Boadicea's Legacy (2 page)

Rain slashed from the sky while thunder boomed and lightning lit the area around him in a single flash before turning the night black again. His horse stumbled, and he had to slow or endanger Bartholomew. “Pox take you,” Os muttered to the man's back.

The sound of the horse's hooves grew fainter. Usually clear of head, Osbert's spurt of temper back in the village had now gotten him lost in the middle of nowhere during a ferocious storm. Sir Percy had taught him that emotion led to mistakes, and again his mentor had been right.

He could either stop or end up in a ditch. He might deserve a spill for being an impatient sod, but his horse had earned better. He patted Bartholomew's mane. “Sorry, boy.”

It was too late to bother the lord and lady of the manor. Mayhap the innkeeper would rent him a room even though he'd chased one of her patrons from the inn. Or he could sit in the rain and get drenched. He was not without options.

A flash of lightning briefly showed a worn trail off to the left. Os yanked at the reins, wanting to find his prey—and
answers. Bartholomew somehow managed to keep his footing as they dove forward into the dark night. Os ducked beneath oak tree limbs and slashing foliage.

Had he thought this a trail?

It wasn't even a footpath.

Suddenly a shaft of moonlight illuminated a hill ahead. A peal of thunder covered what might have been hooves in front of him, and Os patted the neck of his steed. “Hurry. Over the hill, and we'll have him, by God.”

With the confidence of one who has rarely lost a fight, Os charged the hill and drew his sword to confront the peasant once and for all. He needed to find Robert Montehue and his lady wife, Deirdre. A year was a long damned time to be searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Os reached the crest and immediately yanked back on Bartholomew's reins. The horse protested softly as he regained his footing. Osbert's jaw dropped, and he rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He blamed the ale he'd drunk at the inn as he fell from his saddle to the slippery grass. Cautiously righting himself, he leaned against the heaving flanks of his mount.

He blinked in the sodding rain.

He wiped his eyes.

She
was still there, a vision in alabaster and crimson. Curling hair flowed down the nymph's naked back, her bare arms lifted to the moon in supplication. Sparks lit from one finger to the next as she shouted something that sounded … primitive.

Andraste
. Familiar, though he would swear he'd never heard the name before this night.

Os was struck with a deep yearning that caused his armored heart to ache with sadness, regret, and desire.

His groin pounded and it hurt to breathe. Os wanted her in a primal way—savage. His loins tightened, and he imagined her beneath him in the throes of passion. Her eyes would be green, her laughter warm.
Impossible
.

It felt like a memory.

He wanted her now. Yet he'd sworn an oath to remain chaste until marriage. And he wouldn't marry until he had his own land.

Yet …

Dedicated to God, church, and kingdom, Osbert Edyvean quickly crossed himself in the downpour of rain.
I've been damned by a flame-haired witch
.

E
la heard the whinnying of a horse, and she glanced up to the top of Abner's Hill. She straightened her shoulders, prepared to see the ghost of Boadicea in her chariot ready to lift the curse by separating Ela's head from her shoulders. Her breath seized in her chest as she realized that she was looking at a very human man leaning against his horse and staring at her as if
she
were the ghost.

A triple boom of thunder freed her from the pull of his gaze. Though she couldn't see the details of his face, she sensed that he was a force to be reckoned with. Then she remembered that she was alone in the glen, using old magic, and lastly, that she was as naked as the day she was born.

From the way the man stared at her, he'd already noticed.

Her wet hair left little to the imagination. Crossing her arms over her breasts, Ela quickly assessed the glen and saw nothing that would give away her identity. She bolted for the cover of the woods, praying to the current God that she wouldn't be compromised. Not even the odious Thomas de
Havel would have her then.

“Hold!” The man's voice echoed down the hill. It was an order, not a request. Ela reached the edge of the tree line, where she'd folded her dress beneath a canopy of branches. Donning her gown in the blink of an eye, she then continued running for the back of Montehue Manor. Home.

At twenty years of age, she'd known no other.

