The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  Rain beat at the windows, a soothing sound, and mingled with the mellow drone of William's voice as he continued to talk to his mother and sister. Tamsin stitched, and listened, and tried to keep her more vexing thoughts at bay. She watched Katharine with a careful glance, as did the others, as the baby rolled curiously around the room, touching things tentatively.

  For years, she had thought that, if she ever married and settled in a household, she would miss the freedom to wander that she had enjoyed as one of the Romany, miss the boldness she was allowed as Archie Armstrong's daughter. But she had freedom at Rookhope, stemming from gentle acceptance and love.

  Though she had feared the restraints of this sort of life, she was able to be herself here. That gave her a sense of salvation and contentment. Having come to love that, she would have to give it up.

  But there was something missing in this peaceful atmosphere.

  William had not approached her privately since their first night at Rookhope Tower, either in daylight or at night. Helen helped her with her clothing and her hair now, at William's suggestion after the first day. And his sister and mother were often with her, since they had quickly included her in their tasks and in their leisure moments.

  At night, William found ways to avoid her, even in their chambers. He would enter the room at a late hour, after he thought she was asleep. Too often she lay awake in his luxurious, lonely bed, and heard him cross the room, floorboards creaking, to enter the antechamber.

  Sometimes, she would hide her face in her arms and cry herself to sleep, longing to feel his arms around her, yearning for his kindness, for his love. Befriended and accepted for what she was at last, she felt lonelier than ever. Her marriage to William was not real. And she realized how much she wanted that bond with him.

  But she was afraid to reveal her thoughts and needs to him. Another rejection, even in the gentle way he had, might destroy her utterly. The courage that passion had given her once, in his arms, had disappeared. Her doubts had overtaken her again.

  But she sensed a change in him since he had returned from his adventure with Jock and Sandie. He seemed warmer toward her, catching her glance more often, smiling more. She loved the intimate, subtle lift of his lips that sent shivers all through her, and gave her a fragile hope. Perhaps her imagination created that interest in his eyes. Her yearning and loneliness would find hope in whatever morsel he offered her.

  The needle stuck her and she swore, drawing the startled gazes of the others. Blood beaded on her finger, and she sucked on it, blinking at William, Helen, and Emma. William pinched back a smile and turned to spin Katharine in her walker. Her delighted giggles brought smiles to everyone for a moment.

  "Tamsin, you've worked hard at that lovely piece," Emma said. "I will show you how to decorate the flower petals, if you like. But put away the cloth for now, dearling, and come do the tarocchi for us. I know you read the picture cards for Helen the other day, but I wasna with you, and would like to watch it done."

  "Aye, if you please," Helen said. "Read them for William."

  Tamsin hesitated, feeling William's gaze upon her. "If she wants, 'twould be fine," he murmured to his sister.

  "Aye, then." Tamsin went to the table beneath a window.

  A patterned carpet covered the table, with an ivory gaming box on the bright, soft surface. She opened the box, which contained four packs of cards in pouches, bone dice, and stacks of wooden draughtsmen and counters for various games. Tamsin chose a pouch of heavy black silk and closed the lid.

  She sat on a small bench, slid the cards out of the silk bag, and began to sift through them. William drew up another narrow bench and sat opposite Tamsin at the table.

  "So," he said. "Do you want to play a game first? We will need a third player. Twenty-five cards each, trumps counting highest. Silence is the rule of play, and honor is all."

  Tamsin knew he teased her a little. She laid the cards face up on the table and skimmed her right hand over them to spread them out. "We can play later," she said. "These cards can also show one's life... and fate."

  "Ah," he said. "So honor is still the rule of the game."

  "Aye," she breathed, knowing he spoke with a double meaning that Helen and Emma, listening, would not understand. She touched the bright cards by their edges and glanced at William. "But if you would rather play the game itself, we can do that."

  "We've played enough games," he murmured, his gaze steady, his meaning, again, clear only to her. "'Twould be interesting to have you read my fate." He rested his forearms, folded, on the table. "Go to, then, lass."

