Shadow of the Swan

by Judith Sterling

  “What about your breeches?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “We’ve gone far beyond the need for those, don’t you think?”

  Her lips twisted. “Very well. But only at bedtime and in our chamber.”

  He chuckled. “What? Do you think I’d parade my naked frame before all of Druid’s Head?”

  She giggled, then gave him a pointed look. “Nothing you do would surprise me.” Then she sobered and laid her cool hand on his arm. “Thank you for understanding, Robert.”

  He nodded. “I’m trying my best.”

  She released a long sigh. “Believe it or not, so am I.”

  Chapter Eleven

  For quite some time, Constance paced in the solar, shifting her attention from one tapestry to another, then to nothing at all as her mind raced beyond reason. Though the bedchamber door remained closed, Robert’s snores punctuated her thoughts.

  The kiss. His tenderness and patience. His hands and mouth teaching her the pleasures of love. The giving soul behind those silver-gray eyes.

  The intrusion of Dominy’s face, smashing all they’d built into ruins.

  She stopped short. No! I shan’t allow it!

  Dominy was the past. Robert was the future. And that was that.

  She sighed. The church preached of demons in the spiritual realm, but memory created fiends just as powerful.

  Folding her hands, she looked toward the patch of twilit sky visible through the open window. God, grant me the grace to release the thoughts that grieve me. Help me to feel whole again and find happiness with my husband. He deserves a wife unburdened by pain and doubt. Heal me. Please.

  Every inch of her flesh erupted in goosebumps. Yet the night was warm.

  One of the tapestries drew her gaze. Its masterfully woven threads formed the image of a yew tree.

  An impulse gripped her. The yew outside the keep, in the garden. I must go thither.

  Obeying instinct, she crossed the solar and entered the hall. She slunk past the sleeping servants and hurried out of the keep and down the steps to the garden. There she froze.

  A woman in gray stood staring at the yew tree. Her back was turned, but the chill creeping along Constance’s spine revealed her identity. ’Twas the ghost she’d seen before.

  The sundry scents of flowers and herbs, almost as phantoms themselves, roamed the garden. Constance drank them in as she inched closer to the woman.

  “I saw you before…in the bedchamber. Will you speak with me now?”

  Without turning, the ghost crouched down. She reached into the ground as if ’twere water, submerging her arm to the elbow. Then she pulled out her arm and stood up again.

  Constance halted a couple of yards away. “What do you seek? Is something buried there?”

  With her back still turned, the woman looked up at the keep.

  Stepping forward, Constance reached out to touch her but faltered at the last moment. “If you won’t speak, at least show your face.”

  The ghost vanished. The garden was quiet and still as a tomb.

  Constance frowned at the patch of ground the spirit had indicated. Something must be hidden there. Why call attention to it otherwise?

  She looked beyond the yew tree, where a watering pot and bucket stood against the base of the keep. Hastening forward, she peered into the bucket.

  Pruning tools. Not much help in digging.

  A few feet away, farther behind the tree, a spade leaned against the stone wall.

  Perfect! She snatched the tool, returned to the front of the yew, and started digging.

  A short while later, the spade struck something hard. With renewed effort, she continued to dig, unearthing a richly decorated silver box, about a foot in length and seven inches high.

  She dropped the spade, knelt, and lifted the box toward the soft evening light. ’Twas heavier than she expected. “What on earth?”

  “I can answer that.”

  Constance started. Heat filled her cheeks as she turned toward the onlooker. “You can?”

  Meg stood with arms folded in the center of the garden. “Do you want to look inside it?”

  “Aye, but there’s a lock on the side.”

  “No matter. I have the key.”

  Constance’s eyes widened. “You? How?”

  “Because I buried the box. However did you find it?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Meg cocked her head to the side. “Oh, you’d be surprised by what I believe. Pray, tell me.”

  “A ghost…the one the servants whisper about…she bade me dig here.”

  “Did she now? Curious.”

  “Almost as curious as you burying this in the first place. Why did you?”

  Meg made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, let an old woman keep her secrets. But I’ll show you what’s inside, if you promise to tell no one. With the possible exception of Robert, when the time is right.”

  “I promise.”

  “And we must rebury it tonight.” She looked around, as if to make certain no one watched. “Come, let’s go somewhere private. Perhaps the solar?”

  Constance nodded and hugged the box to her torso as she stood. Together, they hastened into the keep and to the solar.

  Meg motioned toward the table between the high-backed chairs. “Set it there, if you will.” She reached into the leather pouch attached to her belt and withdrew a small key.

  Constance gave it a sidewise look. “You just happen to have it with you?”

  “I always have it with me, except when I sleep. Even then, I keep it close.”

  “That reminds me…why aren’t you abed?”

  “I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk.” Meg pushed the key in the lock and turned it. “Lucky I did, too.”

  Providential, more like. “Your timing—” She gasped as Meg lifted the lid and exposed the shining contents.

  Treasure! Gold and silver galore. Coins. Rings. Pendants. Amulets. Sword hilt fittings and pommel caps. A garnet-inlaid scabbard. A gold cross. And a hand-sized embroidery Meg removed with care.

