by Lisa Hendrix
“I have no interest in her ‘affections,’” he said dryly.
“What brings this on? Yesterday you were urging me to seduce her. Now you warn me off.”
“I only warn about how you go about it.” Ari hesitated, considering, before he asked, “What if she’s the one you need?”
“All I need is her quaint.” Steinarr chuckled as Ari made a noise of disgust. “You’re one to talk. You’ve tupped women all across England.”
“Aye, but I leave each one happy, just in case. Even the whores.”
“I’ll leave her happy,” vowed Steinarr.
“Not if you’re crude about it. English noblewomen are not like our village girls back home. You haven’t been able to be around them much, but—”
“I know precisely how little I’ve been around English women, noble or not.” Steinarr pointed toward a deer path that angled off into the trees. “This is as close as I want to get to the colliers. Let’s turn here.”
They rode some way, until they reached a spot where the path forked. Steinarr dismounted and unbuckled his sword belt to hang it on the saddle. “I’ll go that way. Meet me back here in the morning.”
Ari took the reins of the two animals—the one that was really a horse and the one that wasn’t. “Think about what I said.”
Steinarr shook his head, chuckling. “How great is the chance that the first woman who stumbles across my path in four hundreds of years who isn’t a whore is the one who will break the curse for me? I haven’t even found my fylgja yet.”
“Neither had Ivar when he wed Alaida.”
“What happened to Ivar was chance. Even Cwen did not see it. He always had more luck than the rest of us put together.”
“Chance or fate, it happened.”
“’Twill not happen again.”
“Do not presume to know what the gods have planned for you, Steinarr inn prudhi,” warned Ari. “They have little patience for such arrogance.”
“Bah. Have you been having visions again, Skald? ”
“I need no visions to—”
“Then let go of it.” Steinarr started backing down the path. “Whether I bed her or not, or how I go about it if I do, is no concern of yours or the gods.”
He turned and trotted away. Ari shook his head. Stubborn fool. He watched until Steinarr vanished into the trees, then rode off in the opposite direction, knowing Torvald would prefer to be far away when the lion began to prowl, angry, through the night.
THE DAY WAS nearly done when a young novice came to Cwen to say that the Mother Abbess wished to see her in her chamber.
Cwen nodded. “Tell her I will come anon. I must tie this stitch before it ravels.”
“Yes, Lady Mother.” The girl disappeared back the way she had come, and Cwen went back to her sewing, using the few moments to gather herself.
In her struggle to make the old ones take notice, she had spent her nights calling to the gods, and her days, as she went about the work assigned her, drawing every mote of power she could find in this place. Even as she prostrated herself on the cold stone floor of the chapel with the others, her lips moving in their prayers, she called again and again to the Old Ones in her heart. The effort had left her exhausted and brittle.
But Mother Humberga must not see that. She took a few moments to rid herself of the fatigue, tied off her stitch, then rose and smoothed her robes.
She went to the abbess with downcast eyes, as the nuns were supposed to do. And as the nuns were supposed to do, she knelt and kissed the abbess’s ring, though as ever it grated to bow to this weak vessel of a weak god. “Mother Abbess.”
“Sister Celestria.” The abbess waited for her to rise. “In my prayers this afternoon, it came to me that someone should visit our estate in Nottinghamshire, to see that the charcoal promised us is forthcoming and of good quality.”
Cwen tamped down the sudden uprush of hope. “A wise idea, Mother.”
“Such worldly business falls to you as prioress, of course, but I have also decided to send Sister Paulina,” said the abbess. “Father Renaud has agreed to go as well, for propriety and safety. We need only wait for other travelers going the same direction.”
“Of course, Mother. Shall I tell Sister Paulina, or will you? ”
“Send her to me. Our younger sister has not left the safety of these walls since she came to us in her eighth year. I fear she may be frightened of the world and I wish to calm her fears as I speak with her.”
