you. He would never have forgiven himself.”
“Just as you have never forgiven yourself for your son’s death.”
It was only a guess, but Cwen’s lip curled into a snarl. “Do not speak of what you do not know.”
“I know enough to tell you that their pain does not lessen yours. It never will.”
“And yet I do enjoy it so.” The grin that twisted Cwen’s face was like some perversion of saintly ecstasy. “To take away their hope and their future the way they took away mine gives me such delicious pleasure. It is nectar to my soul, watching them ache from my vengeance. And this one has been especially juicy, eating his own heart out with little help from me and much from you. Best of all was when he realized how willingly you spread your legs for that husband of yours.”
“Any willingness came from my love for Gunnar.” The water stirred with her words, lapping at Eleanor’s heels where she stood at its edge. She understood very little of magic, good or evil, but she realized she must indeed hold some power in her love. If so, it was her only weapon, and she must wield it like a sword. She straightened, feeling suddenly potent in spite of her nakedness. “It drives you mad, doesn’t it, that a woman could love any of them the way I love Gunnar.”
“Love him?” Cwen sneered down at Gunnar, who lay at Eleanor’s feet still laboring to breathe. “He is a bull. You lie with a beast. Your Church would burn you if they knew it.”
“And you alongside me, witch. In my arms, Gunnar is only a man. The man I love.” The water pulsed with light, a little stronger each time she spoke the word. Gunnar moaned and stirred behind her.
But Cwen heard him, and her eyes went to the water. She clutched at the amulet beneath her gown as though to assure herself that it was still there. “This is not possible. The true charm is mine.”
“The true charm is love,” said Eleanor. The glow got brighter, and Gunnar groaned. “I love him with all of my heart.”
“There must be more to it. How do you work this magic of yours? Tell me.”
“I could tell you the whole night through, old woman, and you would not hear it through your bitterness. There is nothing more than love.”
“Liar!” Cwen drew back her hand.
“No!” Gunnar surged up and dragged Eleanor down just as a bolt of lightning sizzled past. She screamed as she fell, and he caught her and rolled clear of the water just as the lighting struck the pool and danced over its surface.
Cwen pulled her hand back to strike again. Gunnar curled over Eleanor, shielding her with his body.
A fearsome roar echoed off the rocks and Brand came charging out of the dark, sword high, Torvald on his heels.
“You!” There was a boom and a flash as bright as the sun.
“I am blinded,” shouted Torvald. “Where is she?”
Mad laughter echoed through the dene, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. As Brand roared his fury to the skies, the wolf appeared out of nowhere and shot past them, snarling, into the forest.
“Guard them.” Brand crashed off after the wolf, hacking at the bushes as he went. “Show yourself, witch.” The sounds of their hunting faded into the forest.
Torvald backed toward Gunnar and Eleanor, turning and twisting to watch the whole area. “Can you move?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, sitting up. “But Gunnar …”
The effort to save her seemed to have used the last of his strength, leaving his body more pain-wracked than before, every muscle a knot.
“I love you,” said Eleanor, trying the only thing she knew. The water boiled and heaved, seeming to reach toward Gunnar. He jerked away, clenching his teeth against the scream that rose from his gut.
“Forgive me. Oh, God, what can I do?” She looked to Torvald. “Please, there must be something I can do.”
“If there is, I do not know it.” Torvald sidled over to the pile of clothes she’d abandoned. Catching her kirtle on his toe, he kicked it up to his shield hand and tossed it to her. “Dress, my lady. We may have to run.”
“I will not go without him,” she said, but she started gathering her gown. As she was about to pull it over her head, the raven came fluttering down out of the night sky, something shiny in its beak. He dropped it at the edge of the pool and landed a few feet from Eleanor with an excited kaugh.
“Oh. Oh. God’s toes, ’tis his bull.” She dropped the gown and dove for the amulet. “Ugh. It is sticky. I think it is blood.”
“The witch’s, no doubt,” said Torvald. “He surely tore it from her neck, else she would not have given it up. Do not put it to Gunnar that way, my lady. It will be tainted by the blood magic she works.”
“Of course.” She quickly rinsed it in the pool, using the edge of her sleeve to scrub it clean before she threw herself at Gunnar. Heaving him onto his back, she held the newly washed bull to his chest with both hands. “I love you, Gunnar the Red, even knowing what you are.”
He arched back like a bow, bent nearly in half, his muscles so tight she thought he would crack his spine. Spasms ripped through his body, setting him writhing and thrashing like a man having a mad fit, and she recognized that wherever Cwen was, she was trying to counter this. Eleanor fought to keep the amulet in place against his skin. “I do love you. I will not let her win.”