  She nodded, his close presence making her head spin a bit. His knee bumped hers under the table and lingered there. She wondered suddenly if she would see her own fate along with his in the lay of the cards.

  "These are beautiful," she said, as she winnowed them into piles and mixed them again. "I have seen tarocchi with engraved designs, colored lightly, but each of these is hand drawn and painted." She touched one image, its background a thin layer of punched gold, its allegorical figure painted in saturated color. The parchment was thick, stiffened with clear glue, but she was still wary of damaging the gilded, decorated surfaces.

  "They were a gift from a friend," William murmured.

  "From the queen dowager herself. Helen told me," Tamsin said. "Marie of Guise must value your friendship highly."

  "I value hers," he said. "These were done by an Italian painter. There are trumps—twenty-two picture cards—and four suits—cups, staves, swords, and coins. Different than the French playing cards we use, with hearts and spades and so on."

  "The suit cards in a French pack can be used for fortune-telling as well. But these will tell us your fate most clearly. Now you must mix them," she said, handing him the cards. He poured them from one hand to the next. At her direction, he separated and stacked them.

  Tamsin watched his hands, strong and gentle and handsome, as he manipulated the cards. When he set them down, he relaxed a hand on the table, so close to her own that she felt the subtle heat. She took the topmost cards to arrange twenty-two of them facedown.

  "Three rows of seven each," William observed, "and one remaining. What is the significance of that?"

  "The rows represent past, present, and future. The last card is the resolution," she said. "Now hush." He nodded, and although she focused on the cards as she turned each one over, she was aware of his gaze on her, his hand near her own, his knee against hers beneath the table.

  She sighed as she slowly revealed the cards and began to speak about what she saw there. The tarocchi images created a story, as they often did, and this tale did not surprise her.

  In the rows of past and present, she saw a childhood of security, a home shattered by tragedy; an intelligent, sensitive lad beset by grief and fear, protecting himself from hurt; finally, an educated, sincere, sensible man of achievement and wisdom and passion, grown cautious despite the love around him. Then more tragedy, more hurt, and the further retreat of his heart, even in the presence of a loving family. When she overturned a card of hope, of new beginnings, her heart pounded softly. But it was followed by a card of doubt and fear.

  She explained what the cards disclosed. As she did so, she felt a better understanding and a greater sympathy for him.

  William listened, his forefinger crooked over his mouth, his eyes shadowed by a frown. Helen and Emma drew close to watch, their expressions somber.

  "Cups show harmony and joy in the home," Tamsin said. "There is much of that in your life, earlier, and in the present. But these cards, in the past—the Hanged Man and the Tower—show devastation, and a new direction." She went on, aware of the silence among the others.

  "There is strife here, and change. This card, five coins, says you feel... excluded from the warmth of life." She saw Helen and Emma nod soberly. William's face remained impassive.

  As Tamsin detailed the other cards, caught by the story they told, she marveled at how precisely the cards had arranged themsel
ves in William's sure hands. He had put something of himself, his heart and hopes and fears, into the cards as he held them. Only then, she knew, could the cards speak the truth and mirror lives and emotions.

  All the while, she felt keenly attuned to William's silence. She turned over the last few cards, all but one.

  "Ah, the Lovers," Emma said. "A man and a woman, with an angel looking over them."

  "But it doesna usually signify an actual pair of lovers," Tamsin said. She glanced at William, whose blue gaze pierced her. "This card, when related to the cards around it, indicates a choice." She looked at him again, though it took courage to do so. "You face a decision. The right path will transform you. But that frightens you."

  He glanced away, but she knew he understood and perhaps agreed with her. She moved to the next card. "The Magus. You seek wisdom, the truth. You have more wisdom than you know, and the power to change others around you. The power too to change your own fate... if you wish it," she added softly.

  He nodded, listening silently, his fingers over his mouth, a gesture, she thought, of skepticism. "And this one," she said, as she turned over the last card in the row of the future. "Ah. The Fool." She frowned. "You have some confusion with regard to some matter in your life, a matter of great importance, for this is a powerful card. 'Tis a card of fate. Let fate guide you, the cards say."

