Keeper of the Dream

by Penelope Williamson

  “Ah, the lovely Lady Arianna,” he said, with a flourishing bow. His breath smelled sweet, of fennel seeds. “Your reputation does not do you justice, my lady, for your brow is whiter than the foxglove, your cheeks do glow pinker than apple blossoms. And your lips … ah, your lips are redder than … than summer poppies!” he exclaimed, looking pleased with his floral metaphors.

  “Red as the bristles on an old sow’s ear, more like,” Raine muttered out the side of his mouth. Laughter gurgled up Arianna’s throat, but she caught it between her teeth.

  “Skin whiter than a fish’s belly.”

  Another snicker almost escaped out of Arianna’s pressed lips. She thumped her husband in the stomach with her elbow, and he hacked and wheezed and sounded as if he were choking to death.

  Simon turned worried eyes onto his host. “My Lord Raine, that cough of yours is fierce. Might I suggest a poultice made from the fat of a hanged man to purge your chest. These summer agues have been known to turn deadly.”

  Arianna couldn’t help herself, she laughed, for though the remedy was indeed a common one—when a hanged man was available—her fearless knight had turned quite pale at the suggestion. Thinking she might have affronted their guest, she quickly said, “I was admiring your beard, good sir.”

  “Were you?” He stroked the object with obvious pride. “It’s all the fashion at the French court, they say. Though no man’s beard is allowed to be more magnificent than the king’s, of course. It wouldn’t be good politics.” He boomed a laugh that was rich and deep as the beat of a kettledrum. Arianna was shocked to see gold in his teeth as well.

  She tried not to stare rudely at the man as he took his leave, but she had never met one of the Jewish race before. Except for the gold in his beard and his teeth, the man appeared quite ordinary, rather nice, in truth, with his compliments and his remedies. Hardly the sort to kidnap Christian babies for sacrifice in heretical rites.

  But he did lend money at interest, which made him a usurer and thereby a sinner in the eyes of Holy Church, and Arianna wondered what sort of dealings Raine could have with the man.

  Simon the Jew let out another burst of hearty laughter. Raine strode back to the table to pick up the abacus. He flipped more beads with fingers that were smudged with charcoal and frowned some more. But she was beginning to know him better now, to know that the tautness of the skin over his cheekbones and the sooty color to his eyes meant he was excited about something. His brow creased in concentration, and he bit his lower lip, and she suddenly felt the most incredible desire that he would kiss her. Pregnancy must be affecting her wits as well as her stomach.

  “Have you borrowed coin from the moneylender, my lord?”

  “Aye, and I had to hock my soul in the process, the devil take the man.”

  At Arianna’s gasp of shock, Raine laughed, tossing the counting board back onto the table. “I was only jesting, Arianna. In truth, Simon’s rate of interest was more than fair.”

  “Are we so poor then, that we must borrow gold to live? Perhaps I could ask my father—”

  He put his fingers to her mouth. His touch was warm and soft. It was all she could do not to purse her lips against them. “We are not poor. I have borrowed coin from the Jew to finance the building of a castle.”

  He let his hand fall and her mouth felt naked now. “A castle? You are going to build a new castle? Here at Rhuddlan? But why?”

  “If you would quit spitting questions at me like peas out a blowpipe, I will show you.” He led her over to the trestle table where a thin sheet of vellum lay curling on the scarred surface. Handling the parchment with care, for it was dry and crackling with age, she held it up to the cresset lamp that swung overhead. The vellum smelled of must and mildew, like clothes that had been packed away into a chest and forgotten.

  “The keep here at Rhuddlan is outdated,” he said, leaning over her shoulder, so that she felt his breath on her neck. “It’s better than the old wooden fortress of the Conqueror’s time, but there have been great improvements in castle-building in the last ten years. The infidels especially are good at fortifications. I learned a lot from them when I was on Crusade. What you have in your hands is but one example of the kind of castle I could build here at Rhuddlan.”

  The parchment was covered with a complicated drawing rendered in confusing black lines. Then, slowly, the lines took shape, became a castle. A glorious, impregnable castle with round towers, bristling with crenellations. And from the top of the highest turret a banner flew—a black dragon on a bloodred field.

