Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02]

by The Crystal Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  Dylan’s stomach growled audibly as the cats coiled around his legs and gave little chirps of greeting. The chatelaine was clearly a little mad. He was uneasy, but not acutely so, and Aenor was bristling with energetic outrage. “No. We have to go now.”

  “Must you? I have so little company. My relatives do not like me,” she added in a conspiratorial voice. “I have a lovely chicken roasting in the kitchen. Surely you will bear me company awhile. I will not harm you.”

  “Where is this place?” Aenor asked abruptly.

  “Here. Near Saumur. Please, do not go. Let me give you a new gown, cousin Alianora.” Brenna reached out and plucked at the gore-spattered pleatings on Aenor’s breast, and the girl shrank back.

  “We would prefer some horses,” Dylan said.

  “Horses? Hmm. I have not conjured those in some time. But if you will dine with me, I will do my best. I warn you, though, I may only be able to manage donkeys.” Aenor giggled in spite of herself. The floor was crawling with cats, about two dozen, all fawning on Dylan and batting each other to get closer to him, mewing and purring. “Can you sit on a donkey, Dylan?” Apparently she found the idea amusing.

  Disgruntled, he shrugged. “I have never tried. I take it you wish to stay for dinner?’ ’

  “I am hungry too, years hungry,” she answered simply. “And I wish to remove some of this mess from me.”

  the unkempt lady smiled at them. “Come. I shall show you to the laundries. I have nothing that might clothe you, good sir,” she added apologetically.

  “It would astound me if you did.”

  “This way. I used to know a spell—I used to know many—for making a robe to turn away harm. Let me see. Rosemary and flax, the voice of an owl. Basil and birch.” She was leading them towards the back of the hall, cats trailing behind her. She stopped abruptly, turned back and struck Dylan’s belt pouch with her hand. One of Beth’s leaves leapt out and floated into her outstretched palm. “This will do very nicely,” she said, and tucked it into her bosom before Dylan could stop her.

  The hairs on his neck bristled and Dylan wondered if he should take the leaf back by force. Aenor touched the back of his wrist with cool fingers and shook her head. At the same time he felt the presence of the Lady of the Birches within him, and was somewhat reassured.

  “Why do you wish to do me this kindness, my lady?” he asked.

  “Because it will infuriate my cousin, Pers Morel. He really is a terrible man, you know, refusing me. The cats were only a nuisance, but this—ah. You have a score to settle with him, manling, and I will help. I will have satisfaction.” She almost purred as she spoke.

  Dylan shivered a little and remembered that his mother had commented more than once that Hell had no fury like a woman scorned. It struck him as well that it might be unwise to treat Aenor lightly, for if she retained the powers of her voice she was quite capable of singing the house down around her ears. Even on brief acquaintance, he suspected she had a temper as monumental as any he had ever known, and had some of the same headstrong quality he had glimpsed in her brother. Why could it not have been simple and tidy? he wondered. Why were women so damnably complicated? And why had he ever wished for a woman like his mother? The thought of the two of them meeting made his knees weak. He would rather watch the Pope debate with the Devil.

  The laundry was a small stone room with wooden tubs. It smelled of damp and mold and the lingering odor of soap. One tub was filled with cold but fairly fresh water, and their hostess left them to find a fresh gown for Aenor. Dylan doubted it would be clean, considering the untidy person of the chatelaine du Chanterelle, but at least it would be free of worm gore and sweat. Politely, he turned his back and studied the doorway while she undressed and washed.

  Aenor came up beside him wrapped in a rough sheet, her golden hair now amber with moisture. The cloth clung to her small, round breasts and he could see the nipples beneath hardened with the chill of the room. Her skin was rosy with scrubbing and she looked more desirable than he had ever believed a woman could. She seemed quite oblivious to the impropriety of standing almost undressed with a man not kin or spouse, so he swallowed and turned away, removing his filthy cloak with a feeling of relief, and knelt beside the tub.

  Dylan cupped chill and faintly soapy water onto his face, then plunged his head into the stuff to get the muck out of his long curly hair. Shaking his head to clear the water from his ears, he washed his bare chest and shivered in earnest. He longed for the great deep wooden tub at Avebury, with the firepit beneath it, where he could have cooked away the tired muscles and soothed the numerous small scratches that now stung his body. It might as well be on the moon.

