by L. K. Rigel
“I’m not a lord.”
“Yes, my—yes, sir.”
“Don’t be concerned about me,” Ross said. “I’ll stay out of the way.”
There was no sleeping below where the stench of crew and cargo was no respecter of walls. Ocean breezes made the deck a much pleasanter place. Ross leaned against the rail and drew the cold salt air into his lungs. The stars were going out, and the distant shore was a black silhouette against the morning sky.
They were barely underway, less than half an hour out from Barfleur and still close to the Normandum coast, but he was going home at last. His heart was heavy with longing—longing to see his father, his country, even to see Rozenwyn.
Now, here on the deck of the Vengeance, away from Sarumen and all Norman schemes, he could admit some things to himself. His eyes were dead tired of the holy land’s dry landscapes. His soul was starved for the green hills of his own country, Dumnos, land of mist and rain.
He was sick of war, sick of fighting, sick of death. Lord Sarumen appeared satisfied with their crusade, but to Ross’s mind it had been a disaster. So many men lost to senseless killing. So many more to disease or putrefaction. So much loss. Evil done in the name of good. Ross was thirty years old, and he felt ninety.
He’d lost his faith. He had no real religion. He’d certainly lost his innocence.
The holy land itself was a lie—not the monolithic bastion of depravity told of in song and saga. The East boasted intellectual curiosity and amazing beauty, if a different beauty than that of the West. Mystical art and practical inventions—like the one he carried in his cloak’s pocket.
Not long now, Rozenwyn.
Ross could no longer see clearly the young woman he’d left behind. She had brown hair and hazel eyes. She was short. He’d known her but three years, from the time her father came to Tintagos Castle to serve his father. Ross hadn’t thought to have Rozenwyn’s picture made, and after years of other faces, hers was no longer available to his memory.
She’d wanted to marry, and he’d resisted because he didn’t love her. But she had the right to want marriage. She was a knight’s daughter and deserved the same respect as any lady—though she’d given him her virtue.
Still, it seemed unchivalrous to hold that against her.
He had told himself that his father would disapprove the match, that the baron would want a noble-born lady to bear his grandchildren. In truth, Lord Tintagos was more likely to object to the lack of love in the match than the lack of rank. Ross smiled at the thought. His father was an eccentric man.
That’s partly why Ross had gone with Sarumen, to put a great deal of space between himself and his eccentric father. Well, that had been achieved. And now he wanted to find his way back to the bond between father and son. He’d wanted his father to respect him, to appreciate him. Instead, he’d come to respect and appreciate his father.
But with or without Lord Tintagos’s blessing, if Rozenwyn still wanted him Ross would marry her. He still didn’t love her—not with the grand, passionate love his parents had had and that he’d always expected to find. But he had missed her good humor and her kindness. He had discovered while away from her that he liked her.
It seemed no small thing that a man should like his wife.
“Good morning, sir,” said his ever-cheerful squire.
“Braedon.” Ross turned away from the rail. “You couldn’t stand the smell either?”
“It’s bad down there.” The lad smiled shyly and ran a hand through his unruly brown curls. “Look, sir, the captain’s asked me a favor.”
“Is that so?”
“To plead with you to come away from the rail and go below.”
“Like hell. What, too afraid to ask me himself?”
“Aye, I believe so. He says it’s for your safety. He says the gale is getting worse, and—great gods!” Braedon stared past Ross, his face drained of color. “Sir, is that… it’s the White Lady!”
Ross spun around. “Great gods indeed.”
He shook his head. His eyes didn’t want to see what they saw: the fantastic White Lady, fastest ship on the seven seas, no expense spared, lodged on an eruption of black rock a quarter mile from shore.
Ross pulled out the device hidden in his cloak’s inner pocket. He was bringing home linens from Normandum, silks from Andalusia, and caskets of oil made from the fruit of a tree, but men would covet most the treasure he now held. The scoping glass brought distant objects close to the eye, as if they could be touched. He liked to keep the glass out of sight, but this need was too great.
