Rafael could not doze, not when he knew the woman in the tale bore such a resemblance to what he knew of his own mother.
“The young man understood then that her husband was unkind to her, and that much depended upon her bearing the son that man desired. He argued with her, but he knew as well as she how matters would be. He and Iniga were together not once but three times before he left the town behind. He thought of her often, though she could never be his woman, and he hoped that all had come right for her.
“A little over a year later, he had the opportunity to return to that same town. He was glad of the chance and he sought out Iniga. To his delight, she had borne a son. To his dismay, the boy was less than vigorous, for he had been born too early. She did not say and the young man did not ask, but he sensed that her husband’s fists were the reason the boy had left her womb too early. There was little he could do for her, but she showed him the boy that was his son, and he gave her coin that she might go on pilgrimage to pray for the boy to be healed.
Rafael could not believe his ears. “To Compostela,” he said softly. “With all her daughters.”
Rodrigo nodded. “And so she went, but Fortune did not ride with Iniga. Plague came to Compostela while she was there and swept through the city. It was particularly virulent in the crowded accommodations used by pilgrims. Her youngest daughter succumbed first.”
“Aldoncia,” Rafael whispered.
“Perhaps so. They could not leave before she was buried, and while they awaited the priest’s blessing, two more of the girls fell ill. By the time all of her daughters had been buried in Compostela, all dead of the plague, Iniga herself was ill. She begged her husband to leave her there to die, to take their son to safety and to ensure his own welfare as well.” Rodrigo looked across the room, his lips in a grim line. “At least that was the version of the tale he recounted.”
Rafael frowned, for it seemed that Rodrigo knew more than he shared.
“The young mercenary had returned to the village a year later, seeking Iniga, but could only learn that she had gone on pilgrimage and not returned. Her husband had once earned his way as a pirate and a thief, and the young mercenary feared the man had discovered Iniga’s infidelity and abandoned her. It took him two years to find Iniga’s husband, though he sought him with fervor. In the end, he found Iniga’s husband by happenstance, spotting him in a tavern in La Rochelle. The husband vaguely recalled the young mercenary, and confided that he had returned to his trade, having lost his wife and children.
“He told of the pilgrimage, but insisted that he had been unable to leave his beloved wife, despite her entreaty, and that both she and the son had died shortly afterward. Though he wept into his wine, the young mercenary sensed that he told but half the tale. Perhaps Iniga’s deed had been discovered. After leaving the husband, the young man traveled to Compostela in search of Iniga’s grave and the place she had died. The woman who had rented rooms to the family confided not only that the infant boy had survived, but that the husband had taken the boy to his kin in Gijón. Hoping that his son might have been cast aside but still alive, the young mercenary hastened to Gijón in search of his son.”
Rodrigo shook his head. “But if ever the boy had been there, he was in Gijón no longer. The year before, pirates from the north of Castile had attacked the town of Poole on the south coast of England. In retaliation, English pirates had sailed to Spain and attacked Gijón. All who had lived in that town were either dead or scattered to the four winds. Not a whisper could be found of one small boy who had been born too soon.”
His gaze met Rafael’s steadily. “And so, the young man continued with his life and his trade. Ultimately, when he had a title and wealth to his name, he wed a beautiful woman. It was God’s grace that she should only bear him daughters, and he thought often of the boy who had been lost. He sought him still, dispatching men to seek some tidings of whether the boy had lived or died, and spent much coin on the quest for Iniga’s son.” Rodrigo smiled. “But as is so oft the case, he sought far and wide for what was right beneath his gaze.”
“I do not understand.”
“I was Iniga’s lover.” Rodrigo said with a conviction that could not be doubted. “Our son had a port wine mark on his buttock, the shape of an open hand on his right cheek. It was the only flaw upon him, and you bear the same mark.”
Rafael nodded, amazed.
“I had heard comments about the Devil’s hand being upon you, Rafael, but I had no notion that the men referred to a birthmark.”
