The Raven and the Rose

by Jo Beverley

  Gledys hurried onward, but her resolve was even stronger now. Those poor wretches must be here for what work and scraps they could scavenge, and yes, probably for what they could steal. But some of them would have been honest folk before the endless strife ruined their crops, killed their menfolk and drove them from their homes.

  This was why she had been brought here—not for her personal desires, but to bring peace. To stop Eustace of Boulogne from inflicting war on another generation. She stood taller and walked firmly—but she wished she didn’t have to walk this gauntlet of men.

  They were drinking at ale stalls, polishing metal, or working with leather or cloth. Innocent enough, but the mass of them almost choked her, as she had hardly ever before been in the presence of men at all. The air stank of smoke, old sweat and roasting meat, but of something else as well, as if the men’s cruel mouths and lustful eyes gave off a stink of their own. They didn’t move to bother her, but their eyes were hungry as wolves.

  Gledys quickened her pace, anxious to be free of the camp, to at least reach the thatched roofs of the village.

  “My lady?”

  She ignored the voice.

  “My lady Gledys?”

  She slid only her eyes to the left first, afraid to hope, but then relief and joy flooded through her. Michael de Loury stood staring at her, as if not sure that he could trust his eyes. Laughing, crying, Gledys ran into her knight’s arms, and finally, at long last, he was completely real.

  In clear daylight she saw that his eyes were very blue, his thick hair a deep honey color and everything about his face perfectly formed, even if he did have a bruise on his cheek. She wanted to soothe it with her fingers. Or her lips.

  She’d have to stretch on tiptoe. . . .

  Before she could, he moved her gently away from him, and there might even have been a blush on his face as his gaze flicked around. Gledys looked, too, and her cheeks heated at the grins, sly smiles and occasional frowns of disapproval. She couldn’t stop smiling, however. She remembered last night, thinking it was as if they came together after being too long apart. That feeling was stronger now, for she was certain this was real.

  From the look in his eyes, he felt the same.

  “Let me take you somewhere safe,” he said. “Though where . . .”

  Gledys smiled even more at his confusion. “With you, I’m safe anywhere.”

  His smile mirrored hers. He began to draw her back into his arms, but then shook himself. “No. Not here. I share a room in a house. It’s rough, but so is everything.” He frowned. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Their fingers were twined now and she tightened hers. “Yes, I should. But we do need a place where we can talk. A private place.”

  He grimaced. “Privacy! But my lodging is probably quiet now. Come.” He led her on toward the village, but his brow was furrowed. “Have you been here all along? Do you lodge at the castle?”

  “No. I’ll explain soon. But . . .” She couldn’t keep silent about one thing. “Last night . . . Did you have the same dream as I?”

  His eyes searched hers. “It was a dream?”

  “I’ve only just arrived.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “That can’t be. I . . . We . . .”

  “It was a dream,” she repeated.

  “But what about the ale tent? I was most certainly awake there.”

  They’d reached the first houses.

  “I’m not lying,” Gledys protested. “On my soul, I’m not. I was traveling then. I went into a trance. Later, I was asleep in a house in the woods. I don’t understand how it happens, but it is so.”

  He looked at her intently. “How long has this been happening to you?”

  “I’ve had strange dreams for years, but the ones of you, since winter.” They were in the village center now, where shops stood open on the ground floor of every house. “I had the first not long before we heard that Henry of Anjou had arrived in England and taken Malmesbury. Were you fighting there?”

  “Yes. You had a vision of me there?”

  Aware of people so close on either side, Gledys answered quietly. “I don’t remember. Until recently I have seen you only in my sleep. As is usual with dreams, when I awoke, I remembered only fragments. But recently, I’ve been able to remember.” She looked up into his eyes. “Like last night. A precious gift.”

  “Yes,” he said, but his eyes were full of troubled questions. “Here we are,” he said, turning to the open door of a narrow house. “It’s a simple place,” he warned again.

  “I’ve lived a very simple life.”

  He raised a brow, glancing over her fine clothes.

  “Truly, Michael de Loury. I speak nothing but the truth, odd though some of it sounds.”

  He raised her hand and kissed it. “You are my true-love bride; thus it must be so.”

  He had to duck beneath the lintel of the door and, once he was inside, his head was only just safe from the raftered ceiling. They entered one long room with a loom at the far end in front of a window. A man worked there, assisted by two young children, the loom clacking with a steady beat. Nearer to Gledys, a thin woman chopped vegetables for a pot.

  The weaver’s wife exchanged a greeting with Michael, but her eyes narrowed at Gledys.

  “My betrothed, Dame Agnes, come with news. We’ll do nothing wrong.”

  “See you don’t,” the woman said, “and take care of her. Folly to come to such a place, and she so young and pretty.”

  Gledys couldn’t help but smile with pleasure at that description as Michael directed her up narrow stairs into the room she remembered. She saw the same rough mattresses and the same scattering of bags and bundles along with bits of leather and metal she hadn’t noticed last night.

  Last night.

