Boadicea's Legacy (11 page)

Osbert gripped the reins so hard that his knuckles cracked. He was a warrior, by God, a
knight
proven in battle—both real and tournaments. He was the Earl of Norfolk's man of business—he'd even protected a caravan of aging ladies as they crossed through Jerusalem. No woman had ever made
him tremble, for Christ's sake. Not even in the after-throes of spent passion.

He didn't understand why she let her expressions flit over her face. She made no effort to keep her hugs to herself. She teased, laughed, and cried like an emotional whirlwind. Yet she would wield a sword—a short sword, by St. Mary Magdalene—against the enemy to save her family.

What kind of female was she?

He knew the women in court, thanks to service beneath the earl. He knew peasant women, serfs, and tradeswomen in the villages. He knew whores. Os crossed himself. But he'd never met a woman like Ela Montehue.

Willing to put her faith in a man she didn't know … that seemed the gentle side of womanhood, and it pleased him that she had such softness. But he had no doubt that her short sword would be buried in his balls if he tried any sudden moves.

Oddly, that pleased him too.

She wouldn't be taken advantage of.

He felt a tug at his shirtsleeve and turned to see her offer him a piece of bread. “Where did you get that?”

She grinned, as charming as any courtesan. “Before I was stolen from my room, I was on my way to find you, Os, and tell you to sneak me away to Norwich so that you could have your land and I could end Boadicea's curse. Mayhap finding that spear will get her ghost to rest.” She waved the bitten bread through the air, chewed and swallowed. “That's a tale for later, though. Do I scare you, Os?”

A dervish, not a courtesan. A witch. “Aye,” he admitted, taking a bite of bread. “A little bit.”

“Good,” she smiled. “We are even then.”

Intriguing
. “Are you going to confess where you got the bread? Or did you conjure it out of the air?”

“Os, I am not a witch, no matter what you think. As I was saying, I was going to find you and have you take me away so that there would be no battle.”

“For certes, you seem willing to go to great lengths to save your father when he plainly tells you that he does not need saving.”

“Will you let me finish? I'd packed lightly, and though my dress is torn, it is filled with pockets and small purses. I have a few coins, another small round of bread, and a slice of hard cheese. Alas, I have no water, but I was already weighted down. I counted on you to have drink.”

Os stopped at the edge of the trees, annoyed at her cocky self-assurance. “This is no game.”

“What? I meant no disrespect.”

He spoke calmly, wanting to throttle her by the neck but knowing it would do no good to give in to his temper. “I have dried meat and water enough for us both.”

She smiled, impervious to his annoyance. Her expressive eyes shone bright. “A picnic by moonlight. How lovely.”

He frowned, turning his back to her. Her moods, he decided, changed as fast as the wind. Sir Percy may have been right about women being unstable.

He let Bartholomew lead the way, knowing that the
stallion would head toward a stream for fresh water. Os had to occasionally break a branch or two for them to get through the denser part of the trees, but once Bartholomew found a deer trail, the way was smooth.

Os recalled perfectly the last time he'd been lost inside the woods. Ela and her polecat had been nearby, he was certain of it. He'd heard their breaths. Os couldn't be distracted by her sweet kisses, nor by the way she made him feel like a lovesick squire.

Tonight he would treat her like she was a nun, and he'd keep his kisses to himself.

Ela walked behind him on the small path. He'd offered to let her ride on the horse's back, but she wanted to let Bartholomew rest. He heard her humming a pretty tune.

It was nice.

At last they reached the stream. A green, mossy glen beckoned nearby. “‘Tis as beautiful as any painting I've ever seen,” she said, awe in her voice. “The moonlight makes everything sparkle.”

He had to agree. Rocks edged the slow-moving water, the expanse of which was narrow enough to throw a stone across and hit the other side. “Do you swim?”

She shook her head. “Nay. Is it wonderful?”

“I'll teach you someday,” he offered, wishing he could take the words back as soon as he'd said them.

“Don't let me drown,” she jested.

