My Lady Faye (10 page)

“There she is.” Gregory halted the bullocks.

A solid red-stone structure atop a rise, built for defense, its front guarded by a large mere with only a single approach to the outer gatehouse. No one came in or out of Calder Castle without passing through the gatehouse. Calder kept as tight a fist about his people as he did his wife.

“The chance of recognition increases,” Gregory said.

The road followed the river, down through the treed valley and past the hamlet of Lower Mere before it reached the outskirts of its bigger sister town, Upper Mere. Many knew her face in Lower and Upper Mere. As chatelaine of Calder Castle, she and Gregory had often ridden throughout the land on errands. In this, she had always tried to follow her mother’s example. Gregory pointed to the pennants stirring in a soft breeze above the battlements. “Calder is in residence.”

A Wolf on Gules, Calder’s colors. His family dated back to Aethelstan, as he reminded her as often as he could. In the time before Calder had grown to despise her, they had spoken, shared their lives and she had been content. The change happened gradually. At first, she put it down to temper but her tame explanation paled against the onslaught of Calder’s worsening behavior. The sudden, inexplicable rages, her failure to please him in any way, the ever tightening grip on her freedom until even her thoughts were not her own. Then Calder spent more time with King John at court. The deathblow to any chance of happiness, and a cold, angry stranger replaced the man she married.

“What do you suggest?” She pushed those unhappy thoughts away. From here she could only just see the rooftops of Upper Mere clustered around Calder Castle like a lady’s skirt.

“Your disguise should hold, if you keep the cowl over your face.” Fine lines crinkled the corners of his eyes as he squinted against the fading day at the castle. “There is a man, more of a hermit, his name is Aldous.”

Faye couldn’t place the name.

“He lives half a day’s ride north of here, at the edge of Calder’s demesne, where it joins with the northern boundary of your father’s land.”

Faye had only been there once or twice. It was a barren, lonely place.

“If anything happens and for any reason you are unable to get home, I want you to head for Aldous.”

Faye’s mouth dried. If Gregory meant her to go alone, then…“I will never find him.”

Gregory grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “My lady, heed me.” The muscle bounced in his cheek. “Anglesea lies west of here, where the sun sets, remember that. But your way may be blocked and then you must go north. Keep the rising sun to your right and the setting to your left and you will be traveling north. Do you know where the old keep is, the one King Henry tore down?”

“Which King Henry?” He tossed information at her so fast it blurred in her head, the sun rising and setting, old keeps and kings.

“Henry Fitz Empress.” Rigid with tension, onyx stare, keen and piercing, he tightened his hold on his shoulders. “The old ruins, the ones they say are haunted.”

“Aye.” A glimmer of light through the fog. “I know them. William and Roger took me there once to see the ghost.”

A small smile crossed his face. “Aye, well there is no ghost, but there is a man, Aldous. That is where you must go if all fails.”

She would stumble around the hills like Ivo, the village simpleton at Anglesea, clothes torn, hair matted as the village dogs chased her. She gripped his wrist. “I cannot do this.”

“Aye, you can.” He bent his sable head, and pressed his mouth warm against her icy hand. “You have the heart of a lion, my lady, and the best reason in the world to use it.”

More lamb than lion, staring up at the impenetrable square stone of Calder Castle. Simon was there. If only the wind could carry the knowledge to him that his mother had come. What fanciful and pointless whimsy on her part.

He rummaged behind them and drew forth an efficient looking dagger. “Take this.”

“I have my own.” She dug in her boot and produced William’s gift. The jewel in the hilt winked up at her.

“It is a pretty bauble.” Gregory turned it in his hand. “Smaller and more suited to your hand. Can you use it?”

“Nay. William said you could teach me.”

He shrugged. “When we get to Bess, we will have time before full dark. I can show you how not to lose a finger to that trinket.”

“When we get to Bess?” Bess lived in Upper Mere, one of the best-known residents. Faye’s flimsy disguise felt as insubstantial as air. There would be eyes in Upper Mere and tongues to tell what those eyes saw. A lump lodged like old bread in her throat. “Do we ride through the town?”

“Try not to look at anyone. We will stay cowled and keep to the back lanes.”