  The ceiling sloped, and he could stand only in the middle, so she went directly to his bed and sat down. He stood for a moment, considering her, but then he smiled with wide delight. “My true-love bride, and as lovely as I’ve always thought.”

  Gledys blushed. “Am I?”

  “You must know it.”

  “No.”

  “Men haven’t constantly told you?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “Where have you been? In a nunnery?”

  Gledys’s cheeks went from warm to hot, but she couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

  He came to sit beside her, but left space between them. “You’re a nun?”

  “I’ve been in a nunnery all my life.”

  “But then we cannot wed,” he said in dismay.

  She grasped his hand. “Yes, we can. The vows I’ve taken thus far are not irrevocable. Those, I would take at twenty-five.”

  For some reason, he breathed, “Twenty-five.”

  Gledys asked a question that had been puzzling her. “You aren’t a warrior monk, are you? Like a Templar?”

  He laughed. “Why think that?”

  “I was told that you’d be a monk.”

  “Ah. I was in a monastery for a while, but when I was a mere lad.”

  “Did you run away?” she asked.

  “No. I was allowed to leave. My father had never approved of it. It had been my mother’s desire.”

  She nodded. “Because you’re a seventh child.”

  “No.” But he frowned. “I thought I was the eighth. I had a twin. But now I wonder. What does that mean—the seventh child?”

  Gledys took his hand. “That you, like me, are summoned to a great purpose.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if things suddenly made sense. “Explain.”

  This was the moment, but Gledys didn’t know how to put it. “I’ll start with Sister Wenna, though that feels like the last chapter of a saga. . . .”

  He listened intently, sometimes frowning or raising a brow in disbelief, but unreadable.

&
nbsp; “We’re supposed to find the holy chalice of the Last Supper?” he said at last. “And Eustace of Boulogne has the holy lance?” Gledys feared he was doubting her entirely, but he added, “If it was stolen from the Templars, that would explain why they’ve been prowling around like angry lions. Your story would also explain other things, including my mother’s strange demands when I left the monastery.”

  “What demands?”

  “That I not leave England before the age of twenty-five. And that I not . . . enjoy a woman until I find my destined bride. As compensation, she promised I would not die before I consummated my love.”

  Their eyes had locked. “With me.” Against all likelihood, he was still pure. They could summon the sacred chalice. But then she gasped. “Once we do, you lose your invulnerability? But then—”

  He put his fingers over her lips. “Death would not be too high a price, but I doubt it will come to that. At least, not right away,” he added with a smile. Then he leaned down to put a gentle kiss on her lips, but he quickly drew back. “No more than that, yet. You tempt me too much. So we are honor-bound to marry quickly? I have no complaint about that.”

  Gledys felt her cheeks heat. “The other matter is urgent. We must go immediately to a sacred place.”

  “What place?”

  “I think Glastonbury, but I’m not sure. We will follow a raven.”

  “A raven?” he repeated, brows shooting up.

  “I think so. It’s disappeared.” At his expression, she grimaced. She couldn’t make this sound reasonable. “It’s real. It guided me here, but then disappeared.”

  “Not surprising. They’re seen as birds of ill omen, predicting a man’s death in battle. One would be killed on sight here, especially with a full battle more likely by the day.”

  “Why? There hasn’t been one for a long time, has there?”

  “Because Prince Eustace wants one, and from what you say of the lance, he’ll be able to make it happen, even though no one wants such carnage. We almost came to battle in the winter. Duke Henry held Wallingford and King Stephen marched there in full force. Henry drew up his defenses. But then a wild storm blew up, lashing the king’s forces with ice and making it impossible to see a spear’s throw away.

  “That gave the Earl of Arundel and the Templars the opportunity to argue for peace. They swayed the barons as much as the king, and soon King Stephen realized that his supporters were tired of this pointless struggle. It seemed done with at last, but here we are again.”

  “Because of the lance,” Gledys said. “I wonder about that storm. Sister Wenna said that people of our bloodline have been working for peace without summoning the chalice. Perhaps the Earl of Arundel is one.”

  “And the Templars. They’re said to have special knowledge from their protection of Christ’s tomb in Jerusalem.”

  “But none of them can do what we can do.” She tugged his hand. “Come, we should start out now.”

  But he resisted. “Now? This needs thinking on. It is all hard to believe.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I saw blood in a chalice, and then it became a rose petal. An impossible rose petal. I was led out of my nunnery and no one stopped me. I didn’t try to hide. They simply didn’t see me. I was guided to a place of rest, warmed by a miraculous fire, and provided with these clothes. And then I found you. These are all miracles.” When he still looked dubious, she demanded, “Where are we?”

  “Nottinghamshire.”

  “Wherever that is, I’m sure it’s a long way from Glastonbury, and yet here I am, after one short night.”

  He opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “Or do you think I’m lying?”

  “Not lying, no. But . . . confused?”

  “Insane?” Gledys had great sympathy for Sister Wenna. Suddenly, she saw something hanging on a chain around his neck. “What is that you wear?”

  He reached up to pull it free. “This? A ring my mother gave me. I wear it sometimes on my little finger, but not when fighting.”

