by Linda Cajio
But tonight he cared. Tonight she would drop all disguises and, for the first time in her life, she would be herself and take what she wanted, as well as get what she needed.
“I accept,” she whispered the words as she closed her eyes tightly, her stomach flipping, though not unpleasantly, at the risk she was taking.
Read on for an excerpt from Juliana Garnett’s
The Magic
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1192
“Did you hear that?” A mailed knight jerked nervously at the reins of his mount and cast quick, furtive glances into the gloom. A mist had begun to rise like smoke, drifting along the ground in vaporish wisps. It was too quiet—too ghostly in the dim, dusky silence of the forest. Tangled tree branches of ancient oaks formed a high ceiling overhead, as ribbed and vaulted as a French cathedral. Diffused sunlight pierced the tight-knit canopy of new leaves in thready streamers to light the narrow road, a hazy contrast to the air of expectant darkness looming beyond.
A faint tinkling sound like tiny bells carried on the wind. It faded so swiftly Rhys ap Griffyn wasn’t certain he heard it. He pulled off his helmet to listen; light gleamed on blond hair, catching in thick strands dampened from the weight and heat of his helmet. Gray eyes narrowed to steely slits as he surveyed the road and dense weald around them. Nothing. No sound but the muffled thud of hooves on soft ground and the clink of harness.
The mailed knight rode closer to Rhys, looking around uneasily. “Did you hear it?”
“I heard nothing, Brian. ’Tis only the wind.”
“Nay, this was different. It was … strange. Like … faerie bells.” Brian seemed locked in the grip of fear. His back was stiff, and one hand tightly gripped the loop of leather reins. His mount danced nervously at the strangling hold.
Knowing better than to let the idea of faeries take hold of his men, Rhys said, “It’s footsteps—the sound of our horseshoes on stones.”
Brian blanched; his face paled beneath the lifted visor of his helmet. “Don’t look behind us, for the footsteps will be those of dead men.”
Rhys nudged his mount close and spoke low so only Brian would hear. “There are no footsteps. ’Tis the wind through tree branches you hear.”
“Holy Mary—we should have stayed at the village inn for the night.” Freckles stood out like splotches of mud against pale skin stretched taut over Brian’s cheekbones and nose. “It’s Beltane Eve, and we shouldn’t be out. Spirits roam on the borderline eve between spring and summer, when it’s not one season or the other.” He paused to take a deep breath. “And it’s a borderline hour, neither day nor night, the time when the faeries and spirits roam most freely.”
Several of the soldiers within earshot began to mutter uneasily. Silently cursing Brian’s superstitions, Rhys leaned on the pommel of his saddle to gaze at him with mock amusement. “Big as you are, do you think the Tylwyth Teg will be strong enough to carry you with them, Sir Brian?”
One of the Welsh soldiers laughed, though the sound was strained. When he added in a tense mutter, “Vsbrydnos,” the Welsh name for “spirit night” did nothing to calm the other Welshmen. A murmur ran through the ranks of mounted men.
Rhys sat up straight, shaking his head. “The spirit night will not harm us. Nor will the Tylwyth Teg.”
“In Ireland,” Brian said darkly, “we call them the Daoine Sidhe. And it’s been said about more than one man that the faeries captured him.”
“Yea, but it’s my belief that more than one wayward husband had to invent an excuse for his angry wife,” Rhys retorted with a grin. “Claiming capture by the faeries would be enough to convince almost any goodwife that her husband was detained beyond his will.”
“You mock me,” Brian said irritably when several of the men laughed. He glanced around, tugging off his helmet. Sweat plastered his red hair to his head. Splinters of light filtered through the roof of leaves, providing enough illumination to see the narrow road, but in the trees beyond, it had grown dark. Looking back at Rhys, he complained, “We should have lingered in the village, I tell you. The maypole was lifted on the green, and there’s feasting and merrymaking.”