  "That figure signifies the force of fate?" he asked.

  "Aye," she said softly.

  She had not influenced the cards by her manner of mixing or laying them out. Nona had taught her well and thoroughly. She expressed only what the cards themselves told her, by virtue of their symbolism and the way in which each one reflected and enhanced the meaning of other cards on the table.

  But she knew, without doubt, what issue was addressed. And she did not miss the significance for herself as she looked at the cards in the last row. Somehow, the tarocchi counseled her with the same wisdom they offered William.

  "The Fool looks like a gypsy or a vagabond to me," Helen remarked. "Clothed in rags, with a walking stick and a sack."

  "Aye, the wandering soul, open to guidance, and chance," Tamsin answered. "William has something of that in him." Her hand trembled as she touched the final card. "This may show us what direction fate would lead you."

  He laid his hand over hers. The sudden touch, the warmth, startled her. "Nay," he said in a quiet voice. "I dinna want to see it. If I have a choice to make, I will do it on my own, without fortune-telling. Without fate," he added in a near whisper, to her alone.

  Tamsin nodded, unable to speak. She knew the choice he faced involved her and the uncertain matter of their marriage and their attraction to each other. The cards had shown aspects of William's life and his character. Yet each had mirrored her own life and feelings, too.

  The final, unknown card made her apprehensive. What if it showed a shattering between them, rather than a joining? She was afraid to look, and glad he had stopped her.

  "Well enough," she said. "We will leave it as 'tis."

  He nodded, and kept his hand over hers. The heat of his touch seeped into her bones, into her blood. She turned her hand in his, palm to palm, thumbs linking, a natural gesture for a wedded couple. Emma and Helen smiled at them.

  "Amazing," Helen said softly. "Much of that seemed to describe William's life. Tamsin didna purposely choose those cards, nor did William, for they mixed them well. Chance decided which cards were laid on the table."

  "Or fate," Tamsin murmured, watching William. He lifted a brow, a quick gesture of admittance that fluttered her heartbeat.

  "So much of the past and present seemed true," Helen said. "But William has already made a choice guided by fate. He married Tamsin impulsively."

  "Aye," Emma said. "And wisely." She smiled. "A wonderful game, Tamsin. I would like to see more of that, another day."

  "Will, has Tamsin looked at your palm?" Helen asked.

  "Aye, once," he said. "She saw a man of honor, as I recall. And I think she questioned that honor." He smiled at her, a patient smile that crinkled his eyes and seemed to pool affection there. She smiled in return, tentatively, yearning for him to care for her as much as she cared for him.

  "Let me look again," she said. He turned his hand, which still held hers. She smoothed her fingertips over the grooves etched in his palm. "Aye," she said. "I see honor, intelligence, a strong love for family, good health. A tendency to stubbornness, but a fairly calm temperament."

  "Health, wealth, the love of a good lass, the vanquishing of all my enemies," he murmured. Tamsin scowled at him playfully, for she heard the teasing in his voice.

  "What about love?" Helen asked. "Do you see marriage there? Can you match it in your own hand?"

  "'Tisna so simple as that," Tamsin said. "I see several loves here," She frowned. "But they cease after a certain point, and the line shows one strong, intense attachment."

  "As it should be," Emma said. "Tamsin, 'tis you there in his hand."

  She was not so sure she agreed. That deep-cut, heartfelt line could mean Katharine's mother. She saw a mark that signified the advent of parenthood, near the sign of that love.

  Tamsin slid her fingertips over William's palm, savoring the feel of his quiet power under her hand. She caught sight of a minute, finely cut line, and looked closer.

  The tiny crease ran parallel to his life line, identical to the one that she had in her own palm. The line revealed that he had a twin for his soul, a love that was rare and sure.

  She caught her breath, wondering if, indeed, they were meant to be together. She remembered that her grandmother had been certain that they belonged with each other.