  Gledys extended her right hand, showing a similar ring.

  He stared at it. “She said it was for my bride,” he whispered, freeing the ring from the chain. “But why, if you already have one?”

  Gledys slid hers from her finger and put them both in the palm of her hand. She had no doubt. She put them together, and with a click they became one, the coiling silver now making a perfect pattern, the join invisible.

  “See?” she said, looking at him. “Michael de Loury, you must join me to summon the garalarl. Now.”

  He seemed dazed, but she thought he would do it. Then, somewhere in the distance, trumpets sounded.

  “Jesu, the time!” He stood and cracked his head on the sloping ceiling. Muttering, he stepped into the middle, rubbing his head.

  Gledys scrambled to her feet and grabbed his sleeve. “We have to go now.”

  “Gledys, sweetheart, that’s impossible. I can’t just leave.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to leave Rosewell Nunnery.”

  “But you didn’t want to be there. This is my life.”

  “You are summoned.”

  “Yes, to the tourney. Gledys, to leave without permission could be seen as treason.”

  She released his sleeve, grimacing in frustration. “Why is there no guidance anymore? Sister Wenna seemed sure that this was urgent. That if Eustace wasn’t stopped now, England would be at war for another generation. But she implied this wouldn’t require our deaths.”

  “And it won’t.” Harried, he said, “I don’t want to leave you alone here, love, but I have to go.”

  She took his hands and smiled. “Go, then. I’ve been led this far in safety. Fight in your tourney, and we’ll leave tonight.”

  He shook his head. “Impossible. I will still need permission. And supplies . . . I have to go. We’ll talk later, but it’ll be much later. There’ll be a victory to celebrate.” He kissed her quickly. “Stay here. It’s not safe to wander.”

  She heard him run down the stairs—or perhaps he jumped down most of them—and then speak to the people below. A little later, the weaver’s wife called up, “Do you need anything, Lady Gledys?”

  “No, thank you,” Gledys called back, and collapsed on his bed. She touched the rumpled covers, remembering the night, but perplexed. She didn’t have Sister Wenna’s confidence to command, “Go, go.” No raven called. No path glimmered.

  She’d found her protector, but how was she to persuade him to their task?

  Chapter 7

  Michael hurried to the shed where Rannulf and Alain lived with the horses and weapons. He was still stunned by the appearance of his bride, the lovely maiden of his dreams, but perplexed by her story. It made no sense, especially now that he was out in the rough and raucous real world. But her story seemed to explain his mother’s strange demands, and perhaps his mother had concealed that he was her seventh child.

  Then there was the fact that she’d insisted he go into the church. She’d been a practical woman with all her other children—ten born, six growing to adulthood. A good woman, but not excessively pious. Not the sort to insist on at least one son and daughter giving their lives to God, and yet that was what she had done.

  “What’s the matter with you? Not drunk, are you?”

  Michael blinked and realized he was in the shed and both Rannulf and Alain were staring at him. Perhaps they’d been talking to him.

  “No,” he said quickly. “Just thinking.”

  “Well, think about the fighting,” said Rannulf, and began to spew information about the men in the duke’s party and de Bohun’s, and anything else he’d learned that might affect the fighting. Michael paid attention. It seemed the time of concealing his abilities was over, for he needed to make sure the duke’s side won.

  The favor of Henry of Anjou, future monarch, might persuade Gledys’s
family to overlook his lack of land. More urgent, if she persuaded him to leave the camp without permission, he might need the goodwill of Henry of Anjou to save his neck.

  ***

  The afternoon crept by for Gledys, even though she tried to occupy it with prayer. She wasn’t used to an idle life. She smelled cooking from below and then heard voices as people gathered, presumably to eat. Chatter and laughter followed. And then suddenly, a man burst into the room. He was young, tall, gnawing on a crust of bread, and he stopped to gape at her.

  Gledys had to say something. “I’m Michael de Loury’s betrothed.”

  The man grinned. “Lucky de Loury! If he gets killed in the tourney, I’m at your service, lovely lady.”

  He was gone before Gledys could shout her affront at that, but then she had to smile. It was still a new delight to be found pretty. Lovely, even. She wanted to be lovely for Michael.

  The weaver’s wife came up bearing a bowl of stew, some bread and some fruit. Gledys took the tray and thanked her, but she only picked at the food. Her appetite had gone.

  She was aware of the street getting quieter, and she went to the small window to look out. Yes, there were fewer people. She supposed all who could had gone to watch the duke fight. Just a tournament, she told herself. No one’s supposed to get killed.

  She remembered the prophecy and found more reassurance there. Michael could not die as long as he remained a virgin.

  Then she heard it: the awful sounds of battle, howling from men and beasts, clangs and bangs of blows and damage. She covered her ears, but couldn’t leave the window, as if her being there might keep him safe.

  Craak!

  Gledys jerked and searched. There, on the opposite roof, perched the raven. “You’d best be careful,” she hissed. “If anyone sees you, they’ll kill you.”

  It stepped from side to side as if anxious and didn’t call again.

  “What?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do now?”