The ship on the rock listed precariously. The drunken revelers of a few hours ago had gathered on deck, many stumbling and sliding into the waters.
“What do you see, sir?” Braedon said.
“Crewmen climbing up into the rigging. Nobles staggering about, falling into the sea, still drunk. One, two—I see three boats with survivors, one well away.” The boat farthest away from the White Lady carried but two men. “Damn them both for leaving so many—wait.” Ross recognized the men: Lord Sarumen and William Aethelos, the prince.
Thank God.
Sarumen had been right to get away fast. The two lifeboats still close to the ship weren’t going to make it. One capsized, pulled over by desperate souls in the water. It quickly filled and sank. In one movement, the crazed people changed direction and swam for the other boat.
“Tell Captain Raymond we need to turn about,” Ross said.
“There’s nothing we can do, Sir Ross.” The captain was already there, behind Ross. “The gale is too strong. I won’t lead the Vengeance to the same fate.”
This wind was strong but no gale. The captain was afraid of the rocks. “You won’t have to get near the White Lady to save the prince.” Ross dropped his arm. “Aethelos was on that ship, do you understand? The king’s only legitimate son.”
“And I’m sorry for him, but there’s nothing to be done for it.”
“Did you hear me, man?” Ross said. “The king’s only legitimate son! If Aethelos dies, there’s no settled heir. The world will go to war over the crown.” Sun and moon, he was sick of war. “There’s no risk to the Vengeance. Aethelos and Lord Sarumen have made it off the White Lady. All you have to do is pick up their boat.”
“You can’t know it’s them. They’re too far away.”
“You can see him with this.”
“Aiee! I’ll touch no glimmy glass.” The captain backed away and crossed himself. “I want no wyrding ways on my ship!”
“This is not of the wyrd,” Ross said. “This glass is from the holy land. There’s no magic in it.” Cynically, he added, “None but God’s power.” He searched for the boat and let out a breath of relief. Sarumen and Aethelos had made it to shore.
“The holy land, you say?” Captain Raymond eyed the scoping glass with less fear and more curiosity.
“All captains in the East have them,” Braedon said.
“Try it.” Ross offered the instrument. “Look through this end.”
Captain Raymond put the glass to his eye and jumped backward. Just as Ross had done the first time he looked through one, the captain reached out, trying to touch what he saw. He put it down, took his bearings, held it up again.
The look came over him. Delight that in an eyeblink surrendered to desire. His eyes shifted rapidly. For a moment, he looked ready to push Ross over the rail in order to keep the glass.
“Sir Ross, on the shore. Look. Are they fighting?” Braedon had no need of any aid; he had the eyes of an eagle.
Ross snatched back the glass. Sarumen and Aethelos weren’t fighting, but they were having an agitated conversation. Aethelos broke away and pointed to the White Lady, and Ross followed the prince’s gesture.
“Sun and moon.” He felt sick. “Princess Meline is still on board. Aethelos must want to go back for his sister.”
“Aye, and no doubt Lord Sarumen is explaining to the royal personage that it’s not possible.” Captain Raymond fairly g
loated, as if this proved his own point.
Helpless, Ross watched Aethelos push the boat back into the water and jump in. Sarumen shook his head in frustration and joined the prince. They set out for the foundering ship, now perched at a bizarre angel. Horrendous groans of breaking wood carried over the surface.
“She’s taken on too much water,” Captain Raymond said. “She’ll split in two from the weight. Mark my words.”
The princess fell into the sea where drowning men ignored her and tried to swim toward Sarumen and Aethelos in their little boat. And oddly enough, the swimmers were all men. Watching Meline, Ross understood why. Her massive gown had taken on the weight of the water, and she simply had not the strength to keep to the surface. Her head went under once, twice, and she never came up again.
The others grabbed on to her would-be rescuers’ boat and pulled it over.
“Captain Raymond, you must give me a boat.” Ross had to save Sarumen and the prince.
The captain’s face was fixed in a no, but his eyes lit on the glass in Ross’s hand.
With a sinking feeling, Ross knew what he had to do. He held up the instrument. “The glass for a boat.”
