Shana Abe

by The Truelove Bride

  Sand on the crucifix, sand seeping into the room, onto the table, past the ropes.

  “So I renounced. Whatever they wanted. I would have told them anything to get them to stop what they were doing.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But it was a trick, you see?” He looked up suddenly, sad and desperate and lonely, and she saw the young man he had been then, the warrior so far from his home in every sense. “I renounced, and they said it was the devil’s lie, to agree so easily.”

  Avalon fought the dizziness and moved to the side of the bed, then off of it, coming over to him. He didn’t try to stop her, only followed her with his lost eyes, pressed against the wall in the encroaching darkness.

  “But it wasn’t a lie, and it wasn’t the devil. It was just me, trying to understand. Trying to live.”

  She knelt in front of him and covered his hands with her own. The bandage on her hand was bulky and soft, heavily wrapped.

  “Bal told me later that in my fever I had told that monk, that one who knew English, stories about him that no one else could have known, told him about his childhood, about his dreams. Things he had never mentioned to anyone.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “It happens that way sometimes,” he said to her, the sadness not gone, but the snake subdued amid it, sinking away. “I can’t predict it. Just pictures come to me, ideas, words. I don’t know where they come from; it’s just a gift. Nothing evil. I don’t believe it’s evil.”

  She rested her head on both of their hands, settling down beside him on the floor, and the chill was a distant thing, insignificant. Only Marcus mattered.

  “I went to the Holy Land to fight for God, only to have the men of God turn against me.” He shook his head, looking bewildered, and then said again, “But the gift is not evil.”

  “You’re right,” Avalon said. “They were wrong.”

  She felt him waver, still adrift in his memories, and she knew how real they could be, how terrifying. Avalon realized she wanted urgently to rescue him from this, to ease him, to help him. He did not deserve this punishment. But it put her in the uncomfortable position of defending something she wanted with every ounce of her reason to deny could even exist—how could it exist?

  Don’t lie, whispered the chimera.

  This was Marcus, her husband, and she had pledged herself to him, and to give him less than everything would be a failure to both of them.

  Avalon lifted her head, keeping her hands in place, and examined him. “Nothing you have said has changed my mind. Your true heart is good. Balthazar was right that I should know this.”

  “He saved me. He was only a visitor to that monastery, a pilgrim who had sheltered there on his journey. When he learned what had happened, he spoke for me to the others, and when they would not release me, he stole me away, took me out one night and saved my life. Took me to his home, far away. A place called Spain. I stayed there for a long time. I was sick of war and death. I returned to Damascus only to end my obligation to Trygve. But Bal persuaded me to leave again, to leave behind the crusade.”

  “He is a good man,” she said.

  “Aye.” Marcus was gone in his thoughts for a moment, then came back, moved his hands so that they touched the tops of hers lightly, brushing her skin, shaping the outline of the bandage she wore. “And you, truelove. Your heart is good as well. I know it.”

  Avalon turned her head away, but the whiteness of the bandage lingered in her vision, a ghostly reminder of what she wanted to forget.

  She awoke later that night alone in the bed, or so she thought until she sat up and looked around.

  Marcus was asleep on the far side of the feather mattress, wrapped in his tunic and tartan and a few of the furs, very carefully keeping a distance between them. She supposed it was because he thought her too weak or too drained to respond to his touch, because he had deliberately not made love to her, even though she felt fine. Even though she wished for it, that union of their bodies that could erase everything else in the world. But there he slept, innocent, and by all appearances, peaceful in rest. She did not want to awaken him.

  He had left her after their talk to check on the progress of the stables. Avalon had understood his reasons. Indeed, at the time she had even welcomed his absence, because that left her alone to conceal her own thoughts, her own uneasy guilt at the memory she had not shared with him. And, ultimately, he’d left her alone with her own shadowed heart, where comfort did not seem to dwell, no matter what the wizard said.

  And what good would it be, argued that heart, to tell Marcus of that odd vision, a strange creation of her imagination? It had made no sense to her anyway, it seemed unrelated to anything she knew. Certainly she had caught nothing about a man named Keith MacFarland there, nor any man at all. Only danger and death, two things she preferred not to think about, especially right now, at the pinnacle of the night.

  The moon had cleared from its clouds and Avalon got carefully out of the bed to watch the show, to see the tangled silver shadows drift across the snowy landscape.

  It was hauntingly beautiful, a different world at night, dramatic and magical and inviting.

  She was not tired, not any longer. In fact, she felt quite awake. Surely too much so to go back to the bed, where Marcus lay deep in his own soft slumber.

  Perhaps she would go out and visit one of the turrets, take in the diamond-black sky, the orb of the moon. Perhaps there were answers for her outside.

  It took her almost no time to get dressed, even with the bandage on her hand, and she left the room with one last look at Marcus, a calm shape under the covers of the bed.

  But once in the hallway her feet didn’t take her to the stairs leading up to the turret. Instead they carried her to the ones leading down to the great hall, past low torches and rows of Scottish stone, the arch of the ceiling hidden in slanting darkness.

  In the great hall she found men sleeping everywhere, most of them close to the fireplace, which still held a yellow-gold heat. None of them awoke as she picked her way past them, stepping lightly and silently, the way she had been taught.

