by Lily Baldwin
His eyes narrowed on the road as he quickened his pace. Turning the corner, he spotted an older woman with long, brown hair splashed with silver; a full-figure revealed by her low-cut bodice; and blue eyes, not unlike the girl’s in his vision, but for the streaks of charcoal running down her cheeks. The woman took a bottle to her lips. Dark red wine dribbled down her chin and rolled over her ample display. In her other hand, she clutched a knife, the tip of which she pressed to a plump man’s fleshy neck. He lay unmoving on the ground, his finely made tunic dotted with snowflakes. However, his stillness could not be blamed on fear of his throat being slit. Too much ale had rendered him unconscious.
Alec surged forward and grabbed the woman’s arm. Instantly, he saw in his mind’s eye the same woman, her hair swept high and her face neatly made up, sitting with the now unconscious man in a tavern. She plied him with drink while whispering salacious promises in his ear. Her true intentions could not hide from Alec. She had planned to seduce the man, rob him, then leave him to the mercy of the cruel streets and frosty cold.
“Put down the knife.”
The woman gasped when she felt a strong hand close around her arm. Two men with very long black hair and cold, black eyes hovered over her. She blinked and the two faces became one. “Who are you?” she snapped, jerking her arm free. “I don’t know you. What do you want?”
She trembled beneath his intense gaze. His eyes bored into hers, not cold anymore but searching. He reached for her arm again, this time holding her in a vice-like grip. She tried to yank free, but he only squeezed harder. Then he wrenched the knife from her hand and tossed it toward the Thames. The slight splash a moment later told her that her hard-earned weapon was lost forever.
“That was mine,” she snarled.
He leaned closer, his black eyes trapping her gaze, stealing away her other protests before they could even be uttered. She drew a sharp breath when he gently touched the top of her hand. Then his fingers wove through hers, and suddenly a heat, rich and warm, surrounded her, blocking out the cold. She felt as if she stood near a blazing hearth. Her knees trembled. Her eyes wanted to close, but his black eyes refused her wish. They mesmerized, entranced, and stung her heart all at the same time.
He leaned closer, his eyes burning hotter and said in a voice that she heard echo within her mind, “One name is cloaked in the breath of God, and this name is mother. Your daughter is frightened for you.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Her heart pounded. “How do you know my daughter? Who are you? Get away from me!”
His voice left his lips so softly, but the truth of his words echoed like trumpets in her mind. “She wears a rose-colored shawl that is too small and is tied with a tattered ribbon.”
A weight like a rock dropped onto her chest, stealing her breath. “Who are you?” she croaked.
Again, he spoke, his voice soft, like a dream, only it wasn’t a dream — it was a nightmare. “She is scared, but she is also tired. Mostly, she is tired of being afraid. I fear she is working up the courage to leave behind the safety of your home to find you.”
Alec faltered. What he saw next cut straight to his heart. He swallowed the knot in his throat and once more locked eyes with the terrified woman. “I fear she will take to the streets...” The pain cut deeper, stealing his breath. He dropped her hand and grabbed her shoulders. “And meet her death.”
The woman’s face crumpled. She sobbed into her hand.
“Go to her,” Alec urged, releasing her. “Go to your daughter. This world is filled with wolves. It is you who must teach her to survive.” He looked the woman hard in the eye. “Protect her or she will not be long for this world.”
She dropped the bottle, which shattered on a rock. Red wine pooled around the broken chards like blood. Horror carved harsh lines in her face as she stared up at Alec for a moment longer. Then she turned and ran.
Alec leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath, trying to free his body from the grip of pain prompted by his vision. But before he could expel the images and emotions, he was struck by fresh, raw anger. He looked down the road just as a man rushed another man, driving him into a banking of snow. The dark figures groaned and snarled as they pummeled each other with fists and gnashed their teeth like animals. Straightening, Alec stormed off in the opposite direction. He needed to escape the voices, the violence and suffering.
