by A. L. Sirois
Presently the mysterious woman raised her goblet in his direction and called him to where she sat. He went to her. “Do you join me,” she said in a husky voice that set a small spark aglow in his mid-section. “Your worthy performance, especially in this rude establishment, deserves appreciation.” She gazed up at him through long eyelashes, her blue eyes sparkling in the light from the room’s fireplace.
“You are too kind, my lady,” he replied with a courtly bow.
“Not at all, my lord,” she said. Her voice, low and thrilling, seemed to penetrate to his heart. His awareness of everyone else in the tavern receded.
“Come,” she said, “sit with me. I am alone, as you see, and would enjoy seemly companionship.”
“Gladly.” He pulled one of the wooden chairs out from the table. He barely noticed when the other woman and her companion departed, leaving the two of them alone.
“I am called Eleanor,” she said, tilting her head slightly to one side in a charming gesture at once coquettish and artless.
“I am Guilhem, ninth duke of the Aquitaine,” he said, enjoying, as always, making his nobility known. He was gratified when her eyes went wide.
“So you are landed and titled,” she said. Her eyes sparkled. “How interesting.”
Guilhem did not mean to boast, but she was so obvious taken with his words that he found himself recounting his recent exploits in the Holy Land, his sojourn in Bohemia, and other adventures. He left the ifrit and the other magical beings out of the tale, however, fearing that any mention of such godless things would arouse the woman’s disgust and abhorrence. Most people, being God-fearing, would not wish to have dealings with someone who was a “fairy friend.”
He also neglected to mention the participation of Oriabel. Eleanor must have noticed the witch dining with him, but if so she made no mention of it.
At last he paused, taking a draught of wine to ease his throat, gone dry from talking. He was not sure how much time had passed, but Eleanor continued staring at him in what he took to be fascination, her small, firm chin resting on her knuckles. “But what of you?” he asked her. “How do you come to be here?”
“There is little to tell,” she replied demurely. “I am traveling to Provence to visit my grandfather, who is ill. I have made the journey before,” she added. “I see you question the safety of a lone woman on these byways, eh?”
He nodded. “I do. There are all manner of brigands and thieves along the way, and it’s always best to travel in groups. I am therefore surprised that you, a woman on her own, would essay the journey at all.”
“There are those who account me as brave,” she said almost carelessly. “And my mount is speedy. Few would be able to catch me.”
The rest of the evening passed in such a pleasant manner that Guilhem was scarcely aware of the passage of time until Eleanor at last rose from the table. “You must excuse me now, my duke,” she said in her husky voice. “I must retire, for I depart early in the morning. This has been a memorable night. It has been my great pleasure to meet you.”
“I assure you, lady, the pleasure has been entirely mine,” he said, getting quickly to his feet. “I too, must rise early.” He trailed her up the stairs to the inn’s second floor. Before he reached the top of the stairs he realized his usual base impulses of seduction and conquest had evaporated. To his wonder, he had spent an entire evening conversing and drinking wine with a beautiful woman with nary a thought bent toward bedding her.
Surely the opportunity had been there? She was nothing if not receptive. And yet...
Further reflection on the subject was cut off, however, when she stopped outside of a room and turned to him. She said, “Now must I bid you farewell. As I said downstairs, it has been a rare pleasure for me, and I truly mean that. I had not realized how much I craved the conversation of an intelligent and accomplished man.”
Guilhem’s head fairly swam with the nearness of her, and the scent of her perfume was all but overwhelming. At the same time, he once again caught that slight hint of fairy somewhere near, and wondered vaguely at it. He had seen none of the little monstrosities in the inn, though they often flitted in and out of human dwellings for the sheer devilry of it. Well, he was not about to call for one simply to see if it or one of its obnoxious fellows had been nosing about the affairs of men.
Indeed, all thoughts of such were driven from his mind by Eleanor’s intoxicating nearness. Their lips met, and at the contact he felt a strange surge of desire mitigated with a deep-seated sense of peril. What was it about this incredible female?
Their embrace grew more impassioned and urgent. Guilhem, who knew well when a woman was at her most compliant, was about to pull open the door of Eleanor’s room and bundle her within, when heavy footsteps and a burst of song came from the staircase at the end of the corridor.
A drunken man stumbled into view, guiding himself with his hands on the hallway walls. Catching sight of Guilhem and Eleanor, his face creased with a wide foolish grin and he waved fatuously at them. “Splennid nigh’,” he bawled. “Jus’ wunnerful! How you all doin’ tonigh’?” He leaned against the wall and burst into song. Guilhem caught the man’s ripe, unwashed odor and grimaced.
Eleanor, for her part, broke free of him, murmuring, “I really must get my sleep, Guilhem.” She gave him a quick kiss and vanished into her room. Guilhem heard the bolt sliding into place. He stared in frustration at the closed door before him, and turned to make an angry comment to the sot down the hall. But the man had collapsed in a heap on the floor and was fast asleep, already snoring. Restraining the urge to kick the fellow in the stomach, Guilhem stepped over him and stalked to his own room.