And pray to God and all the saints nobody saw through them. It all rested on that slim hope. Last week’s rain gathered in puddles by the road. She might be able to improve on her disguise a bit. She was a boy, was she not?

Faye hopped down from the cart. The puddle was nothing more than a large wheel rut of brackish water. Steeling herself, she thrust her hands into the muck. Wet clay oozed between her fingers. Faye dared not think what else was in there as she dragged her coated hands over her face.

Gregory coughed into his hand, but his eyes laughed. He knew her too well.

Faye grabbed another handful of mud and, with a shudder, dragged it over her curls. Cold slime slid over her scalp. “You said I was a reprehensible lad.”

Gregory gave her a huge grin. “Verily.”

It was all very well for him to find this amusing. She dug out more mud and coated her habit. A few more swipes at her face and she’d had enough.

“Will this do?” She willed him to say aye because she didn’t think she could stomach another basting in the filth.

“Aye.” His lips twitched as he turned his gaze back to the road.

Faye alighted beside him. “Good.”

Gregory flicked the traces and the cart moved forward. “If the sight of you is not enough, the smell ought to do the trick.”

* * * *

Faye shrunk closer to Gregory’s hunched form, until she was nigh seated in his lap. She kept her head lowered, but her skin crawled that somebody would recognize her and call out.

Upper Mere bustled with daily life, shouts from merchants, young boys in apprentice tunics hurrying from one place to another. Women, children clinging to their skirts, stood in groups of two or three to wile away the day in chat. A tanner’s cart inched into the roadway, forcing them to stop beneath a low, stone arch. The death odor of the cured skins made her belly roil. The tanner’s cart creaked to a halt.

Faye bent almost double. She barely dared breathe as people passed close to the bullock cart, so close they could touch her. A few nodded a greeting before they hurried on. John, the carpenter, stepped up to the tanner and berated him. Two summers ago she had helped his youngest son with the toothache.

“Easy.” Gregory remained calm and impenetrable beside her.

The tanner’s cart moved, and she breathed again.

Gregory left the main road and took them down a narrow lane. Although quieter here, she swore she could feel curious stares peering around shutters, marking her and Gregory, ready to run to the keep and tell Calder. They crept through the winding lanes and out of the town, closer to the castle.

Her heart crashed in her chest. Above them, Calder Castle loomed over the town. Her prison for seven years, her personal hell. Light shone from the casements of the keep, braziers flickered with the movement of the guards on the walls.

Bess’s cottage lay on the village outskirts, along the narrow road to the castle. Bess preferred her small piece of solitude and from here moved freely between keep and village. Many secrets, some of those Faye’s, rested beneath the tidy thatch of Bess’s cottage. Two well-behaved chickens pecked away in the immaculate yard.

Gregory drew rein and alighted. He raised his hand to assist her.

Faye shook her head and with a wry grin he dropped his hand. She followed, staying on the far side of the cart. Large tubs of herbs lined the front of the cottage in orderly rows. Even Bess’s vegetable garden dared not grow unruly, but confined itself to the furrows and stakes.

The door opened and Bess appeared. A woman of middle years, her hair always neatly confined to her wimple and her large, white apron starched and white enough to make your eyes ache. Bess had attended both her births and left with that apron still as fresh as when she arrived.

“Sir Gregory.” Bess peered at Gregory. “You had best come in and bring that boy with you. Only mind he takes off his boots.”

Gregory followed Bess into the cottage.

Faye trundled on behind him. At the door, she removed her boots and slid into the cottage.

A large, scrubbed wooden table stood central to the hearth. Suspended above it, bunches of dried herbs perfumed the air with sage, lavender and rosemary. A kettle hung over the fire and great swathes of fragrant steam rose from it. From the hearty smell, Bess must be making broth.

Faye’s stomach grumbled. Bess’s broth smelled rich and meaty. Their meal by the stream seemed hours ago.

A narrow cot rested against the far wall, the bedding folded and stacked on the end. Long rows of shelves adorned the wall on either side of the hearth. Casks, baskets and jugs marched in order from tallest to shortest along their span. All sorts of miracles, large and small, resided in those jars.

