Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

  The sound of pounding feet on the stairs suddenly invaded the room. What now?

  The footsteps raced past the closed bedchamber door in the direction of the boys’ room. Then a door slammed, and all grew silent.

  Golde’s lip curled. “I believe the little dearlings have returned to roost. If you would, Hesper, have a bath prepared for me, and remove this bed linen. I shall return shortly.”

  An anxious look settled over the woman’s features. “Why not let Sir Nigel handle the matter? Give yer temper a spell to cool.”

  Golde pulled a sour face and made for the door. Give her temper a spell to cool, indeed. She intended to blow fire at the little demons, and watch them cook.

  Marching down the corridor, she threw open the boys’ door. Three pairs of rounded eyes riveted on her where she halted.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Know you what evil befalls children who dare to test my temper? I skin them alive and boil their bones for pottage.”

  Alory shrieked and dove for the opposite side of the bed, Nicolette fast on his heels. Only Ronces remained where he stood, the stubborn little mule.

  Golde raised her hands and crooked her fingers into talons, determined to frighten him. “You will be first, boy,” she crowed.

  Ronces started, as if he might flee, but he checked himself. Then his jaws worked.

  Without warning, he launched himself at her. “Go ahead, crone. Kill me!”

  “Nay!” Alory and Nicolette screamed in unison.

  Golde fought to contain the boy’s thrashing fists. That he would dare to attack her. Grabbing his wrists, she wrestled him to the floor. He would learn here and now . . .

  The children are jealous of the attention his lordship pays ye. Hesper’s words whispered in her head, giving her pause.

  Nay. It should not matter what the children felt toward her. But it did. Just like it had mattered, more than anyone could imagine, when she’d been an ugly, lonely little girl.

  “Cease, foolish child. I did but jest. Your father would have my hide if I did aught to harm you.”

  A tear slid down Ronces’ temple where he lay on his back beneath her. “Papa will thank you for killing me. I deserve to die.”

  His breath caught on a sob, and Golde winced. Please, God, not another crying spell. “Silly boy. Of what do you speak? Your father loves you.”

  Ronces closed his eyes. “Papa will hate me when he returns.”

  “He shot one of the swineherd’s pwize pigs,” Nicolette intoned, peeping over the edge of the mattress.

  “He didn’t mean to,” Alory added, his head popping up beside Nicolette’s.

  Golde returned her attention to Ronces, whose eyes were squeezed shut. Releasing his wrists, she smoothed a tear from his temple. “Accidents cannot be helped. You are yet young and cannot expect your aim to be accurate at all times.”

  His dark eyes, so like Gavarnie’s, opened to focus on her. They reflected no hatred or anger, only misery. “I am forbidden to use a bow unless Papa is with me.”

  “Wonces is not all to blame. Me and Alowy dared him to shoot—the awwow, not the pig.”

  Golde drew a deep breath. Realizing she yet pinned Ronces, she quickly moved to sit beside him. Though the boy should be taken to task for disobeying his father— indeed, she should be punishing Ronces for the tricks he’d played on her—she could not do it.

  “I once stole a spell from my great-grandmother against her wishes,” she said instead. “Well do I know how you feel.”

  Ronces rose to sit, hugging his knees. “Did you shoot a prize pig, too?”

  Golde sighed bitterly. “Nay. I only killed an innocent toad, but it haunts me to this day.”

  Tears again pooled in Ronces eyes. “Did the toad die quickly?”

  Golde nodded, unable to speak.

  “Would that the pig were dead,” he mumbled, resting his forehead on his knees. “It yet squeals.”

  “Could you make it bettew?” Nicolette pleaded from where she’d crawled atop the bed. “You awe a witch, aftew all.”

  “The pig still lives?”

  Ronces swiped at his eyes and gave her a hopeful look. “’Tis a sow.”

  “Where is it shot?”

  “In its hindquarter.”

  Golde shook her head. “I don’t know. Sows are foul-tempered at best. An arrow in their hind will make them no sweeter.”

  “Oh, pwease, mistwess,” Nicolette begged.

  “Couldn’t you just try?” Alory asked.