  Constance moved closer to get a good look at it. “What is that?”

  Meg’s expression grew wistful. “The most valuable of all the items. To me, at least. My mother made it.”

  “But what is that symbol?”

  “The triquetra, a trefoil knot similar to the valknut symbol attributed to the god Woden.”

  “Woden, like the pond. A Saxon name. But Druid’s Head sounds Celtic.”

  “The first Lord Ravenwood harnessed the magic of Saxon and Celt. This land, including Ravenwood and Nihtscua, is imbued with a mixture of both.”

  The glow of dwindling candles drew Constance’s gaze. Magic. Just another word for the energy that flows from God, the same energy I felt at the pond. “Meg, you are of the Ravenwood line. Does that magic favor you?”

  The essence of youth sparkled in the older woman’s violet eyes. “It does. And Lord Nihtscua’s line, too.”

  That’s how he saw my past, and how Freya divined my doubts. “And how does this magic manifest in you?”

  “Dreams, or so most would call them. Emma, Lady Ravenwood, has visions. Her grandmother wove magic into tapestries…the ones you see around you, as well as those at Ravenwood.”

  “And the swan tapestry in the bedchamber here. Sir Robert told me. Of course, he left the magic part out.” She glanced at the nearest chair. “Oh. Forgive me. Do sit down.” She took a seat as Meg did the same.

  “Thank you, my dear. Aye, in one way or another, all those of the Ravenwood line have the ability to walk between.”

  “Between?”

  “Think of it as access to the realm of spirit.”

  Constance pointed toward the embroidery. “Does that also hold some form of magic?”

  “Not magic, but a reminder of it. The triquetra and valknut symbolize that all existence is linked together. Body, mind, and spirit. Past, present, and future. We can transcend the body—and time itself—by focusing
the mind or flexing the spirit. And in the realm of spirit, anything is possible.”

  “I believe that. I always have.”

  Meg smiled. “When you transcend the physical, you’re free. Time and distance fade away. We think of our lives as going in a straight line…the past affecting the present, which affects the future. But experience has taught me that the past, present, and future all exist right now. ’Tis part of what the pond teaches.”

  Constance sat up straight. “The pond.”

  “Woden’s Pond and the Mirror Oaks contain old magic, reaching back to the druids. The area was once a sacred site, which is why most of the people keep their distance.” Meg’s keen eyes narrowed. “Did the pond give you a vision?”

  “It gave me two.”

  “Of the past or the future?”

  “The future. Well…the second time, at least.” The vision came back to her: Robert standing naked beside the pond. Her pulse quickened.

  “And the first vision?”

  “I’m not sure, but it had to be the future.”

  Meg leaned forward. “Forget what you think must be and feel what is.”

  Constance closed her eyes and conjured the memory. Robert’s bare chest. His obvious torment. Her need to ease it. The sense of a desert land. The Holy Land?

  “Mayhap I saw the past. But I don’t see how—”

  “Don’t worry about the how. Not for the moment. The pond showed you what you needed to see, and I presume the ghost did the same.”

  Constance gestured to the silver box. “Why would I need to see this?”

  Meg ran her fingers over her mother’s needlework. “Perhaps so you’d see this.”

  “The symbol? But why?”

  “To remind you of your power.”

  Constance frowned. “I don’t understand. What power have I?”

  Meg handed her the embroidery. “The same we all have. The power to recreate yourself every day. To step outside of time—beyond your past and your present—and choose your future.”

  ****

  Robert stirred in bed and opened his eyes. A rush of awareness told him someone was watching. Someone to his left. He turned.

  Constance stood beside the bed, gazing down at him.

  He smiled. “’Tis you…though I’m not sure who else I expected. Did you clear your head like you wanted?”

  She said nothing but kept eye contact.

  He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  Still no response.

  He moved to sit up, but she shook her head and held out her palm in a halting gesture.

  With eyebrows raised, he sank back onto his pillow. “If you’d rather have me on my back, so be it.” He grinned, until she leaned over him. What?! She’s going to kiss me! His heart beat faster. Every nerve in his body tingled with anticipation.

  Her hair fell over her shoulders. Her lips were inches away. Then she hesitated.

  “Constance?”

  She pulled away and straightened.

  Disappointment shot through him. “Why did you stop? And why won’t you speak?”

  She stared at him a moment longer, then turned her back and walked toward the tapestry.

  He huffed in annoyance and rolled onto his side away from her. “Fine. If you’d rather ignore me.” He shut his eyes, slowed his breathing, and concentrated on falling back asleep.

  A little while later, the chamber door opened and closed.

  He sighed. She left again. Whither to this time?

  The sound of swooshing fabric met his ears. It came from the direction of the tapestry. What in the name of…He rolled over.

  Clad in her chemise, Constance laid her clothes out on the table.

  He frowned. “I thought you left.”

  She whirled, and her hand flew to her chest. “Oh! You startled me. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “So now you’re in the vein to talk.”

  “You sound irritated.”

  He sat up in bed. “Do I? Your silence earlier might have something to do with that.”

