Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  “Stop! I can’t do that!”

  “You just did.” His low and throaty laugh mingled with the increasing pace of the pipes, a drum beating a barbaric, rattling rhythm that throbbed in her pulse. Her ribbons slipped, her confining braids failed, and her curls flung wild in the whirling exhilaration. Rapidly, wilder, they circled, her feet nearly flying. Whirling and whirling, the folk around them merged into a spinning blur of shouting and clapping with the piper’s furious tune.

  Philippe lifted her in the air, swinging. Her foot caught his leg. She shrieked as she lost balance, her flailing hand grabbing for his sleeve. With a flip, Philippe threw himself before her as they fell together, and she came down atop him.

  She giggled between gasps for breath, looking at him beneath her. His eyes smoldered like embers. The crowd shrieked with glee. Her hands splayed over his hard, heaving chest, and she quickly curled them into tight balls. His smile was gone. His eyes were fierce. Then he chuckled and rolled with her, and then she was down and he was up. The crowd’s murmur softened, like sweet music.

  Philippe leaned over her, one muscular leg wrapping over her body. “I think I must kiss you now, my sweetest bride, else they will think me very strange.”

  Leonie tried her best to sneer but only managed a ridiculous flare of her nostrils. “Alas, most revered husband, they would be right.”

  Her last word was cut off as his lips touched hers. She closed her eyes against the raging storm that tormented his gaze. At first his mouth was hard against her lips as if he meant to punish her, but it softened to tenderness while the pads of his thumbs feathered over her cheeks. Her very flesh burned where his body touched hers, and she wished for once she had no Faerie blood in her to fan the flames of her desire. Always, always, he had provoked her to such unmaidenly fires. Always, she had hated him for that.

  Abruptly, he pulled back from her. Ferocity, nay, perhaps anger, blazed in his eyes where sweet laughter and tenderness had been. Aye, she had forgotten, he hated her too. This was but a sham to please the villagers.

  De Mowbray’s raucous laugh cleared her mind soon enough.

  “Come now, lad, if you’re so anxious, we’ll get on with the bedding now.”

  Philippe sat and rose sharply to his feet. He dusted himself off and reached down a hand for Leonie, but she was already rising.

  As she stood, Leonie saw an old woman in a hooded dark cloak, standing alone between two crude cottages. She wondered if her Faerie vision was coming back, for she could tell the cloak was a deep mossy green. Strange and pale, the woman’s eyes gleamed, as if they were not color but light, and her hair seemed as brittle as old, sun-bleached straw.

  Philippe held out his hand to Leonie. “Old woman, come and join us,” Philippe said, beckoning.

  “There is a time for joining and a time for watching,” the old woman replied in a voice that scratched its way through her throat. “My time has come to watch.”

  “Then come and eat,” he replied.

  The woman’s light green eyes gleamed. “You please me, Norman lord,” said the crackling voice. “Your heart is heavy, yet it is gentle. May many a blessing come to you and the daughter of Herzeloyde.”

  Leonie watched Philippe’s face as it turned into a heavy frown, and his mouth opened, yet he did not reply.

  “You do not believe,” said the crone. She raised a long, gaunt finger and swayed it before them as if tracing a path that meandered toward the distant horizon. “Follow your heart, Norman lord. Where it leads, you will find your answer.”

  “Who are you?” Philippe asked. “What is your name?”

  “I have no name.”

  “Everyone has a name. What is yours?”

  The crone laughed, a ragged sound, but her solemn face did not change. Instead, she turned to Lord Northumbria. “You tarry too long, Black Earl.”

  The great hulk of a man rearranged himself into a reverent bow. “Aye. So I do. We will stay the night and hasten home with the dawn.”

  Pulling her dark hood over her straw-like hair, she turned and walked away through a mist that clung near the walls of the huts, until she disappeared into the darkness.

  Silence descended on the villagers. Even the pipes had ceased their wailing. Among them, a whisper arose, and tucked within the low murmurs, Leonie heard a single word repeated.

