by Lisa Shea
Alicia had been fortunate the women came along when they did. Truly, every step in her journey seemed as if it was neatly laid out to bring her to this very moment in time. First, the encounter with Lucia and the presentation of the sword. The town blacksmith, an aging Crusader, had finally become worn down by Alicia’s pleas and shown her how to use it. Then, just when she felt secure in the basics of self-defense, the three women had passed through on their pilgrimage, part of a larger church group.
Her parents had been resistant. They’d pleaded with her to accept Dylan’s death and to marry Owen. But something within her would not let her rest. Her dreams every night and her every waking thought during each day was of heading east, always east, to find him. It had become an obsession which would not be quieted.
She remembered precisely the moment that her father gave in. The slumping of the shoulders where he had looked at her mother and nodded. The thrill of joy which coursed through her when she realized her journey was about to begin.
And now she was here.
Alicia smiled and looked around the room. Her uncle was a master craftsman. She was proud to be able to assist him in her humble manner. And she knew somehow – against all odds – that being here would help her to find Dylan.
She moved to the main counter, the one where Benet laid out his wares for his customers to examine. The light caught just right here, and the fine wood grain of the counter’s surface provided the perfect background for careful examination. She selected a clay pot from a shelf beneath the counter, withdrew a small amount of beeswax with a clean rag, and steadily rubbed it into the surface.
The aroma surrounded her …
She was nineteen, working her family’s booth at the harvest festival. The sun wavered on the horizon, dipping its toe into the shadowy green pool of pines. It sent golden shimmers of light across the village green, creating a mystical glow which warmed her heart.
Alicia smiled. She just had to put these final few apples away and she could go and join the dancing. Maybe she’d finally give in to that sap, Owen, and allow him to kiss her. He had large, clumsy hands like a bear, but he was gentle enough.
The last apple fit snugly into the box. She looked up –
A man was standing before her. His hair was as black as the wide eyes of an enraptured child. He was simply but neatly dressed in a cotton shirt and brown leggings. In one hand he held a wicker basket of candles, and the pungent smell of beeswax and vanilla enveloped her, wrapping her within their scent. He was perhaps four years older than her, twenty-three at the most.
It was his bearing which took her breath away. His eyes soaked her in as if she were the sight of land after a long year at sea.
Her face flushed.
Her throat closed up, and she found she could not speak.
His voice was musical, lyrical, a cool drink of water after a long day of ploughing. “Excuse me …”
A male voice, rich with the accents of the sea-lapped shores of Provence, filled the room. “Excuse me?”
Alicia’s eyes flew up, and she gasped.
It was him.
He was standing in the sun-streamed doorway. He was silhouetted against the morning light, his shadow stretching nearly to the foot of the counter she was frozen behind.
Dylan.
She opened her mouth to speak –
He stepped into the room, and behind him came the fair-haired friend, and then the third man. Alicia was thankful the counter was before her to support her. Her legs nearly gave way as the darkness swirled around her again.
Dylan was gone.
She could not keep doing this to herself, day after day, week after week. She could not keep seeing him in every passing traveler, in each shadow along the road. It was consuming her alive.
Her uncle’s footsteps came lightly down the stairs, and Benet came around the corner, his voice gentle and warm. “Alicia, dear, did I hear customers?”
He pulled to a stop when he saw who it was that was standing at the doorway to their small shop. Then he came over to stand next to Alicia, placing an arm protectively on her shoulder. His voice was still welcoming, but Alicia could hear the slight formality that had entered it. “Ah, gentlemen. What type of woodworking could I help you with this morning?”
Martinus stepped forward out of the glare of the entryway, and Alicia could see him better now. He was a handsome man, certainly. His face was attractively carved, although it shielded any hint of what emotions might lie within. His jerkin and leggings were neat and well cared for. His eyes were dark and attentive, sweeping over the length and breadth of the shop as he approached, taking in its contents, revealing nothing of what reaction he had to it all.
He reached the counter with his friends by his side. His gaze had not flickered to Alicia once; he held the look of her uncle, nodding to him.
“I wanted to apologize for last night. Apparently I upset your wife. I wanted to assure you that it was quite unintentional.”
Benet patted Alicia’s arm again, his formal stiffness gentling. “You are not to blame, although you are good to come by. I’m afraid Alicia has been struggling to release herself of Dylan’s ghost for a good year, now. It is a challenge, but one I strive to help her with every day. I am sure, in time, that we will prevail.”
Martinus’s face could have been hewn from oak. “I am sure you shall as well. It appears you have a good life here; the shop seems a successful one.” He looked over at a finely carved saddle which was propped up on a box. “And you are a talented artist.”
Benet smiled in thanks. “I appreciate that greatly. Although, if the shop is doing well, I owe it to Alicia here. Sales have doubled in the past two months since my niece’s arrival.”
There was a glow of emotion in Martinus’s eyes, one Alicia could not name, which was blanketed under control a moment after. His voice was rougher when he spoke. “Your niece?”
Benet nodded, patting Alicia’s arm again. “Yes, indeed. She’s from near Wales, you know, where my brother and I grew up. Gorgeous countryside. Rolling streams and dense forests.” He looked out into the busy street outside the door. “A bit different from all of this.”