  She blinked and the castle vanished, became fading black lines again. “Did you acquire this map in the Holy Land then?”

  Raine took the parchment from her and returned it to the table. “It’s called a design. And, aye, I got it from a Saracen architect who once built a castle such as this for the great sultan Nureddin.”

  She pushed out her lower lip into a deliberate pout. “Aye, I have heard tales of your brave deeds whilst on Crusade, my lord, and I have oft thought how grossly unfair it all is.”

  His gaze had fastened onto her mouth and his head started to dip … then his brows snapped up. “What isn’t fair?”

  “That simply because you have taken the Cross and kissed the Holy Sepulcher and killed the infidel for Christ, you are now assured of salvation. Which means that after we are dead, you—whose soul is doubtless much blacker than mine—will be reposing on a golden chair in heaven. Whilst I shall have to suffer thousands upon thousands of years in purgatory. It isn’t fair.”

  His lips twitched and Arianna leaned forward, her eyes half-closed. “I believe one has to die while on Crusade to warrant the guarantee of heaven,” he said. “But if I do reach the pearly gates before you, perhaps I can intercede with the saints on your behalf. Are you angling for a kiss, wife?”

  She straightened with a snap, her cheeks burning. “Don’t be a dolt, Raine.”

  “Have you bitten down on something sour then? Perhaps that’s why your lips keep puckering like a hungry fish’s.”

  She turned away, feeling hot, and wishing herself in a deep, deep hole somewhere on the other side of the world. She pretended to be fascinated with the infidel’s drawing. There was writing in one corner, beneath the castle’s southern fortifications. But it was unlike any writing she had ever seen, not script or even block letters, but more like bird tracks left on a crust of snow.

  “This writing is most strange. What does it say?”

  When he didn’t answer, she glanced up at him. For some reason the sweet, teasing laughter they had been sharing a moment ago was gone, and his face had hardened against her.

  “It’s in Arabic, my lady,” Taliesin said, appearing suddenly at the door. “Though he speaks some of the infidel tongue, my lord does not read it.” The squire had his crwth and bow tucked under his arm and he was grinning, as if they shared a secret.

  The boy sauntered into the room without invitation. He hooked his hip onto the table and propped the lower bout of the crwth on his thigh. “So, you have borrowed money from Simon the Jew and you are now all set to build your castle. Have you given thought, my lord, of where you will dig the stone to build it with?”

  “There is a fine granite quarry on the abbey lands of St. Asap,” Arianna said. “Though the monks are very jealous of its use.”

  Taliesin giggled. “Aye, the Bishop of St. Asap once shot an arrow smack into the arse of the Earl of Shrewsbury himself when the man tried to raid stone from the quarry. ’Twas in the dead of a moonless night, blacker than a witch’s soul, so mayhap the bishop was aiming for Shrewsbury’s heart and missed. Nay, my lady is right. Not only is the Bishop of St. Asap a handy man with the longbow, he is very hard to deal with when it comes to matters of his quarry.” The squire winked at Arianna. “For one thing, he is Welsh. And you know how unreasonable the Welsh can be.”

  Raine grunted in agreement. Arianna grunted back at him. Raine didn’t quite smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.

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nbsp; Taliesin’s slim fingers plucked at the crwth’s strings, creating a mournful wail. “Might I suggest a bribe, my lord.”

  Raine was still staring at Arianna, and he took a moment to respond. “What and how much?”

  “Oh, a couple cartloads of grain should suffice. Though I should not try to deal with him myself, my lord, were I you. He hates most men, does the Bishop of St. Asap, but Normans do top his list of those he considers most vile. He has small regard for women, too, I fear, they being the inferior of the species and put upon earth in the way of tempting men to sin with their seducing ways. But the Lady Arianna, as she is of the noble blood of Gwynedd, he at least does tolerate. I suggest you send your lady wife to negotiate in your stead, my lord. With three cartloads of grain and Sir Odo and a troop of knights as escort.”

  The face Raine turned on her belonged to the black knight of her vision—hard, flint-gray eyes and a ruthless set to his mouth. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was oddly gentle. “Would you do this for me, Arianna?”

  Her throat tightened, and to her shock a rush of tears blurred her eyes. “If you wish it, my lord husband,” she finally managed.