She did that, he noticed, when she was uncertain.

When she was vulnerable.

He turned away and let Bartholomew free. The horse drank, thirsty from what had been a very, very long day. Os took the pack from the stallion's saddle and opened it.

Ela peered over his shoulder as if it were a present being unwrapped and she couldn't wait to see what was inside.

Feeling silly, he drew out a blanket—just one, but he would think about that later—a waterskin, and a skin of wine. Ela quickly snatched the wine and danced out of his reach.

“You can have the rest,” she said. “I will be warm and happy with this.”

Os shrugged, knowing that drinking wine with Ela, while they were alone in the woods with but one blanket to share, was not a good, or godly, idea.

The devil tempted him when she took a long swallow from the skin, then licked a drop from her upper lip. Her green eyes challenged him, and once again, he retreated.

A tactical retreat, he told himself.

She went to the banks of the stream, and he heard her splashing and talking to Bartholomew. He took the blanket to a corner of the clearing and got on his knees. He bowed his head and prayed for strength, guidance, and truth.

He waited to feel the peace come over him that usually did after a prayer from his heart, but on this night, he was too filled with doubt to let God in.

Os ended with a sign of the cross and stood, picking up the blanket he'd kneeled on and shaking the dirt from it. He looked up to find Ela staring at him, a questioning expression on her face.

“I told you I did a lot of praying.”

She didn't smile, just tilted her head to the side as if that might help her understand what she'd seen. Did she not pray? “Aye. Does it help?”

Confused, Os asked, “Help with what?”

“I see auras, but I can't read you. I've never been able to, which is more than strange. You have no aura—but that can't be right. Everyone has one, even the Moon Crone.”

“Moon Crone?” Chilled, Os led the way to the clearing where Ela had set a rock ring and wood inside it for a fire. There were two stones perfect for sitting on that she'd dragged to the edges.
Dragged? Or moved with witchcraft?
“I'll not hear such talk.”

She heaved a sigh. “You don't seem peaceful, not for a man who has just communed with God. I left you some wine … want some?” She handed him the wineskin, and he took it just so she wouldn't end up drunk.

“I have heavy thoughts. It will take more prayers than what I've offered this night.” He tucked the wineskin back into the pack.

“Ah. I am a good listener, sir, if you feel the desire to share those thoughts with me.”

He could share none of his desires with her—he'd promised her father, and that was that. A knight of God had to protect the sanctity of honor and dignity, lest the evils of human nature get loose. His vow of chastity seemed a heavy yoke. “We will sleep and leave early. There is no need for a fire.”

“What else will keep the wild beasties away?” She gave
an eerie giggle. “It is more fun to tell stories at night while sitting by a fire.”

“Stories are for children.”

“Everybody likes stories. Must you always be so serious? You should let your guard down.”

“Letting your guard down gets you kidnapped.”

The rebuke stopped her for a moment, no more. “I was able to break free.”

“Luck.”

She tossed her head and laughed. “Magic.”

He instinctively stepped back. Was she evil?

“I am not evil,” she said, her laughter fading. “You don't know whether to damn me as a witch, or nay.”

Did she pluck his thoughts from his head? He returned to the subject at hand. “You say that you were already planning on finding me to end the skirmish between your father and me. I am assuming that you didn't even think about bringing a chaperone?”

Ela lowered her eyes.

“Why you are willing to risk what's left of your reputation to—what did you say—end a damned curse?”

She took one of the stone seats next to the fire he hadn't started yet. The fire he had no intention of starting. “It is a long tale.”

Then she said nothing else. She tapped her foot and waited, expectantly.

Mayhap a small fire wouldn't be such a waste. Besides, when he gave her the blanket for warmth, he'd need the heat
from the fire. Flint in hand, he soon had flames leaping. “You set this up well,” he acknowledged, pointing to the ring of stones.

“Thank you. My brothers taught me how to fish and then cook what we caught. They didn't like the gutting part, so they told me I could come, but only if I did the cleaning.”

