Shadowheart

Forest of Savernake,

in the fifth year of the reign

of King Richard II

On Plow Monday, all the chickens died.

Elayne knew she shouldn’t have tried to substitute a chicken feather for the quill from a magical hoopoe bird. But Savernake Forest did not harbor hoopoe birds. In truth Elayne had no notion what a hoopoe bird looked like—the only place she had ever seen the name of the creature was in the handbook of charms and experiments that contained her formula.

Elayne felt that it was hardly certain her small attempt at a love spell had caused the complete demise of the Savernake poultry. But Cara’s suspicion would fall on Elayne. Cara’s suspicion always fell on Elayne. It could not be hoped that her older sister would overlook the sudden termination of every fowl in town. In a larger locale, in London by hap, or Paris, the loss of a few dozen chickens might pass unremarked. But not in such a minor place as Savernake.

Elayne pulled her mantle close, striding over the frozen ground away from the village. She could feel the black feather and small waxen figure hidden beneath her chemise, tickling her skin like a finger of guilt. She had ventured to substitute for the magical hoopoe quill because another recipe in the volume called for a feather from the wing of a black chicken. But it was a foolish experiment. The other recipe was meant to cause a man’s beard to grow. Perchance that goal did not sympathize well with the ingredients for arousing a man’s affections, and the result had a deadly effect upon all the poultry for ten leagues roundabout.

She only hoped that Raymond de Clare, in whose image she had formed the wax, would not now suddenly sprout a beard.

As she neared the abandoned mill, a small herd of the king’s deer looked up from browsing at a frost-rimed thicket. They bounded away as Raymond stepped out from behind the great mill wheel. He held out his gloved hands to her, but Elayne turned her face away, suddenly shy. She thought him the handsomest man in Christendom, but in her agitation and guilt, she could not quite look at him just then.

“No welcome for me?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“Yes,” Elayne said. The word came out a breathless squeak, barely audible. She forced herself to raise her eyes, assuming worldliness and experience with a lift of her chin, and made a little courtesy.
“Belaccoil!
Kind greeting, Sir Knight.”

“Oh, we are on ceremony, then,” he said, grinning. He gave a bow worthy of the king’s court—not that Elayne had ever been within a week’s ride of the king’s court, but she felt certain that Raymond’s great sweep, showing the red-and-black slashed sleeves of his doublet under his fine scarlet cloak, must be admirably suited to such rarefied spheres.

She evaded his gaze as he straightened, feeling that if she could not touch his face—only touch his face, or take a loop of his thick chestnut hair about her finger—that she would die of unrequited love before the night was gone. Instead she put her foot onto the frozen millrace. Eluding his offered hand, she jumped over the icy channel and started to walk past him. He turned as she did and walked with her, brushing her shoulder. Elayne made a skip, moving ahead of him, pushing aside a bare branch that overhung the doorway of the old mill.

He laughed and flicked her cheek. “You are avoiding me, little cat.”

She looked up aslant, a covert glance at his jaw. He was perfectly clean-shaven—no sign of a beard. With a sense of relief she said cheerfully, “It is a favor to you. In faith, sir, you can’t wish to dally with such a rustic as I!”

He caught her shoulder, turning her to face him. For an instant he looked down into her eyes—she felt his hand, his fingers pressing her through the thick gray wool of her cotehardie. “Nay, how could I not?” he asked softly. “How could I find a sparkling diamond at my feet and fail to pick it up?”

Elayne stared at his mouth as if she were the one bewitched. He leaned his hand against her, gently pushing her against the wall. The stone pressed hard into her shoulder blades. She glanced aside, afraid they might be discovered. The leafless bushes cast a wavering light in the doorway, but the old mill was empty and silent. She put her palms against his chest, as if to hold him off, but inside she was praying that he would kiss her, that at last, after weeks of this dangerous play and ferment between them, she would know what it was like. She was seventeen, and she had never been in love, never even been courted. She had not known that a man who stole her sleep and dashed her prudence, a man like Raymond, could exist.

“I am only another lady, like the rest,” she whispered, her heart beating against his hand. “Haps not so meek as some.”

