Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  She didn't let anything disturb her until Sir Daffyd entered the hall, his spurs and mail jangling with the rhythm of his stride. She rubbed her aching temples and stood, wondering irritably what the devil he was doing here.

  He came and took her by the arm and led her to one of the carved chairs. He had beautiful hands; they covered hers comfortingly for a moment. "You don't look well."

  She turned her pained gaze on him. "There's been an accident," she explained. "Someone's dying."

  He nodded, understanding in his gold-green eyes. "Wine for the lady," he ordered Bertram. When Bertram brought two silver goblets, Daffyd handed one to her and ignored the other.

  He took the seat beside her. "Drink deep." The wine tasted like vinegar—with a heavy kick.

  "What happened?" he asked after she'd finished the cup. It should have made her head swim. Instead

  she felt more clearheaded.

  "A lad fell from a roof. Broke his back. I should go to the chapel," she said, getting tiredly to her feet. "Sibelle's with him, but I—"

  He rose in a swift, graceful movement to stand over her. He didn't loom; instead his large presence seemed like a protective shield. He touched her cheek with a callused fingertip and wiped a tear she hadn't noticed shedding from her cheek. It was the faintest of touches, but it heated her, not just her cheek, but fire raced to the very core of her being. She was shak­en and confused as he stepped swiftly back to his chair and seated himself once more.

  "Stay." He waved her back down, his deep voice not quite steady. "The little nun will be used to doing such a friend's service."

  Jane settled back on the hard wooden seat. She gave a very small, very bitter laugh. "'Death hath no friend.'" The irony of her words could be understood by no one but herself.

  He sat back in his chair. Tapping his beaky nose thoughtfully, Daffyd said, "I've heard that some­where."

  It was a quote from Guillaume le Marechal's biog­raphy. Something he probably hadn't said yet. More likely it was a common Norman saying. She looked down at the gleaming silver cup she was rolling on her palms. The same silver cup had been blackened with tarnish when she'd arrived. If only she hadn't interfered. If only she could interfere more.

  "There's nothing I can do," she said softly.

  "No," he said. "There isn't." His deep voice was troubled. As were the shadows in his green-flecked eyes. He gave a bitter laugh of his own. She got the impression he wasn't thinking about the dying boy.

  "It's all my fault," she said. "I ordered the roof repaired."

  "It was an act of fate," he countered. "The roof needed fixing?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you made no mistake. It was no deliberate act of negligence on your part. Don't be hard on yourself, lady. Don't eat yourself up with guilt. It'll eat you up inside." He sounded as if he were talking from experience.

  She found herself wanting to find out just what sins were causing haunted shadows in the depths of his eyes, but she didn't know him, and it wasn't her place to pry. He didn't look like the sort to exchange intimate confidences with womenfolk, anyway.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked instead. "The outlaws?"

  "They're nowhere nearby. Probably feasting on the king's deer in the forest as we speak," he said.

  "In truth, I came to convey greetings to the new lady of Passfair." The look she gave him must have con­tained more skepticism than she intended. He gave her a crooked, and totally cynical, smile. "Perhaps you did not know the lady's a kinswoman of the king. Her father's a by-blow of one of King Henry's lemans. Being the king's man, it does me no harm to speak soft and fair to his family, no matter how loose the connection."

  It occurred to her that the Welshman was a land­less knight, his only support coming from the favor of King John. Most such knights were always on the lookout for an estate to hold as their own. It remind­ed her of her resolve not to be attracted to him.

  Perhaps he hadn't been quite honest when he'd said he preferred a pretty face over a rich dowry. Sibelle was a considerable heiress. She was also still an unmarried virgin, with her protector doing his best to put a great many miles between them. What if Sir Daffyd had heard of Stephan's absence and had showed up to sniff around the honey pot a bit? Or to kidnap the prize outright, as Hugh of Lilydrake had tried to do?