  Taliesin lowered his head and a swatch of red hair fell forward to hide his secret smile. He tucked the crwth beneath his chin and pulled the bow across the strings. “Now that we have that settled, I should like to play something, my lord. A love song, mayhap?”

  Raine growled a curse. “As long as it is not that damnable tale about that fool wench who dwells in a lake and that even bigger fool of knight who tries to woo her barearsed naked.”

  Arianna smothered a laugh with her hand, while Taliesin sighed and his face, his whole body, seemed to wilt like a day-old nosegay. But he drew back the bow again. The crwth erupted into a joyous spurt of sound as he launched into a wicked ditty about a bishop who was unholy fond of the baker’s wife.

  Raine rolled up the drawing of his castle, tying it with a frayed riband. Arianna studied his averted profile, thinking about the child she carried in her belly. Would he have his father’s thin nose and sharp cheekbones, that raven black hair and those pale, pale eyes? She had searched him out to tell him about the child, but she decided now to wait until after she returned from St. Asap, for if he knew of her pregnancy doubtless he would not let her go. She wanted this opportunity to show how she was truly his vassal now, that his trust in her was not misplaced.

  Yet she felt a niggling unease about the trip. She wondered if both she and Raine had been nudged into the plan by that wretched, interfering squire, the way cows are led to a feeding trough. Just as he had so easily maneuvered her into planning that birthday disaster. Oh, he had protested his innocence most soulfully afterward. In truth, he had wept copious tears and fallen on his knees to beg her forgiveness. But she had never quite believed that it had all been some dreadful misunderstanding, as he had claimed.

  But the plan did make logical sense—Raine would need the St. Asap stone for his castle and she, better than anyone else at Rhuddlan, would be able to negotiate with the intractable bishop for the rights to quarry there. After all, she had been the one to bring up the existence of the stone in the first place. With Sir Odo and a half-dozen knights as an escort, what could possibly go wrong?

  No sooner had they set out on the road than it began to drizzle. Though Arianna checked the oiled leather tarpaulins that covered the carts a dozen times, still she fretted that leaks and seeping damp would ruin her cargo. Before long, mud coated her palfrey’s legs to the hocks and the knights’ armor shone slick with the damp. The rain was cold and smelled of winter.

  At first they passed by scattered hamlets, the glow of their fires burning in the murk. But the stubbled fields with their grazing cattle soon gave way to wild and empty moorlands and stretches of black forest. The road narrowed until there was barely enough room for the carts to pass. Arianna’s palfrey crowded into Sir Odo’s destrier and their wooden stirrups knocked.

  The big knight grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. “Miserable weather, my lady.”

  Arianna tilted her head back to catch the moisture on her tongue. It tasted sweet. “I’ve always liked the rain.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’ve never had to fight in it.” He shrugged, rubbing a pawlike hand over his face. “I mean, it’s devilishly difficult to grip a sword when your hand is slick as a whore’s—er, as a … God’s wounds!” Sir Odo’s jowls had turned the dark purple color of an overripe apple.

  Arianna hid a smile. They entered a gorge, silent and dark as a church, strangled with rocks and thick tangled oak and mountain ash that crowded out what little light pierced through the dripping clouds. The trees would be turning soon, she thought. There was an old waxy look to the fading leaves.

  “It doesn’t rain much in the Holy Land, I’m told,” she said.

  Sir Odo heaved a sigh of relief and plunged gratefully into this safer topic, as their horses plunged deeper into the gorge. “Nay, it is the armpit of hell, the Levant, for all that it is the birthplace of Christ. Hot enough to blister wood.” He cast her a sheepish smile. “Well, a soldier is never content with his lot, my lady.”

  Is anyone? Arianna wondered. She had felt many things since the black knight had charged through the whirling mists of her vision and into her life—felt fear and excitement and the fiercest passion. But never had she thought herself to be content. Yet it was there, this contentment, wrapped around her heart, soft and warm like a thick cloak. It must have been there all along, waiting, like a flower buried deep under snow that slowly takes root as it waits for spring.

  Do I love him? Nay, it is too soon. But I want him and need him, oh aye, I do need him, his touch, his kisses, his thick, hard rod thrusting inside of me, filling me, my woman’s womb … my woman’s heart.

