The Protector

by Becca St. John

  Veri lifted a jar from a shelf and found it labeled.

  “Ingenious,” Veri whispered, impressed by the order of the room.

  When the clay for the jars had been wet, someone etched in names of plants to be stored. Unusual, for few women could decipher letters. She untied the rawhide that bound a waxed cloth to the top, smelled the herb within, and frowned.

  “Odd . . .” She tilted the jar away. “Mint” the jar read, but it smelled of fennel. Both good for the stomach, but in very different ways.

  Resealed, she put it back and found the fennel crock. Sure enough, it contained mint. “Hmmn.” She found her own plant, vervain, but it was not vervain. “Dangerous.” With a worried scowl, she reached for another container.

  “My Lady.”

  Startled, she dropped, then caught, a pot of tansy. “You almost made me lose this one.”

  Ignoring the anger in his eyes, she teased the young soldier who stood in the doorway. “That would not please Lady Hannah.”

  No answering smile. His anger remained.

  “Lady Hannah would not want you in here.” He stepped into the room, as one bringing order to an unruly usurper.

  “Not even to aide one of the servants?”

  “She would not want you in here.” He took the jar, reverently placed it back on the shelf. With less than reverence he grabbed Veri’s arm, as though she would shape shift and vanish, if he did not use stealth to keep her.

  At least he continued to breathe. Veri hated it when a person would turn blue rather than share the air with her.

  “Let go.”

  Rather than comply, he pushed her toward the door, catching her off-guard so she stumbled. They were deep in the castle, a long way from anyone. Real fear quickened her heart.

  As eager to be gone as this man was to have her gone, she followed through with his next shove, crossed the threshold, into the hall.

  “Lord Roland will hear of this.” She threatened.

  “These are her ladyship's rooms. He would respect that.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He eased his hold but not his words. “What danger have you worked upon these herbs?”

  “Go, see for yourself.” She stepped back. “I will find my own way to my chamber.”

  He let her go.

  Tremors raced through her body, she fought to step straight, feeling his eyes on her until she turned the corner by the stairs.

  “What danger have you worked upon these herbs?”

  What danger? She did not mismatch labels and plants. Someone else had done that. To what consequence?

  Married or not, this place meant danger to her. But how could she get away, past the guards? Always halting her movements, though never before in a name other than Roland’s.

  Fear escalated to anger by the time Veri stepped back into her room. Even Cwen’s pleasant welcome did nothing to soothe her agitation.

  “Well, Cwen,” Veri whisked up her sewing, as she plunked back onto her chair, “We will have to find a way to go beyond the walls to do the fetching, then we can mix your salve together, you and I.”

  Without Cwen’s glance, without a sound made, Veri new Roland stood behind her.

  She sighed.

  “Simple enough to make.” She refused to turn, to acknowledge his presence. “The ingredients will not be hard to find, even for a simpleton.”

  “Nay.”

  Ah, she tipped her chin, pleased for the confrontation too long in coming.

  He stood in the doorway, tall and strong, the perfect focus for her frustrations.

  “You will make no potions, Veri. It is best Cwen not do so either. She knows this.”

  “Why not?” Veri challenged. “The girl’s hands are red, raw. They could be aided by a simple salve?”

  “Surely someone else has something Cwen can use.”

  “Because others will speak if I make a simple salve?” She confronted him. “Because my salve will work better than anyone elses?” Anyone could out sew her but not a soul in Oakland could make a better salve or potion.

  Roland shot a glance at Cwen, who bobbed and bowed, overturned and righted a stool as she rushed from the room.

  Veri didn’t stop arguing. “My work with herbs is no secret, Roland. Even at the convent . . .”

  “You will not practice your arts here, not now, Veri. Later, perhaps.”

  Veri snatched up the fabric, tossed it at him only to have it billow fluttered to the ground as impotent a statement as her words.

  She paced. “What am I to do? Sew?”

  “Be the Lady of Oakland.” He stated simply, “sup with me, walk with me, tend to your sewing.”

