Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

“Lady—” Miles lifted his arm cautiously in greeting but the woman put a finger to her lips with an imperious gesture and carried on as if he were no longer there. Not daring to raise his voice, he took a careful stride closer, his body tensing, and waited. Ignoring him, was she?

  The drone grew louder. Several bees, disdaining the cold, were coming at him. Could insects sense fear? Who was the patron saint of bees? St. Ambrose? Miles swallowed nervously as one bee tested the coarse wool of his cote. A second landed on his glove, but he stood behind the girl now.

  Her movements were languorous and controlled. With great calm, she nudged one of the wicker skeps more firmly onto its stand. The disturbed insects flew up angrily, risking the frosty air. A few settled on her straw brim and one darted up beneath the gauze. With a blow of her breath, she nonchalantly shook it out and looked up at Miles from behind her veil, waiting. For what? For him to make the wrong move? Suddenly understanding froze him.

  He had fought a girl! For an instant he knew shame, wanted to blurt out an apology like an embarrassed youth, but then he felt the tendrils of his hair stir as a bee moved across onto his cheek. His flesh crawled. The thickness of the veil was not enough to hide the gleaming eyes daring him to panic.

  “Afraid?”

  Miles barely heard the soft whisper. He was thinking of yesterday: If we ever meet again, Rushden, it will be I who will take delight in it, believe me.

  No! His lips formed the word and beneath his cloak, his muscles clenched. Merciful Christ, he had just walked blithely into her trap as if he welcomed punishment. Would she drive the swarm against him? Desperate to run, he forced himself to stare down the sly scrutiny, to fight his terror, but the horror filled his brain, he saw himself panicked, screaming, his breathing blocked, his face and neck jabbed by—No, his mind snarled at her, no!

  The sorceress journeyed slowly to the next hive, taking her basket with her. Miles took a step slowly back, then another and another until he found himself beyond the coned village and its vindictive keeper. His breath returned to normal but the insects had not left him. The beekeeper was watching him, faceless behind her veil, as she brushed the snow from the last hive. He sensed her silent laughter and glared back. Now we are even, lady, but next time you will be on your back. . . .

  Oww! As if she had slapped him, the last bee panicked and stung his cheek. Cursing, Miles turned his back and leaned against a rough-barked trunk, taking great gulps of air. Swiftly tugging off his gloves, he strove to pinch the base of the sting to ensure no more venom oozed in nor any barb remained.

  “Did one of my bees need to die for you, fellow?”

  Fellow! Miles looked round, his feelings raw. Still veiled, she stood quite close. A small peleton of concerned insects patrolled around the cover of her basket but her concern was for the dying insect in the palm of her glove.

  “No,” he answered hoarsely, watching her lay the small warrior upon a snowy bough.

  Reckless behind her gauzy armor, Heloise stared up with triumph at her enemy. She had him confused, annoyed, and vulnerable and she wanted more. Here was no irksome stripling but a man, pleasingly proportioned, with midnight hair and eyes like quicksilver. Last night’s sinful fantasy came back to her: this knight unhorsed, tumbled unhurt upon the grass as she had been yesterday, and her leaning over him, her hair unleashed, her fingers touching the strong line of jaw, smoothing back the tousled dark hair. He was looking at her and . . .

  The Rushden serpent was looking at her! And with a fascination that sent excitement shimmering through her like sparks of fire. Her mind, left momentary open like an unlocked door, felt the savage blaze of desire rip through him. God’s mercy! Panicked like a frightened dove, she took off through the trees.

  “Wait!” he called out, and hastened after her.

  No, this was lunacy but . . . Grasping a medlar trunk to steady herself, she squared her shoulders then walked on.

  “I suppose you have made a reconnaissance of our defenses, Sir Miles?” The words were tossed back at him bravely.

  “I came to learn the truth.” He overtook her round an apple tree.

  “You have a sword, Sir Miles. I am sure you can whack the truth to its knees if it suits your purpose.”

  Miles winced. “A philosopher as well as a beekeeper. You are a spinning top, lady. Was it you yesterday, Mistress . . . ?”

  “Heloise,” she said unhelpfully, with a sideways step so a branch played chaperone between them. “Yesterday? Oh, you mean the wretched boy you threatened to strip and give to your men for a beating. Shall I summon my servants to do the same for you?”