“And winsome maids to go a’maying with—perhaps to get lost in the woods with while picking whitethorn flowers?” He grinned when color flushed Brian’s face. “Nay, I know your way with the ladies. If we’d lingered, we’d not get to Coventry by Saint John’s Eve, much less by the day after May Day.”
Brian turned his mount on the close road, scowling at Rhys. Before he could speak, his horse gave a shrill whinny and half reared, huge hooves thrashing in the air. Leaves shuddered as the animal backed into a hawthorn hedge thick with white flowers and thorns, and Brian cursed loudly.
It was infectious. Suddenly all the horses began to plunge and snort, throwing the knights into turmoil. When his own stallion threw up his head and snorted, Rhys drew his sword and adjusted his shield. He’d been too long a soldier and knight not to trust the instincts of his warhorse.
Brian’s sword flashed in the gloom, as did those of the other men. Some muttered curses, others offered prayers as they tried to calm their mounts without being unhorsed. Then one of the men gave a shout.
Rhys looked up. The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning, and he fought his destrier to a standstill before he was able to focus on the object of this terror. His blood chilled, and he choked back a curse.
In the middle of the road just ahead stood a small figure, wreathed in shreds of mist as if newly sprung from the very ground. Flowing robes of deepest purple completely draped the motionless form. Rhys made the sign of the cross over his chest before he could stop himself. A light peal of mocking laughter greeted his instinctive movement, and he clenched his fist. Embarrassed anger replaced the irrational spurt of fear.
He curbed his plunging mount and spurred forward a few steps. “Move from the road,” he ordered. Instead of immediately yielding, there was the sound of more amusement, and a brittle tinkle like tiny bells.
“In nomine Patris,” Brian moaned, crossing himself in a clink of chain mail that was echoed by the others. “Confiteor Deo omnipoténti, beátae María semper Vírgini …” His prayer faded into silence.
Rhys lifted his sword; a runnel of sunlight skittered along the wicked edge of the blade. Light splinters reflected from chain mail and shield in glittering sparks. “Did you not hear me?” he demanded.
Again, he was greeted with open amusement. His jaw clenched. He tried to see the face, but the hood was pulled too far forward, leaving only a dark blur beneath. He considered putting an end to the mockery with a quick thrust of his sword, but something made him hesitate.
“… beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptíste,” Brian wheezed.
Enough. If he didn’t halt this, his men would be scattered through the weald like crows. He kneed his mount forward, but Turk only pranced nervously, tossing his head and snorting instead of charging. Rhys swore, uncertain if he was more angry or amazed at the horse’s refusal to obey a command. Finally, the figure moved. One arm lifted slowly. A small hand was barely noticeable beneath the flowing garment. Rhys saw only a deep shimmering green on the underside; no weapon was visible in the folds.
The horses grew still, and an unnerving hush descended on the forest road. Tiny bells tinkled on the wind, and from the shadows of the hooded cloak came words in an exotic language Rhys had never heard—high, soft, and mysterious.
Again the stallion shuddered, sleek black muscles rippling as he pranced in quick, mincing steps. Rhys tried to control the animal, but with a jangle of curb chain and bridle bit, the great head shook hard enough to whip the long mane about in a stinging brush. It wasn’t until the figure spoke again that the stallion calmed, but the voice was almost drowned out by Brian’s droning Latin prayer.
“… sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus sanctis, et tibi pater …”
Brian’s confessional entreaty grated on Rhys’s already raw temper. Devil, fae
rie, or enemy, this creature would not be allowed to make a mockery of him.
Clenching his teeth hard, he snarled, “Move from the path, or be ridden over. I have no time for this foolishness.”
A snort of unfaerielike laughter greeted his command, and a gust of wind blew, shaking tree limbs. His eyes narrowed. No mystical faerie bells, just the wind.
“… quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et ópere …”
“Enough, Sir Brian.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder in exasperation. When he turned back, the purple robe was gliding toward him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Nay, this was no reckless man barring the road, but a woman. There was a fluid grace and fragility to the dainty form that could not be achieved by any man he’d ever seen. It was almost as if this were a faerie on winged feet.