“You never bathe with the men, sir.”
Rodrigo smiled. “And so I should have done. I do find it hard to believe that you, Rafael Rodriguez, were ever a sickly child born too soon, yet the mark tells no lie: you are my lost son.” Rodrigo smiled. “And I could not be more pleased, for I have often thought that a man of such valor and skill as you would make his father proud.” Rodrigo offered his hand and Rafael stared at it in surprise, before he placed his own within it.
Surely this could not be.
Then he smiled, for it was worthy of a tale, and that would make Elizabeth smile.
Rodrigo laughed and clapped Rafael’s other shoulder in delight. “You are my son!” he repeated with joy. “And the best of it is that I have found you just when I have the means to ensure that you have the position in the world that you deserve.” He nodded down at Rafael. “I will give you command of a company...”
“Nay,” Rafael said, recognizing opportunity when it was before him.
“But you are a man of war...”
“And I would be a man with a holding.” Rafael smiled at the older man. “I would be, like Mío Cid, a man with a citadel to defend.”
Rodrigo smiled, understanding lighting his eyes. “If I give you a holding, you will have need of a bride, my son.”
“I know just the one,” Rafael said, for it was true.
He only hoped that he could arrive in Scotland in time.
Friday, December 24, 1428
Feast Day of Saints Thrasilla and Emiliana. Vigil of the Nativity of Christ. Christmas Eve.
Eighteen
A ripple passed through the realm of the Fae, a whispering acknowledged by every leaf and spore and strand of hair. It felt to Elizabeth as if a million butterflies had fluttered their wings in the same instant, then stilled immediately afterward. There was no visible sign that anything had occurred, but she felt unsettled and anxious afterward.
It was clear that the Fae felt similarly, although they knew the reason for what they had felt. Elizabeth glanced up from her place at Finvarra’s feet, realizing that the Fae stood at attention or bowed toward one end of the court. They were fairly humming in their anticipation, some excited and some tremulous, and she guessed that the sensation had indicated the arrival of some personage of importance.
When Finvarra cleared his throat, Elizabeth marveled. She turned to see a tall and exquisitely beautiful woman leading a procession into the court from the far end. She was garbed in rich brocade and jewels, her hair so long that it fell to her ankles. She was luminous but faded as well, like silvered sunlight.
She halted before Finvarra, who frowned, stroked his beard and did not rise from his throne. “My lady.”
“Am I? Still?” she asked, her gaze sliding over Elizabeth with unconcealed disdain. “Is this the newest?”
“I owe you no explanation,” Finvarra said. “And indeed, Una, I have a partner awaiting me for a game of chess.”
She smiled. “I am sure the stakes are high, as you prefer.”
“I am sure they are not your concern,” Finvarra replied. He stood and bowed, his manner curt and somewhat impatient, then he strode from the court as if he could not leave it quickly enough. Elizabeth made to rise and follow him, for she was certain that was his desire, but she found the cool hand of the Fae Queen upon her shoulder.
“Stay,” Una commanded. She slid into the place on the throne that her husband had vacated, as sinuous as a great cat, and stroked
the arms as if to caress them. She smiled at Elizabeth, hunger in her eyes, then turned to the Elphine Queen. “Another mortal?”
“She came to him,” the Elphine Queen replied, moonlight to the other monarch’s sunshine.
Una laughed beneath her breath. “Not by choice, I am sure.”
“Oh, but it was,” the other insisted.
Una’s smile broadened. “They all believe they make a choice. In truth, his sorcery is so strong that they have none.” She arched a brow. “Was it the mirror this time? The one that snares the beloved with a single glance? Or was it the red, red rose wrought of ice, the bride price paid as if he were a suitor in truth?” Una pursed her lips. “I suppose it might have been the spindle that pricks the thumb of his intended and casts her into a dreamless sleep. He has not used that one for a while.”
