The Raven and the Rose (7 page)

“I'm not lying,” Gledys protested. “On my soul, I'm not. I was traveling then. I went into a trance. Later, I was asleep in a house in the woods. I don't understand how it happens, but it is so.”

He looked at her intently. “How long has this been happening to you?”

“I've had strange dreams for years, but the ones of you, since winter.” They were in the village center now, where shops stood open on the ground floor of every house. “I had the first not long before we heard that Henry of Anjou had arrived in England and taken Malmesbury. Were you fighting there?”

“Yes. You had a vision of me there?”

Aware of people so close on either side, Gledys answered quietly. “I don't remember. Until recently I have seen you only in my sleep. As is usual with dreams, when I awoke, I remembered only fragments. But recently, I've been able to remember.” She looked up into his eyes. “Like last night. A precious gift.”

“Yes,” he said, but his eyes were full of troubled questions. “Here we are,” he said, turning to the open door of a narrow house. “It's a simple place,” he warned again.

“I've lived a very simple life.”

He raised a brow, glancing over her fine clothes.

“Truly, Michael de Loury. I speak nothing but the truth, odd though some of it sounds.”

He raised her hand and kissed it. “You are my true-love bride; thus it must be so.”

He had to duck beneath the lintel of the door and, once he was inside, his head was only just safe from the raftered ceiling. They entered one long room with a loom at the far end in front of a window. A man worked there, assisted by two young children, the loom clacking with a steady beat. Nearer to Gledys, a thin woman chopped vegetables for a pot.

The weaver's wife exchanged a greeting with Michael, but her eyes narrowed at Gledys.

“My betrothed, Dame Agnes, come with news. We'll do nothing wrong.”

“See you don't,” the woman said, “and take care of her. Folly to come to such a place, and she so young and pretty.”

Gledys couldn't help but smile with pleasure at that description as Michael directed her up narrow stairs into the room she remembered. She saw the same rough mattresses and the same scattering of bags and bundles along with bits of leather and metal she hadn't noticed last night.

Last night.

The ceiling sloped, and he could stand only in the middle, so she went directly to his bed and sat down. He stood for a moment, considering her, but then he smiled with wide delight. “My true-love bride, and as lovely as I've always thought.”

Gledys blushed. “Am I?”

“You must know it.”

“No.”

“Men haven't constantly told you?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Where have you been? In a nunnery?”

Gledys's cheeks went from warm to hot, but she couldn't lie. “Yes.”

He came to sit beside her, but left space between them. “You're a nun?”

“I've been in a nunnery all my life.”

“But then we cannot wed,” he said in dismay.

She grasped his hand. “Yes, we can. The vows I've taken thus far are not irrevocable. Those, I would take at twenty-five.”

For some reason, he breathed, “Twenty-five.”

Gledys asked a question that had been puzzling her. “You aren't a warrior monk, are you? Like a Templar?”

He laughed. “Why think that?”

“I was told that you'd be a monk.”

“Ah. I was in a monastery for a while, but when I was a mere lad.”

“Did you run away?” she asked.

“No. I was allowed to leave. My father had never approved of it. It had been my mother's desire.”

She nodded. “Because you're a seventh child.”

“No.” But he frowned. “I thought I was the eighth. I had a twin. But now I wonder. What does that mean—the seventh child?”

Gledys took his hand. “That you, like me, are summoned to a great purpose.”

“Ah,” he said, as if things suddenly made sense. “Explain.”

This was the moment, but Gledys didn't know how to put it. “I'll start with Sister Wenna, though that feels like the last chapter of a saga. . . .”

He listened intently, sometimes frowning or raising a brow in disbelief, but unreadable.

“We're supposed to find the holy chalice of the Last Supper?” he said at last. “And Eustace of Boulogne has the holy lance?” Gledys feared he was doubting her entirely, but he added, “If it was stolen from the Templars, that would explain why they've been prowling around like angry lions. Your story would also explain other things, including my mother's strange demands when I left the monastery.”

“What demands?”

“That I not leave England before the age of twenty-five. And that I not . . . enjoy a woman until I find my destined bride. As compensation, she promised I would not die before I consummated my love.”

Their eyes had locked. “With me.” Against all likelihood, he was still pure. They could summon the sacred chalice. But then she gasped. “Once we do, you lose your invulnerability? But then—”

He put his fingers over her lips. “Death would not be too high a price, but I doubt it will come to that. At least, not right away,” he added with a smile. Then he leaned down to put a gentle kiss on her lips, but he quickly drew back. “No more than that, yet. You tempt me too much. So we are honor-bound to marry quickly? I have no complaint about that.”