  Well, he wasn't going to get the chance to steal Sibelle away as long as she was in charge of Passfair. Stephan's treatment of the poor girl was shabby enough, but at least he'd never do anything to harm her. This gold-maned male probably never even both­ered to take off the at least forty pounds of chain mail he wore.

  She swore silently at the perfidy of all men. And almost laughed when she noticed that the colorful language rolling through her mind wasn't English. In just a few days' time she was beginning to think in

  Norman French. She wondered inanely if her accent was improving as well.

  Such speculation did nothing to alleviate her immediate problems. Suddenly wary of Sir Daffyd, she wondered if she should call DeCorte into the hall. Not that Raoul would be any match for the formidable younger soldier. Raoul and about a dozen guards might even the score considerably.

  She rose and said, "Excuse me."

  As she stepped off the dais, Switha and Alais came out of the chapel. She changed course to go to them. "It's over," Switha told her.

  Jane gave an almost relieved sigh. At least the boy was out of pain. She crossed herself before she real­ized she actually meant the gesture. "His family?" she asked.

  "They died of the fever. I'll see to the burial."

  "Thank you. Sibelle?"

  "Praying in the chapel," Alais answered.

  Jane nodded. The light coming in the windows was beginning to fade. The tables would be set up for din­ner any minute now. Then the guards would wander in without any need to call them. She would speak to Bertram and DeCorte. They had to protect Lady Sibelle, but there was no need outright to offend the man who commanded the king's force in this part of the countryside. She could get Stephan in trouble if she wasn't careful. She fingered the dagger on her belt. It wasn't much protection, but there was also strength in numbers.

  "I'll join Lady Sibelle at her prayers," she told the women. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. Sir Daffyd was lounging comfortably on his chair, one muscular thigh thrown casually over the sturdy armrest. The carved lines of his face reflected a somber mood, his eyes seeing into an inward dis­tance. For a moment she thought she saw something familiar about the brooding cast of his features.

  She shook off the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He wasn't a lamb who'd strayed into her keeping. Sibelle was. And he was the strongest eon-tender for the wolf who could snatch her away.

  The day, she thought, had been one damn thing after another. She turned her back on Daffyd and went in to Sibelle.

  9

  It was. no hardship for Jane to fast through the dinner hour. From her place kneeling before the empty altar she could hear the sounds of the household at dinner, but she couldn't understand how anyone could find an appetite. Marguerite and Alais came and went and came back again as the long hours wore on. She and Sibelle remained. She hoped her mind would go numb, as numb as her body gradually became.

  The stones beneath her knees were hard, the chill of the unheated room seeped through the layers of cloth­ing and into tense muscle and bone. Early in the vigil, Alais placed a lit candle on the altar. Jane marked the time by watching the small spark of light eat its way through the fine beeswax. The scent of wax and honey spread out on the chapel air, lingering after the light died away.

  Jane endured the hours with stubborn stoicism. This was proper. This was expected. This was what she'd been sentenced to. Once she entered a convent there would be regular prayers five times a day, fasting, and the narrow rules of the order. And there'd be many more long hours on her knees through all hours of day and night for saints' days and penitence and holy days and vigil for the dead and dying. This was her future,
her life. After a few hours she thought she was going to go mad.

  The older women stirred occasionally, easing tired bones. Sibelle simply kept her eyes on the altar, her lips moving in silently whispered prayer. While the faint golden light of the candle remained, it shed a warm glow over the girl's fine pink complexion. Sibelle's expression was serene with prayer. Her large eyes focused with intense concentration. Glancing at the overweight girl out of the corner of her eye, Jane made a startling discovery: Sibelle's face was actually quite pretty. After the light went out, Jane, who had no prayers in her, considered this new bit of informa­tion.

  She had no idea how long it was before Alais and Marguerite came to silent agreement and rose pon­derously to their feet.

  "Come, my lamb," Marguerite said, touching Sibelle's shoulder. "Time to rest now."

  "But—" Sibelle began.

  "No prayers can help the poor lad, anyway. He died in sin. There's nothing even the blessed Mother can do to save his soul."