  “Silence?”

  “When you stood beside the bed and leaned over me.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t lean over you.”

  “Constance, I saw you with my own eyes. I spoke to you…several times…but you didn’t speak to me.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “A short while ago.”

  She folded her arms. “That’s impossible. I was in the solar and…out walking until just a moment ago.”

  “But…” He scratched his head.

  “Honestly, don’t you think I’d respond if you spoke to me?”

  “I would’ve thought so.” Was she lying? What could she possibly gain from it?

  “Perhaps you dreamed it, Robert.”

  He looked toward the open window, through which the dying light stole into the chamber. “If so, ’twas a most vivid dream.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Forgive me, but—”

  “I speak true.” She marched around to her side of the bed and slipped between the sheets. “I don’t know why you won’t believe me, but I’d rather not discuss it anymore. I’ve had less sleep than you, and the dawn waits for no one. Good night.” She rolled away from him and pulled a good portion of the covers with her.

  “Good night.” With a sigh, he lay back and stared up at the darkened canopy. He wanted to believe her, but something didn’t feel right. I know what I saw! But it seemed the only path toward peace was to forget it. If he could.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Constance, wake up.”

  Robert’s voice. Deep and oddly demanding.

  The memory of their disagreement rushed back to her. Was he still cross?

  She rubbed her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position. Daylight streamed through the open window, illuminating every corner of the bedchamber. Already dressed, Robert stood at the foot of the bed. He wore red, and the color suited him. But then, what color didn’t?

  He came around to her side of the bed. “I let you sleep as long as I could, but now you must get up. Most of the morning is gone.”

  “What? My duties—”

  “Meg’s taking care of them. She was happy to do it.”

  “But why didn’t you wake me? Or Alice—”

  “Alice is in the solar, waiting to help you dress. And I thought you could use a little extra sleep after your late night.”

  She frowned. “About that…you’re not angry?”

  “Life’s too short for anger.”

  “You believe me then.”

  He averted his gaze. “List, I don’t know what happened last night, but it surely isn’t worth arguing about.” He regarded her again. “Besides, I have a proposition for you. With Meg taking over your duties for the day—”

  “The whole day?”

  “Aye. I asked her to.” He ran his hand down the green bed curtain.

  “Why?”

  He gave her a winning grin. “So we can spend more time together.”

  Her stomach dropped. “Doing what?”

  “Not what you think, if I’m to gauge by your expression. We shall spend the day doing our favorite things.”

  “Both yours and mine?”

  “Of course. We’ll take turns, and mayhap we’ll introduce each other to something new.” He pointed to the table. “There’s mead over there if you’re thirsty. I’ll send in Alice. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting in the hall.” He pivoted around and with a spring in his step, strode from the chamber.

  Alice shuffled in. “Good morrow, my lady. What color will you wear today?”

  Constance’s heart lightened, and she leapt out of bed. “Yellow.” A bright color to match what promised to be a sunny day, in every sense.

  A short while later, she entered the hall. Robert stood with his back turned, his attention on the servants scrubbing the trestle tables. She snuck up to him and tapped him on the back.


  Abruptly, he turned. Then he glanced at her attire and smiled. “You are as a ray of sunshine.”

  Her gaze dropped to his tunic. “And you are red as…I don’t know what.”

  “How about your cheeks?”

  The heat in them was undeniable. She giggled. “Right you are. You have a particular talent for making me blush.”

  He gave her a wicked grin. “And I cannot help but relish it.”

  Her heart fluttered. Apparently, he relished many things…

  “So, my lady, you first. What shall we do?”

  Her stomach rumbled, and she snapped her fingers. “I have it. Follow me.”

  She led him out of the keep, past the garden, through the gate, and down the motte steps. The smell of chopped onions and roasting meat filled her senses as they passed the kitchens. They continued past the vegetable garden and stopped in front of the bakery.

  Robert breathed deeply and sighed. “Ah! Nothing like the smell of baking bread. But why have you brought me hither? Food is one of my favorite things.”

  She twisted her lips. “Aye, we’ve established that. But I’m rather fond of it, too.” As if to voice its accord, her stomach howled.

  He laughed. “Evidently. And I thought my stomach was loud!”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Wait here.” She dashed into the next-door dairy, grabbed a roll of butter, and returned to him.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Butter. I took it medicinally as a child, but I like it best slathered on bread.”

  “Have you ever had it melted on fresh, warm bread?”

  “I cannot say I have. The bread is always cold.”

  “Then this will be a treat. Come.”

  They entered the bakery, just as the baker fed a large round of hand-molded dough into one of the hearth’s hive-shaped ovens.

  Constance stepped forward. “Good day to you, Byron.”

  The baker turned, and his face lit up. “My lady!” He gave a nod. “Sir Robert. How may I assist you?”

  She scanned the tables. “Where is your freshest bread?”

  Byron motioned for them to follow, and they moved to the far corner. “I took these rolls from the oven just moments ago.”

  Her mouth watered. “We would eat two now, with this butter. You’re welcome to have one as well.”