Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  Melisande and her half-grown pups wandered into the bower and began sniffing curiously at all the silk laid out on the floor. Berthild pushed them away, then gathered up the material in a heavy armful and carried it into the bedroom, firmly shutting the door on any intrusion by the deerhounds.

  Sibelle looked at the tub full of water, then undid the strings fastening the neck of her undershift, sighed like the bravest of martyrs, and let the shift fall to the floor.

  She still wasn't perfect, certainly, but her body with its full breasts and girlish ungainliness was showing promise at last. She was going to have a tiny waist by the time Jane was through with her. Jane was willing to bet her hips, even without the extra flesh, were always going to be femininely rounded.

  Jane helped her step into the tub. Her women pro­ceeded to bathe her thoroughly and wash her hair while Jane went to pick out a bolt of silk to start the first dress with. Sounds of splashing and laughter came from the bower.

  She was pleased with the girl's enjoyment but also felt detached from the activity. For some reason a wave of homesickness was washing over her. Maybe it was just touching the silk. The weave of the cloth felt foreign to her, very different from the hand-loomed cloth she'd been helping the women work with for the household clothes. Maybe it was brought on by the sudden craving for a taste of popcorn.

  "Or angel hair pasta with alfredo sauce," she mur­mured with whimsical longing. "Where are Columbus and Marco Polo when you need them?"

  Maybe it was Sibelle's curiosity about Daffyd ap Bleddyn's not remembering his native language. Maybe he wasn't what he claimed. She understood about people not being what they claimed. She wouldn't put it past him to really be some peasant boy who'd stolen a dead knight's armor and identity so he could make his own way in the world. She didn't blame him for that; the higher on the food chain, the better the chance of survival.

  Maybe it was her own language she missed, the

  knowledge that if she spoke English there was no one in the world who would understand what she said. Not even the Saxons down in the village would be able to make out more than a few English words. Maybe none; she was having trouble learning their dialect.

  She could hardly manage to think English any­more, she admitted. Someday she was just going to forget about it altogether. Jane Florian didn't exist. There was only Jehane FitzRose left. Perhaps it was better if she didn't think about home. This was the place where she had to survive. But she did miss a place where she was able to live with her own identi­ty, on her own terms. A place where she was in con­trol of her life. She missed that more than she did coffee.

  She didn't cry. She did stand for a while with her fists clenched so tight the nails dug into the palms of her hands. She didn't know how long she remained in this tense position, but by the time the sad mood passed and she came back into the bower, Sibelle was finished with her bath.

  The girl was dressed in a fresh shift, standing before the window, while Marguerite worked dili­gently at combing out her long hair. It was drying quickly in the spring breeze wafting into the bower, stirring gently about her head in soft, honey-gold tresses.

  Jane felt a slow grin lift her features. Pleased amusement lightened her heavy heart. The diet and the cute little button nose and the big blue eyes were all irrelevant. Once Stephan got a look at that hair, he'd be hooked. Blond. Honey. Apricot. Gold. Men went for the blondes every time.

  She gave a wicked little laugh. Stephen, my boy, just wait until you see what I've got waiting for you. Frankly, you don't deserve her. Bring home a dragon carcass immediately, then we'll talk terms.

  She came forward and took the girl affectionately by the shoulders. "Sibelle, my dear, you are beautiful. Such hair!"

  Sibelle leaned forward into her embrace. She whispered confidentially into Jane's ear, "Granny Rosamunde said I got it from my great-grandfather Geoffrey. His grandmother was a witch. That's why I don't mind learning from Switha. It's in the blood." She kissed Jane on the cheek, and asked, "May we make a kirtle now?"

  Jane was delighted to do some sewing. Never mind if the sewing machine wouldn't be invented for hun­dreds of years. She didn't need a sewing machine; she had a household full of women with busy fingers will­ing to work to her direction. She drew designs with charcoal on the bower walls, measured with knotted string, cut with primitive scissors that she kept hav­ing to send back to the blacksmith for sharpening.