“You, my love, are an extraordinary woman.” He bent his head close. Elayne drew in a quick breath. His lips touched hers, warm and soft in the crisp winter air, softer than she had expected. He tasted of mead, very strong and wet—not completely to her relish. As his tongue probed between her lips, he breathed heavily into her mouth. In confusion and a sudden distaste, she pushed him away so quickly that he had to put out a hand to the wall to catch himself.

He lifted his eyebrows at her. He stood very straight. “I do not please you, my lady?”

“Nay, you do!” she said quickly, patting his sleeve. She was already ashamed of herself, to be such a coward. “It’s only—if someone should see us—oh my … Raymond!” She bit her lip. “You make me so abashed!”

His stiff expression eased, for which Elayne was grateful. Raymond de Clare did not bear any affront lightly, even the smallest. But he smiled at her and brushed back her woolen hood, pulling her earlobe lightly. “I shall not let anyone catch us.”

“Let us go to the Hall. We can walk together there, and talk.”

“Among a throng of people,” he said dryly. “And what do you wish to talk of, my lady?”

“You must make a poem to my hair and eyes, of course! I’ll help you.”

He laughed aloud. “Indeed.” He smiled down at her, a strange smile, as if his mind had gone to some distance, but his eyes never left her lips. “Do you suppose I need help?”

“I feel certain that any knight could profit from a lady’s fine ear for these things.”

“All this reading and writing of yours. Haps you will compose my proposal of marriage also.”

“Certainly, if you should require my aid,” she said airily. “Mark me the bride of your choice, and I shall study upon her, to discover what will be the most persuasive words to win her hand.”

“Ah, but only tell me what words would persuade you, little cat.”

“La, I shall never marry!” Elayne declared, but she felt her lips curl upward to betray her. To hide her mirth, she tilted her head so that her hood fell down across her cheek as she gave him a sidelong glance.

He snorted. “What, then—will you wither into an old crone, reading books and stirring over a pot of hopeless spells?”

“Hopeless!” she exclaimed. “Mark me, such incantations are not so vain as you suppose!”

He nodded soberly, in just such a way that she could see that he was making a fond mock of her.

“Wella, then,” she said, shrugging. “You may believe me or not. I cannot see why I should cease my learning only because I marry.”

He shook his head, smiling. “Come, in serious discourse now—though I know how it pains you to speak soberly.”

Elayne straightened. “I do not tease on that point, I assure you, Raymond! Married or maid, I shall pursue my study. Lady Melanthe does the same.”

“I hardly think her example is one to be followed—” He broke off as Elayne looked up quickly at him, and added, “Of course your godmother is admirable, may the Lord preserve her, but Lady Melanthe is Countess of Bowland,” he said. “Her manners are not those of the wives of simple knights.”

“Then I must take care not to marry a simple knight!” Elayne said. “Happen that some foreign king will be looking about him for a queen.”

“How sad for him if he lights upon you, my dear heart— since only a moment ago you proclaimed that you would never marry.”

“Nay—” She made a wry face at him for catching her out. “I shall become a nun.”

“You? A celibate?” He pulled off one of his gloves and leaned an elbow against the doorjamb, tracing the soft leather against her lips. “That I cannot conceive. Not while I live.”

His certainty pricked her a little. “Can you not?” she replied, keeping her face solemn. “But I would rather reverence God than be subject to a husband.”

“Hmmm…” He trailed his finger across her mouth. “I do not think the church will see you casting magical spells any sooner than your husband will,” he said.

Elayne was breathing deeply, creating wisps of frost between them. “And how, pray, would this mythical husband prevent me?”

“My foolish darling, do you suppose I’d beat you? Nay, I’ll keep you warm and happy, and too busy for reading books.”

Under his touch, Elayne felt that she would turn to steam and float away. But the excitement held an edge of terror. Elayne was not afraid of him, oh no—and yet she was frantic.

“Still!” she exclaimed with a flurried laugh. “I shall not marry! I do not propose to be commanded by a mortal man. I will have visions instead, and order the Pope what he ought to do.”

“Little cat,” he murmured. “Not commanded by your husband? What jest is this?”

“Another of my unholy fancies.” She flicked her tongue at him and ducked away, catching his hand. “Come to the Hall, and I shall tell you all about it.”