He headed down a familiar road and stopped outside the Anchor Tavern. Peering into the window, he saw many faces that matched the whirl of emotions passing through the glass and into his heart. He started to back away, changing his mind. He needed a quiet place, a place of isolation, but then the door swung open.
“I thought I saw ye out here,” came a quiet voice.
Alec turned back around to see a woman standing in the doorway. He at once suppressed the mass of feeling within him, strengthening his defenses. In truth, he was relieved to see Moira, but he had no wish to enter her heart or mind.
“Come on in, Alec. Ye look like ye’ve been through hell and back,” she whispered.
To the rest of London, Moira was called Mary, an English tavern owner. But in truth, she hailed from the Highlands. The abbot had installed Moira in the Anchor, which he secretly owned, to provide a safe house for Scotland’s agents working in London.
Alec followed Moira into the tavern, passing two barmaids along the way.
“I hate the sight of him,” he heard one hiss. “His manner offends me.”
“He could be as mean as second skimmings, and I wouldn’t care. He’s gorgeous,” the other maid said in reply.
Alec took a seat in the corner beside Moira, fighting to ignore the onslaught of feelings inside and outside his own body.
“Have you found the bridge you’ve been searching for?” Moira asked, masking her Scottish brogue.
“No,” he said, not looking up into her unguarded eyes. “I’m still looking.” He had always respected Moira. With her frank tongue and flaming red hair, she reminded him of his elder sister, Rose.
“It is unlike you to be so … transfixed on something. I’ve never known you to … well … to care enough about anything.”
The familiar criticisms rolled off Alec’s back. The walls he built to block out the world made people believe him careless and cruel. But in truth, fire burned within him, and he cared about the lost souls around him far more than anyone knew.
“What is so special about this bridge?”
Alec was careful to keep his voice even. “My reasons are my own. It stretches over a ditch and is guarded by two stone lions, and…” his voice trailed off as one of the barmaids sauntered up to the table.
“I know what bridge you mean.”
Alec looked up at her. Straightaway, he knew she was telling the truth. “Where is it, Elisa?”
Elisa shrugged. “That’ll cost you.” The moment the words slipped from her lips, she wished she could pluck them out of the air and swallow them back down her throat. The man’s hard black eyes locked with hers, holding her gaze captive. It was like he was inside her, and she knew he would not leave until she told him what he needed to know. She tried to resist, but her heart started to pound. An icy shiver shot up her spine.
“It’s near Grove Garden,” she blurted.
“I’ve been there already.”
His voice was toneless, empty, but she could feel his urgency drawing the words from her lips. “You have to go past the docks,” she cried. Then she turned and hastened away.
Alec reached into his satchel and withdrew two coins, which he tossed on the table. “Give one to the girl,” he told Moira.
She just looked up at him, shaking her head. “It’s that important?”
“It is,” he whispered, avoiding her gaze. But then he leaned in, straining to guard his mind against the influx of Moira’s memories, as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Be careful,” he said. Then he turned and left the tavern.
Only the most desperate souls wandered the streets at night. He
edless of dangers, some even welcomed the greedy assault of a thief, hoping to end their suffering with a quick death. Guarding his heart and mind against the bleak night, Alec kept his head down. Finally, Grove Garden came into view. He hastened beyond the docks just as Elisa had advised. Then he saw it. Wrought iron rails curled with even greater detail than in his dream, and posted on each side of the rails was a stone lion. He approached the bridge, scanning his surroundings. It did, indeed, pass over a large ditch, but the lions’ faces appeared different than in his vision. They were fearsome as if they guarded the bridge for themselves rather than being the silent sentries he had imagined. He hurried across the bridge and stood in the place the woman in his vision had stood. He gripped the railing and closed his eyes, welcoming a vision, anything to help him unravel the mystery.