  White teeth gleamed. “Did I promise that? Your pardon, Heloise.” The breathy way he said her name wreaked damage to her self-control. “You have a man’s courage, Heloise!” He grabbed the bough as though he would thrust it aside.

  “What, not a woman’s?” Angered, she darted away, skirting the next tree.

  He followed like a hunter and, when Heloise turned, halted before her on the snow-dusted slope. Male, strong . . . within a hand’s-breadth. And life had pitted his soul, not just his face. She could sense the ancient simmering fury in him.

  “Does your face hurt you, sir knight?”

  “No.” A deeper answer rimed Miles’s breath. The world hushed for a moment and he could no longer breathe. He knew her clear gaze probed his features, as if she were trying to peel back the layer that disfigured him. He tensed, discomforted, and then . . .

  And then she set back her veil. Dark lashes shyly lifted and lovely, troubled, hazel eyes looked up at him, her glance settling upon his swelling cheek. There was no unwelcome pity, no noting of the scars he carried like a brand. His breath eased out slowly, misting the air between them. Somehow her gloves fell softly to the ground and his hat joined them.

  “Stay still, sir.” The girl’s hand was gentle against his chest, her breath fragrant upon his chin, as her cool fingers examined his burning skin.

  Stay still? Miles was utterly enthralled, hardly able to drag his gaze from the soft lips so near his own and yet . . . Was he bewitched, lured here by magic? The young knight, the vengeful beekeeper, and now this young woman with an angel’s smile, were they all facets of one gem? Glass jewels flashed at him, masquerading as moonstones in the silver caul that hid her hair. Why did she not wear it loosened to show her maidenhood? Who was she?

  The questions must have been brazen in his stare for her eyes widened in surprise. The straw hat dipped. Shyness, he presumed, but then she lifted her face and he was glad to be wrong.

  “You won this bout and rightly so.” Miles captured her hand, lifting it to his lips with courtly grace. “But do not imagine this is over, mistress,” he warned, reluctantly letting her fingers slide free. “There are subtler ways to take a castle.”

  The infinitesimal pause in her breathing appeased him. “But surely in any campaign you risk capture, sir.”

  “True, mistress.” His grin was predatory. “But such peril makes the victory infinitely more desirable.”

  Her answer hurtled a cannonball through the courteous banter. “For you maybe, but not for the poor wretch who broke his wrist two days ago in this quarrel. No, nor your father’s man whose eye is blinded. God’s truth, sir, you are welcome to Bramley and—and its—”

  “—blushing underskirts?” he added roguishly.

  Hurt flared; he deserved a thwacking but she surprised him with a shimmering, self-deprecating smile. Cruelly, raised voices echoing from the courtyard spoilt the delicate truce between them.

  “You showed audacity in coming here, Sir Miles.”

  “A fox in the Ballaster hen coop? Yes, time to go, I think.”

  Aye, he must, he knew; it was madness to become entangled further. He would not play Jason to her Medea. God knew, this enchantress’s humor changed like a weathercock.

  He kept pace as she hastened up the slope but then she faltered, clapping a hand to her ribs as if in pain. The beautiful eyes glazed over and her body tightened l
ike a lute string. Another facet, Miles thought, roused at imagining her beneath him so, but this was no trickery; she was clutching his sleeve, her doe’s eyes wild.

  “Go back! Home, yes. Tell your father he is needed at home!” And she started hurrying through the trees.

  “Come back!” Miles shouted. What had she meant? Why . . .

  He was close in pursuit when Mistress Ballaster misguidedly glanced back. Her long skirt snagged beneath her pointed shoe. Miles tried to catch her, but his boot heel slid upon the icy ground and he tumbled sprawling down on top of her. With maidenly embarrassment, the girl hastily twisted, trying to drag herself swiftly free from the tangle of sleeves, but one of Miles’s spurs had snared in the hem of her undergown.

  Then the world went wild. A half score of men with cudgels burst through the gate.

  The maiden’s nimble fingers extricated him but a cage of boots barred his escape. Ugly stares examined his clothing for signs of disarray; surliness surrounded him, seething, threatening to boil over into violence. Knowing the picture they must present and cursing himself for a fool, he clambered from his hands and knees with as much dignity as he could muster. Although he was tempted to draw his dagger against their cudgels, he might as well have brandished a daisy stalk at the louts. With bravado, he reached down a gallant hand to the wench and said a prayer to whichever saint was good at calming virgins. The plea must have worked, or else Heloise Ballaster was possessed with more common sense than most spinsters.