Martinus’s eyes flickered to Alicia for a moment. He spoke again to Benet. “Wales, you say. How did you end up here?”
Benet gave a wry smile. “Love of a woman, of course.”
Martinus blinked. “What?”
Benet nudged his head toward a carved portrait on the side wall. It showed a smiling woman’s face with plump cheeks and braided hair. The detail Benet had drawn out of the oak round was stunning.
Benet’s gaze softened in fondness. “My darling wife. She was traveling with her family to visit some distant relative and they came through my home town. I was immediately smitten with her. I dropped everything and joined in with their group. That was, oh, twenty years ago. Alicia here was just a toddler. I came with them back here to Canterbury, and this is where I’ve been ever since.”
“You must be very happy together.”
A shadow crossed Benet’s face. “My dearest wife caught the fever five years after we married. We had a brief time together – but I will treasure it always. I know, when my time with this Earthly task is done, that we shall be reunited. Nothing will part us again.”
Martinus nodded, his gaze shielded. “I am sure you will be.” He blinked, giving himself a small shake. “In the meantime, I’d like to take a look at this saddle. Do you think you could customize it?”
Benet’s face brightened again. “Absolutely!” He came around the counter to heft the saddle into his arms, bringing it to lie on the surface. “You can see that it’s the finest wood, carefully carved to maintain its strength.”
Martinus’s friends had been quiet throughout the exchange, so when the fair-haired one spoke Alicia nearly jumped in surprise. His voice held a lilt of amusement. “So are we lingering in the city, Martinus?”
Martinus’s voice was even. “Tibault, you know my saddle was damaged wh
en we fought off those bandits near Dover. This seems the perfect opportunity to get a replacement.”
Tibault’s eyes danced with merriment. “Mmmmm-hmmmm.” He glanced over at the brown-haired man, the older of the three by a few years. “What do you think, Simon?”
Simon sniffed, his dour face giving away little.
Martinus’s gaze dropped to the saddle. “Could you start by adjusting the way the stirrups connect here? I’d like to allow a greater range of flexibility. There are times where fast travel is critical, but other times where maneuverability in combat is the key.”
Benet nodded his head. “Absolutely. I could have that done for you by tomorrow, if you wish.”
Martinus’s eyes flickered to Alicia for a moment. “That will do, for a start.”
He reached his hand out to Benet. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Benet shook his hand. “Until tomorrow.”
Martinus turned to Alicia, and a twisting of emotions tangled in her soul, in presence of this stranger who still reminded her so of the one she had given my heart to. He dropped his eyes. “Fare well.”
Then he turned, his friends followed, and they were gone.
Chapter 3
Alicia carefully knelt before the large clay pot of chamomile to the side of her uncle’s main door. The plant was large and bushy, its delicate white flowers glistening with the watering she’d just given it. The warmth of the summer sun eased her shoulders as she carefully plucked out a few stray spent blossoms.
On the other side of the doorway, Ethelfleda giggled with delight at a jest made by the baker. He winked at her and handed her an apple tart, then moved down the road. Ethelfleda looked as if she’d just received her weight in gold, and Alicia’s heart warmed. Her cousin reminded her daily to be grateful for all that life presented.
She turned back to the flowers before her. She carefully fluffed out the leaves, allowing each to enjoy the sun’s warmth.
Every detail mattered. She’d learned that from Dylan when she visited his family’s booth, that second day of the fair. He’d explained to her the subtle differences between beeswax from bees which lived near apple orchards and those which buzzed near rose gardens. She’d seen his care in the delicate lace-like patterns he had created on the sides of the larger candles meant for special occasions.
She could still remember how he’d walked her home at the end of the day; how he had lingered by the door. How, when he was walking away, he turned back to her, asking, “Alicia –”
A voice sounded from above her. “Alicia –”
She swung her head up in surprise. The sun blinded her, leaving only the shadow of a man before her. But she knew it was him.
It was Dylan.
He had finally returned to her, after all the pain and torment and sleepless nights. He had –
He stepped forward, shimmered, and resolved into Martinus.
A sob escaped her lips. Her hand swept out to support her and smacked into the watering can at her side. It splashed full across her legs, soaking her dress.
In an instant he was kneeling beside her. He deftly righted the can, then tucked an arm around her waist, drawing her up to her feet as if she were a feather. He smelled not of beeswax and springtime but of leather, of musk, of tangerines and exotic spices.
She blinked as she found her feet, her cheeks warming with shame. “I’m so sorry.”
His voice was rich, warm with the accents of southern France. “It is I who should be sorry for disturbing you. It seems my appearance causes you distress.”
Alicia ran a hand through her hair. “You can hardly be expected to change the way you look,” she sighed. “And if I were to blame you, I would have to blame half the men in Canterbury as well.”
His gaze held hers. “I am not the only one you mistake for this … Dylan?”
Alicia bent down to gather up her watering can. “I’m afraid I’ve troubled quite a few innocent men,” she admitted. “My foolish heart is so full of hope that it overruns with the slightest provocation.” She turned and pressed in the door. “But you did not come here to listen to my prattling. I think my uncle –”
Benet’s voice carried from the back of the room. “There you are! Yes, indeed, the saddle is all ready for you. A simple enough matter, really. Come take a look.”