His mouth tightened. Curse Brian’s talk of elves and faeries—he had no intention of allowing those superstitions to affect him.
None of the men had moved after the horses quieted, and Rhys felt their gazes on him as they waited tensely to see what he would do. Wind rustled tree branches overhead with an eerie clacking sound, then it grew very still. No birds chirped, no normal forest sounds could be heard. Mist crawled along the ground, rising slowly, curling around the specter.
Irritated by an unexpected chill coiling down his spine, Rhys stared coldly at the robed figure barring his way. “Why do you block the road?” he demanded, switching from French to English. “We would pass.”
A sudden wind eddy lifted a spiral of dry leaves into the air in a slight whisper, and the figure stepped forward. A graceful lift of one hand pushed back the hood of her cloak. Rhys stared at her.
She was beautiful. Faerie-fragile and as luminous as moonlight on dark water, the maid staring up at him with a faint smile left him speechless. Lustrous hair, black as a raven’s wings, straight and shining, fell around her dusky face, and her eyes—Jésu, but her eyes were as deep and dark as the night. She stared directly at him, and he was caught by the intensity of the eyes holding mysterious promises in their depths.
For what seemed like hours but in truth could only have been a moment, he stared into that liquid gaze. Until she broke the spell.
“Greetings, fair knight,” she said in soft, perfect French. “I bar your path only to warn you. The bridge ahead has been washed away, and is not easily seen until too late to stop. I thought you should know of the danger.”
“God’s mercy on you for the warning.” He cleared his throat and gestured with his sword. “I barely saw you in the road. Did we frighten you?”
A burst of laughter was accompanied by the tinkling of tiny bells as she shook her head. The movement dislodged a skein of her unbound hair; it fell in a gleaming ribbon over one shoulder to her waist.
“Nay, brave knight. I was not frightened. Were you?”
“Frightened? By a wisp of a maid? Do you think we are children?”
“I thought perhaps you would fear the Beltane Eve, as many do.”
Christ above, but she was bold to taunt him with a subtle, feline smile and sly words. “I fear nothing,” he said shortly.
“Is that so? Courage is always needed in these fearsome times.” She took a step to one side, scattering shreds of mist that curled up around her like smoke. The mocking smile still played at the corners of her mouth.
Provoked, he said, “Times would be fearsome indeed, if the king’s knights were to fear a simple maiden in the midst of the road.”
The maid paused. Her gaze was eloquent, and rich with scorn. “Yea, English knights are valorous indeed, as courageous as the king is said to be. Yet I’ve heard that Richard slaughters children.”
Rhys swung his shield over his shoulder again. A sharp ray of sunlight caught the metallic edge and flashed into his eyes. Blinking, he looked back at her. He could hardly deny it when it was true, but it didn’t sweeten his temper to be reminded of it. “Are you Richard’s enemy?”
The air grew radiantly bright. A thin shaft of light speared the gloom to fall directly on the maid’s face. She waved an imperious hand, and the sunlight shifted from her eyes as if commanded away.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” Brian choked out, striking his chest with a mailed fist, and Rhys turned to give him a quelling glance.
When he turned back, the maid had faded into the shade of an ancient hawthorn; snow-white flower petals trembled delicately. Shadows darkened, obscuring all but her voice. “I am no man’s enemy. And I fear no man.”
Rhys blinked again, and the dwindling sunlight disappeared with a startling swiftness, as if an oil lamp had been doused. Staring into the black void, his first instinct was to call her back. “Demoiselle—come here. You should not be alone in the night.”
Faint laughter drifted back on a sudden gust of wind. The sweet scent of hawthorn blended with a vaguely familiar, intriguing fragrance. In a trice, Rhys dismounted to follow her. His spurs chinked softly as he strode toward the trees.
Despite his fear, Brian flung himself from his horse, catching up to Rhys to tug frantically at his mantle. “Nay, Rhys—do not! If you follow her, she will take you into the faerie world and you will never escape.”