  Cailleach.

  “Who was she?” Leonie asked the earl.

  Northumbria gave her another of those rare smiles that was no more than the lifting of his black mustache, bushy once again, for he had been dancing as wildly as everyone else.

  “Naught but an old woman who talks too much,” he said. “Well, let’s be on about the bedding now. The old woman’s right, I’ve tarried too long.”

  Philippe glanced at her, frowning, and an angry rigidity overtook him. “There’ll be no public bedding, de Mowbray.”

  The bushy black brows furrowed. “But ye must, lad.”

  “It is a heathen custom.”

  De Mowbray shrugged. “Aye. So?”

  “It is our affair, not anyone else’s.”

  “But lad, there must be witnesses. Especially this time.”

  “Then if any should ask of any man here, let him say Leonie of Bosewood and Philippe de Evraneaux, called the Peregrine, were betrothed by command of the king. They spent two nights alone in the wilderness, and the morning following their wedding, there was no virgin’s blood found on the marriage sheets.”

  Leonie gasped, feeling the color drain from her face. How did he dare. She clenched her hands into tight fists, for if she let her wayward fingers have their way, they would claw his eyes out!

  The earl rubbed his beard. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you when Fulk comes to demand the lass. But it’s your affair, as you say. So let’s be caroling you back up the hill now, and I’ll leave at dawn.”

  “Must you go so soon?” Leonie asked him, already feeling the loss.

  “Aye, lass, I must. But don’t you be forgetting, if he doesn’t treat you right, you’re to come to me for help.”

  Philippe offered his hand to the earl to shake. “I thank you for your help, but not your advice, de Mowbray.”

  The Black Earl bellowed a laugh as he clapped his other hand over their handshake.

  “Strange man,” said Philippe as they watched the earl disappear into the crowd.

  The whine of bagpipes filling signaled to the dancers, who formed lines and burst into song. Philippe took Leonie’s arm and the procession wound up the hill toward the castle gate.

  Her cheeks were still hot with rage at him, but she gritted her teeth and played her role. Now she had only to think about sleeping in the solar where the odor of neglect still stank.

  But instead of to the dilapidated hall, he led the procession to the wooden tower in the north corner of the castle, and to the ladder that led from the open base to the square tower room. She frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Our bower,” he replied. “Up.” His hand circled in the air, making it clear climbing the ladder was what he wanted her to do.

  She shrugged and climbed. She was, after all, trying very hard to be a reasonably obedient wife.

  At the top of the ladder, she crawled through the square hole and onto the tower floor. Bright light from the newly risen moon flooded in the tower’s windows, for the shutters were flung open wide. In one corner, the feather bed sent by her Uncle Geoffrey was covered in white sheets, with blankets and pillows aplenty.

  “It’s Ealga’s gift to you,” he said. “So you don’t have to stay in the hall until the odor goes away. And saints preserve her for her thoughtfulness.”

  “But when did you talk with Ealga? She was with me since we arrived at Bosewood.”

  “There are ways.”

  She had not noticed, but now she thought of it, she had not seen Ealga since the wedding at the church steps. So she must have come here from the church.

  “The night will be cool, but I think, no rain,
and we have plenty of blankets to keep us warm.”

  Confusion began to hammer at her mind. What kind of man was he? One moment crassly lying and humiliating her in front of de Mowbray and the entire village, and the next, planning a fine feast, even to the point of making a place for her to sleep in comfort. He did not fool her to claim it was all the doing of others.

  Did he mean to break his oath and take her after all? What could she do about it if he did? Not a man or woman below would understand a wife refusing her husband.

  She thought she would never understand him.

  “Did you have to say that about the sheets?” she asked.

  He pulled his blue tunic over his head. “Aye.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “You did say you do not want to be bedded. And I wish to keep my vow. But they would have forced us, all of them meaning well. It was the only way to stop a public bedding, my precious, to persuade them there was no point in it. De Mowbray especially, the randy old dog.”