“Done.” The captain held out his hand, palm up. “But no men. You’ll do your own rowing, my lord.”
“I’m no lord.”
“I’ll go with you, sir,” Braedon said.
“Good lad.” Ross clapped the boy’s shoulder. “But I’ll not risk your life yet again so close to home. Stay with the Vengeance. Bring my trunks to Tintagos Castle for the baron’s keeping until I return.”
Ross clasped Braedon to his chest in a heartfelt embrace. After nearly four years saving each other’s lives, this parting was as sudden and as unexpected as any death.
“Tell my father my last thoughts were of him,” Ross said. And for Braedon’s ears alone he whispered, “Tell Rozenwyn I would have married her.”
“I will, sir.” Braedon’s face reddened at the mention of marriage. There were tears in his eyes, and he choked. “I promise.”
Ross pulled away from the Vengeance, mad to reach Sarumen and Aethelos. Brother Sun and Sister Moon, guide me and give me strength.
“Sarumen!” He screamed with all the power he had in him. He listened for an answer. None came. “Aethelos!”
Sick at heart, he kept to the east beyond the reach of desperate and drowning men. He had thought he was done with living among the dying. It all came crashing down on him. So senseless. So meaningless.
“Tintagos!” It was Sarumen. “Ross!”
Ross scanned the surface frantically. He spotted a pale form streaking away from the others, a man’s bare arms cutting expertly through the waves. Ross hurried to intercept him.
Sarumen grabbed on to the side of the boat. “Lean away to balance my weight.” He pulled himself into the boat. He was entirely naked.
“My lord, you must be frozen.” Ross took off his cloak and handed it over, but he couldn’t help staring.
Sarumen was perfect. His skin had no blemish, no scar. His muscles were well formed but not garish. It had never occurred to Ross that a man could be called beautiful—but it was the only word that fit. Beautiful.
He traced the scar on his own face, from the corner of his right eye down to his jaw. “The prince, my lord.” He focused on the moment. “Is he…”
“Gone,” Sarumen said. “Damned fool. I told him to remove his boots and tunic, that they would drown him. Out of modesty or pride, who knows, he didn’t listen. He pulled me under with him. I threw him off to get to the surface for air, and then I couldn’t find him.”
“Great gods.”
“I should have gone down with him.”
“What good would that do?”
“King Henry…”
“No man can fight the ocean, my lord,” Ross said. “I’ll go with you to the king as your witness. I saw you fight for his son’s life.”
“Thank you, Ross. You have my gratitude,” Sarumen said. He spat out a rueful laugh and fixed on the doomed White Lady, but he seemed to stare through the ship to another world. “What are they all going to do now?”
Ross looked for the Vengeance and spotted her on the horizon, well away. Damn Captain Raymond for a coward. He turned the boat toward the shore.
“On second thought, I won’t accept your offer.” Sarumen took up another set of oars and pitched in. Immediately they picked up more speed than one extra pair of hands should account for. The man was strong besides. “I’ll face Henry alone. If he won’t take my word, I doubt he’d take yours.”
“You’re a brave man, my lord.”
“I’m a practical man, Ross. I’ll call on your service another day, when it will be of better use. But for now you’ve earned your peace. Go home to your father and your girl.”
« Chapter 8 »
Tailor and King
Traveling with Lord Sarumen, Ross couldn’t go home. Not directly. The two arrived at Windsor in the middle of the night, whereupon Sarumen hastened away to inform the king of the disaster of the White Lady and Ross was installed in one of the earl’s permanent rooms in the castle.
The next day as Ross was finishing his breakfast, two odd fellows came to see him, sent by Sarumen.
“You’re to have an audience with the king.” The taller of the little men, a tailor, picked at the fabric of Ross’s tunic. He rolled it between his thumb and finger and sniffed. “My art is definitely needed here.”
“You’re in the best of hands,” the shorter one, the assistant, said. “We dress Brienne, you know.”
“Shush!” The tailor grabbed his unfortunate helper’s hat and slapped him across the face with it.
