by Lisa Hendrix
“Aye, that would be bad. The priest would be right there to marry us.”
His growl was barely audible, but his anger rattled her skull like an earthquake. “Let us find your archbishop with his linnets and see what he has to tell us.”
It took little effort to find the handsome statue in the corner of the yard nearest the minster. To Matilda’s surprise, it wasn’t like the chess piece at all, but a simple representation of a cleric in a miter holding a shepherd’s staff, done in an ancient style. But though it was beginning to show the wear of ages, the graceful linnets around the base stood out clear.
As soon as a group of pilgrims moved aside, Steinarr quickly found the one that matched the figure on their cloth. His forehead creased with puzzlement. “There is an arrow scratched through it.”
“How odd.” Matilda turned circles, searching for more of their clues. A black marker a stone’s throw away caught her eye and she scurried over. “A corner is broken off, my lord.”
Steinarr came over as she fished out the black chip and matched it to the piece, a headstone for someone named Petronilla.
“That is Robin’s mother’s name,” exclaimed Matilda.
“I thought she was from Kent.”
“She was. Is. This surely is not her, for she still lives, but it is the same name.”
“And here is another arrow.” He pointed at a few faint lines Matilda had marked as simple scratches, but which now mated with similar lines on the headstone to form a rough arrow. “Now, for the hand.”
That took longer. They wandered through the headstones and monuments, searching for an image or statue. It was Matilda who finally spotted the tiny shrine built into the wall, half-hidden by overgrown bushes. In it, a statue of some noblewoman stood with outstretched arms, one gloved hand in the precise position of theirs, except that it held a slender arrow.
“Three arrows. That surely means something. Perhaps …” Steinarr backed away, following the line of the lady’s arrow. “Sight along the arrow on the black stone.”
Matilda hurried to obey. “It meets your track, my lord.”
He held out his arm and sighted along it to the archbishop’s linnet and kept backing until the three lines converged. “They come together right … here.”
Here was another headstone, a rich man’s stone, nearly shoulder high and heavily carved with leaves and vines. Matilda joined Steinarr before the stone and read out the name.
“Robert fitz Walter!” Stunned, she bent to trace a finger over the next words. “Anno Domini MCXCVII. Year of Our Lord … one thousand one hundred ten and … no, nine-tens and seven. I think. I have never been good with ciphers.”
“An ancestor?”
“If so, one who shares Robin’s name. How very strange. I wonder if Father showed this to Rob when they came on pilgrimage.” And if he had, whether he had done so with a father’s pride or to remind Robert that he would never truly be a Fitzwalter, even if he did share a given name with one. “I have it. A lady—my mother. A bishop who would not let Father annul the marriage for lack of a son. And Petronilla, his mistress. And they all point to this Robert. This must be it.”
“Very good, Marian.” Steinarr began running his hands over the stone, searching. “The only thing left is the key. There must be something for it to open.”
Matilda followed him around to the back of the stone, which was engraved with a quaint figure of a knight wearing mail and an old-style pot-helm. She did a little courtesy. “Good day, Sir Robert. You may be my grandsire’s grandsire.”
Still searching, Steinarr squatted at the corner of the stone. “Is anyone watching?”
Matilda glanced around. “No. I don’t—” A sharp clang at her feet made her jump. She looked down to find Steinarr, his big knife in his fist, hammer-wise. “What are you doing? ”
“Hush. Look elsewhere. You draw too much attention.”
She bent over, her voice urgent. “You cannot defile a gr—”
Another sharp blow loosened the edge of the stone, revealing a seam. Working swiftly, Steinarr slid the point of his blade in the gap, popped the slab loose, and stuck his hand into the hole. “I think you will find your key fits—”
“You there! What are you doing?”
Matilda glanced up to find a priest charging across the churchyard, a baleful glare in his eye. She stepped out from behind the stone to block him and heard a scuffle of motion behind her.
“Good morrow, Father.” She bent a knee and reached for his hand in the hope he would stop and acknowledge her, but he pushed past.
“What are you doing, you … oh. My lord.”
Steinarr was on his knees, hands reverently folded and eyes closed. His knife was in its scabbard, the stone appeared to be whole, and absolutely nothing gave any indication that he was doing anything besides praying. He opened one eye. “Is there some problem, Father? ”
“I, um, no, my lord. That is, I heard a hammer blow and thought it came from here.”
“Do I look like a carpenter?” asked Steinarr with the kind of disdain reserved for lessers.
The priest flushed. “Of course not, my lord. Is this Robert fitz Walter an ancestor of yours?”
“So I am told. And now, I assume you will let me finish my prayer.”
“Yes, of course, my lord. Your pardon. And yours, my lady.”
“No lady am I, Father. Only his lady’s servant.” She strolled away with the priest, moving him along to give Steinarr time to do whatever he must. “He carries me to my lady’s service in Newark, but he is a very pious man and we stop at every church along the way. I think he must have ancestors in every churchyard in England.”
“The Fitzwalters are a powerful family. The current lord, David, has been a good friend to Sudwell. How is this knight related to him? ”
So, word of Father’s death hadn’t traveled to Sudwell yet. Good. That meant Guy hadn’t been here either. Matilda’s smile grew more genuine.