“A red, red rose wrought of ice?” the Elphine Queen echoed, her manner amused. “Of the tales?”
“The very one,” Una said, her gaze fixed upon Elizabeth. “Do you know of it?”
“Aye, my lady. It is left for maidens who cross through the portal to the realm of the Fae in my home of Kinfairlie.”
“Kinfairlie!” the Elphine Queen breathed. “I lost a mortal lover there.”
“My husband has not shared your misfortune,” Una said, uttering the last word with a bitterness that made Elizabeth wonder at her meaning. She kept her eyes downcast, knowing it would be more respectful, but she felt Una watching her closely, as if to dare her into defiance. “Indeed, he hunts frequently at Kinfairlie.”
Elizabeth jumped when the Fae Queen seized her chin, compelling her to look up. Her eyes were like shards of mirrors, a thousand hues of silver and gold, melding and shifting so that Elizabeth was dizzied by the sight. “Do you know that you are only the latest, and that you will be the last?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I know naught of King Finvarra’s plans,” she said, for it was true.
Una smiled and leaned back in the throne, beckoning for a cup of ale. “But he has no secrets from me, not any longer, for we have been wed since time immemorial.”
“But he has never been faithful,” the Elphine Queen observed.
“I am content to let him indulge his fondness for fine steeds and for a good match of chess. I am not content to share his other charms any longer, though.”
“It seems you will not have to share him with mortals, not now that the portals close forever.” The Elphine Queen was discontent. “The one at Ravensmuir is already barricaded against us.”
“And so will be the one at Kinfairlie at Midwinter,” said Una with satisfaction. “Then finally Avalon after that. The realms will be separated, the tithe for souls will no longer be due, and my husband will no longer be able to steal lovers from the world of men. I cannot wait.” She seized the chalice offered to her and drank heartily of the mead. Elizabeth dared to glance up only to find the queen’s malicious gaze locked upon her. “Do not imagine that you will survive in this court, mortal. I will not share my husband’s charms any longer, and since he will not desist, I will remove all temptation. You are the last, but you will not live long.”
“You should let her finish her tale,” the Elphine Queen insisted. “It is quite excellent and I should not like to live forever without knowing its resolution.”
“A tale?” Una held out her chalice for more mead. It flowed like quicksilver into her chalice. “I will tell you a tale, mortal, a tale of a maiden stolen from the high tower of Kinfairlie by her Fae lover. This Fae lover told her that he was a prince come to court her love and that he would wed her if she crossed the divide with her hand in his. He vowed to pay a bride price of a red, red rose, which was the last token her family ever had of her.”
Una leaned closer to Elizabeth. “He lied. He was a king, not a prince, and he was wedded already.” She turned the ring of pale gold upon her left hand. “He lied to his mortal maiden and he lied to his lady wife, and when they had both been despoiled, he turned his glance to the realm of men again, seeking another beauty to seduce. His appetite is endless, his charm abounds, and his heart, well, I fear he has no heart at all.”
She sipped of her mead. “These maidens came always to the lady wife for solace afterward, in the hope that she could use some sorcery to turn matters to rights. All she could do was make them forget, and sometimes that was sufficient. His gaze would never light on the same maiden twice, after all. Once he has tasted, his appetite for that dish is satisfied, but never his hunger for more.
“And so it was that his lady wife tired of his infidelity, no less of the weeping maidens she had to console. She resolved that if she could not change her husband’s ways, she would eliminate his opportunities. She knew he had an affection for the maidens at Kinfairlie, for he had claimed several before his desire for Rosamunde was thwarted by her lover true.”
“Thwarted by a mortal?”
“With a little aid from a certain queen,” Una said, prompting the Elphine Queen to laugh. “And so it was that the lady wife was inspired by the escape of Rosamunde from her husband’s amorous intent, and so it was that she cast a spell.”