“So.” Bess glanced up from where she stirred the kettle. “You have taken vows.”

“Not yet.” Gregory’s deep voice seemed strange in the precise, feminine order of the cottage.

Bess nodded. From a wooden cask by the hearth, she pulled a loaf of bread and placed it on the table. “Does his lordship know you are here?”

“We passed through the village as you see us.”

Bess nodded as she broke open the bread. “Then, he will know soon enough two priests traveled through. He has eyes everywhere right now.”

Gregory grunted.

It was as they suspected, Calder would be expecting some sort of retaliation. Even in peacetime, he kept the village alert and ready to report anything new or unusual.

“Have you seen our lady?”

Faye started and edged behind Gregory.

“She is well.” Gregory’s voice rumbled from above her.

“Things have not been good since she left.” Bess returned to the hearth.

Faye could see the other women’s feet from where she cowered behind Gregory. She wanted Gregory to ask in what way. When he remained silent, she gave him a sharp prod in the back.

He tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Our lady took care of the village.” Bess sighed. “The winter was long and many didn’t make it.”

Faye’s heart sank. Some of her people had died.
Please Lord, not young Grace.
The cobbler’s daughter’s health had never been the best. Faye prodded Gregory again.

His hand snapped back, caught her fingers and squeezed.

Faye accepted the warning with a return pressure. Gregory needed to understand these had been her people throughout her marriage. They still existed for her and she still cared what became of them. Even if by leaving she’d abandoned her duty to her people.

“I do what I can,” Bess said. “And Father John is always about, but she was a fine lady, Lady Faye. The village misses her.”

Faye’s heart twisted. The villagers had been a glimmer of light in her marriage.

“I imagine you are hungry. I never met a man who was not.” Bess ladled broth into bowls and set them on the table. “Wash up and we can eat.”

Gregory steered her toward a bucket of water set on a stool inside the door.

The game would be up as soon as she washed her face. It amazed her Bess hadn’t seen through her disguise the moment she entered the cottage. Beatrice was right. People saw what they wanted to see.

Gregory took up a small cake of soap and lathered his hands.

“I am sure you will want to wash the dirt off you.” Bess stopped beside her. The woman’s glare raked Faye from her filthy head to her soiled hem. She took a step back and folded her arms over the snowy white apron front.

The heat of her gaze prickled on Faye’s skin and her cheeks heated.

Gregory accepted a drying cloth from Bess.

“Oh, my.” Bess chuckled. “I did not think there were many things that could surprise me.” She inspected Faye from head to toe. “I am sure you will want to bathe, my lady.”

Gregory tensed. “I wanted to see if you would know her. If you did not, then we can be reasonably certain nobody from the village did either.”

“Indeed.” Bess jammed her fists on her hips. “I have seen you through two births, my lady. It would take more than a handful of mud to fool me. Still, you took a huge risk in coming here.”

“I—”

“Not that I blame you.” Bess jerked her head toward the castle. “He will go spare if he knows you are here.”

Everything within Faye froze, her mouth dried and she couldn’t produce words. The marks of Calder’s anger went deeper than her skin.

“Then, he must not find out she is here.” Gregory’s face grew cold and deadly serious.

Bess snorted. “As if I would tell him.”

Faye’s knees buckled. Bess had been her companion and helper through her marriage, the closest Faye had come to a confidant. Bess would not betray her.

Gregory clasped her elbow and steadied her.

“It is a good disguise. I would doubt anyone in the village saw through it. Wash that muck off your pretty face and come and eat.” Bess stomped over to the table and drew a large bench from beneath it. “You are here for your boy.”

“You have seen Simon?” She held her breath.

“I have seen him.” Bess squeezed her hand. Her clasp was warm and dry. Healing hands that soothed and brought relief many a time. “He was letting his displeasure be known loud and wide.”

That was her boy. Faye swelled with pride. Dear Lord, Calder did not tolerate opposition. Simon must not draw his father’s anger down on his head.

“His lordship sent him away.”

Faye’s legs refused to hold her and she dropped on the bench. Tears stung the back of her lids as she tried to keep the swell of hopelessness at bay.