“Yes, Mother.” Cwen genuflected once more and took her leave. Biting her tongue against a crow of joy, she made her way slowly—because the nuns always moved slowly—first to where Sister Paulina worked at her weaving, and then to the herb garden, where old, half-blind Sister Sibilla worked in the far corner, bent over the weeding. There, in the near privacy, Cwen fell to her knees before the holly where she had cut her wand so long ago and raised her clasped hands. If anyone saw her, they would assume she prayed in its shade.
And in truth, so she did both pray and rejoice. This was her sign. There was no more need for someone to see to the charcoal this year than there had been ten years ago. The gods had put the thought into the abbess’s head. The Old Ones had heard her and found her worthy at last.
She finished her silent prayer of thanks, then scraped her palm across a holly thorn. The reopened wound bled freely, and she smiled as she smeared the fresh blood on the tree’s thick trunk as an offering.
“As always, I am your instrument,” she whispered. “So mote it be.”
Her prayer finished, she licked her palm clean, relishing the coppery taste of the blood, as surely the gods must, for they rewarded it above all other offerings. How much more she would be able to honor them with a virgin’s blood, which she would now have, thanks to Abbess Humberga.
Cwen smiled. A virgin nun and one of their priests. Surely such potent sacrifices would persuade the gods to fully restore her powers.
Still smiling, she rose and went to prepare for the journey to Headon. It seemed there was, after all, some benefit to being the prioress of Kirklees.
CHAPTER 7
SOMEONE WHO SMELLED of damp grass and willow leaves plopped down next to Matilda. “You said to say when we saw them.”
Matilda opened her eyes to a small, dirty-faced girl who stared up at her in the speckled light beneath the tree where she had gone to hide. Goda, this one was. One of Osbert’s litter. “So I did. And did you see them?”
She shook her head. “Papa did. Coming down the path.”
“Ah.”
“Does your head ache? Father said you came over here because your head ached.”
“It did a little. Run along and ask one of your brothers to put the bridle on the mare and bring her out.”
“Are you really going with them?”
“With Sir Steinarr, yes.”
“You should stay and marry Father.”
Matilda bit back a smile. Osbert had hinted at the same thing earlier, as they’d broken their fast. Now she told Goda the same thing she’d told Osbert. “I cannot. I must help Robin. And your father deserves a better wife than I would make him. I am far too cosseted and not nearly strong enough to make a collier’s woman.”
“I think you would make a good collier’s woman. And a good mother.” Goda threw her spindly arms around Matilda’s neck in a fierce hug, then scampered off without another word.
Alone once more, Matilda set aside her amusement and closed her eyes again to wait. She had hidden herself away not because her head hurt, but because she had wanted time to prepare herself, to harden her mind against what she knew was coming. Him.
She did not want a repeat of yesterday afternoon. She’d thought herself well guarded, but in the innocence of sharing a jar of ale, she must have relaxed a little. No, a lot. Far too much. That moment when he’d touched her hand and she’d found herself suddenly in the midst of all that lust again … that moment had frightened her. But what had frightened her more was that she hadn’t been able t
o pull back from it, not until he rode away. He wasn’t going to ride away from her for the next month, and so she had come in here to make certain she was ready. She couldn’t let herself slip again, or she would be lost.
It would help if she knew why it had happened to begin with, why she could feel this man, of all men, and so clearly. She’d always had to work to read a person, to reach out with deliberate intent, and even then, the rare minds she’d managed to touch had all been blurs, their human emotions a mere shadow of the crystalline clarity of animal urges. This one … This one was powerful, raw, his mind brimming with furies and desires and needs as strong as any beast’s. And that wildness …
Well, she could control when and how she touched beasts, and she would control when and how she touched Sir Steinarr—not at all. She would keep her thoughts close and her walls up. She would block herself off from every creature, including him. For a month. The very thought of it exhausted her already.