  “Oh, I see, dally in the arts I have no talent or interest in.” Veri threw her arms up. “And just how am I to walk with you when you are not to be found? Or sup with you so no other can eat? For you know they won’t. The servants won’t even breath if I’m near” She kicked the silk aside, her voice meshing anger and tears, “you try to spend day after day with needle in hand.”

  “Then rid yourself of that needle.” He moved in closer, took both her hands in one of his great and gentle fists, using the other to catch a tear on his knuckle, “You need not sew.” His voice, soft, caressing comfort, so contrary to the calloused strength of his hand. “Cwen can tend to the task. If it is too much, she will find others to help.”

  “No, Roland,” Veri shook her head, eased free from his hold to lay her hands upon his earnest face. “One does not always like the tasks that are necessary, but that does not mean one does not carry on. I will sew. But to balance such tasks with ones you love, makes it all worthwhile.”

  “You will not sew,” his brows snapped together, “Not if you do not wish to. I forbid it.”

  She snorted. “You forbid it?” Were all men so foolish, “You are very good at forbidding things. Let me see,” she tapped her chin, “What have you disallowed me? Ah, yes,” hand lifted, she touched off one finger after the next, “I am not allowed to have my friends near. I am not allowed to walk the battlements,” At his surprise she explained, “they are one of my favorite places, here at Oakland, yet the guards refused me access unless you were to join me.”

  “It is a place for soldiers, for guards. You would be a distraction.”

  Completely ignoring him she continued to count off her fingers, pacing as she did so. “I am forbidden to wear my clothes. I am forbidden to leave this chamber without jewels. When this room was readied for me, I was forbidden from lifting, sorting or deciding on anything to be removed or used. It is a shame,” rooted to the spot, she glared at Roland, “as it is to be my chamber. Now I am forbidden to sew my own garments!”

  The surge of anger felt good. So good she was hard put not to laugh with delight.

  “Veri,” Roland looked utterly appalled, “It is not in your nature to lose your temper.”

  “Aaggh!” She screamed, his eyes widened in shock. “What do you know of my character?” She shook a finger at him, “It is not in my character to lose my freedoms!”

  “What have you against the chamber?” He backtracked.

  Veri brushed the skirt of her gown, as she gathered her scattered wits. “Nothing, precisely.”

  “Was there some change you wished to make?”

  They both looked about. A simple room. The only door led directly to Roland’s chamber. Windows graced an alcove, not dissimilar to Roland’s. There was a fireplace, a bed, a tall chest of drawers, and a wide wardrobe.

  A magnificent Montgomery tapestry covered one whole wall. The bed canopy held heavy curtains to keep the warmth within at night. At the bottom of the bed sat a large trunk.

  “I have no need of both wardrobe and chest of drawers.” She tried.

  “That will be remedied. You will soon have enough to fill both to overflowing.”

  Chagrined, she asked, “Have I need of such garments?”

  “Aye,” he answered easily, “You are my wife now, you must allow others to see that I h
old you in high regard.”

  “They removed a small table.”

  “It was old and wobbled.”

  “I have need of a table.”

  “You will have one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is this all?”

  Veri knew she overstated her case, but at least they were talking. She did not want that to end. “Ah, yes, there is one thing more,” she remembered triumphantly, “I need a basin and pitcher.”

  “Tell Cwen,” Roland crossed to the alcove, to the seat that was built below the windows. “These are small matters, Veri. If you have need of anything, you may have it.”

  “My friends?”

  He looked away, out the windows, to the view beyond. “Nay,” he let out a pensive breath, “they may not return until you are settled.”

  “Cin?”

  That request startled him.

  “Could I have Cin? It is likely he will come to find me.”

  Roland shook his head, turning back to her, “It would not be good. Not yet.”

  “When?” She asked, exasperated. “When may I live here as if it is my home?”

  “Veri, this is your home. It is just that you must watch your actions until others have become accustomed to your presence. When they no longer fear you then things can be as you wish.”