“His mother is a distant cousin, I think he said. Forgive me, Father. The blow you heard was my knife. I took it out to trim a thread from my sleeve and dropped it. It hit the stone, and then I bumped it again as I picked it up.” She touched the blade at her waist apologetically. “It rang out quite loudly, I fear, though no damage was done.”
The priest’s pinched expression eased into a relieved smile. “Ah. That is good to know. We had some trouble at that very grave two years past. Some foul spirit disturbed the soil, trying to heave it over, and when I saw you there … Please give your knight my apologies.”
“Of course, Father. I will explain it to him. But now I must go. He will want to ride as soon as he finishes.”
“Will he not go to pray in the church as well? ”
“I am not certain. My lady waits, and he has already taken too long getting me to her, with all his prayers. Your pardon, Father, I think he is done.” She bobbed neatly and backed away.
Steinarr was on his feet, and he marched off with nothing more than a peremptory flick of his finger. Matilda hurried after, not risking so much as a glance at Lord Robert’s grave for fear the priest was watching. Two years ago. Father had been with King Edward two years ago. That must be when they devised their cursed test and put it all in place.
They crossed the churchyard and headed down the street and were halfway back to the flesher’s before Steinarr slowed enough for her to fall in beside him.
“Did you get it?” she asked, excited. “What is it? I thought the priest was going to—”
A flash of red and green ahead caught her eye, and then vanished as Steinarr tugged the black hood forward over her eyes.
“The hrosshvalr comes straight at us.” He took her elbow and steered her toward the nearest shop. “Stay here, lest he see us together, and keep your head down, lest he see those lips.”
And then he was gone, vanished down the crowded street, leaving her standing there in front of a glover, who took one look at her lumpy, moth-eaten gown and began rearranging his war
es, reaching far across the table to pull his finer gloves close in a clear attempt to discourage her from thieving. She glared at him for the insult, but she had no choice but to stay, pretending to examine the few poor pairs he left within reach.
Behind her, Baldwin’s outriders called warnings and jostled through the crowd. The wagon creaked closer. Another moment, and he’d be past and she could breathe again.
The creaking stopped. “You there.”
The glover looked up. “Yes, my lord? ”
“Not you. Her.”
Sweet Virgin. Matilda caught at the edge of the table to steady herself. She would fight him, every step. She would never make the vows. She tensed, prepared to run.
“Yes, my lord? ” said the woman at the next stall.
“Are those beef or mutton?”
The woman held up a plump pie. “Lamb, my lord, and the best in Sudwell town. Would you have one? ”
“Let me see more closely. What spices do you use?”
Matilda’s fingers bit into the wood as her heart stuttered and restarted. Food. Baldwin and food, always food.
“Buy or move on, woman,” growled the glover.
“Your pardon,” she muttered, lowering her voice so much, she sounded like the laundress at home. She fought the urge to dash away, knowing Baldwin would take note, and shambled to the next stall, looked a moment, then moved to the next and the next, until she found a corner and could duck off the street into a narrow passage between buildings.
She stood there shaking, furious at Baldwin and his incessant quest for food, at her father for betrothing her to such a man, and at Steinarr for abandoning her on the street, even though she understood why—if Baldwin had recognized Steinarr from the road, he would have taken a second look at any woman with him, fat hips or no. But where was Steinarr now? She flattened against a wall, unwilling to risk sticking so much as a nose around the corner to see if Baldwin was gone, and when a wagon groaned past in the road, she hurried even deeper into the alley and crouched down behind an empty tun of wine.
She was still huddled there, surrounded by the vinegar smell of the barrel, when footsteps approached. She whipped out her knife, ready to fight if need be.
“Marian? Curse it, I saw you come back here. Where are you?”
She unfolded and stood there shaking. “Where were you? I thought … I thought …”
“I know. So did I.”
“Lamb pies,” she said.
“He bought three.”
“You stayed near, then?”
“I would never have let him take you.”
The fearsome certainty in his words made tears prick at Matilda’s eyes. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“He has rolled off to gorge himself. I watched to be certain which way he went. Come, my sturdy butcher’s wife. Let us return those clothes and get well away from this place and him, and then”—he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and held out his hand—“I will show you what I found in the graveyard.”
Take his hand? Hardly safe, considering how fragile her defenses felt. However, now that the urgency of the moment had faded, she found she needed some strength beyond her own to steady her legs. She drew a bracing breath before she stepped out from behind her tun and laid her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, bringing with that simple embrace a deep sense of relief that, whether it was his or hers, was most welcome.
“I would like that very much, my lord. The farther away, the better.”
STEINARR RODE WEST, carrying Marian into a part of the shire wood he knew well in an effort to get her as far from Baldwin as possible. The thought of her wed to that hrosshvalr , at his beck and call, in his bed, drove him to push the horses hard, and before the afternoon was half over, they were deep enough into the forest that he felt she was safe. As did she, evidently, for as he grew more at ease, so did she, toward the end settling against his back with a sigh that sounded more like a yawn.