  Sighing softly, she wrapped her mantle tighter against the cold and the wet. A bare two months ago she could not envision how she would ever make a life with him, now she could not imagine a life without him.

  The drizzle had turned into a swirling mist. Vapory tendrils snaked low along the ground, wrapping around the gnarled and knotty trunks and curling among mold-spotted rocks. One of the men called out, pointing to a hawk that floated overhead, wings outstretched like dark gray banners against the lighter gray of the sky.

  Just then a hare broke cover from a clump of bracken, and Arianna’s horse shied, pulling at the bit. The circling hawk spotted the hare. Her flight seemed to stall in the air, then she dove with sudden, deadly swiftness, striking her prey with clenched talons. The knights, avid hunters all, had paused to watch and sighed in unison at the beauty of the kill.

  Arianna was about to urge her horse forward again when something heavy fell from the tree boughs overhead and landed on the cantle of her saddle. She grasped the palfrey’s mane to keep from falling as it skittered beneath the sudden added weight, its hooves sliding on the rain-slick leaves and stones. She opened her mouth to scream, and held it open as the blade of a knife bit into her side.

  A man rode out from among the oaks, followed by another on foot and then another. Until the carts and their small band were surrounded by men with longbows nocked and pulled. Only the one man was mounted. He clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward. He had smeared the black mud of Wales on his exposed skin, the better to blend into the forest, and his tawny hair, worn long and free, was wet and matted with twigs and leaves.

  “Kilydd!” Arianna cried.

  “Leave your swords to lie in their scabbards, and keep your hands where I can see them,” he said, and his mustaches lifted in a grim smile.

  A man’s cackle grated in Arianna’s ear and a glob of spit sailed past her cheek. “Aye, ye do as me lord says, ye coddled-livered, white-bellied sons of Norman whores. Or answer to the Black Dragon as to how ye let his wife get her guts spilt.” As if to punctuate the point, the knife in Arianna’s side pressed harder, breaking the skin.

  She could see a dark, hairy hand, caked with dirt and black, broken nails. She could
feel the bellowing motion of heavy breathing as the hard leather of a gambeson pumped against her back. He smelled rank—of fish and sour ale and layer upon layer of human sweat.

  “Kilydd,” she said again, more softly this time.

  Her cousin’s gambeson had a tear in it and was losing its stuffing. His cheeks were hollowed and creased with haggard lines, and his honey-brown eyes glittered with an unnatural brightness, a hunted, haunted look. “Well met, sweet cousin. As you see, I received your message.”

  “What message? I sent you no—”

  An angry bellow bounced along the gorge, followed by a muffled curse. Arianna twisted around, setting her teeth as the blade dug deeper into her flesh. Kilydd’s men were dragging the drivers off her grain carts. Sir Odo tried to stop them and had taken an arrow in the arm for his pains.

  Kilydd tsked and shook his head. “Tell your good knights to behave, Arianna. Explain to them how it’s the grain we’ve come for, not their blood.”

  Arianna made a soft sound of protest deep in her throat. “Sir Odo—”

  The big knight’s full lips pulled sideways into a sneer. “Your friends can have the bloody carts for all I care.”

  “They are not my friends,” Arianna said, though she could see by the bruise of disillusionment in his eyes that he did not believe her.

  Kilydd sidled his horse up to hers. His eyes widened at the sight of the blood on her bliaut. “God’s sake, man, I told you not to hurt her!”

  A querulous voice whined in her ear and she nearly gagged from the waft of fishy breath that bathed her face. “Ye said t’ make it look real.”

  The knife disappeared, but Arianna’s heart still thudded hard against her chest. She imagined trying to convince Raine that none of this was her fault, that she had not betrayed him.

  Kilydd leaned over and patted her cheek. “Why such sad eyes, geneth? It has all happened as you promised. For a female you are uncommonly resourceful. We would have starved hiding from the Norman whoreson’s patrols and trying to scrounge food from the barren hills of Rhos during a Welsh winter.” He flashed a boyish smile. “Aye, our belly buttons would have been rubbing against our spines come spring, were it not for your generosity with your husband’s grain.”