Pain exploded through her arms, throwing her back. Ghostly strands of dark smoke poured out of Gunnar, swirled in the moonlight, and wove together, forming a bull that swelled around him and rose into the air. The beast threw back its head, and bull and man bellowed their agony together, a long keening sound that rose and rose. And then the bull vanished, leaving behind only silence
and a gleam of dark mist. And Gunnar, limp and unmoving.
Arms too numb to support her, Eleanor crawled over to him on her knees. “Gunnar. Gunnar, please wake up.”
Slowly, so slowly, Gunnar pried his eyes open. He lay there staring up at the moon, bright overhead. “It is gone.”
“Are you certain?” asked Torvald.
Gunnar reached deep within, trying to find some trace of the bull’s spirit, but there was nothing but a strange and wonderful emptiness where the beast had passed. Stunned, he whispered again, “Gone. I am free.”
Rain, warm as summer, dropped onto his chest. He turned his head toward a faint sound and discovered it was not rain, but tears.
“Don’t cry, sweet lady. You have saved me.” He held out his arms and Eleanor came to him, curling down onto his chest, weeping. “Don’t cry, love.”
“I will cry if I want to,” she whispered as Torvald silently drew her gown over their naked bodies. “They are tears of joy.”
They were still clinging to each other, Torvald standing over them like a guardian angel, when Brand came back. He took one look at them and started gathering the rest of their clothes.
“I wish I could leave you to each other, but I cannot.” He dropped the clothes by their heads. “Dress yourselves. I could not find Cwen. We must leave this place.”
BY FIRST LIGHT, they were packed and ready, waiting on the edge of the dene for dawn to shift the others so they could set out. As on the journey to Burwash, only Ari and Torvald would go with them because they could best hide amongst men and their beasts.
But there would be one difference this time. At least, Gunnar hoped there would. As sunrise approached, his trepidation grew, until it felt like an entire hive of bees had taken up residence in his belly. If he changed here, now …
“I should move away from her, just to be certain,” he muttered in Norse.
“And miss watching the sun rise in your woman’s eyes for the first time in nearly six hundreds of years? If you can do it, you are a stronger man than I, Gunnar inn rauði. I could not.” Brand checked the lashings on the packhorse for the dozenth time and thumped the animal on the rump. He switched to English. “I am the one who must go just now. Fare you well, Gunnar. Lady Eleanor.”
“Fare you well, my captain. There will always be a place for you, for all of you, wherever we land,” Gunnar vowed.
“Always, monsire,” echoed Eleanor.
“Your first duty is to each other.” Brand started down into the dene, toward where the bear wagon stood. “See to that and the rest will sort itself out.”
As Brand disappeared, Eleanor slipped her arm around Gunnar’s waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Are you ready?”
“Are you?”
“Only for the last six hundred years.”
A little later, with the sun just below the horizon, he took Eleanor’s hands in his.
“If I start to change, run.”
She nodded. “I will. But you won’t.”
He looked over his shoulder to Torvald, who stood several yards away, still guarding against Cwen, and to the raven who sat on the ground nearby, ready to take Torvald’s place. “She is stubborn.”
Torvald nodded. “Ari will see her safely away. But he won’t need to.” He glanced to the east. “Your pardon, my lady.” He stripped off his braies, the last item he wore, and stuffed them in the saddlebag with his other clothes. “Here it comes.”
Light burst over the distant sea. The sounds of his friends struggling with their changing faded to nothing as Gunnar stared into the sun until he could no longer bear it. Even then he could barely tear his eyes away to turn to Eleanor.
But thank the gods he did. Brand was right. There was nothing as sweet as the sun in Eleanor’s eyes. It set them flashing and gilded her cheeks, even the spot where Cwen’s magic had left its mark. He touched her hair and felt the early warmth. She was beautiful. She was his.
With a shout of victory, he picked her up and spun her, shouting to the sky, “I take this woman as my wife, Freya, to hold as my own from this day forward. Let all men witness it and know that I will give her my sword when we are safe.”
She threw her head back and laughed, a joyous sound that went straight to his heart. He spun her again, more slowly, as she spoke her vows back to him, “And I take you, Gunnar, as my wedded husband, to have and hold in sickness and health, for fairer or fouler, for richer or poorer, for all the days and nights of my life. We are wed.”
“We are wed. I would bed you this instant,” he growled, “but we must ride.” Instead, he kissed her, a quick, thorough buss that promised more.
“I am witness that you are man and wife,” said Ari as he picked himself up off the ground. “By the gods, it is good to see you, Gunnar. We have much to talk about, but right now I would much like to congratulate your bride.”