But the only thing that reared its head was the rising sun and a burgeoning crowd of people filing into the streets to begin their day. Chaos from the growing number of passersby fought to gain entry into his mind. He tried to shield himself from the din, but it was all too much. The time had come for him to return to his quiet chamber in the king’s palace.
Chapter Four
“I’m going to change the mustard plaster again,” Joanie said, laying her hand on Diana’s brow.
Diana’s lips curved into the slightest smile. “Thank you for all you do,” she whispered.
Joanie swallowed back her tears, for she knew she had reached the limits of her knowledge. Diana’s coughing attacks were coming more frequently and lasting longer. Not only had she been kept out all night by the master, she had been forced to endure his physical demands. The sun had fully cleared the horizon by the time she had opened the door to their room. Joanie nearly had to carry Diana to the bed. Now, as she lay beneath the covers, she shivered and a raspy sound followed her every breath.
Diana seized Joanie’s hand the instant before another coughing fit laid claim to her fragile body. Joanie could hear the illness’s origins deep within her lungs. Diana gagged, and Joanie reached for the basin to catch what emerged from Diana’s lungs. Quickly, Joanie whisked the basin away to the window before Diana could glimpse the blood mixed in with the yellow matter. Joanie squeezed her own eyes shut against the sight as she tilted the basin, releasing the hopelessness of Diana’s condition to the cobblestones below.
Despair made Joanie’s mind race. What should she do? She considered her basket of remedies, and started to reach once more for the mustard powder. But then she heard her grandmother’s voice in her head. There comes a time, Joanie, when a healer must surrender hope, when all that is left to do is to soothe and comfort. Joanie closed her eyes. She could picture her grandmother darting around her small hut, pinching powders from clay pots and mixing juices and oils to make potions and ointments with the power to take away the hurt.
She released a long breath that did nothing to ease the dread that gripped the pit of her stomach. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Diana whose breaths came in shallow rasps. Joanie knew the time had finally come when she needed to focus not on trying to heal Diana, but to bring her as much comfort as she could. She turned to her basket and sifted through the pouches and pots. Cursing under her breath, she realized she was out of Coltsfoot. Simon, whose arrival she expected at any moment, would, no doubt, fetch some from the kitchens for her. In the meantime, she set a soothing tisane to boil. Then she rubbed some lavender oil just under Diana’s nose to help loosen her tense body.
“Joanie, you needn’t fret so over me,” Diana said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This will pass. It always does.”
Joanie swallowed her doubt and smiled, taking Diana’s hand. “Of course it will,” she said, allowing herself to hope.
Diana smiled weakly. “Sing me one of your grandmother’s songs. Your voice alone could heal me.” Then her eyes opened a little wider. “No, wait. Tell me about how she used to kiss you goodnight.”
Joanie smiled sadly, brushing a wayward lock of flaxen hair from Diana’s eye. While Joanie had at least experienced true love and affection from her grandmother, Diana had been abandoned at birth and had no memory of her family. Her first six years were spent in an impoverished convent where she slept in a room with dozens of other children. The sisters would bring them gruel in the morning, then again in the evening, which they would eat on their flea-ridden pallets. In all the years she spent there, she never once left that room, which she said froze in winter and broiled in summer. Then, one day, the sisters came to them crying. They said the convent had no more money, and they had been unable to find another willing to take on more hungry bellies. With swollen, tearful eyes, the sisters released Diana and the other children out onto the streets to fend for themselves.
She lived for months on the streets, hiding and scavenging. Then one day, she was spotted by a woman with garish makeup and unbound hair. She called herself Honey Faintree. Honey took Diana home to her brothel, gave Diana her name, and put her to work as a maid serving the women in Honey’s employ. Diana was not treated harshly but neither was she shown any kindness. Honey told her kindness was a lie, and that Diana had to be hard if she were going to stay warm and fed, warm and fed being the highest of aspirations.