Martinus walked at Alicia’s side as they moved toward the counter. The saddle lay atop it, and she was impressed as always with what her uncle was able to achieve. The interplay of leather and cloth on the wooden frame was both sturdy and elegant. She could see now that he had arranged a rigging on the stirrups to allow them to easily slide up and down.
Benet bent over the stirrup, his thinning brown hair moving as he spoke. “See how it latches in place here? That way you can set it to any length you wish and have it securely set there.”
Martinus nodded in appreciation. “That looks like it will do quite nicely. Tell me more about this section.”
Alicia moved to the side shelf to give the men time to talk. She dusted a row of wooden goblets as the men explored the details of the work - how to keep the buckles working smoothly in all sorts of weather; how to make repairs when time was of the essence. Martinus’s questions were insightful and thorough, and Alicia was nearly complete with the entire shelf by the time he finally stepped back, satisfied.
“I couldn’t have asked for finer from the craftsmen in Paris,” he praised. “You are a talented artisan.” He drew a pouch from his hip. “How much do I owe you?”
Alicia glanced at Martinus in surprise. She hadn’t even realized it, she’d been in such a state yesterday, but the men hadn’t discussed a price before Benet had begun his work. Usually customers wanted to know what the cost would be before becoming beholden to a project.
Benet patted the saddle with pride, then looked up at Martinus. “Four shillings.”
Martinus’s hand froze mid-air where it was opening up his pouch. “Four shillings?”
A slight crease formed in Benet’s brow. “My work is the best quality; I challenge you to find its equal anywhere in Canterbury.”
Martinus lowered his pouch onto the counter, his gaze on Benet, attentively curious. “You have seen my mount.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Benet nodded equanimically. “I did, indeed, go by the stables yesterday afternoon to get some measurements. I needed to ensure the saddle would fit properly.”
Martinus’s gaze had not wavered. “You know the caliber of steed I ride.”
Benet nodded again. “Indeed, he is quite a fine stallion. You take good care of him. The rest of his gear is all of the highest standard.”
Martinus looked from the saddle to Benet. “And yet, when presented with an opportunity to raise the price of your own creation, you do not?”
Benet’s eyes twinkled as his grin grew. “I see I was not the only person checking up on the other yesterday.”
Martinus’s hand rested on his pouch. “I spent some time in the various taverns, asking others about you and the prices you charge to the normal townsfolk. You had an opportunity here to benefit from a stranger passing through who would gladly have paid extra and never known the difference.”
Benet ran his hand along the saddle. “I would have known the difference,” he pointed out. “My reputation is all I have. If I damage that, what is left?” He patted the saddle horn. “Four shillings is the price whether you’re the blacksmith over on Hogarth Street or the King of England. It’s the fair price for my labor and materials.”
Martinus nodded in appreciation. “It is more than a fair price, for the skill you possess.” He reached into his pouch and drew out the coins, placing them on the counter. “Take them with my thanks for a job well done.”
Benet smiled. “My pleasure.” He briefly glanced at Alicia before bringing his gaze back to Martinus. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
It seemed to Alicia that Martinus paused; that his eyes moved to her for a moment. That a swirl of
emotions passed and flickered away.
Then he was shaking his head.
“I’m afraid my friends and I have got a ways to go, yet, before we reach our destination. We’ll be heading out in the morning. Still, I’m glad fate brought me your way.”
Benet gave a short bow. “As am I. Did you need any help with the saddle?”
By way of an answer, Martinus slid one arm beneath it, hefting it up with barely a ripple of his strong muscles. “I will be all set, thank you.”
He turned to Alicia.
Her heart fluttered at the depth in those dark eyes, at the steadiness in his features.
He dipped his head. “Alicia. I am sorry again for your loss.”
Her cheeks flared. “Safe journeys to you.”
Then he turned, and he was gone. As the door fell shut, the golden rectangle of sunlight thinned, shrunk, and went out.
Chapter 4
Alicia’s heart hammered against her ribs as she strode along the north road in the gentle pre-dawn glow. The wicker basket in her arm bumped against her leg with every other stride. Her sword hung securely on her hip, and she drifted her fingers idly along its hilt as she walked. The meadows sloping away on either side of the road glistened in the golden fingers which peeked over the horizon, the grasses waving in the breeze like a dark green sea. A partridge called from somewhere deep to the right.
She had told herself that it made sense to fetch marigolds this morning. They would look lovely in the vases by the window. The blossoms would add a bit of bright color to the showroom. But she knew well that a larger field of the flowers lay to the south. No, the only reason she had come this way was on the off chance that Martinus and his friends were taking the north route, perhaps to London.
It made sense, of course. If they had previously been in Dover, and had come through Canterbury, they must be on their way somewhere further north. And she might be able to see him one last time.
Her heart twisted and she stopped for a moment, brushing down her ivory dress. It was the best she owned. Hardly what she would normally wear for a flower-picking expedition. Further proof that her trip had little to do with interior decorating.