She heard horses coming nearer and tested. No, she couldn’t feel him at all. Even as Sir Steinarr’s voice drifted through the underbrush, she still felt nothing: not man, nor horse, nor oxen, nor even the fox kits that scuffled in the grass nearby. With their minds of purest need—food, sleep, play—young animals had always been among the easiest creatures for her to sense. She watched as one bit the other on the ear, and though the kit yelped, she felt no trace of his pain or anger. Satisfied that her mind was solidly her own and behind the best walls she could mount, she pushed to her feet.
As she stepped out into the meadow, Sir Steinarr turned. Their eyes met, and she checked once more. Nothing. She greeted him with a smile—he needn’t know it came from relief and not from any pleasure at seeing him. “A good morn to you, my lord.”
“And to you, Marian.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Are you ready?”
Devil. He was trying to throw her back into the embarrassment of the previous afternoon, but she was prepared this time. Her smile was steady. “Nearly, my lord. A moment to say farewell to my cousin.”
Matilda went over to the lean-to and perched on the edge of Robin’s cot. “You do look better, now there’s enough light to see. You have your color back.”
“Edith’s willow bark has eased the pain some, and I vow I can feel the knitbone working even as I lie. I told you this was a better place for me.” His smile faded. “ ’Twould be a better place for you, too.”
“Robin …”
“I know, I know. You are going no matter what I say.”
“For your sister’s sake.” Wearing a wry grin, she winked at him, then leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. “Heal quickly, Rob. You must be ready to ride when we get back.”
“I will be.” He slipped his hand behind her neck and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. “Tell him. And be wary of him.”
“I will do both.” She pressed another kiss on him, tugged his hand away, and rose to face Edith and Ivetta. “I could not leave with an easy heart, were he not in such good hands.”
“You can be sure he is.” Edith stepped past her to hand Robert yet another bowl of pottage—his third this morning, by Matilda’s count. “We shall have him healed in a trice, Ivetta and me.”
“And he will be fat as Osbert when you come back, no doubt,” said Hamo, leaning his mattock against the tree and coming to join the women. “They will do well by him. ’Twas good you let us bring him here.”
“I cannot offer thanks enough.”
“Then say a prayer or two for us amid those you make for young Robin’s sister.” He pressed a penny into her hand. “And give this to the priest in Lincoln, to say Mass for us.”
“I …” Guilt heated her cheeks as Robert frowned at her over the collier’s shoulder. No matter what he thought of her skill at lying, she did not enjoy it. “I will see to it.”
“And I will remind her,” said Steinarr. He came up beside her and plucked the coin off her open palm. “Better yet, I will pay for your Mass, by way of thanks for keeping young Robin. And I will buy you another for putting up with Ari. He has decided to play a little longer at physician. He wishes to linger in the area to watch over Robin and see that his leg heals straight.” He tossed the coin back to Hamo, who thanked him. “Come, Marian. We waste good light. You will ride behind me.”
Behind him. Touching him. Holding him. Matilda’s stomach slid sideways at the idea. She looked to Goda’s oldest brother, Much, who had just led out the mare. “But I have—”
“That animal will never complete such a journey.” Steinarr held out his hand. “Give me your things.”
Unwilling to let either him or Robert see how much this disturbed her, she forced the smile back to her lips and handed over the bundle. But when he stepped around to add it to the pile of gear on the rouncey, she followed him.
“The mare is strong enough, my lord. I would rather ride her.”
“If you insist.” He pulled the knot tight and wiggled things to make sure the load was secure. “She will slow us down a good deal, but if you think Robin’s sister will last long enough, I am willing to try her.”
Curse it. He was right, of course, even if for the wrong reason. Robert’s wish to join the colliers had cost them yet another day. If the mare slowed them even a little … No, she couldn’t risk that this whole thing would come to nothing, that she would give her body to this man for naught. “Perhaps you are right. I will ride behind.”
She signaled for Much to put the mare back and stepped around to the stallion’s left to mount. It put her out of sight of the others, and her smile fell away.