Inside, alone in the dark, he lifted his sleeve to his nose and breathed in Eleanor’s scent clinging to the cloth. His anger slowly evaporated as he undressed and slid into bed, still marveling at her memory. Usually he was the one who played the seducer, beguiling his prey into a night of love-making. This time, though, it was he who had been beguiled; and he could not work out how the thing had been done.
Even more odd was that he somehow felt virtuous about not taking her to bed; a condition most unfamiliar to him. He fell asleep still puzzling over his feelings.
* * *
Noise from the tavern downstairs woke Guilhem the next morning. He opened one eye and judged by the light that dawn had come only very recently. Feeling refreshed and rested, he lay in bed for a few moments, listening to the bustle downstairs. Something else was different, he thought. What could it be?
After a few moments, he decided that he somehow felt as though he had had a narrow escape, such as had happened to him several times on the battlefield when a pike tore through his jerkin without piercing his flesh, or when a crossbow bolt whizzed past his head leaving him unharmed. Yet he had been in no battle. Frowning, he rose from bed. Today he and Oriabel would be on their way to Córdoba, doubtless in the form of birds. As a child, he had often wished for the power of flight while watching his falcon, Stripe, hurtle through the sky. So perhaps these next days would be fair tolerable.
Midway through his toilet he recalled Eleanor. Pleasant memories flooded back. Smiling, he finished dressing and took himself downstairs to break his fast, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before he or she departed the inn, doubtless never to see each other again.
The thought of that, however, brought him inexplicable sadness. That sadness increased when he enquired about Eleanor, only to be told that she was gone.
“The lady departed shortly before dawn,” said the innkeeper, carelessly setting a slice of buttered bread and a tankard of ale down before Guilhem.
“And she left no... no messages for... uhm, anyone?” You idiot, he told himself. You are acting like a love-struck schoolboy!
“No.” The innkeeper returned to his duties, leaving Guilhem moodily munching the bread. He sighed. He must put the mysterious Eleanor behind him. It was, perhaps, just as well. Soon Oriabel would appear with her loathsome parrot, and they wo
uld be on their way. In his present mood, that could not happen soon enough, and he restrained an impulse to go up and roust the witch from her slumber.
What in the world is wrong with me? he thought. He had lost his appetite, and put the bread down half eaten.
Then it struck him: You unbelievable fool, he thought. You’ve fallen in love!
Before he could reflect on this unexpected occurrence, a touch on his shoulder brought him back to his surroundings. There stood Oriabel with the bedraggled Rámon on her shoulder. He had already messed on it.
And so begins another exhilarating and rewarding day, Guilhem thought with resignation. Aloud, he said, “I trust the meeting with your colleague was successful?”
“It went splendidly,” she said. “Thank you for asking. I secured the knowledge we require.” Her voice was cool, not to say cold, and distant.
“I am pleased to hear it.” He squinted at her. She was clearly upset about something—what could it be? “And now, shall we be on our way? We have far to go and must make haste.” Guilhem beckoned to the innkeeper and paid him for their food and lodging.
“Indeed yes. May I inquire after your evening?”
“It was tolerable enough,” he said. “I borrowed an oud and played a tune or two, then betook myself to bed.”
“Hmm. An uneventful night, then?”
“To all intents and purposes, yes.”
“You don’t seem anxious to discuss it,” she said, as they walked out of the inn.
“Because there is nothing to discuss,” he replied, beginning to feel annoyed. “Let us be about our business.”
They left the inn and set foot on the road leading south, toward Spain. No sooner had they passed out of sight of the town, however, when Oriabel turned to him, fury glittering in her eyes. “Did you have the least idea how much danger you were in last night?”
“Eh? What in the world are you talking about, woman?”
“That Eleanor! She—”
“Hold! How is it you know of her?”
“Because I was there, watching you make an utter fool of yourself. Were it not for me, you would have been seriously harmed.”
“What absolute nonsense. I was perfectly safe, and where the devil were you, if you were watching?” When she merely continued to glare at him, he suddenly understood. “The drunken man!” He pointed a shaking finger at her. “You! That was you, shape-shifted! A very convincing performance; probably because you really were drunk, I daresay!” She winced at that.
“Yes, it was me,” she said bitterly. “And right lucky for you it was, that I returned from conferring with my colleague just as that succubus was about to lure you into her foul clutches!”
He stepped back. “A what? A succubus? But...”
“By my fundament, have you not the sense of a gnat? Some fairy friend! Could you not tell what she was? Did you not smell the thing?”
“I...” He trailed off. Yes, confound it all, there had been the scent of fairy in the inn last night, and it had indeed seemed to cling slightly to Eleanor, masked by her heady perfume.
“If you do not keep your wits more closely about you, we will never succeed in our quest,” Oriabel complained, stamping around in a small circle. “It is all I can do to keep you safe, especially if you are so insistent about trailing along after any nubile thing that sashays across your path!”
He blinked at her, mouth agape. “I didn’t... I mean, I had no idea...”