“Later, and with clothes on,” said Gunnar. “We must be away from here. You dress, I’ll saddle the horse.”
They threw things together quickly, and Gunnar handed Eleanor up onto Rosabelle. As he checked the girth one last time, he looked up at his wife. His wife. “You are certain of this?”
She nodded. “Trust me.”
“I have little choice, my lady. You own my heart.” He swung up on his horse and they set out for Durham.
Only when they were away from the dene and in open country where they could be certain no one was around did they begin to relax a little, although they kept up a fast pace, pushing the horses hard. At some point, Ari started asking questions about what had passed with Cwen. Eleanor offered ready answers, but Gunnar was confused.
“Don’t you remember everything that happens when you’re the bird? That’s what Brand told me.”
“I usually do,” said Ari. “But last night is a fog. That is what bothers me, that something so important would vanish from my mind, bird or not. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Between them, Gunnar and Eleanor put together a complete accounting of the night’s events from the moment Eleanor waded into the pool to when she used the true amulet to free Gunnar. Ari listened intently, scratching at his gloved hand, the creases on his forehead growing deeper with every word. “You say the amulet was bloody.”
“Aye, Torvald said you—the raven,” she corrected herself, “probably snatched it off Cwen’s neck.” Eleanor flicked her hand at a fly that buzzed around her face. “He told me it would be tainted and that I should wash it off in the pool before I let it touch Gunnar.”
“And you did?”
She nodded.
“And that is all of it? You’re certain?”
“Yes,” said Gunnar.
“No,” said Eleanor suddenly. Her eyes widened. “She thanked you for your visions. When she was talking about having the amulet remade, she saw the raven fly overhead and thanked you for your visions. She said you made it simple.”
“Visions. Blood.” Ari turned the words over and over. He was still worrying at them when the walls of Durham came into view at midday. “My visions. Her blood. Shite.”
“What?” asked Gunnar.
“I think I … I have to go back. Can you—?”
“We are fine. Durham is in sight. We will soon have Percy’s men all around us. She will not dare come near again. Go.”
Ari tipped his head to Eleanor. “Your pardon, my lady. But there is something I must learn.”
“Then learn it, but be ware, sir. You still owe me my bride’s kiss.”
“And you will have it, my lady. My vow.”
“Go on,” urged Gunnar. “Go!”
They watched Ari gallop off, and then turned to each other. A long, silent moment hung between them, and they turned toward Durham.
Now came the troublesome part.
CHAPTER 22
TEN DAYS LATER, Ralph de Neville, Earl of Westmorland, stood in the meadow outside Raby Castle and stared at the two-dozen tents pitched on his land. It looked like a bloody siege camp, what with flags flying a
nd shields arrayed to show their owners’ arms.
He’d come home from court to find them there, and only the fact that the biggest tent belonged to Henry Percy, plus a rumor that Eleanor was present, had kept him from torching the whole mess the first night. He’d ignored them for a full day, and then Percy had sent an invitation so oddly worded, he couldn’t resist.
So he was here, as was his wife, who had been part of Percy’s strange invitation. “Have you figured out what the puppy wants yet?”
“No. But if you call him puppy to his face, you may find yourself bitten.”
“He has no teeth.”
“Likely he has simply not shown them to you yet. Shall we see what he wants?”
“Of a certs.” Neville put out his arm and led his wife toward the puppy’s tent.
“HECOMES, MY lord, and quickly.”
Henry Percy looked up from the chessboard. “Just Westmorland?”
“He and his countess, my lord, with only her groom as escort.”
“Keep the groom well away from my tent—along with everyone else. I want utter privacy.” Henry glanced around to all the people in the tent, his gaze landing at the end on Eleanor’s unsmiling face. “Are we ready, my lady?”
She took a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. “Yes, my lord.”
“Send them in.”
The varlet disappeared, and a moment later, the tent flaps opened wide and Henry’s steward intoned: “Ralph, Earl of Westmorland, and Joan, Countess of Westmorland.”
Westmorland blew into the tent like a whirlwind, half dragging his wife, who quickly shook him free and regained her composure. Henry grabbed Eleanor’s hand, and they met her parents mid-tent and did courtesy before Westmorland could take it all in.
“Eleanor.” The earl and his lady said it at the same time, each putting a different tenor on it, the lady’s pleased at seeing her and the lord’s less so. Then Westmorland saw Gunnar. “You.”
“Me.” Gunnar shoved his bishop forward to take Henry’s knight, and then rose and bowed slightly. “My lord. My lady.”