  They cut out and sewed three new combinations of lightweight summer shifts and overdresses in peach and salmon and apple green for Sibelle. For herself Jane made summer overdresses in royal blue and bright yellow. The stronger colors suited her dark complexion. Her face was tanning quickly to a bronzed glow from no more than the lightest expo­sure to the spring sun.

  When the dresses were done, Jane brought out some of the embroidery thread in her bags. The women were as amazed by the jewel-bright colors and varied textures as they'd been with the silk cloth.

  They were enthralled by the wonders and marvels brought from the paynim East. She handed out multi­ple skeins of perle cotton thread, and busy fingers set to work once more.

  One afternoon, as the sun grew long through the high bower window, she and Sibelle sat together, sharing the width of the round, floor-stand embroi­dery hoop as they worked on different sections of skirt decoration.

  Into the companionable silence, Sibelle suddenly asked a question. "What will you do with all the goods in your bags? Other than make dresses for me?"

  "For which you may repay me with many thanks when you're baroness of Sturry," Jane replied, needle poised thoughtfully as she tried to remember if the chevron stitch she'd just blithely taught Sibelle was in use yet. She decided it was too late to worry about it now and went on embroidering.

  "I will indeed."

  "Good."

  "About the other goods?"

  She stuck needle in cloth and looked at the girl. Sibelle's eyes twinkled with amusement. She'd lost more weight, and it was showing in her face. Her cleft chin was becoming a prominent and attractive feature; cheekbones were starting to emerge, adding a hint of elegance. Her hair was hanging in two thick braids, the ends covered in embroidered casings Jane had finished just the day before. She'd added a few garnet beads to the pattern worked onto linen-backed silk and was satisfied the girl was dressed in the height of the era's fashion. She just wished Stephan would come home so he could appreciate it. And she was glad Sir Daffyd hadn't paid a visit to Passfair lately so he couldn't. She'd asked DeCorte to keep track of any news of the Welshman. She had Sibelle's welfare to think of. Never mind her own.

  "Well?" Sibelle asked after a considerable silence from Jane.

  "What am I going to do with my goods? I'm not sure."

  "You've spices and jewels and gold besides the silk. I'm sorry I looked, but I was curious. And you don't lock the room. You're very trusting."

  "The key's lost, and the blacksmith hasn't made a new one yet."

  "Oh. But what will you do with it all? Did you bring it all from Jerusalem? Why?"

  "Yes, I brought it with me from the Holy Land. We had no more wealth in land, but my husband and father left me with wealth in rare and precious things. I have no idea what to do with them. Trade them for gold somehow, I suppose. Use the gold to pay my entrance into a convent."

  Sibelle nodded her agreement with this strategy. "But you need merchants in order to trade. Merchants come from London to Canterbury. And traders come to Dover and to Reculver on the coasts. We need a way to make them all come here." She smiled bright­ly. "We could hold a fair."

  "A fair?"

  "All the big towns have summer fairs," Sibelle pointed out enthusiastically. "If we had a fair here, and did it every year, Passfair could become a big town as well. Which would make Sir Stephan far more prosperous, and that would be good for every­one."

  Jane sat back on the bench, leaning against the

  cool stone wall. "A fair?"

  "It could be arranged," Sibelle said
with confi­dence. "It wouldn't take long to send word to Canter­bury. Or to Dover and Reculver. If the traveling mer­chants know there's nobles—Sturry and Passfair and Blackchurch for certain—looking for fine goods, they could be persuaded to come. And Sir Daffyd's sol­diers would come also if there were wine and weapons merchants."

  "Who have you been talking to?" Jane asked, look­ing at the girl through narrowed eyes.

  "Bertram."

  "I thought so." She tugged thoughtfully on her veil. It wasn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. It would be good for the villages. Why not bring mod­ern commerce and culture to this little corner of Kent?

  "Very well," she agreed. She stood and straight­ened her dress. "We'll see if we can arrange it for sometime this summer."

  Sibelle gave a complacent nod. "Bertram has it all planned out."

  "I'm sure he does." Jane had great faith in Bertram. "He and I had better talk right away."