  Aenor came up and raised a comer of her drape and rubbed his chest with it. He caught a glimpse of leg and smooth belly, and cast his eye towards the low ceiling with a fervent wish to the goddess that she would stop being quite so lovely. He was certain he heard a faint laugh in his mind. The water had run down into the waist of his hose, plastering the wool against his skin and revealing his desire as if he were quite naked. Dylan stifled a deep groan, and Aenor moved behind him to continue drying his body. He let out his breath and watched several cats pick their way daintily across the damp floor towards him. No wonder Adam had eaten the apple. Dylan would have eaten the whole tree, roots and all, if Aenor had offered it to him at that moment.

  The return of their hostess, carrying a long gown draped across her extended arms and tripping over playful felines, banished these unworthy thoughts. During her absence her hair had somehow become even more dishevelled and she had a small smudge of soot on one fair cheek. Except for the continuous occurrence of cats from beneath her robes, she appeared terribly human, and Dylan realized that whatever other reasons she might have for her hospitality, she was genuinely lonely as well.

  “Alianora, here is a gown. I wore it at a ball in Paris, for King Philippe, so it is rather out of fashion. But all the others have been eaten by the moths. Silk, it seems, does not appeal to them as much as wool. Such a dance,” she continued reminiscently, shaking out the folds and holding it against her shoulders. “The torches, the music. ’Twas splendid. 1 was a real maiden then, not just an old woman no one loves.”

  The gown was a heavy white silk, cut very plainly in the manner Dylan thought of as servant’s dress, with deep sleeves edged in bands of gold embroidery. It smelled of lavender flowers and he suspected it had been carefully tucked in a closet for at least two decades, since Philippe Augustus had died when he was a mere babe. Probably longer, he decided. How old was Brenna du Chanterelle?

  “It is lovely,” Aenor said, draping the gown over her arm while trying to keep the sheet around her from slipping to the damp ground. “I am honored to wear it.”

  “Pooh. Dresses are like pearls. They die in boxes. Now you, young man, get out and take the cats with you. Do not frown at me, you great oaf. Alianora will suffer no harm by my ministrations. Off with you.” Brenna shooed him out of the laundry before he could really protest.

  Dylan found his way to the kitchen and sat on a rough bench, pondering the wonder of women as half a dozen cats attempted to occupy his lap. The room smelled of cooking chicken, wood smoke, and dried herbs which dangled from the rafters; they were homey and comforting odors. The warmth and his weariness combined, and he found his eyes heavy as he stroked the cats abstractedly, pausing once to stare at his strange silvery hand. His head nodded and he dozed.

  Dylan!

  Yes, Beth. She sparkled green and argent in his mind.

  Do you love this Aenor?

  / do not know. He felt himself pulled towards the shimmering goddess and the woman as well.

  Do you love me?

  Very much, dear Lady of Birches.

  Then love her that well, and I shall be content. And do not draw back or hesitate, or you shall feel the sting of my branches upon your very soul.

  Dylan snapped awake as a cat dug its claws into his thigh to prevent itself from slipping off his lap. “
Stop that, you little devil,” he said, curling his hand around the soft body to keep it in place. Another stood on its hind legs, digging its feet into his groin, and butted his chin with a bony head, buzzing noisily. “I wonder Pers Morel did not go mad.”

  The faint rustling of skirts behind him made Dylan dump his feline friends hastily onto the floor. He stood up and turned around. Brenna de Chanterelle swept in with Aenor, glorious in white samite with the sword once more girded around her slender waist. Her hair, unbound and almost dry, had millions of curls in it, and it caught the color of the fire, so she was gold and white from head to unshod toe. The scabbard made a gaudy streak against the silk, and he gaped at her magnificence.

  “Close your mouth or you will catch a fly,” ordered Brenna. “If only any man had ever looked at me that way. Ah, well, regrets pay no debts. Let us eat.” She scuttled over to the fireplace while Dylan pictured her dark hair contrasted with the gown Aenor wore. The Franconians must be paltry fellows, he decided, if they had overlooked the beauty of his hostess.