  Golde eyed the three expectant faces. Only a fool would tend a wounded sow. Yet . . .

  “Faith,” she grumbled as she rose. “Never have I met children whom trouble seems to stalk with such tenacity. If I am gored by tusks, I will make the three of you wait on me hand and foot.”

  Ronces scrambled to his feet and hugged her waist, only to pull back. Wiping his hands on the front of his tunic, he gave her a sheepish look. “I am sorry for the honey.”

  “We all awe sowwy.” Nicolette grabbed Golde’s hand and pulled her into the corridor.

  “I cannot go like this.” Golde halted. “I don’t even have on shoes.”

  Alory studied the floor and shuffled his feet, while Nicolette fair glowed with innocence. “You look vewy pwetty for a witch. And you do not need shoes. They will only get diwty in the stye.”

  Golde raised a brow. “I cannot imagine how much filthier they could get, considering they are filled with dung.”

  The girl winced, then glared at the boys. “I tole you we shouldn’t do that.”

  “We will clean them for you,” Alory offered.

  “But we must huwwy now.” Nicolette fair danced with urgency. “The pig is huwting. She might awweady be dead.”

  Golde glanced heavenward and sighed. “Very well. First we must collect my salves from my chest.”

  After rooting through her stores and gathering what she needed, Golde followed the children through the empty great hall and into the bailey. Sir Nigel was nowhere in evidence, praise the saints.

  As they approached the pig stye, a rotund man stomped from around the back of a pen, shooing at several servants who idled at the railing.

  Upon spying the children, he shook a fist at them. “Take yerselves off, lest I give ye the beatin’ ye deserves.”

  Golde strode forward, the children close behind her, carrying her jars and flagons. “I have come to see if I can be of help.”

  “Wot!” The man backed away at her approach, his face red. “Can’t let no witch-woman in me pens. Look at ye, drippin’ all manner of goo. Yer person might poison the whole stye.”

  “Foowish man,” Nicolette chided, coming to stand beside Golde. “Witches awe not . . .” She paused, her small brow furrowed with concentration.

  Abruptly her features cleared. “Witches awe naught but the ’maginings of simpletons.”

  Golde pursed her lips. Clearly, the child was reciting something she’d heard.

  The man crossed himself, and spit in his palm. “Arn’t nothin’ to be done fer the sow.”

  Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you not slaughter her now so she won’t suffer?”

  The man snarled. “If she weren’t about to litter, I would. As ’tis, I’ll be waitin’ ’til she dies to slit her belly. Mayhap I can save some of the piglets. His lordship will charge me, ye knows. Not only for the sow, but fer what dies of the litter.”

  “Then step aside,” she affected a sweet tone, “and let me see what can be done.”

  Ronces strode forward and cleared his throat. “I will take responsibility for my actions, as well as Mistress Golde’s.”

  “Me, too.” Alory moved to stand beside his brother.

  Warmth curled around Golde’s heart like a furry kitten’s tail. That Ronces and Alory would pledge themselves on her behalf. And Nicolette. From whom had she heard the saying about witches?

  The swineherd trundled forward. “We shall see what Sir Nigel has to say about this.”

  �
��A moment,” Golde commanded, separating herself from the children.

  “You will say nothing, lest I place a curse on you,” she hissed in his face. “Your seed will dry up, and your shaft will wither, until you have naught to piss with.” The swineherd backed away, jowels quivering. “Do wot ye will.”

  Spitting in his palm again, the swineherd took himself off, and Golde followed the children to peer over a thick, slatted railing. The wounded sow lay opposite from the pen’s gate, her small black eyes half-closed, Ronces’ arrow yet embedded in her hind. Her sides heaved and she grunted with each breath she took.

  Golde wrinkled her nose at the stench, and eyed the flies swarming above the filth-strewn ground.

  “The three of you go ’round to the other side of the pen.” She gestured at the children. “As I need things, you can hand them to me through the slats. Stay well back of the railing until I call for you, and under no circumstances are any of you to enter the pen. Understood?”

  Three heads bobbed in unison, then the children moved off to do her bidding, as several people halted to watch the proceedings.