Rhys shook his arm loose impatiently. “Don’t be a fool, Brian.”
But when he moved close to the line of trees into which the maid had disappeared, he saw no sign of her presence. No broken branch gave indication of her passage. Only the faintly familiar whiff of fragrance remained as a teasing reminder. He jerked at a handful of hawthorn flowers, and swore softly when a barb found its way through the metal links of his gauntlets to prick him. No one could just disappear like that, like—like mist.
Brian nudged close to him, his voice rough with fear. “I cannot say if the maid was elf or faerie, but whatever, she has frightening powers.”
“Do you think she summoned the dark?” Rhys mocked to hide his own misgivings. “She’s only a simple maiden warning us of danger ahead. If she has any sense, she’s wise enough not to become too friendly with roaming knights.”
“Still, I cannot like this,” Brian muttered. Rhys fell silent. There was no point in arguing deeply held superstitions. Pointing out to Brian now that dark oft came abruptly in the deep forests would do nothing to abate his belief that the maid had summoned the night. Nay, it would be a waste of breath even to attempt it.
The maid certainly wasn’t a faerie. But who was she? If she was from the village they had left, she was too far from home and safety. No young maiden should be alone in the forest, day or night. But was she alone? She could be a ruse, a distraction, while villains lay in the trees ahead to fall upon them. Mercenaries could always set upon them, for the forests were thick with thieves on the roads leading to Wales.
Yet it was not a mortal enemy his men feared.…
Just a glance at their strained faces and wide eyes was enough to convince him they would be worthless the rest of the night. It would take a miracle to put them at ease—or more magic to counter what they feared.
He managed a tight smile. “There’s a clearing not far behind. We’ll halt and light a coelcerth for the Beltane Eve.”
Some of the Welsh soldiers nodded in relief. Rhys hoped it worked. A ritual bonfire to chase away the demons should restore their courage, so that the morrow would find the men free of the numbing fear that seemed to grip them now. When they returned to the clearing, the sounds of making camp lent a reassuring normalcy to the night. Welshmen readied themselves to gather the sticks from nine different kinds of trees to perform their ceremony, removing all metal from their bodies, including mail and swords.
Rhys looked down. He still held his naked sword. Slowly, he sheathed it. This sword had been used on the field of battle at Acre, and was forged of the finest steel, with a hilt of carved copper and bronze. He had captured it while on the Crusades with Richard, and it had served him well.
He thought of those distant, sundrenched lands where towering stone fortresses stood stark against barr
en hills. It hit him then, as he stared into the enveloping darkness, that the intriguing fragrance he had detected was Turkish jasmine.
“That was foolish,” Elspeth said sourly.
Sasha flushed with indignation. Her chin came up instinctively as she caught Elspeth’s unspoken words Reckless—and proud as Lucifer’s own daughter …
Ignoring the thought and addressing the spoken reprimand, Sasha said, “What, to warn the knights of the bridge? Nay, ’twas only kindness.”
“They could have killed you. I’ve noticed no kindness from wandering knights to solitary maidens.” Elspeth shook her head. A long shadow wavered on the cave wall. “Your Gift won’t protect you from folly. It was foolish.”
Sasha didn’t want to admit how unsettled the encounter had left her. She managed a careless shrug as she seated herself before the fire and held her hands out to warm them. She was still shaking with reaction. Faintly amazed at her own daring, she’d not expected to have such an effect on the knights. She couldn’t say she was sorry for frightening them, but she had expected the full use of her Gift to learn how best to approach the tall, lean knight who was their leader.
Instead, she’d encountered only a brilliant silence when she bent her talent toward the knight. No identity, unspoken words, or images had come to her when bid, only that bright, brittle band of silence. Alarmed, she’d turned her talent to the two-score men ranging behind the blond giant. Jumbled impressions couched in foreign languages had come from the armed men with him, restoring a shaky faith in her Gift. It was not gone, only powerless with this one man. She’d found the lack bewildering, then frightening.