  “No, I can shift for myself, sirrah.” Her voice was calm as she rose gracefully. “What else was it you wanted to ask me, fellow, before I slipped?” It was gracious of her, sparing him any blame.

  “Aye,” muttered the most bull-necked of the pack salaciously. “Wot was ee goin’ to ask ’er?” Growling, the Ballaster retainers closed in like a royal bodyguard, fencing him from their princess. Their fists were edgy, ready to smash him to a bloody pulp.

  “No!” Her sovereignty was brandished calmly. “Put away your cudgels, all of you! Can you not see, he is only a messenger.” Miles, used to brandishing authority, winced at her mockery. Was he being taught another lesson? Brushing her hands clean, she was waiting, her hazel eyes laughing at him. “Well, fellow?”

  When the words surfaced at last, his voice sounded alien to him. “My master says . . .” One of the servants muttered behind the girl and hurt sparked across her madonna face. Would she be punished for this later? Miles swallowed and chose his answer with even more care. “My master says, mistress, that he will have his lawful inheritance from your father yet and that he knows full well who is the bravest of the Ballasters. Tell him so . . . I pray you,” he added swiftly, remembering his disguise.

  “I shall tell him.” Displeasure lined her voice but gratitude glimmered in her eyes. Then she clapped her hands like a good chatelaine. “Two of you, see this man off our land, and back to work, the rest of you. I thank you for your care of me.”

  “Aw, mistress, can’t we give ’im a right dustin’ and tip him down the well?”

  A feminine glance perused the prisoner consideringly and mischief flared fleetingly in her eyes before she said with a little sigh, “Oh, no. Now if it were his master”—she paused for emphasis—“well, then, that would be different,” and the impertinent wench turned on her heel.

  Miles stared after her, his mouth a hard line of suppressed fury, his mind reeling from bewilderment. One instant she was being solicitous, the next taunting him. And what had been that strange babble about his father needing to go home?

  “Come along, you!” A rough hand shoved Miles and he was prodded from the orchard with a bunch of servants sniggering in his wake. They marched him behind Mistress Ballaster across the bailey, and he did not know whether he was glad she was still in charge, or shamed that she intended to watch him being ignobly ejected from his father’s property. When the fair girl and two children ran giggling to join her, his mortification was sublimely terrible.

  “Your dovecot needs cleaning!” he snarled in valediction, his voice raised to reach her, and for thanks received a booting across the drawbridge.

  HAVING CUFFED HIS GATEKEEPER AND, IN THE SOLAR BEFORE supper, lectured his daughters on suitable behavior when accosted by strangers, Sir Dudley—who was still blithe from his miraculous recovery—repeated his warning to the entire household from the hall dais, dwelling somewhat emotionally on words like theft and virtue.

  Heloise refused to eat in the great hall but she listened to her father’s words from behind the solar door, ashamed that he was intent on sullying Sir Miles’s reputation. At this rate, every gossip in the shire would be sniggering at Rushden’s escapade. Why was her father doing this, knowing that it might bring the full wrath of their enemies? Miles Rushden would be angry and she needed him to leave. His very presence had mocked her, arousing a hunger for the fruits of life—a future denied her because of her despised hair. Her dreams at Middleham had been a warning; Miles Rushden was dangerous, especially for her.

  ***

  “LET ME SEE THE BAILIFF’S LETTER, SIR!” MILES FLUNG THE REINS to Dobbe and strode after his father into the house they had requisitioned at Monkton Bramley. He had just returned from his confrontation with the witchgirl to find his father preparing to depart for Dorset. His mother had been injured.

  “Letter’s on the bench there,” muttered Lord Rushden, strapping a leather flask onto his belt. “With God’s grace, I’ll make good time if I leave now.”

  “Christ Almighty, Father!” Miles looked up in disbelief. “She has broken a rib.”

  “Aye, I always said that horse would throw her one day.” A loving hand clapped his shoulder. “Godsakes, Miles, you have gone as white as a corpse.”

  “Where is the man who brought this?”

  “Round the back in the byre. Rest easy, lad. Your mother will mend.”