  She left through the buttery door, since it was smaller and easier to open than the massive ones in the main hall, and it was away from the sleeping people. The hearth in here was empty and black.

  Outside it felt cold but not uncomfortably so. Avalon had remembered to take her cloak—coins now long removed and hems restitched—and this blocked most of the chill, allowing her to press forward into the night.

  At the gate she greeted the sentry, grateful that she knew his name and—after only a brief disagreement—that he opened the door for her and allowed her outside the walls of the castle. It took all her resources to charm him into letting her pass, and in the end she had to promise she would not go far, only to the edge of the infamous glen, clearly visible from the top of the wall-walk where he stood watch.

  Avalon let out a little laugh as she set out away from him, her feet crunching through the crust of snow on the ground. The night was even more glorious now that she was out amid it. High, high above her, thick clouds tumbled across the infinite sky, each one underlit by the moon, half a silver coin hung above the mountains. The snow was untarnished, unblemished, an even covering for the whole land, reaching up just over her ankles.

  Best of all was the silence. No people talking, no thoughts intruding. Just peace, windsong, the occasional rustle of pine needles rubbing together in the breeze.

  An owl, softly calling to its mate in the woods.

  The edge of the glen was oddly familiar to her in this guise, even though the silver-green grass was buried and the last of the flowers gone. The breeze hushed by and then quit, and Avalon took in the sight of the snowy brambles and the sheer mountainside in complete quiet. Only the moon watched.

  She took a few steps forward, aware that the sentry would be searching the path for her from his post, also aware that he was too far away to stop her if she wished to go on. Perhaps onl
y a little further. Not too much. She didn’t wish to cause trouble, only to see for herself a bit more of the spell of this night in this particular place, following the graceful layers of snow and stone up the side of the hill, until she found the outline of the faerie.…

  In contrast to the rest of the land, none of the snow had stayed on the black stone, but its whiteness had remained all around it, tracing the form of the man with wings, emphasizing the distinctive shape even more clearly than the last time she had seen it, black and white, that wicked creature who had met his fate at the hands of revenge.

  Avalon walked closer, sentry forgotten. The trick of the moonlight threw moving shadows over the stone, and clouds added shades of glossy gray to it, an illusion of movement. Breathing. Wings trembling. Arms shifting.

  The faerie stretched out on the mountainside, trapped, held forever in its prison of rock as punishment for betrayal, for brutality.…

  No, Avalon thought, and closed her eyes, shaking her head. No, no, it is not real. Her own breathing grew louder in the still glen, surrounding her with clouds of frost, and when she opened her eyes the faerie was stone again, nothing more. Just stone.

  “Treuluf.”

  The word came from close behind her, shocking and sweet, and when she whirled to face it there was no one there.

  Only in the distance, coming up the path, was a lone figure in the darkness, a tartan curving with the wind, still too far from her to have said anything she could have heard.

  Moonlight cast him in black and silver, a long shadow stretching to the side of him across the snow. Not the sentry. Marcus.

  His strides ate up the distance between them but she watched each step, hypnotized by the strength of him, the elegance, the way he was a seamless part of the wild here, where the wild was everywhere.

  There was a force coming from him, right from him to her—not anger, not wrath, but something new, something different. Desire: powerful and complete, wrapping her up in his design, keeping her motionless, waiting for him.

  When he was close enough she searched his eyes and saw nothing there to fear. What she saw was hunger and need, elemental and fierce. His look captured the twin spirit that lived in her; she hadn’t even known of it until just now.

  He reached her and without breaking his pace took her in his arms and claimed her lips, sealing the heat between them. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, the melting was suffusing her, overwhelming, and with it that new thing, something rougher, more primitive, to match the glen and the moon and the cold air.

  His kiss was almost brutal but it did not hurt her; instead she returned it with an equal fervor, her breath short and excited already, fed by the roaming of his hands on her body beneath her cloak, harsh and urgent, pulling her into him where she thought she could not get any closer, and still he wanted more of her, and she wanted it too.

  He broke the kiss to look up only briefly, and she caught the shadow of the wildness in his eyes, pale and almost feverish. He took in something behind her—the blackened edge of the woods, out of sight of Sauveur—and without a word began to push her over there, still keeping her close as she stumbled backward. His hands, unhindered by her cape, were large and warm on her back, her bottom. Before they were there he began to kiss her again, this time entwining the fingers of one hand in her hair, holding her still for him even though she wasn’t resisting. His mouth slanted across hers over and over, not gentle—hard, almost biting, causing a whimper of desire to catch in her throat. His hand beneath her cloak moved and found her breasts, squeezing. Her moan came free and he covered her mouth again, taking the last of her air greedily.

  He pushed her up against the trunk of a tree, bare branched above her, ice glistening on its limbs. The bark was uneven against her back, her legs, but that didn’t stop him from putting his weight against her, pinning her in place, his hands now at her waist, moving down, his mouth a heated trail across her face, her cheekbones, onto her ear, where she could hear his panting, as fast as her own. His body was hot and so much bigger than hers; she knew it was easy for him to keep her there against the tree, pressing his arousal against her, grinding against her in the beginnings of that rhythm her body craved.