“You grow weary.”
“A little,” she admitted.
“We will stop soon. I know a place.”
“Another of your caves or hermit’s cells? ”
The teasing note in her voice made him smile and respond in kind. “Better. An elf house.”
“Truly?” She lifted her head. “My nurse used to tell me tales of elves, until Father caught her at it. He sent her away for filling my head with foolish lies and brought in a cleric to teach me Latin instead.”
“To our fortune in this quest. However, elves are as real as you and I,” he assured her.
“And they live in this place you take me?”
“I have not seen them there, but it seems the sort of place they would like.”
“Gunnora said they live under the ground, in mines and deep caves.”
“Only the dark elves. Others live in the waters of springs and in the dark parts of the forest. But still others, the light elves, move between the bright forest glades and the clouds, and slip amongst men and women, disguised as the fairest of the fair. You might be an elf.”
“You flatter, my lord. And you surprise me. I did not know you had the tongue of a bard.”
“I don’t. I only borrow from Ari.”
“Ah, well, I am no elf either—light or dark. I do not love the woods enough. I would rather eat in a hall and sleep in a soft bed. You, however, seem to have the greenwood in your blood. Are you elvish? ”
“You have discovered it at last,” he said solemnly. “I am an outlaw elvish woodward.”
“I knew it,” she said, and her laugh went to his head like strong wine. “Tell me more about your people, my lord elf, to keep my mind from this.” She patted the bulk at his waist, the item he’d found in Sudwell.
“You are being strangely patient.”
“Only because I must. I made up my mind I would not ask to see it until we arrive at our night’s camp, so as not to slow us. You were speaking of elves, monsire. Do they stay always young as Gunnora said? ”
“Young, fair, and full of magic, which sadly, they use for mischief against men. There was once a midwife, who was taken among the elves to deliver a child unto their queen …” He told the old tale, one he’d heard from his mother and again from Ari around the fire, drawing on the skald’s language as much as he could remember it for the sake of pleasing Marian.
The final mile passed, and at last he spotted the old track, little more than a deer trail. He turned down it, plunging deeper into the forest wilds. There was just enough time to finish the story before they rode into the glade, still strangely open though the trees all around had grown taller and thicker. “And when they realized she’d stolen their queen’s magic looking glass to admire herself, they struck her blind in the right eye and left her to live her life as a poor woman.”
“I wonder if that is what happened to our cook,” mused Marian. “She is blind in the right eye.”
“Perhaps she cooked for them and put too much salt in their food. Here we are.” He swung off the stallion and helped her down.
“Show me.” Her patience vanished the instant her feet touched the ground. She snatched the box from his hand as soon as he produced it and ran her fingertips over the design hammered into the aged green copper. “I know this box! Father used to keep his favorite jewels and rings in it. You never said how you knew it was there in the stone.”
“There was a little key scribed on one corner. I saw the seam where a piece had been mortared in. Go on. See what it holds.”
She dropped to her knees right there and fished out the little key from the purse in her scrip. But when she fitted it to the lock, she hesitated, her hand frozen over the key and her lips pressed into that tempting line. Not for the first time, Steinarr wished he hadn’t sworn off kissing her. Those lips were so very sweet …
As he watched, a wash of pink colored her cheeks.
“Why do you wait?” he asked.
“You solved the puzzle, and you found the casket. It seems fair that you shoul
d open it.”
“It is not my quest.”
“Nor mine, but we both find ourselves making it, nonetheless.” Her fingers tightened on the key, but still didn’t turn. “I keep thinking of what you said at Harworth, that Father was either cruel or an ass. What if this is a false trail? What if Father laid it only as an elaborate trick to hurt Robin one last time?”
“So long as there are clues to follow, you must assume the game is real.” He squatted beside her and curled his hand over hers, wanting to comfort and offer his strength, but also grateful for any excuse to touch her. “There is only one way to find out. Shall we do it together? ”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. Together they turned the key, and the box opened with a rusty click. Reluctantly releasing her hand, he flicked the lid open.
“Another parchment.” She unfolded it and scanned it quickly. “’Tis in English. That may mean some play on words again.”
“Can you read it?”
“Aye, but it will take me a little. I am better with French and Latin.”
Three languages. She—a woman—could read in three languages, and he could barely make out runes in his own tongue. She was from a different world, newer than his own, full of books and learning, where a simple lord’s hall was grander than the old king’s palace and where soaring churches reduced even the great hall of Asgard to little more than a hovel. Ari had been right, even if he’d denied it: she would never want a man like him. The only way he’d ever had her at all was by guile, and fool that he was, he’d done his best to make her despise him. And if she ever found out what he truly was …
“Monsire?” She looked up, her face pinched with what might be sadness.
“Work out what it says,” he said. “I will care for the horses and then you can read it to me.”
CHAPTER 12
“WELL?”
Matilda held up the parchment between thumb and finger, much as she had the flesher’s gown earlier, and read it out. “ ‘To prove the worth of your blood, be reborn from its stone beneath the midday sun.’ ‘Prove the worth of your blood,’ he says. Even in this he humiliates Robert.”