  The shapeshifter, Heloise Ballaster, had been right. Twice! Predicting she would best him on their next encounter and now this—his father needed urgently at home. No, this was utterly insane. How could she possibly have known?

  Miles found the messenger dozing on the straw. “Did you tell anyone of your tidings on the journey here?” he demanded, shaking him awake.

  “N-no, sir. I came directly.”

  “And no one waylaid you?” Goggling, the man shook his head and Miles released his collar.

  “Changes matters, of course,” his father was saying behind him, “having to return to Upton Stafford. Pity we never had a cannon here, we could have bombarded Ballaster into surrender. No need for you to come back to Dorset, Miles, seeing as you have to return to the duke, but you could snip this rooster’s tail feathers in the meantime.”

  “Of course.” Miles tried to collect his shattered wits. “I need not leave here till Sunday, but yes, I will create such hell for Ballaster that he will rue the day he set eyes on Bramley.”

  “That’s the spirit, Miles. Go over to Norton Magna and collect the rents, then send the rest of the lads on to me with the money.”

  “HOW MUCH DID THEY COLLECT? WAIT TILL I LAY HANDS ON that whoreson. I’ll geld him! Nail his feet to the floor while I do it, too!” Sir Dudley paced before the hearth in the great hall.

  Sir Hubert, sober, received a warning glance from Heloise, who sat with a distaff by the fire, and cleared his throat. “I know the king has given you his good lordship, Dudley, but have a care. Old Rushden has been boasting that his son is high in Buckingham’s favor.”

  “Bah! That incompetent,” Ballaster muttered, careful that none of the servants would hear him. He took a goblet of wine from Dionysia and sipped it irritably.

  “Ah, but you don’t run foul of any great lord in this life, unless you haven’t a sparrow’s fart of doing otherwise. Cut your cloth, Dudley, to match your arm. As to young Rushden, we might give him a beating yet, I daresay.”

  “Heloise would not like you to do that, sir.” Dionysia darted a look at her sister.

  “Go to, Didie!” Helo
ise shifted painfully. The truth of her caller’s identity had been beaten out of her and she regretted her treachery. She would not forget that Miles Rushden had braved the bees to speak with her.

  “Ha, never tell me you found something to pity in the pockmarked scoundrel,” scoffed her father. “Offer to mend his face with fennel juice, did you? Pah, women! Didn’t he threaten to strip away your tassets and take his belt to you at Potters Field?”

  Heloise looked away, with a prayer of thanks that the bees had stung Miles Rushden—and would they please set upon her father.

  “Stop worrying, you goose.” Dionysia slid her arms fondly about her sister’s neck. “This serpent of yours is shortly returning to his duke. In three days’ time he leaves for Wales. He told me so himself. I have my skills at extracting useful information from unsuspecting men,” she added with a purr.

  “Now there is meat for the digestion.” Sir Dudley’s eyes were gleaming of a sudden with malicious interest.

  The room blurred, their voices faded as Heloise felt the pain and anger of a roped creature. She saw their enemy lying facedown between the ruts of a stony road with blood upon his temple. “Jesu mercy,” she whispered, needing air. Her father was destined to kill Miles Rushden.

  Heedless of the cold, of her silken slippers, useless against the stony ground, she rushed out the door and across the courtyard to rest her cheek against the cold bark of the birch tree that grew there. Her breath was vapor, her tears like tiny moonstones. Above her was a dark sky with its sprinkling of silver tapers in the heavens.

  “Take him away,” she whispered to the faery folk. “You must! Please!”

  Five

  It was an ambush—a rope taut across the bridle track at fetlock height. His man Dobbe, catching it first, went crashing down in a thrash of hooves. Miles glimpsed it too late to draw rein. All he could do was spur Traveller across the ditch alongside the road to avoid the harm. A branch grazed his temple but his horse staggered as a dozen masked rogues rose whooping from the undergrowth to drag him from the saddle. It took effort to roll free but he managed to cause havoc with his dagger, sending one of the ruffians to his Maker, but there must have been a half dozen still coming at him like hunting dogs while the others scrambled up to attack his men. Swords and pikes forced him back into the gully. Ditchwater lapped his toes, mud sucked at his heels, and grasping weeds tentacled his spurs. Before he could draw his sword, a net of thick rope fell across his shoulders. Half-blinded, he gave a roar of fury, thrashing out as they hauled him to the road. A fist drove into his belly and he staggered, bent double.