Honey protected Diana from her clients’ amorous advances but not their fists or swift kicks if she failed at a task. Then on her fifteenth birthday, Honey declared Diana a woman grown and made her take her place among the other prostitutes. Diana’s beauty was such that not a whole year passed before a man came forward with coin enough to buy her outright. Since then, Diana had known three masters, including Geoffrey.
Joanie again smoothed Diana’s hair away from her eyes. It was no wonder after being abandoned, then bought and sold time and again that Diana loved to listen to stories about Joanie’s grandmother who had also been the one light in Joanie’s otherwise dark world.
Joanie’s own mother had died long before Joanie could remember. And her father had been a cruel man. Most evenings, he would sink into his cups and let loose his fists, beating Joanie nearly every day of her life. Her grandmother had tried to interfere but in doing so would only incur the abuse of her cruel son-in-law for herself.
When Joanie grew in size and strength, she pleaded with her grandmother to step down, arguing she was strong and could withstand the might of her father’s fist. Truthfully, Joanie was physically no match for her father, but her body always healed quicker than most. More than that, she could remove herself from the pain and disappear into a world all her own, never giving her father the satisfaction of hearing her plea for mercy or cry out in pain. The first and last time he ever saw her cry was when he told her that her grandmother had died. It was not long after that her father sold her to a merchant passing through town. She had hoped her new owner would show her mercy, but he was as quick to temper as her father. She passed through two other hands, all cruel and biting, before she ended up being sold to a black hearted innkeeper in London who made her work from sun up until well after nightfall. It was there that she first met Diana.
Geoffrey Mercer’s household had come to stay at the inn, filling several rooms. Late one morning, Joanie had entered the merchant’s room to change the linens, believing it to be empty. But when she spotted Diana lying on the bed, she gasped and quickly backed away, uttering an apology for the intrusion. Diana, however, stopped her with a smile and beckoned Joanie to her bedside. Joanie remembered feeling spellbound by the sight of Diana. She had never seen a woman so beautiful, but more than that, Diana’s eyes shone with kindness, something she had not glimpsed since before her grandmother’s passing.
“What is your name?” Diana had asked.
“Joanie,” she whispered.
“Joanie,” she said as if she were tasting it. “I like your name. It is strong.”
Joanie did not know how to answer or if she were even allowed, so she held her tongue, waiting for Diana to give her instruction. But then Diana’s eyes shut. “Forgive me, Joanie, my head pains me.”
/> Without thinking, Joanie stepped closer and placed a hand on Diana’s head and focused the direction of her spirit to the places that hurt just as her grandmother had shown her. After a few moments, Diana’s lips curved upward, and she opened her eyes. “The pain is gone,” she said in awe. “How did you do that?”
Joanie backed away, her shoulders lifting protectively around her ears. “My grandmother was a healer,” she said quietly.
Diana smiled at her. “You will have to tell me about her sometime. For now, however, I am late. Would you mind helping me dress?”
Joanie had already lingered too long. Her chores were piling up. Still, risking the innkeeper’s wrath, she stayed and helped Diana.
When she was dressed and ready to quit the room, Diana gave Joanie a silver coin. “You are almost enough to make me believe in angels,” Diana said, smiling. Then her smiled faltered. “Almost.”
Joanie, who would sooner believe in faeries and wood nymphs than she would angels, looked up at Diana’s striking green eyes and halo of golden hair, and for a moment, despite the hardships she routinely faced, she almost believed in angels too … almost.
“I must go,” Diana said. Then she squeezed Joanie’s hand and dashed from the room.
That night, Joanie crawled onto her thin pallet in the corner of the basement, gripping her coin in her hand. She held it close like a friend and was drifting to sleep when loud footfalls thundered down the stairs. Joanie’s heart pounded as she hid her coin beneath her pallet just before the innkeeper appeared, his pitted, red face illuminated by the lamp he held above his head.
He kicked her in the gut. “Get up,” he snarled down at her, spittle flecking his lips. “You’re leaving.”