  But free will could change whatever was in their lives. The choices made in a lifetime could alter the lines in the palm. Those tiny marks of destined love could mean tragedy as well as joy. Even fated love was not always found, kept, or claimed.

  Her heart beat hard as she slipped her hand from his. That minor parting felt like a small rent in the fabric of her life. She wanted to repair it by placing her hand in his again. But she folded her hands in her lap.

  William inclined his head, his gaze steady on her, a gleam of bemusement showing there. "My thanks, Tamsin lass. 'Twas entertaining."

  She nodded, knowing there was more truth than play in what had happened. She began to gather the cards. William rose from the bench and spoke softly with his mother, who asked him about Jock and Anna's plans following their wedding. Helen chased after Katharine and lifted her out of her walker, which stirred the child to noisy fussing.

  "And why," Emma said, "if you went to a priest's house to witness Jock and Anna's wedding, did you not invite the man to come here to Rookhope? I am most anxious to arrange a marriage within the Church for you. Gypsy vows will do, I suppose, but I want to hear Christian blessings spoken over you."

  Tamsin felt her cheeks flame. She did not hear William's murmured reply above Katharine's cries, but thought it sounded casual and noncommittal. Some of the cards slipped from her hands and scattered on the floor. She bent to pick them up.

  "Tamsin," Emma said. "Helen and I are going to put Katharine down for a rest, and then we will sit in the great hall to have some muscatel before supper. Join us there, dearling."

  Tamsin nodded. "I will."

  "I must ride out to talk with some of my kinsmen and tenants," William told his mother. "With the Forsters and Musgraves angry at Jock, all those of our surname should be wary after dark." He looked at Tamsin. "I will be back by supper, or shortly after that. Later this evening, before set of sun, we will ride over to Merton Rigg to see your father."

  "Aye," Tamsin said. "I have packed my gear."

  "Packed?" Emma asked. "Will you stay at your father's for a while? I know you mean to meet with Archie and with Jasper Musgrave, but I hoped that you would come right back to us. But of course, you must tell Archie about your marriage, and he might want you to stay with him for a few days. Then I want to see you two right back here." She smiled an
d reached up to pat her son's shoulder.

  William glanced at Tamsin as he left the room. That flash of blue was enigmatic and powerful. She could not tell if he agreed with his mother or if he meant to leave Tamsin at Merton Rigg forever, a discarded mock wife.

  Helen and Emma followed him out, and Tamsin sat alone at the table, gathering up the rest of the picture cards and slipping them into the black silk pouch.

  Her hand lingered over the last card, still facedown on the table. She hesitated, then turned it over, revealing the Star, an image of a woman holding a golden starburst.

  "Ah, Will," she whispered sadly. "Hope and salvation are yours, if you would but choose that path." Happiness waited for both of them, she thought, glittering bright and full of promise, like the little picture she held.

  But William had not wanted to see the final card. Perhaps he already knew what direction he would take. She feared that he would decide to turn away from her, and from their marriage. The tarocchi had hinted that the fool in him, the gypsy part of his soul, struggled with the wise man.

  Chapter 24

  One gentle Armstrong I doe ken, A Scot he is much bound to mee; He dwelleth on the border-side, To him I'll goe right privilie.

  —"Northumberland Betrayed by Douglas"

  The rain softened as they left Rookhope for the brief ride to Merton Rigg, and soon changed to a mist that haloed the rising moon. Hillsides thick with heather became a sparkling silver carpet touched by moonbeams. Tamsin sat her gray's back quietly, watching the countryside, marveling at its silent beauty.

  "There will be few reivers out on such a night," William murmured, looking up at the sky. Lavender lingered there, since darkness came late on Scottish summer nights. "Too soft, this night. The rain will come down again, I think, before long. We may be the only reivers out here, lass." He sent her a brief smile.

  She touched the sleeve of her old leather doublet, knowing he referred to the male clothing she wore for the journey back to Merton Rigg. Her own gear—breeches, boots, shirt, and doublet—would do, she thought, since she was about to return to her old life.