  “You are a tyrant.” She snipped but without conviction for she saw the sorrow that proved he cared as little for his dictates as she.

  He lured her, against her better mind, despite his autocratic dominance, his foolish refusal to allow her to be as she was, who she was. Without thought she reached out, to touch his face. Trace contours of worry.

  He stilled her hand.

  She looked to his lips, the shape of them, and wondered what drew her gaze.

  Nonsense. She shook her head, stepped away. Lips were lips. She wet her own, for they’d gone dry. He raised a hand, as though to stop that action also.

  “Roland, the day you speak of will never come.” She sighed, a breathy thought. “I am a woman, Roland. No more saint or angel than I am a witch. Flesh and blood.” With a pinch, she showed how her skin reddened. “See, I wound as any other. My skin can be broken; my heart can be broken. I can grow angry and bitter, just like you. Do not put me so high, Roland. For if you do, the fall will hurt and it will be me doing the tumbling!”

  He clutched the edge of the window behind him, an anchor, his arms stiff as he leaned toward her.

  “Trust me, wife, I know all too well that you are a woman. But you fail to realize the ability to change in others. It is you who stay away, giving their minds time to conjure all manner of foolishness.” He grabbed her hand, tugged her along as he crossed the room. With one swipe he grabbed her sewing basket.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” She dug in her heels, but to no avail.

  “You want to sew?” The clip of his words underlined anger. “Then sew with the other Ladies. They sit by the fire. Be as one with them. That will ease their fears.”

  She tried to pull herself free, tried to halt his steps, until they were at the top of the stairs that led to the great hall. It took no time for them to gain the focus of all below.

  He must have felt the fight leave her. She would not shame him with a tousle at the top of the stairs. His head turned to reveal eyes warm with gratitude. He freed her hand, as he moved to curve his arm around her shoulders and pull her close.

  “It will not be so bad, you will see.” He whispered into her hair. “Go, there is a chair free. Go, do your sewing with the ladies, rather than the servants. That is as it should be.” He handed her the basket.

  Despite her reluctance, Veri held her head high, her shoulders back, as she descended the stairs to take the one remaining chair by the fire. The women watched every move, until she was seated. Then they looked to their own sewing, as though she were not there at all.

  He watched them from the balcony. Looked down into the Great Hall, at the women, at Veri. None of them spoke to her; none gave her advice stitches or an answering smile when words were shared.

  Even among them, she sat alone. Not as it should be, but a start. They would soon adjust to her presence and then. . .

  “Milord.”

  Roland turned to find a lad standing directly behind him. Three days ago he’d have sensed any approach. Roland ran his hand down his face and nodded for the lad to speak.

  “’Tis the castle guards.”

  “Aye,” Roland prompted, “continue.”

  “They seek battle with your knights!”

  “What?” Weariness dissolved, revealing hard cold focus. “My castle guard wants to fight my knights?” With long strides he headed toward the front of the castle.

  “Aye, your personal knights and the castle soldiers. They’ve drawn swords, Milord. They have taken offense that your knights would . . .”

  “Stop!” Roland commanded. When the lad did so, literally halting in his tracks, Roland grabbed him by the arm. “Nay, not your movement, boy. Stop your prattling. They are all my men. What you are speaking is treason!”

  “But ...”

  “Nay! There are no 'buts' about it. House guard or crusader, they are all my troops. Different divisions, but all my men, loyal to me and therefore loyal to each other. We are not a castle divided!”

  The boy said nothing, as he ran three steps to every one of Roland’s lengthening strides.

  **********

  “What had Lord Roland rushing off so?” Millicent deftly plucked her needle through fabric stretched taught within an embroidery hoop much as she plucked at conversation tight with discord.

  Veri, as she kept her head down, her hands tugging at misplaced threads.

  Though she’d made a mess of her stitches, the only true show of her agitation lay in the drop of blood on her fingertip. She’d pricked it with her golden needle.