  "Come away, my lady." Alais added her urgings as the girl hesitated reluctantly.

  Jane waited on her knees, unwilling to rise, if her numb legs would let her rise, until Sibelle acquiesced to her women. She kept her mouth firmly shut. No era was a good one to argue religious philosophy. An era where torture and execution awaited those who

  didn't follow the current party line or the right pope was an especially dangerous place to voice an opin­ion. So she kept still and fumed over the notion of eternal damnation for anyone who didn't receive the sacraments. These people believed it; that was what made excommunication such a powerful political weapon.

  Sibelle didn't hesitate for long. She crossed herself and let Marguerite help her up. "Kings and priests shouldn't bring God into their arguments," she com­plained, expressing an opinion of her own.

  "Come away," Alais coaxed. "You're cold, my love. Let's get you to bed."

  Jane waited until the other three left before climb­ing to her feet. It took a few minutes of stumbling painfully around the dark chapel before she got enough circulation back to attempt the walk up to her room. She picked her way silently through the sleeping forms in the main hall, managing to find her way up the stairs and into her bed without any light. Berthild didn't seem to be anywhere for her to trip over as she passed through the storeroom. The dogs were already comfortably curled up on the fur bed­cover.

  Once in bed, she thought it would be easy to find sleep. The day had gone on forever, and she was wea­rier than she'd ever been in her life. But sleep didn't come, although she gradually grew warm and relaxed, and the image of the dying boy didn't haunt her as she thought it would. The regret was there, but not so sharp and immediate as it had been. Perhaps the hours in the chapel had done something to allevi­ate her sense of blame. But still she couldn't sleep. The events of the day had been too overwhelming, and the realization that she was trapped forever in an alien culture was hitting her with the force of a blow.

  She didn't toss restlessly, just lay on the straw mat­tress and listened. To the roar of blood in her ears, to the dogs' breathing, to rodents skittering among the storage barrels. She made a mental note about bring­ing in some hungry cats from the tithe barn. Some­time, very late, the storeroom door creaked open. She assumed it was Berthild until she heard the unmistak­able, soft clinking of chain mail. She started up with a terrified gasp. Her hand grasped the hilt of the dagger she made a habit of leaving under her pillow. Melisande whuffed gently and got up to investigate, in no hurry to attack the intruder.

  Jane started to slip out of bed, not sure whether to hide, call out, or follow the dog into the storeroom. She was saved from having to decide by the sound of Berthild's voice whispering words Jane couldn't make out. The girl must have tucked her sleeping pallet somewhere out of the way. Berthild's question received an equally soft answer. There was a muffled giggle, then sounds of chain mail and clothes being shed. Jane waited stiffly in the dark. Melisande bolted back into the alcove as though someone had shoved her through the curtain. It would seem that Berthild's guardsman lover had arrived. He must have waited until he thought the chatelaine deeply asleep before venturing in.

  She wondered if she should throw him out or let the couple be. She valued her privacy, which was hard to come by in the communal atmosphere of the castle. She would lose it forever when she entered the convent. She supposed the pair in the storeroom val­ued privacy as well, and they got less of it than she

  did. She waited tensely on the edge of the bed, indeci­sive. She put the dagger away. She expected sounds of lovemaking to follow the man's undressing, but nothing but silence came from the outer room.

  She crossed her arms and frowned in puzzlement. How could she throw somebody out on his ear for fooling around with her maid when he wasn't fooling around? Maybe they just wanted to cuddle up togeth­er and sleep. Rather sweet, she thought, and lay back down.

  Must be nice to have someone to cuddle up with, she thought. Nice not to be alone in the dark. Some­one warm and comforting to just be with, never mind the rest. Though the rest would be nice, her wistful, lonely thoughts ran on. She'd never really been in love. There had been too much to leam, too much to do. She had given all her energy to the excitement of research, hadn't thought about love at all. Not the share-your-life-with-someone-forever kind of love, at least. She had thought there'd be time later. Dammit, she was getting maudlin. It was just sleep deprivation making her depressed. Life was so fleeting, though. So often wasted.