  13

  "Why, today of all days, did I have to fall off my horse!" Sibelle complained from the grassy spot where she'd tumbled. Her horse, probably more surprised by the girl's sudden fall than she was, had shied over to the far side of the orchard. It remained there, peering at them almost accusingly, as Jane and the groom helped Sibelle to her feet.

  "Are you all right?" Jane asked, patting the girl for signs of broken bones.

  "I don't understand how it happened," Sibelle went on as if she hadn't heard Jane. "Perhaps I wasn't paying proper attention. I suppose my mind was on the fair. It's such a lovely day for it. The merchants' tents and carts look so bright and colorful spread out across the pasture. I must have forgotten what I was doing."

  "Are you all right?" Jane repeated the question louder.

  "Oh, yes. Ow! No. I must have twisted my foot under me." Sibelle let out a dramatic wail. "I will not

  miss the fair! Jehane, you mustn't tell Alais and Mar­guerite! If they think I've been hurt, they won't let me go to the fair. You know what they're like. We can sneak off to the fair now and—"

  "The merchants haven't even set up their wares yet, love," Jane answered. "It's barely dawn." She knelt in the grass while the groom helped steady Sibelle. "How bad does it hurt?"

  "Not at all. Don't touch that! Hardly at all."

  "A bit of swelling. Can you walk?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, try."

  "You're so demanding."

  Jane raised her eyes to see laughter mixed with pain on the girl's face. Sibelle was very changed from the frightened girl Stephan had brought home only two months before. Jane really couldn't see any of the old Sibelle in the svelte, shining-haired, good-natured young woman who now shared her days.

  "It's not so bad," she told her. "You'll make it to the fair. Go back to your room for a while and soak your ankle in cold water. That should take care of most of the swelling and soreness. By this afternoon you'll be able to come down to the pasture. I could send the merchants up to the castle with their best wares if necessary, but it wouldn't be as much fun. Not on such a nice day."

  Sibelle's eyes were alight with inspiration. "Couldn't I have the peasants carry me from booth to booth in a chair?"

  "You could, but you'd look damned silly." Jane rose to her feet. "Fetch the horse," she directed the boy. "Lean on me for a moment, dear. The fair will be there tomorrow, too, you know," she reminded Sibelle, just in case the muscle strain proved to be worse than she thought.

  "I will be there today," Sibelle declared stubbornly. "I will rest this morning, though the waiting will be awful." She sighed dramatically, complaining as the groom returned with the horse, "I've never been any­where or done anything, Jehane." The boy lifted her up, and she grasped the reins firmly. "What's it like to have adventures?"

  Jane stood among the sweet-scented boughs of the apple orchard and looked at the girl in crossed-armed consternation. "Ask Sir Stephan," she advised.

  "But you've seen so much of the world. What's it like?"

  "Uncomfortable. I think I've told you too many romances," she added, a smile softening her lips. She patted Sibelle's mount's flank. "Go home and soak your foot. I'll see you at the fair."

  "All right." The girl turned the horse's head, and she and the groom rode off.

  Jane remounted and rode slowly toward the vil­lage. It was a long time before she could get to the fair as well. She wanted a new fence built for the pad­dock, so she had to talk to Cerdic this morning about having some straight young timber felled from the coppice.

  "Why," she wondered aloud to the birds and beasts of the field, "is there always something else that needs doing?" She made her trip to the village, where Cerdic was as eager as she was to get the details taken care of so they could get on with enjoying the holiday on this bright late-April morning.

  Riding back along the track leading up the hill, she

  passed the pasture wedged between woods and castle and village where a tent and timber village had sprung up overnight. The merchants and traveling entertainers had actually been arriving for three days, though in fact there were only half a dozen traders, two jugglers, a seedy minstrel, and a couple of lady friends who traveled with the minstrel. Not much, really, as culture and commerce went.

  But not bad for only a month's preparation, Jane congratulated herself.

  Back in the castle courtyard, she turned the horse over to the waiting groom and hurried up to her room. It was the'full light of day, and everyone from Passfair and Hwit and other outlying areas were gath­ering in the pasture below.