  She’d grown addled headed at the mere mention of Roland’s name. Heat stung her cheeks.. As a child at Oakland, the sense of his nearness calmed. An ally in a strange and disturbing world. Not so now.

  Vexed, Veri lowered her hands, held them motionless. Such a waste of time and expense to embroider and jewel garments. In costly threads and such fine fabrics, a lady could do little but stand idle.

  Weary, her soul as blue as the fabric she worked upon, Veri stuck her finger in her mouth, to suck at the bloodied needle prick.

  “Work such as this does tire the eyes.” Margaret offered.

  Startled anyone would address her, Veri looked to Margaret. The Lady neither smiled nor scowled but she did nod to Veri. Lady Dori and her companions bristled, dislike reawakened.

  Veri removed her finger, let it rest crooked upon her lap, a drop of blood sitting on the surface of it. She made a point to remain quiet, unobtrusive, the vain hope of blending into nothingness now spoiled.

  “The task is not to my liking. I’ve not had practice at this sort of thing.”

  “Aye,” Margaret nodded again, as she turned back to her stitches.

  “They should have taught you,” Hannah offered, inciting an angry “tsk” from Dori, whose bitter hatred sparked in her eyes.

  “It takes a peaceful, innocent mind, for such work.” Dori snapped, tossing down her embroidery hoop so hard it bounced, landed on Veri’s work basket. The basket, with its rounded bottom, toppled. Skeins of silk and wool rolling into the rushes.

  Everyone stared at that toppled basket when Dori rose, her finger aimed at Veri. “I never lose my temper, but now look what a mess you’ve made me do!” She gestured to her sewing hoop, and the white silk impaled by a knitting needle.

  Something black slithered over it.

  “Oh my, oh my, oh my!” Her litany, crescendoed into a shrill scream.

  High-pitched squeals echoed around the room as the ladies scrambled to stand upon their seats, scrunching their skirts up.

  Dori’s wail ceased as her body crumpled.

  Veri, the only one still focused on Dori, hurried to ca
tch her sister-in-law.

  The viper, its forked tongue flickering to taste the air of the castle, glided across pristine fabric, an ominous black scrawl on virgin white, before dropping gracefully into the rushes. Small but toxic, it would surely have bitten Dori if she’d reached for her hoop.

  A viper.

  “Unhand her, you vile, vile witch!” The handmaidens shouted, as guards rushed to the aide of screaming maidens.

  Numbly, Veri allowed the guards to gather up the lifeless form.

  “Did it bite her?”

  “Is she going to die?”

  “Oh! Where has it gone? It’s disappeared?”

  “How did it come to be in Lady Veri’s basket?”

  Everyone spoke at once, all searching for sign of movement in the rushes. A dog nosed about, creating a ripple through the straw. The guards, finally understanding the cause of excitement, unsheathed swords.

  “It is moving toward the fire, toward the warmth.” Veri said. The commotion stopped, all eyes on the hearth.

  All but Margaret.

  “Go!” She whispered harshly, giving Veri a hard shove. “Go from here, before they put you together with that snake!”

  The unexpected force caught Veri off guard. She stumbled back, righted, and stepped forward.

  “Go!” Margaret hissed again.

  She could not. She stood, rooted to the spot, wondering all the same things the others had wondered, yet coming up with no conclusions.

  The others were not so unimaginative.

  How could a viper, a creature of witchery, have gotten into her basket? If she had rustled in her own basket, it would have bitten her. Had it been placed? And by whom? Cwen was the only one allowed in her rooms. Other maids would come and go but all under Cwen’s watchful eye.

  All turned accusing glares to Veri.

  The guards, having caught the viper, tossed its headless form from sword to sword, as though a game and not an arrow of indictment.

  The Ladies ignored the play, pummeling Veri with a verbal swath of venom. “Witch!” “Evil creature.” “Blood sucking hag!”

  She stood, unable to send their hatred back, or to defend herself. What good would it do? They would not listen.

  The rushes seemed to swirl and lift, a minute motion that drew more screams. A mouse skittered across the floor.