  To get her mind off melancholy speculation of might-have-beens, she searched her thoughts for another subject to consider.

  The cook wanted fresh eels. Bleah. Could they fish for them in the Stour? Perhaps she should point out to him that she was from the Middle East, where the trendy delicacy was sheep's eyeballs. No, it was better not to give him any ideas. She didn't want him trying to impress Lady Sibelle with his artistry. That girl did not need to be impressed with anybody's cuisine.

  The girl needed a strict diet and plenty of exercise. And ...

  Jane sat up straight in her bed. She could almost see the light bulb—or blazing flambeau—going on over her head. "The girl needs . . ."

  She settled back down slowly, her mind suddenly buzzing with ideas. What did Sibelle need? Well, a husband, for one thing. She wanted Stephan. What girl wouldn't? He was handsome and brave and charming and nice. Well, he was nice to everybody but Sibelle. Poor kid. What could she do to change that? Jane wondered.

  Should she? She wasn't supposed to change any­thing. There was nothing she could do.

  Why not?

  Don't give me "why not," she argued with herself. History. She couldn't do anything to change history. What if Sibelle and Stephan were supposed to loathe each other throughout their lives? What if they were supposed to be childless?

  But, just by living here in the Middle Ages, Jane was altering history. A boy had died, because she had ordered him to fix a roof. The course of events had been changed. Well, if she could change things for the bad, maybe she could change them for the good as well. She hadn't been able to help the boy.

  "Maybe I can help the girl," she whispered into her pillow. Without revealing any secrets of my great technological age. Sibelle didn't need to know how to work a computer. She needed a little help with her socialization, some skills training. Surely Jane could manage that much without making any great changes.

  She rolled onto her back and laced her fingers together across her stomach. Staring into the dark-

  ness, she considered just how to deal with the situa­tion. Though not for long. Now that she'd made up her mind to do something, she finally drifted off to sleep, before she could figure out exactly what it was she was going to do.

  She woke up with a cunning plan.

  She also woke up because she heard Berthild moving around in the outer room. The door opened. The dogs jumped down and followed the servant out. Jane sighed happily, waiting in bed for Berthild to bring back a couple of buckets of warm water
for her to bathe in. She'd asked her to do that the night before. She was stiff all over; a bath would do her a world of good. She checked the window. The dark­ness was just barely beginning to turn to gray. She had plenty of time before she had to be up and very, very busy.

  So much to do, so much to talk about. First to Switha, then to Sibelle, and the cook, and a nice, firm lecture for Marguerite and Alais. So much to do before Stephan got home. She chuckled happily and waited under the soft warmth of the fur cover. The room grew lighter as the sun climbed into the sky.

  After a while she heard footsteps and Berthild's voice directing a couple of helpers she'd brought with her to empty the water in the tub. Good, Jane thought with pleasure. She could have a proper, fully naked, soaking up to her chin, hot bath. Berthild shooed the menservants out the door and left herself. Jane got up and, keeping the cover wrapped around her for warmth, threw back the curtain.

  The first thing she saw was a broad, naked, mascu­line back and small, muscular buttocks leaning over her bathwater.

  The first thing she said was, "Get out of my bath-tub!"

  The first thing she thought as the surprised Sir Daffyd turned to face her was. He does take off his chain mail.

  Then she looked at him. She couldn't very well help it, since every gold-furred inch of him was on display: his soaking wet golden head and his strong throat, the brown rings of nipples nesting in the darker blond hair that veed down to the flat stom­ach, the manhood flanked by powerful thighs, the bare toes curled on the cold stones of the storeroom floor.

  Jane went hot and cold all over, then stayed hot. She couldn't seem to make herself stop staring, though. She was rooted in the doorway, her heart thudding frantically in her chest as the erotic dreams she'd had about this stranger chose this moment to replay through her mind in vivid, detail.

  She supposed anyone who constantly carried around the weight of all that armor had to be strong;