The Elphine Queen chuckled. “This queen we shall not name was most talented at sorcery, I would wager.”
“She was the best,” Una said with fervor. “Better even than her husband. And she put her all into this spell, a spell that surrounded Kinfairlie as surely as a vine grows round a tower. Her spell was this: that from the casting, when three of the siblings of that family wed for true love, then the doom of the Fae would be sounded and there would be no other tithe due to Hell. The lives of mortal and Fae would be divided and each return to their own. In the following seven years, the portals that linked the realms would be sealed, beginning with the one at Ravensmuir and followed by the one at Kinfairlie. A portent of this she delivered to the Fae, though she did not admit to her own role in the casting of it.”
“Ah!” said the Elphine Queen. “So, I have Finvarra to blame for the loss of my pleasures.”
Una continued as if the other queen had not spoken. “And so it was that after the spell was cast and the portent delivered, the king himself chose to intervene in the matters of mortals to see his own ends achieved and his wife’s scheme ruined. Was it an accident that the eye of the Elphine Queen fell upon Murdoch Seton? Nay, nay, but the queen’s sorcery and the maiden’s determination saw true love win the day.”
Her voice rose even as Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Was it an accident that Garrett MacLachlan was driven nigh mad by visions, cast out by men and left to run in the wild? Nay, nay, it was the hand of the king, determined to protect his pleasures, but the power of the queen’s spell and the vigor of the maiden’s love saw that man healed and true love triumph.”
Una got to her feet. “Was it an accident that the king chose to let Malcolm Lammergeier take his fellow’s place, that he might be slaughtered to pay the tithe to Hell? Nay, nay, but the love he had kindled in the heart of his lady changed him so resolutely that the blade would not allow his life to be taken, for his soul was no longer the darkest to be found.” Her voice rose to a shout. “True love thwarted the king three times in succession, and now the portals close.”
She sat back down, sipped her mead, and studied Elizabeth. “And so the king ensured that the one maiden he desired most would be trapped within the realm of the Fae when the last portal was sealed. Do not imagine that he will love you forever. Your allure will be lost with your maidenhead, and you will be trapped here forever, in servitude.”
“I know this, my lady,” Elizabeth dared to whisper. “I was tricked by the mirror and would leave.”
“You are snared,” Una said flatly. “By your own choice to speak within the circle, you are bound to this place. Make peace with your situation, mortal, for it will not change.”
Elizabeth frowned down at her lap. She of all her siblings had most desired to wed for love.
She knew she would never make her peace with that.
It was Ch
ristmas Eve when Rafael and his company of men galloped into the bailey of Kinfairlie, their shoulders dusted with newly fallen snow. Their destriers stamped with pride, their pennants snapped in the breeze, and their arrival had brought the villagers out to stare. It was just past noon and the sky was like a pewter bowl overhead. Rafael shivered as he dismounted, knowing that only his adoration of his lady could bring him back to this land.
He could not wait to see her grace his new home and hoped she still desired him as he desired her. He had thought long about his dreams and resolved that only the first one, of her at Kinfairlie, could be true. The second had been but a portent of what would happen if he did not return here by the Yule. Nay, Elizabeth lived, though she ailed, but Rafael would see her healed with his timely return.
He could not wait to see her reaction that he arrived like a champion, that he did so because she had prompted him to change his own course. That would put the sparkle back in her eyes, he was certain.
Rafael savored the mingled surprise and recognition in Alexander’s expression when that man came to the bailey to greet his guests. It was evident he had expected someone else and his gaze roved over the party in amazement. A dozen men and as many boys rode with Rafael, all garbed in the black and gold of his new colors, all graced with his insignia. They were a fine and regal party, and Rafael stepped forward with pride to shake Alexander’s hand.
“Rafael Rodriguez. I am surprised indeed to see you returned.”
“It seems the fate of men who make their fortunes to come to Scotland,” Rafael said, knowing his jovial manner mystified his host.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 130