  Grasping the latch, Golde opened the gate and stepped inside. Slime gushed between her toes, but she paid it no heed. The sow’s eyes had snapped open, and never had Golde seen a more suspicious look.

  “Easy, mi’lady,” she soothed.

  The sow snorted and Golde stilled. “’Tis quite a nasty wound you have there.”

  She eased to a squat and waddled forward, balancing on the balls of her feet. “How brave you must be, mi’lady. And very pretty, too. ’Twould be a shame for such a fine pig to die.”

  The sow wallowed to sit, her grunts more guttural and threatening. Again, Golde stilled until the pig’s grunts subsided, then waddled closer. “I mean you no harm.”

  Abruptly the sow tried to rise. Gasps issued from the onlookers, and it took all of Golde’s will not to jump up and run.

  But the pig only squealed its misery, then collapsed on its side, its body trembling.

  ’Twas now or never. Golde quickly closed the gap between herself and the pig before it could regain any strength.

  Its eyes rolled in its great head and its tongue hung panting from its mouth. Short tusks peeked from its jaws.

  “All is well.” Golde babbled as she reached out to stroke the sow’s ears. “All is well.”

  She glanced at the arrow. It appeared to have sunk the length of a man’s hand. Golde pursed her lips. The animal would have to be rendered unconscious to remove the arrow. Which was a problem unto itself.

  How much tonic would be necessary to make the pig sleep without disturbing the litter she carried?

  “There, there,” she crooned, and continued to pet the animal. “We’ll soon have you back on your hooves.”

  As the sow’s grunts eased, so did its flat, round nose begin to twitch. Before Golde realized what it was about, the pig’s tongue had captured her sleeve.

  The honey! It was after the honey that soaked her garments.

  Golde worked quickly. Leaning her head to one side, she scraped her hair across her shoulder to obscure the pig’s vision so it would be less frightened. “Ronces, I need the black flagon.”

  She reached through the slats with one hand while stroking the pig with the other. Uncorking the bottle with her teeth, she dribbled a small amount on her sleeve.

  The pig suckled a bit more, then her tongue moved to lap at Golde’s hair.

  God’s teeth, she thought. She felt like a contortionist. The muscles in her neck, arms, and legs were screaming for relief. Meanwhile, it felt as if her toes might cramp any moment from the way she was squatting on the balls of her feet.

  For what seemed an eternity, she dripped tonic in the area where the animal licked, waiting to gauge its effect before dribbling more.

  The sow’s breathing slowly grew deeper and more even, until finally its tongue lolled to the ground.

  Hushed voices whispered from the assembled castlefolk as Golde rose. “Ronces, the rope.”

  Grabbing the cord, she tied the animal’s feet, then again directed the boys. “The knife, Ronces. Alory, the cloth.”

  The boys’ hands shook as they handed the items to her. “Be careful,” Alory urged.

  Golde knelt beside the pig. Holding her breath, she cut the arrow shaft away, and placed the blade’s sharp tip to the sow’s punctured flesh. She then gave the knife a hard thrust until it scraped against the embedded tip of the arrow.

  Sweat trickled down her forehead as she set to work, cutting a core around the arrow. Faith, ’twas like trying to cut a wheel of cheese that was composed of nothing but rind. Once finished, she used the knife for leverage. Steeling herself, she gave a mighty yank on the arrow while pulling up on the blade. The arrow came free cleanly.

  And not a moment too soon. Already the sow’s breathing was growing lighter and less even.

  “Ronces . . .” She looked at her hands. They were covered with blood and gore.

  For a moment she swayed, certain she was going to sick. A snort from the sow sent fear to her rescue. Sick or no, she’d best finish quickly.

  “Ronces. You and Alory will have to light the taper.”

  Ronces fumbled with a flint until Nicolette jerked it away. While he held the tinder, the sure-handed girl struck the flint. Once the tinder caught, Alory held the candle to it.

  Another snort issued from the sow as Golde held the knife above the flame. “Hurry, hurry,” she muttered.

  The blade grew black, then ashen. Kneeling beside the sow one last time, Golde sunk the knife in its bloody hide.

  In the same instant that the blade hissed, she heard Ronces shout, “Papa!”