  He held out his hand to her. She took a step back.

  “Do you not wish to lie down with me? I’ll make myself a pallet by the wall, and in the morning I will see that I am found beside you, so none will suspect our lie.”

  Even now her mind screamed fear for his perfidious deed, for the terrifying dream that kept returning every time she closed her eyes. Yet her body thrummed the rhythm of excitement at the very scent of his presence. Even the hairs on her arms seemed to stand alert when he was near. And all the while her heart called out, This is Philippe. This Philippe was the man to whom she had foolishly and secretly given her heart when she was little more than a child, when he had brusquely tossed it away.

  And he did not want her now. He wanted only to please his king.

  She did not want to lie down with him. Even in pretense. But she drew in a long breath. She was Leonie of Bosewood, who would fear no man, fear no fate.

  “We shall sleep together,” she said.

  He nodded silently and turned away as he stripped the last garments from his body. Perhaps, she thought, he was ashamed that he did not want her.

  “Leave on your chemise,” he said. “It would not be unseemly for a new bride. But if I am clothed, then our lie will not be believed.”

  She nodded.

  “Your foot,” he said. “I forgot it. Let me see it.”

  “It is fine. Ealga tended it earlier.”

  “It could not be, not so soon, and I made you dance on it. Forgive me.”

  “Nay, I tell you, I did not notice myself. Do not fuss over it. There is no pus, no pain. But there will be a scar.”

  He frowned. “Show me.”

  With huff, Leonie sat on the bedding and stretched out her foot, and he unwrapped the cloth to see for himself she did not lie.

  “Still, I should not have made you dance.”

  “It was a good dance. A good reason to laugh.”

  In the darkness, he slipped beneath the sheets and turned his back to her. Now she had no doubt he would keep his promise not to molest her. And something in her felt the hurt as deeply as if it stabbed, knifelike, through her heart. As it always had.

  Shafts of moonlight fell upon him where he lay, and her eyes could trace the fine curve of his spine. Her hands wanted to touch, to follow the beauty of the curve. There was no denying he was as well made as any man might ever be.

  She had not expected love from a husband. She had always known better than to believe that, for women of her sort who inherited great properties would never be allowed husbands chosen by their hearts. But that was the irony of it all. For some reason she would never comprehend, she had been given the husband of her dreams, only to face his abhorrence of her. And that would be true even if the wild and frightening thoughts in her mind turned out to be false.

  If they were fortunate, she could just go on living, doing what she must, and he could do what he must, and someday they might forget that they did not belong together. Or she might go away, as he had said, and he would forget her entirely.

  “Philippe?” she said tentatively, in case he might still be awake. He had slept little if at all in the last few days.

  “Umm?” It was the sound of a man already lodged in the world of dreams.

  “Do you think Fulk will give up now?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then what will they do next?”

  Philippe rolled to his back. She could see the tired lines in his brow and wished she had let him sleep.

  “The Bishop of Durham will complain to Archbishop Anselm that Rufus has given a promised maid in marriage to another man, and the archbishop will take the complaint to Rufus. Rufus and Anselm are at odds these days, though Rufus does listen to him. But it will not matter. Rufus knows the real truth and will know Fulk has lied to his bishop. Durham and Fulk may not realize it, but their very complaint will tell Rufus of their real intentions.”

  “How?”

  “Rufus can read people better than the archbishop can read his Latin treatises. I have sent word to the king of today’s affairs, but my messenger must pass through Durham’s lands to reach the king. De Mowbray sent his own man, west through Westmoreland. Mayhap one of the messengers will get through. If not, Rufus will know when he does not hear from me that something is amiss. Rufus told me he had already turned down Fulk’s suit before Fulk ever went to Brodin. Yet the fool still went to Brodin to stake his claim. So from all this, Rufus will deduce that Durham means to join Malcolm in war against the king.”