  Jane had carefully selected a few of her precious possessions to offer the merchants the night before:

  some spices and strings of freshwater pearls and lapis. She was beginning to have an idea of what to do with her wealth, but she wanted to get to know the men she traded with before making any concrete plans.

  She took her small bundle in hand, said, "Come along, Berthild," and left the castle with the red-haired girl, this time on foot.

  On the walk down the hill she considered her plan, hoping it wouldn't be too complicated to pull off. She'd spent a great deal of time thinking about the possibilities life might have to offer her.

  For the sake of preserving this society, Jane knew she had to live apart from it. The only acceptable seclusion where she would be safe and fed and com­pletely anonymous would be as just one more of a group of black-dressed, praying women. She hated her fate but accepted its necessity. Gradually, howev­er, she'd come to the conclusion that she held the power in her hands to make this fate far more pleas­ant than the dreary life she'd first envisioned. It had nothing to do with a sudden discovery of faith. It had a lot to do with remembering Wolfe had sent her back here with a great deal of wealth.

  She couldn't think of anything more proper and acceptable in this religious age than for a rich widow to found her own order of nuns. It was only right for her then to administer the order as the abbess of the establishment she founded. An abbess was law unto herself in her own house.

  If she had to live by the rules of the order, she rea­soned, she wanted to be the one who made them up. An elegant solution to a tricky problem.

  All she had to do was get permission from whatev­er bishop first poked his head up after the interdict was lifted, get herself some land, get some peasants to work the land, build the abbey, and get herself some volunteers. She could name it Saint Elizabeth's, after Mom. Or perhaps Our Lady of West Point. No, she didn't think a militant order of nuns would be quite the right approach. Too bad there weren't any teach­ing or nursing orders yet. Doing something useful would have been a nice way to pass the time.

  The pasture was bustling with every inhabitant of the nearby villages by the time she and Berthild arrived. It was not just the traveling merchants with products to show; local people were busy trading their own wares. Someone was selling little dried fruit pies. A vintner was hawking ale, while his partner was dickering with the cooks from Passfair and Stur-ry over the price of his better wines. Children and<
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  young people were gathered around the entertainers. Groups of men clustered together discussing the weather and the crops and the sad state of the world. It was quite a turnout. She estimated at least seventy people spread out among the carts and tents and tables.

  Seventy people, Jane thought as she walked with Berthild from one merchant's stand to the next. She stopped to finger some moss-green muslinlike fabric at the cloth merchants. She bought a length of it, secretly planning on making a new dress for the red-haired Berthild.

  The silversmith from London said he'd brought only his third-best wares to this tiny fair. She showed her string of freshwater pearls to the jeweler, got his opinion and an asking price, smiled prettily, and moved on.

  She'd worked her way to the edge of the pasture where the potter was showing dishes with pretty blue glazing. She picked up one of the larger pots. Its tex­ture and substantial weight felt good in her hands. She was turning to call to Berthild, who was lingering to haggle over a string of glass beads, when she saw the group of men emerging from between the trees. She thought nothing of it for a moment, assuming they were just some more villagers come to enjoy a day's holiday. She opened her mouth to call her ser­vant but voiced no sound as the sudden tension in the air registered on her mind. Where there had been much talk and laughter only a moment ago, suddenly there was silence.

  Then she noticed there must be at least twenty hard-faced, filthy strangers spreading out in a long line as if to circle the encampment. They were mov­ing at a swift lope now, long bows slung across wide backs, staffs, rusty broadswords, and sharp daggers held poised and ready. For a long instant the stunned crowd remained paralyzed, staring in frightened silence while the bandits bore down on them.

  Then a woman's shrill scream pierced the air. Someone yelled, "Outlaws!"

  There were castle guards patrolling the fair, of course. They rushed forward to meet the advancing outlaws, forming a thin shell of protection as the vil­lagers began running from the attack. But there were only five guards. And although they were trained and well armed, they were only five against at least twen­ty. The rest of Passfair's men were still at the castle. The king's guard from Reculver was expected but hadn't yet put in an appearance. The five castle swordsmen didn't slow the armed and vicious attack­ers for long.