But he did not let her lead him. “Nay. Your sister will be there, looking daggers at me.” He drew her close, his hands at her waist, sliding them upward. “I have a better purpose, Elayne.”

He began to walk her backward, bearing her into the darkness of the empty mill. She laughed to cover her confusion, allowing him to push her step by step into the abandoned room where old reed baskets and rotten barrel staves lay scattered.

She felt him lifting her skirts. His other glove fell to the ground. She tried to dance away, but he held her confined between his legs as he backed her into a corner. His mouth came down upon hers again. His bare hands searched into her chemise.

This was too jeopardous by far. She had only meant to make him love her and wish to marry her. She gasped a protest, but he seemed deaf to it, his fingers working to unbutton her cotehardie. He grasped her loosened gown, pulling it up, exposing all the length of her legs to the cold air.

“Raymond,” she yelped as he touched her skin.

He spread his palms under her breasts. “I want you,” he said huskily into her ear. “You witch, you make me mad with it!”

“Please. Not here.” She grabbed his wrists through the fabric of her skirts, pulling his hands away. But he wrenched free with an easy twist.

“Where then? Elayne—you slay me! Great God, you are so warm.” His hands explored freely under her smock, from her hips to her back to her breasts again. He squeezed them together. She whimpered, thrilled and horrified at this brazen touch.

He was a courtier; he knew the ways of high-born ladies, while Elayne knew no more than the hall of a country castle at Savernake. She had not had any suitors at all before, much less a worldly knight like Raymond. Until this moment he had been a gentle and gallant admirer; had done no more than kiss her hand and tease her and call her delightful names.

Her chicken’s-wing love charm, it seemed, had unleashed another man entirely. He was not gentle now. His mouth on hers drove her head back against the wall. He pushed his knee between her legs. She wrestled, ducking away with an awkward shove. He pulled at her, grabbing her chemise. She felt the thin thread on the charm around her neck give way and fall as she stumbled free, brushing her skirts down frantically.

“Raymond!” she exclaimed between gulps of air.

He stood back, his cheeks red. “You don’t desire me, then,” he said, breathing hard himself.

“I do!” she cried, holding her arms around her. “But not like this.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” He stood straight. “I did not aim to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, but…” She blinked in the dimness. Her voice trailed off. She should never have met him here. It bespoke an invitation she had not meant.

“Is it marriage?” A rat scurried into the far corner as he knelt to retrieve his gloves. “A-plight, I intended that. Do you doubt me?”

She had doubted, of course. He came in his fine court clothes, on business of purchasing horses for his lord John of Lancaster, and lingered for weeks at a remote castle like Savernake where there were no entertainments or amusements to be had. But his talk of marriage seemed all in jest. He never spoke of it seriously, and there had been no open negotiations between their families, though Cara had inquired thoroughly into Raymond’s circumstances. Her sister was not impressed. He was well-bred and widely connected, even if a landless younger son, but Elayne herself had a good dowry and Lady Melanthe’s pledge of a grant of property upon her marriage. Cara felt she could do better. But Elayne cared nothing for that. She had known from the instant he first smiled at her that he was the one.

“I don’t doubt you,” she said. “I love you.”

His grim look eased. “Little cat. You will drive me to distraction!” He smiled at her. “I am sorry. I should not have handled you so brutally. I don’t know what caused me to lose my head.”

She tried not to look at the black feather and small waxen figure that had fallen to the floor and now dangled unnoticed from the gloves he had retrieved. “Never mind,” she said brightly, hoping the charm would drop away unobserved in the dim interior. “You shocked me. I’ve never before—I should not have—Cara would be wild if she knew that I’d come to meet you here.”

“Aye,” he said. “It was not wise of you. Another man would not have let you go so lightly.”

She dropped a courtesy. “You are kindness itself to spare me, Sir Knight!”

He frowned a little. “Elayne, I speak soberly. You must promise me that you will be more circumspect.”

Elayne blushed. “Circumspect?”

“Aye,” he said. “If we are to wed, you must leave off your childish ways. It is charming in a girl, by hap, to run about the countryside and trifle with foolish spells and mischief as you do, but I will not tolerate such in my bride.”