“Ow!”
They were a rather strange pair, the master short and wiry and the helper shorter and wirier. Both had striking green eyes. They refused to take refreshment or to remove their slouch hats and worked speedily and obsessively.
Within a few hours, they produced an exquisite tunic of light and dark blue brocade, fawn breeches, a white linen blouse, a fine hat, pair of black boots, and an embroidered dark blue cloak.
“Honeysuckle and hazel?” Ross admired the embroidery work.
“Lord Sarumen tells me you’re from Tintagos,” the tailor said.
“And so I am.” Ross fingered the cloak’s red, white, and gold silk threads. A master touch: honeysuckle and hazel were symbols of Tintagos Castle—and of its doomed lovers, Tristos and Isolde, more famous to the outside world than Galen and Diantha. “I will treasure all these things.”
“Of course you will,” the assistant said.
“Shall I try them on?”
The assistant gasped, then gave his master a wary look and stepped out of range.
“If you feel you must.” Like a child, the tailor stuck out his lower lip. “In a thou… in all my years, no one has questioned my fit!”
Ross suppressed a chuckle and shed his clothes, purchased only days ago in Normandum. Even without the dousing of seawater, they would have been shabby and coarse beside those made by the tailor who dressed Brienne—whoever she was.
“Well.” He stared at a stranger in the full glass produced, from somewhere, by Short and Shorter. “I’m confounded.”
A grown man looked back at Ross, his face roughened by years of sun and wind and dry heat. His hair had lost its bright orange tones and darkened to a tolerable chestnut color. His eyes were still dark brown. Perhaps darker. They’d lost their eager look, their optimism.
“When did you become so sad?” He said to his image, tracing his scar with his thumb. The scar was taken now for a battle wound, a mark of glory, but he’d given it to himself when he was ten years old.
He’d gone fishing with his father on a rare day together, just the two of them, away from the castle. They’d ridden northeast, beyond the Ring and the mist, through the Small Wood of ash and yew, until they came to what the baron called the sacred lake, fed by a freshwater stream and loaded with trout.
Nine haz
el trees grew in a crescent on the northern shore, and he and his father had cut wands from the trees for their lines.
“These trees were planted in the time of legend, by the Dryades, nymphs of trees and forests. The trout eat the hazelnuts that fall into the water,” his father had told him. “A fish of the sacred lake which has eaten seven hazelnuts gains all the wisdom in the world. If you eat that fish, that wisdom will pass to you.”
“If the fish has eaten six nuts, will I be somewhat wise, Father?”
“No more than you are now,” the baron had said.
“If eight nuts, will I be wiser?”
“A man can’t have more than all the wisdom in the world, my son, so I think not.”
Then Ross had stumbled over his line and fallen on his own knife. Stupid, stupid, he’d thought, even as he swooned with the pain that seared his cheek.
Without hesitation, the baron had scooped him up off the ground. “Never fear, my son. All will be well.”
Ross had believed it. Safe in his father’s arms, nothing bad could possibly happen. The baron had carried him to the hunter’s cottage on the west side of the lake, laid him on a bed by a window, and had rummaged through a cabinet as if he knew exactly where everything was.
Lord Tintagos had brought out a fat, rolled beeswax candle and tinderbox. He’d lit the candle and taken hold of Ross’s hand. Then they… waited.
Soon, without knocking, an old woman opened the cottage door. “I came as soon as I saw the flame.”
“Thank sun and moon, Kaelyn. It’s my son!”
She was the only wyrding woman Ross had ever met, before or since. When she got closer, he saw she was younger than he’d first thought—perhaps his father’s age. She was neither pretty nor ugly, but her blue-gray eyes were full of fun.
She had cleaned the wound and applied a soothing salve. “You’ll have a dashing scar, young Ross,” she’d said cheerfully. “It will drive the girls mad.”
At the time, he didn’t care much for girls or driving them mad, but he smiled now at the memory. Kaelyn had been right. Women—including Rozenwyn—had found his scar attractive. He looked at the man in the mirror. Would she still?