Before she could get it back, Sir Steinarr ducked beneath the horse’s neck to join her. He gave no indication he’d noticed her lack of smile, but as he reached down to check the stallion’s girth, he leaned close and dropped his voice. “It is not so terrible, Marian. Think of it as a chance to become accustomed to having your arms around me.”
Enough. If she did not regain some of her own, he would make the next weeks entirely miserable. She put on her most innocent expression. “Have others found it so unpleasant, then, my lord, that I must practice to endure it? ”
He pulled back to look at her, eyes narrowed, and for an instant she thought she’d exceeded herself as a peasant, or perhaps struck too close to his male pride. Then he chuckled and flipped the stirrup back into place. “You will soon enough discover that for yourself.”
He laced his fingers together and leaned down to give her a hand up. She hesitated. This was where it had started, with him helping her mount. This was where she’d first touched him, body and mind. She checked her defenses again, then took hold of the saddle, stepped into his hands, and let him lift her up. A moment later, he settled into the saddle in front of her, and she tentatively slid her hands around his waist.
“See, ’tis not so bad,” he murmured.
No, it wasn’t bad at all. He was lean and strong, the sort of man she had always liked to ride behind. And more importantly, her mind remained hers. She breathed deeply, perhaps for the first time since she’d made this decision. She truly could do this.
“So you are away, then,” said Osbert, coming up beside Hamo. He looked as unhappy as if she really had intended to marry him and was now riding off with another man.
“We are,” she said gently. “Farewell, Osbert.”
“God speed you back to us. Take care of her, my lord.”
Steinarr nodded. More farewells and Godspeeds echoed around the clearing, a few accompanied by childish tears. Finally, Matilda twisted around to say one more farewell to Robert.
“I will return soon,” she said. “You will hardly miss me.”
“I already do miss you. Be safe, Maud.” He struggled to raise himself up on his hands. “My lord. A word before you go?”
Steinarr reined the stallion around so he could see him more easily, “Be quick about it.”
“I fear for my cousin’s safety on this journey,” said Robert. “Will you see to it with all your might? ”
“Of a certs,” said Steinarr. “She will come to no harm while I am with her.”
“And what of her honor, my lord? Will you guard that as well? ”
Matilda gasped. “Robin!”
Steinarr went rigid before her. “What? ”
“Will you guard Marian’s chastity with as much vigor as you do her safety?” Robin’s voice filled the clearing as though he were a priest in a church. “I would have your vow as a man and a knight before I see you ride away with her.”
“You little—”
“Of course he will,” said Sir Ari quickly, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Won’t you, Steinarr? ”
Matilda’s cheeks burned as though she’d been slapped. “This is not necessary.”
“I think it is,” said Robin. “Your vow, my lord.”
“It seems a fair thing for the lad to ask, my lord,” said Osbert, and agreement rippled through the gathered colliers.
“You are taking the maid on pilgrimage, after all.” Ari stepped over and grabbed the stallion’s bridle. The corners of his mouth, twitching wildly as he fought a grin, betrayed how much he was enjoying the sport. Matilda suddenly understood that he knew what his friend had planned for her, and her cheeks grew hotter yet. It was all she could do not to fling herself from the horse and run away in mortification, but if she got off, she would surely never get back on and all would be lost.
The grin won out, and Ari beamed up at them, nearly laughing. “Surely you don’t intend to tup a holy pilgrim.”
A growl rumbled up under Matilda’s hands and rattled against the edges of her mind. She jerked her hands away. No, no, no, no, no.
“Your vow, my lord,” repeated Robin. “Or she may not go.”
“And who are you to say what she may or may not do?”
Even from behind him and even working to keep her mind away from his, Matilda knew there must surely be murder in Steinarr’s eyes. Please, no.
“He is her cousin,” said Ari, his smile falling away. “And the only man here from her family. It is his right and his duty to protect her. So there it is. You can swear to Robin, or you can leave Marian here and break the oath you made to help her on her journey. ’Tis simple enough. Come, friend, make the vow you surely already intend to keep.”