Most girls,
women
, she chided herself as she raced barefoot across pine needles, were married and mothers by her age, and yet she'd managed to hang on to her virginity as if it were a badge of honor. It was easy enough to do when no suitors came calling to sweep her off her rather sturdy feet.

Last May Day she'd foolishly, and publicly, sworn by St. Agnes's finger bone that she'd rather give the prize away and be ruined for good than to live by the rules of Boadicea's curse. Though she hadn't done the deed, her rash vow had added to her wild reputation.
It was better to be held in awe than pitied
.

Hooves crashed across the glen and into the cluster of trees. Ela quite distinctly heard the cursing of the stranger as he tried to pick his way through the trail in the woods. Having memorized each rock of the forest, Ela easily bypassed Meg's tiny cabin and turned left. She deliberately broke a tree branch on the right before circling around.

She would follow him to see what he was up to—mischief, no doubt. What else could a stranger want, after midnight, in the woods behind the manor?

His horse slowed him down, making it easier for her
to track him. The small, overgrown forest was a haven for some, like Meg and her son, Jonny, yet the thin trails made it impossible to ride more than two abreast. And that was only if a person knew where they were going.

He cursed again and Ela smiled. ‘Twas obvious that he was quite lost. She picked up the hem of her long gown so that it wouldn't drag in the mud, but it was too late. Dirt soiled the edges. Ela rolled her eyes, thinking wickedly that naked was better—less clothes to wash. Ever practical, she'd remember to wear a short tunic the next time she was spell-making in a storm.

Not that she would do it again. Ela was tempted to wake Meg up just to let the wisewoman know how wrong she'd been about being able to call either Andraste or the spirit of Boadicea.

Instead of a ghost, she'd caught a man. He was a down-on-his-luck knight, from the looks of his thin leggings and the worn heels on his boots. A cross was stitched on the shoulder of his cloak, but it was too dark to tell the color of his hair. It was wet, anyway, and curled at his shoulders.

She stayed to the shadows, careful not to make a sound as she watched the man struggle ahead through the forest. Ela paused at the mossy base of a huge oak tree, where she made a series of whistling noises and waited. It wasn't long before a polecat poked his head from beneath the undergrowth and wrinkled his dark, weasel-like nose, issuing a chirruping sound that she interpreted as hello.

“Henry, we have an intruder in the woods,” she whispered.
Henry's ears perked, and he looked positively intrigued. Truth to tell, so was she.

Henry leaped for her shoulder, curling his long body around the back of her neck like a scarf, chasing away the residual chill from the glen. The dense forest held the rain back to a mere drizzle. Ela stroked the polecat's tail, which dangled down her shoulder. “Shall we follow him?”

Catching up to the man wasn't hard, not with the noise he was making as he and his stallion splashed across a tiny stream. She came close enough to hear him mutter, “A witch? Impossible.”

She grinned and crossed the stream by hopping from rock to rock. He was wet, she was dry. She almost felt sorry for him.

Witches. Was Ela's ability to heal a mark of the devil? It didn't seem right that such a gift
wouldn't
be blessed by God—her grandmother always said so. It didn't feel wrong when she used her powers to lift a cough or ease an ache.

Another curse echoed through the trees.

Should we let him wander the forest all night?

Henry snuffled in protest, his breath warm against her neck.

I can't bring him home, and poor Meg is sleeping
.

He wore a cross on his cloak. What if he was a heretic hunter, working for the church? True fear, the first she'd felt all night, worked its way through her body. Her eyes narrowed as she crept closer to him, close enough to see the leather thong tied around his neck. Not gold chain, nor silver … he wasn't rich. His only wealth was in his horse.

We'll have to catch him
.

Henry's tail fluttered.

If he's a poor, lost knight, then come morning, I can apologize and send him on to the village for food. If he's bent upon mischief, then a few hours tied to a tree won't hurt him, and it will give me time to come up with a better plan
.

Henry clambered around her neck so that he was able to look into her eyes. Nose to nose, he chuffed and seemed to shake his head.