  Golde dared not look away from the pig. The animal’s body writhed as it tried to wake, but Golde held. The knife needed a few moments to cauterize the wound.

  Abruptly a mail-clad arm wrapped about her waist.

  “Leave go,” she snapped, leaning all her weight forward and locking her muscles.

  “Witless get of an idiot!” Gavarnie hissed in her ear. “You will get yourself killed.”

  The pig began to grunt with ferocity, and its hooves flailed.

  “Mistress!” Sperville croaked, prying at her hand where she held the knife.

  ’Twas more than she could withstand. In the same instant the blade came free, Gavarnie jerked her backward. Her momentum carried them both to the ground, where she landed in his lap.

  SIXTEEN

  GAVARNIE SCREECHED. There was no other word for the high-pitched wail that erupted all the way from his coillons, where his plate armor had pinched him.

  Pinched him? Nay.

  Shoving Golde from his lap, he clutched himself between the legs and rolled to his side. He’d been torn asunder. His body quivered with the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against scalding tears of agony, and curled in a ball.

  As if it understood his misery perfectly, the sow began to squeal.

  “Lund!” Sperville called. “Have your blade to ready lest the pig breaks its bonds.”

  “Nay!” Nicolette wailed.

  “Mi’lord.” Sperville touched Gavarnie’s shoulder, and he flinched. “What—”

  “The witch did it,” the swineherd accused.

  “She did not,” Alory cried. “She was only trying to help.”

  Gavarnie’s heart pounded thickly in his chest. Dear God, he could not look. How much blood would there be?

  “He is having a fit,” Lund remarked anxiously. “See how he shakes?”

  Instantly a thumb was prying his eyelid open, and he saw Golde’s apprehensive features peering at him. Groaning, he rocked away from her touch.

  Castrated. Emasculated.

  “What spell have you cast upon him, hellhag?” Henri demanded from nearby.

  His eyes squeezed shut, Gavarnie heard scuffling sounds to the tune of the sow’s grunts and snorts.

  “Unhand me, fool,” Golde huffed. “’Tis no fit. Can you not see he is in great pain?”

>   Soft, warm fingers brushed the hair from his forehead. “Mi’lord, tell me where you are hurt.”

  He shook his head. Death was preferable to discussing his malady with her, or anyone.

  Sir Shaft le Mort, Baron of Gelding. He could hear it now.

  “Sperville, what became of the knife I held?” Golde sounded frantic. “Mi’lord, did I stab you?”

  Mud squished, then the chamberlain replied, “’Tis here.”

  Gavarnie ground his teeth. Opening his eyes to slits, he found Golde kneeling beside him, her hair stuck to her face and clothing in black clumps. Beyond her, Lund held his sword at the ready, prepared to kill the sow if she attacked. Henri stood beside Lund, his features drawn. And inexplicably, an overpowering scent of honey permeated the air.

  “It is his stomach,” Golde concluded aloud, tugging at his wrists. “Mi’lord, let me see. ’Tis not safe to move you until we determine the extent of your injuries, and this is no place to tarry.”

  As if to underscore her words, the pig loosed another round of howling squeals.

  “Leave go,” he gritted, locking his muscles in place.

  “I swear I will not hurt you,” she cajoled, pulling harder.

  The pain was beginning to ease, and he wished only for privacy. “Get thee gone, wench. Sperville, disperse this crowd. Then you, Lund, and Henri, remove yourselves to the hall.”

  Golde’s eyes jerked upward, her worried gaze directed behind him at Sperville. She pursed her lips.

  “I cannot leave you thus,” the chamberlain declined, “not with an angry sow. Let Golde look at you. Then we will know how best to proceed.”

  The throbbing rapidly diminished, leaving a numb sensation in its wake. Doubtless because there was nothing left to feel pain. He grimaced.

  “For once, Sperville, you will do my bidding without argument. You will take yourself off, or by all that is holy, I will crush that stubborn head of yours.”

  “But sir—”

  “I tell you, my complaints are naught to concern yourself with. Begone!”

  It seemed the sow agreed with his sentiments, for it grunted heartily.

  “He is out of his head,” Golde pronounced solemnly.