  Her head tilted back against the trunk, her eyes closed. She was defenseless against this onslaught, she was melting for him, for the way his teeth grazed her neck, the way his hands pulled apart her cloak, yanked up her skirts, letting the night air brush the bare skin of her legs as he pushed one of his own between them, then the other.

  Between Marcus and the tree she had no quarter; she could not move to help him, she could not move to stop him. As he reached for her and found her soft wetness, her lips parted on a silent cry. He felt her shiver and gave a savage smile, full of moon shadows and wild night, using his hand on her until the wetness was covering them both, hot despite the cold night, baring herself for him despite the openness around them.

  He freed himself for her, he only had to move a little to touch her with the hard length of his shaft, not entering but tormenting, holding her still as he touched her with his smooth head, rubbing back and forth until the whimper in her became a cry, a pleading.

  “Truelove,” he said, harsh and broken, the only word between them.

  She opened her eyes and caught that smile, that ferocious desire in him plain, and then he thrust upward, filling her in one swift move, lifting her feet off the snow with the force of it.

  He controlled her with both hands, clutching, guiding her with each powerful push, using the tree to keep her where he wanted her, allowing her to hold on to his shoulders for balance but no more.

  Avalon felt him grow lost in his movements, each one strong and heavy, his mouth by her ear again, his hair against her cheeks, every bit of him touching her, his chest against hers, their hips joined, showing her where to go, how to get there, how to follow his will, his passion.

  This magic was real, not imagined, and he was beginning to moan, too, low and deep in his throat, a masculine sound that enflamed her further, her legs spread far apart for him, the rough bark an aid to him and his mastery of her.

  She held on and followed his want, down to where the flame burned brightest between them, and he took her to that aching place where she fell apart in his arms, crying out and then burying her head against his shoulder as the shudders took her, slick and wet and overwhelming. And then he joined her there, one last hard push deep into her, their bodies meshed, his flooding release a part of her that left her with nothing but him. Nothing but Marcus and the untamed night.

  It was the next morning that brought the missive from Trayleigh.

  They had not slept late despite their lovemaking in the fell glen the night before, but instead went below-stairs—walking close enough to each other to brush arms, hands clasped—in unspoken mutual consent along with the regular breakfast crowd.

  Avalon did not feel the lack of sleep very heavily. In fact, she felt rather wonderful. As she sat beside Marcus at the main table she enjoyed her porridge and oatcakes, and when she glanced at her husband she could see the moonlight gracing him still. When she leaned close to him she could catch the scent of the wild, cold night, unbanished by this bright new day.

  She wondered if such changes were visible on her, as well, and this made her dip her head down to her bowl in sudden blazing shyness, a ridiculous reaction that she could not help.

  Marcus noticed; he followed her movement and kissed her temple, smiling against her.

  At this Avalon turned her head to him, intending to chide him for so obviously laughing at her silliness, but of course he didn’t allow it, and kissed her on the lips instead. She found her half-serious scold slipping away under the luster of his touch. Only the sudden, gratified silence in the room kept her from falling all the way under his spell again.

  He pulled back, smiling, and Avalon heard the conversation resume, filled with the happy tones that matched the beating of her heart right now.

  The meal was nearly finish
ed when the mood shifted like a shaft of icy air on a warm breeze. It all came from one man, haggard and looking worried as he entered the great hall and walked toward Marcus, bowing and offering a dirty strip of paper from his hand.

  “From Clan Murry,” said the man, and then didn’t bother to say more. Or perhaps he didn’t have to, because by then Marcus had taken the paper and scanned it swiftly, divining for himself its origin.

  The chimera, for once, was utterly silent, asleep and undisturbed, no matter that everyone else around her had gone as still as death to catch the news.

  The creeping chill coming upon her was unmistakable. Marcus was done with the note; he looked up and around, as if searching for someone, and then the wizard came close with some of the others, all warriors she knew. Marcus began talking to them, but Avalon had unhurriedly taken the note from his fingers and was reading.

  It was from Claudia. It didn’t look like she had hired a scribe this time, for the writing was rough and scratched, the letters trembly, dotted and splattered with ink. The words were almost lost to her; but Avalon understood the tone of it immediately, and this blurred out the rest. It resonated with pleas: I pray you come, peril surrounds me. Warner d’Farouche ill, dying, I am all alone. Defenseless. Cousin Avalon, come. I pray God you come.

  “A trap,” pronounced Hew to the listening room.

  “Of course,” Marcus agreed grimly.

  “To what purpose?” asked someone else. “To capture the wife of the laird?”

  “Mayhap they don’t yet know she is the wife,” said Hew doggedly.

  Marcus considered this. “It may be that Malcolm has not yet bothered to inform Henry of the marriage, or that Henry has not yet told d’Farouche. We cannot know.”

  “I’m going,” said Avalon.

  Marcus and the wizard looked at her silently, while the rest of the people began to drown each other out with their protests, dismissing her words.

  Avalon waited until the room had quieted, until they were all looking back at her intractable stare, and then she turned to Marcus.