“Oh, please!” She walked away toward the south and after a moment he followed her.
“Wait—what do you mean, keeping me safe?”
She rounded on him. “Truly do I wonder how it is that you can look at yourself in the mirror without spitting at the reflection out of pure self-loathing. A married man you are, yet you will tumble any willing wench for the sake of a quick conquest. Does loyalty to your wife not have a part in your emotional map? What would your children think of you? Do you comport yourself similarly in your dealings with men? Is it all pragmatic, of-the-moment agreements with you? Paxes that can be broken when expedient? Faugh!”
He opened his mouth but shut it again, feeling a quick stab of shame as he recalled going to Phillipa’s cousin behind her back to get money for the men and materiel he needed to meet his obligation for the crusade. Guilhem chewed his lips. When you looked at his doings a certain way, they did appear for the most part to be motivated by simple self-interest.
Oriabel stared at him for a few seconds longer, then turned and stalked away. Presently he followed, feeling like his old dog, Brusque, who’d slink away, tail between legs, after being chastised for some infraction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN WHICH THEY DISCOVER THE SECRET OF THE MOSQUE
After about a mile, Oriabel seemed to have walked off most of her anger though her general manner toward him remained cool. At a point on the road where they were temporarily out of sight of other travelers, she led Guilhem into the woods, where she transformed them both into golden eagles, birds more than capable of carrying their belongings. Guilhem admired what he could see of himself: dark brown plumage, shading to lighter golden-brown on his neck. He appeared the same as Oriabel, who now sported a fine, cruel-looking hooked beak, and piercing yellow-green eyes.
Guilhem knew something of this bird. When he was a boy, a falconer in a neighboring castle owned a golden eagle he raised from a chick and had trained to hunt, showing it off especially at festivals. Guilhem had once seen it attack and kill a gray wolf, and had never forgotten it.
They took a few moments now to get used to their new bodies. Guilhem soon felt at ease with his powerful new wings. During his time as a mosquito, he had never managed to accustom himself to the peculiar sensation of having wings growing out of his back. As an eagle, however, his arms had become pinions, which felt more natural and made them easier to control. He felt a surge of delight as he leaped into the air, flapping with powerful strokes.
As always, Rámon remained in his normal parrot body. He complained about this, however. “Rámon cannot fly as far or as fast as you now can,” he whined. “Poor Rámon! He will be left far behind!”
“Don’t be foolish, my pet,” said Oriabel, though her words came out in the eagle’s voice, a rather high and weak chirp, which made her sound more like a puppy than a fearsome bird of prey. “We will stop whenever you require rest.”
The parrot continued to gripe but Guilhem had more important concerns and stopped paying him any mind. “How long will it take us to reach Córdoba at the rate we fly?” he asked Oriabel.
“No more than two days, I judge,” she replied. “It depends how often we must stop to accommodate Rámon. I will not leave him.”
Guilhem knew better than to argue with her. He rather regretted his barb about her convincing portrayal of a drunk, but at least she was talking to him. In any case, it seemed that they would soon be arriving at the “haunted” mosque that had long been their goal. Surely there would be no further delays; no nixies, no strigoi, no succubi.
They flew on, the landscape of north central Spain flowing beneath them. Guilhem delighted in the feel of the air slipping through the feathers spread out at his wingtips as he and Oriabel soared through the sky.
The day was sunny and cloudless. The snow covering the ground below gradually disappeared, the climate growing warmer the farther south they went. Guilhem paid little attention to his flying once the novelty wore off. There was much to occupy his thoughts: his homeland, for example. He had no idea what sort of havoc the ifrit was causing back in Poictiers. Then there was the question of the enigmatic Eleanor. What was it about her that fascinated him so? Merely the spell of a succubus?
Indeed, he found himself composing a poem, an ode to her arresting personality and appearance, partly inspired by the bourgeoning spring sights and scents filling his eyes and beaky nostrils:
New life: the woods are leafing out
and every type of bird is shouting
now in its specific tongue
,
all versions of the latest song.
The time is sweet—a man should find
the ease which most is on his mind.
From there (where it would please me best
to be) so far I have no word—
until I can be reassured
by her of what I'm hoping for,
I daren’t go there any more
and so can neither laugh nor rest.
This is how my love is now:
it's like a fragile hawthorn bough
that trembles on the tree all night
and rattles under hail and rain,
but next day feels the spreading light
on twigs that soon are pushing green.
Not wonderful, he mused, but it’s a start. He wondered if he would ever have an opportunity to sing it to her.
The thought of Eleanor brought him around to Phillipa and his children, and once again Oriabel’s words sliced into him. He pushed the troubling pricks of conscience away. Aside from his unexpected attraction to Eleanor, he hadn’t paid much attention to other women in a long while. Phillipa herself was captivating, and he loved his son and daughter. But there was no use trying to explain all this to Oriabel.
Thinking of Eleanor—and Phillipa—made him unaccountably sad and lonely, isolated high above the earth amid the clouds. He wondered how the birds could bear it, cut off at such heights from friends and family.