  “Rufus will see all that?”

  Philippe smiled. “Did you not realize it too? I think you did. Whether Fulk means to or not, he will deliver my message to Rufus for me.”

  Leonie wrinkled her brow for a minute as she absorbed all that. Philippe rolled back to his side, away from her. She ought to let him sleep now.

  A new thought hit. A more frightening one.

  “Philippe,” she said.

  “Aye?” It sounded almost like a sigh.

  “How did Fulk know where we were?”

  As he turned onto his back again, shafts of moonlight illuminated his chest and the sprinkling of dark hairs on it, every single one of them calling to her to run her fingers over them. She quietly clenched her fingers into fists to remind them to behave.

  “Mayhap he had heard you were lost and went in search, as de Mowbray did.”

  “Bringing the bishop? That seems odd. The bishop was not clad for a journey.”

  Philippe propped himself up on one elbow. “Hm, true. The Bishop of Durham is a man who loves his comfort. Ah, you are right. His only purpose was to give authority to Fulk’s deed.”

  “But how did they know where to find us? He said he had come to rescue me from you, so he meant to find both of us. But how could they have learned?”

  “De Mowbray sent word ahead to Bosewood. They must have learned from that.”

  “But nobody at the outpost knew you had found me until after dawn, and we set out for Bosewood shortly after. No messenger could possibly have reached Durham, for them to reach the crossroads when we did.”

  He propped up on his elbow, studying her, exposing the deeply shadowed muscular planes of his chest, causing her to catch her breath, lest she betray her thoughts about him.

  “They could not,” he said. “Yet they did know.”

  “How?”

  Philippe returned to his back, his hands folded behind his head. “Not de Mowbray. He did not know before he found us, and he has been with us since then. His dog surely did not tell.”

  She snickered at the image of Ilse trying to tell a secret. “Though I do think she’s smart enough, she does not speak the language well.”

  He chuckled. “But someone knew. Were we followed? Or mayhap they found where we camped?”

  “Why would anyone do that? Who could have moved so swiftly?”

  “I don’t know. But aye, it was no accident that they came upon us. And it means, precious bride, that there is far more at stake here than a
ppears on the surface. They want you badly.”

  “Ha. They want my land.”

  “Which is easier to control if they have you.”

  “More than that. I saw what was in Fulk’s eyes,” she said. “He means to kill you.”

  “Haps he will.”

  “It would be easier to claim the bride after dispensing of the husband than to go through archbishops and kings for an awkward annulment.”

  “They will do that anyway, for effect, to make themselves look blameless.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “Fight them. I will not let them take you.”

  “Even though they will kill you.”

  “Now they must kill me if they wish to gain their ends. But it doesn’t mean they will succeed. Leonie, promise me two things.”

  “What?”

  “First, if anything happens to me, you must escape to de Mowbray.”

  “You trust him? I thought you didn’t.”

  “I can’t say I do. It is natural that we would be at odds, for I support Rufus, the very king our Black Earl detests. But the man is blunt and speaks his mind. For now, I think I believe him. He must choose and knows Rufus is a better choice than the Scottish king, who would never let him keep Northumbria if the battle goes to the Scots. But more than that, he has some reason he has not told us that he will protect you. I know it, somehow. So you must turn to him. Promise me.”

  “But if you are wrong?”

  “Do you not trust him?”

  “Trust him? Five men: you, Fulk, the bishop, Rufus, and de Mowbray. I trust none of you. But haps I trust Robert de Mowbray a little bit.”

  He quirked his mouth in a half smile. “That will do. And now, the other thing. If ever I tell you, ‘Do as I say,’ in those words, you must do it, instantly. I promise I will never say exactly those words unless the circumstance is dire, but I must know, if I do, you will obey immediately, without questioning me.”

  “Why?”

  “You see? You always question me. If I ever I say that, it will be a time when even a moment’s hesitation will bring you danger or death. I must know you will do this for me. Promise me.”