“Ah yes, I forgot. I'd heard you had two brothers. Twins?”

“Yes. They're in France now, honing their battle skills.” She slashed her arm through the air.

He remembered his brother. Worst of all, he remembered what his brother had looked like dead. It had been up to him to wrap the bodies of his family and take them to the church. It had been a fitting penance for his crime.

The priest had reluctantly taken them in and buried them in pauper's graves. He hadn't thought of that in a long while. When Sir Percy had passed, Osbert had gotten a large headstone and paid to have prayers said for a year.

“You are back to being sad—I can see that without your aura, which means it is obvious as the nose on your face.” She poked him in the leg with a twig. “Please sit!”

Os took the other stone seat. The crackle of the fire and the warmth from the flames invited stories and confessions. If he was brave enough to listen, what else might she say? Contrary to what she might think, he was no coward. He was a man who did what must be done, even if it wasn't pleasant. He knew how to loosen her tongue. “More wine?”

“Aye!” She deftly caught the wineskin he tossed and took a sip.

What questions could he ask that would tell him what he needed to know most without leaving him open to her charms? “Did you deliberately lead me into that boar pit? What were you doing? Some sort of sacrifice?”

Her green eyes darkened to the color of pine. “Are you insane?”

“I woke up in a boar trap, covered in animal parts. I was tossed a rope by a wrinkly old woman who then left me there. I am not crazed, simply curious as to why you would leave me overnight in a stinking pit.” He heard the anger in his voice and realized that he'd not gotten over it as thoroughly as he'd hoped. Emotion led to mistakes, and he quickly got his breathing back under control.

“It was an accident. I was running from you. I couldn't see you, and I hoped that you couldn't see me well enough in the dark—but I couldn't take the chance that you'd recognize me and tell my parents or let Thomas de Havel find out what I was doing that night. I was trying to get the toad to marry me, remember?” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her veil was askew and wisps of curling red hair escaped around her face. “I'm sorry, Os.”

He saw the pale skin of her ankles and calves where her dress had been torn and the blood stains from God only knew what. He longed to reach over and smooth her hair back or offer to wash the dried blood from her wrists.
Get a hold of yourself!

“At the time, I didn't know he was a perverted bully.” She shook the wineskin to emphasize her words. “If I had
married him, no doubt I would have been conveniently dead within the year. I'd never get to have babies.”

Os blinked at the baldly stated truth. “You are probably right.”

“I usually am.”

He arched a brow.
Educated and lovely, but wild as a fairy
. He took the wineskin and drank deeply, uncomfortable with where his thoughts were going. She'd been naked, performing magic in the dark.

She got up and took his face between her hands, her wine-scented breath warm against his skin. “It was an accident.” She waited until he nodded, and then she melded her mouth to his. She pressed in, gentle but firm, her mouth sealed to his before she pulled back, her eyes a dark, verdant green. “I promise.”

His gut fell to his toes as he watched her walk back to her stone seat, as regal as a queen. “So what did I see that night?” Please God, let there be an explanation he could live with. Love with. Or was it already too late to save his heart? For good or ill, she'd captured it that night in the glen.

Sighing, she shrugged and pointed to the moon. “I was trying to contact Andraste, the ancient goddess that Boadicea must have made her pact with. I talked with Meg—the wrinkly old woman you saw—and she said that Beltane is one of the most powerful nights of the year for contacting spirits. The space between dead and living is thin, especially as we say good-bye to the winter and welcome spring. In the old days, they would make love by the light of the moon and
perform fertility rites.”

He buried his head in his hands for a moment. God help him. His lower belly clenched at the thought of performing those rites with her.
Now
. How could she kiss him with such heat and just walk away?

Chastity. Honor
.

She kept talking, and he dared not plug his ears. “I wanted to end the curse that Boadicea put on our family. It isn't fair that we should lose our abilities to heal by joining in marriage without love. What if I never find love, but I want children? I can't do that without becoming a whore—”