Ela realized that the forest had grown quiet.

No more splashing or branches breaking or cursing.

Oh no
.

Where did he go?

Henry leapt from her body to a tree trunk where he scrambled up to a higher branch just as Ela heard a snapping twig to her left. She jumped to the side and barely avoided being crushed by the stranger's charging body.

They each stumbled on the slippery forest floor, then righted. Ela stared at him, not really seeing him in the dark, just the outline of his broad shoulders. He hadn't seemed so big up on the hill. His breath came in harsh pants, and hers echoed just as loud. She heard the beating of his heart in tempo with hers, and it made her dizzy. Oddly, she was compelled to reach out and caress his face. She could touch him—if she dared.

Ela dared not.
What is the matter with me?

She turned and ran for the trails she knew by rote, her breath caught in her throat as she dug her bare toes into
the dirt and pine needles. She ignored the pain of the occasional pointed rock, intent on losing the man behind her.

As they'd stared at one another, she'd felt something more powerful than the storm raging over the glen. This power swelled from within, surrounding them both. Her instincts urged her to run faster, yet at the same time a part of her wanted to stay.
Move!

He kept on her heels.

She was fast, aye, and he was too. What would happen if he caught her? This was her forest, these were her trees.
But he didn't know that
. Her leg muscles burned as she flew through the woods, taking trails and forging new ones until finally coming to the dense heart of the forest.

He wasn't far behind, but she bent at the waist and breathed in deeply through her nose. Air. She needed—ew.

Pungent and earthy, the stench of boar was unmistakable. She lifted her head, slowly, cursing her thoughtlessness. The stranger's crashing footsteps were magnified as she searched the brush for movement. Not his—but the boar she sensed was on the periphery of the clearing.

She straightened and called a low-pitched warning to the stranger. “Slow down. Nay, stop where you are.”

The man never paused but kept running, his voice triumphant as he said, “I've got you now, witch, and you'll be sorry you led me for such a merry chase.” He kept coming at full speed, through the underbrush, through the bushes, and straight for her. Just when Ela was certain that she was going to die by either the man's hands or the boar's tusks,
the man disappeared with a cracking of dried branches.

She hoped it wasn't his bones she heard snapping.

The bushes behind her rustled, and she stayed still until she was sure the boar was truly gone. She dropped carefully to her knees, crawling across the ground. Ela peered over the edge of the boar trap, her pulse thudding in her ears.

“I told you to stop,” she said softly.

The still form of the man down at the bottom of the deep hole gave a pathetic groan.

“Blessed be, he's still alive,” a quavering voice said from behind her.

Ela peered over her shoulder, flicking a rope of hair from her face. “Meg. I was going to let you sleep.”

“With all that racket ye made tearing the trees down? I'm old, not deaf.”

Relief scattered the remnants of fear. The wisewoman had a way of appearing just when Ela needed her. “He scared the boar away.”

“And who is
he?”
Meg slowly got to her knees next to Ela, and they both stared down into the pit.

She shrugged. “I was summoning Andraste, just like you instructed me, and the next thing I know, this …” She remembered the way he'd stared at her naked body and flushed. “This
fool
came riding over Abner's Hill. I ran, he chased me, and here we are.”

Henry chittered from a treetop close by, as if confirming her story.

“He had a horse?” Meg looked around.

“Aye. But he chose to chase me on foot.”

“Stupid man.”

“He's fast, Meg.”

“But you know the forest, and now
he's
in the bottom of a boar pit.”

“I didn't do it on purpose!”

The old woman arched her brow. “It doesn't matter now—we have to decide what to do with him. How will we get him out?”

Ela scrambled backward, knowing that her friend wouldn't like what she had to say. “We have to leave him there.”

“Ela, shame on you …” Meg clucked her tongue against her teeth.

“He has an aversion to witches, and he's wearing a cross on his cloak. What if he's a
witch-hunter?”

“Your ‘what ifs' always get you into trouble. I say we get a rope and help him out before he dies in there.”