  Aenor came close to him, so he could smell the lavender and the slight scent of soap on her body. She touched his wrist lightly, without wile but ror reassurance. “Do not leave me again, friend,” she whispered.

  Dylan wanted to press her against him, to hold her until it hurt, but instead he stroked her face lightly with silver fingers. “No, I will not, friend. I like your hair unbound,” he added lamely.

  Aenor smiled at him and then seated herself on the bench beside the well-worn kitchen board. She looked out of place in her fancy dress, and he watched as she carefully folded the large sleeves, showing the pale blue of her undergown along the lower arms. Dylan wondered if he could beg a moth-eaten gown to wear on the road, then chuckled at himself as Brenna put a bubbling cauldron on the table. A thick vegetable stew, redolent of onions and herbs, steamed in it.

  Brenna put out battered wooden bowls and large spoons, then rescued the chicken from the spit and put it on a trencher. Several bold felines leapt up onto the table with effortless ease, and she swept them aside with an imperious gesture. They retreated to the end of the board and sat on their haunches like statues, radiating aloof outrage. Dylan sat down beside Aenor, and several more cats leapt into his lap. One stuck a triangular head up and peered at the chicken raptly.

  Dylan felt a prickle of his wild self, a tingle of staghoms on his brow. “Enough! Go sit by the fire and you may have the leavings!” He ordered the cats without any great confidence in their obedience. To his surprise, they vacated lap and board with boneless grace and retired to the hearth, glaring at him.

  “So, that is what you are,” Brenna said with some satisfaction. “Wine. We need wine.” She gazed abstractedly around the room, as if a jug of wine might suddenly materialize from thin air. Muttering, she gestured, and an ornate bottle thumped into the middle of the table. It was silver and jeweled, covered with crosses and adorned with thorns around the lip, and Dylan was certain it belonged on an altar in some church. “Sacramental. Ah, well, the priests get the best wine.” Brenna fetched some small wooden cups and seated herself across from them. “I steal everything,” she said, calmly filling the cups.

  Aenor’s lips quivered with suppressed laughter. “Why do you do that, my lady?”

  “Ennui, I suppose. Here, have some stew. Bread. I forgot the bread.” She snapped her fingers and a still warm loaf fell about a foot to the table. “I once had servants, but they all fell into Shadow or ran away. That was long ago. I stole your mother’s tapestries, Alianora. She did not need them, and I could not bear the sight of the True Trees another day longer. Do you want them back?”

  “No, thank you. I only wondered how they came here.” Aenor accepted a bowlful of steaming stew and spooned some daintily into her mouth. “Umm. Good. Did you steal this too?”

  “No, no, just the makings. An onion here, a carrot there. The townfolk hardly notice.” She handed Dylan a bowl.

  “I hardly imagine the priest won’t notice the missing wine flagon.”

  “Yes, but he’s a scrofulous fellow—and I will return the container. Now, tell me everything.”

  Aenor exchanged a glance with Dylan. “You know I was snatched from my bed and taken to the White Folk years ago, and there I remained until Dylan rescued me and brought me here. So, my everything is very brief.” She ate more stew.

  Dylan, who did not feel much like a rescuer, was surprised and pleased at this description. “You are too modest, my lady. You rescued me as much as the other.” “Friends take care of one another,” she answered. “But I would like to know how you came to find me.”

  Dylan chewed a large lump of carrot, swallowed, and tasted some of the wine. Then he launched into a somewhat edited narrative of his adventures, beginning with his dreams and skating over the horror of cleansing Paris rather quickly. Still, the chicken was reduced to a skeleton and the bread a mere heel before he was done. The cats got their promised treat before the fire, and he felt drowsily content.

  “The mage comes to Saumur,” Brenna said quietly. “The mage? You mean King Louis?”

  “Yes. He leads a great force of men to meet an army of Shadowlings which gather there—the Pers Morel and the other Guardians of the Way go there as well. It should be vastly amusing. You will settle my score with Pers Morel, won’t you?” Brenna asked, her dark eyes boring into him. “And Alianora’s. He took her to the caverns, you know.” Dylan felt the spell she tried to put upon him, and was annoyed. “I shall settle my own with Morel,” he replied grimly. “Who is Morel—really?’’

  “He, we, are the Guardians of the Way, those bom of the matings of mortals and White Folk, neither one kind nor the other. We are mortal but long-lived, and we possess something of the arts of the Fair Ones, though mine is little better than conjuring, for the most part. I did great magics once, ones far better than this mage-king, though he is rather good for a mortal. Nothing at all like you, shape-changer. That is a sort of magic quite beyond my powers, but I was good. And, having, I suppose, something of the pride of my ancestry, I thought that a wedding of my talents with Morel’s, who is the ablest of the

  Guardians, would be fortuitous.” Brenna paused and drew a ragged breath. “He felt we would not suit.” She hesitated and her lovely face transformed into a nightmare of fury for an instant. “He said the very sight of me sickened him!” She closed her eyes and regained some semblance of control, though she trembled slightly, and Dylan could feel Aenor’s hand clutching his where it rested on the bench. He glanced at her, and found her blue eyes sparkling with tears.

  “Kill him for your own reasons, and I shall be content. Now, you are weary, and I still have much labor to devise you a tunic. Come. I will show you to the bed.”

  Brenna du Chanterelle led them to a small chamber just off the main hall, a modest room which was spotlessly clean and, unlike the rest of the place, obviously well kept. There was a large bed with curtains around it, a small fireplace blazing merrily, a carved wooden chest and two high-backed chairs. Two of the walls were covered with tapestries, their colors bright and fresh, a courting scene and a wedding.

  The chatelaine looked around. “This was to be my bridal bed, but no one has ever used it.” She gave them a strange look. “I trust you will honor it,” she added cryptically, and whipped out the door in a flutter of draperies before Dylan could protest. He heard a jangle of keys and the door was locked.

  Aenor smiled and reached up and caressed his face. Dylan almost backed away, feeling trapped by an inexorable tide of feminine wiles. Aenor’s smile faded and she looked puzzled. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Our hostess is just a bit high-handed for my taste. I can sleep in one of the chairs.” She looked hurt for a moment, then angry. “1 will sleep in the other, then!”

  “Do not be foolish.”

  “The king of folly commands me not to be foolish! A fine jest, that.”

  “Aenor, you have been out of the world for years and years
. You cannot crawl into bed with ... the first man you meet. You must ... be practical.”

  “Practical! Phaugh! A fig for that.” She snapped her fingers expressively and was every inch an imperious Plantagenet, a womanly mirror of her brother. “Why can’t you pretend I am ... a nobody?”

  “Oh, fine. Just like a woman—no logic or sense! Tonight I should treat you like some maidservant or inn girl, but tomorrow, then what? What shall I say to your brother? ‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but she insisted.’ Shall I say I was drunk or ensorcelled? A fine figure I would make, with such a tale.”

  She slapped his face with a resounding smack, and Dylan, furious, grasped her wrist and jerked her arm. Aenor did not resist but leaned against his chest and put her ear over his heart. He had a clear sense that there was no way to win this particular battle, that Aenor would somehow go on submitting until he lost. He gazed down at the top of her head and glared at the golden hair.

  “Don’t you like me just a little?” she asked.

  “No. You are as treacherous as any woman ever born.” She was pressed against him tightly, and his body began to betray him again.

  “When you dreamt of me, how did you feel?”

  Dylan wished he could speak an easy lie and pretend he felt nothing, but that denial was impossible, for it would have denied Beth as well. The Lady of the Birches had given him too much, he thought, to merit such shabby treatment. “Great joy,” he said simply.

  Aenor slipped her free arm around his waist and lifted her head. He kissed her tenderly and was surprised at the fierceness of her response. Dylan released his grip on her wrist so he could put both arms around her. He held her tightly while he had a final wrestling bout with his scruples. The press of her mouth on his made rags of them. He drew away for one last effort.

  “There are many men in the world, Aenor, better men than I.”

  “Shh,” she said, putting a finger on his lips. “If ancient Zeus himself, or fair Apollo pursued me, I would count them as nothing to you.”

  “I am no god,” he said.