Gledys felt her cheeks heat. “The other matter is urgent. We must go immediately to a sacred place.”

“What place?”

“I think Glastonbury, but I'm not sure. We will follow a raven.”

“A raven?” he repeated, brows shooting up.

“I think so. It's disappeared.” At his expression, she grimaced. She couldn't make this sound reasonable. “It's real. It guided me here, but then disappeared.”

“Not surprising. They're seen as birds of ill omen, predicting a man's death in battle. One would be killed on sight here, especially with a full battle more likely by the day.”

“Why? There hasn't been one for a long time, has there?”

“Because Prince Eustace wants one, and from what you say of the lance, he'll be able to make it happen, even though no one wants such carnage. We almost came to battle in the winter. Duke Henry held Wallingford and King Stephen marched there in full force. Henry drew up his defenses. But then a wild storm blew up, lashing the king's forces with ice and making it impossible to see a spear's throw away.

“That gave the Earl of Arundel and the Templars the opportunity to argue for peace. They swayed the barons as much as the king, and soon King Stephen realized that his supporters were tired of this pointless struggle. It seemed done with at last, but here we are again.”

“Because of the lance,” Gledys said. “I wonder about that storm. Sister Wenna said that people of our bloodline have been working for peace without summoning the chalice. Perhaps the Earl of Arundel is one.”

“And the Templars. They're said to have special knowledge from their protection of Christ's tomb in Jerusalem.”

“But none of them can do what we can do.” She tugged his hand. “Come, we should start out now.”

But he resisted. “Now? This needs thinking on. It is all hard to believe.”

“Didn't you hear me? I saw blood in a chalice, and then it became a rose petal. An impossible rose petal. I was led out of my nunnery and no one stopped me. I didn't try to hide. They simply didn't see me. I was guided to a place of rest, warmed by a miraculous fire, and provided with these clothes. And then I found you. These are all miracles.” When he still looked dubious, she demanded, “Where are we?”

“Nottinghamshire.”

“Wherever that is, I'm sure it's a long way from Glastonbury, and yet here I am, after one short night.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Or do you think I'm lying?”

“Not lying, no. But . . . confused?”

“Insane?” Gledys had great sympathy for Sister Wenna. Suddenly, she saw something hanging on a chain around his neck. “What is that you wear?”

He reached up to pull it free. “This? A ring my mother gave me. I wear it sometimes on my little finger, but not when fighting.”

Gledys extended her right hand, showing a similar ring.

He stared at it. “She said it was for my bride,” he whispered, freeing the ring from the chain. “But why, if you already have one?”

Gledys slid hers from her finger and put them both in the palm of her hand. She had no doubt. She put them together, and with a click they became one, the coiling silver now making a perfect pattern, the join invisible.

“See?” she said, looking at him. “Michael de Loury, you must join me to summon the garalarl. Now.”

He seemed dazed, but she thought he would do it. Then, somewhere in the distance, trumpets sounded.

“Jesu, the time!” He stood and cracked his head on the sloping ceiling. Muttering, he stepped into the middle, rubbing his head.

Gledys scrambled to her feet and grabbed his sleeve. “We have to go now.”

“Gledys, sweetheart, that's impossible. I can't just leave.”

“I wasn't supposed to leave Rosewell Nunnery.”

“But you didn't want to be there. This is my life.”

“You are
summoned
.”

“Yes, to the tourney. Gledys, to leave without permission could be seen as treason.”

She released his sleeve, grimacing in frustration. “Why is there no guidance anymore? Sister Wenna seemed sure that this was urgent. That if Eustace wasn't stopped now, England would be at war for another generation. But she implied this wouldn't require our deaths.”

“And it won't.” Harried, he said, “I don't want to leave you alone here, love, but I have to go.”

She took his hands and smiled. “Go, then. I've been led this far in safety. Fight in your tourney, and we'll leave tonight.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. I will still need permission. And supplies . . . I have to go. We'll talk later, but it'll be much later. There'll be a victory to celebrate.” He kissed her quickly. “Stay here. It's not safe to wander.”

She heard him run down the stairs—or perhaps he jumped down most of them—and then speak to the people below. A little later, the weaver's wife called up, “Do you need anything, Lady Gledys?”

“No, thank you,” Gledys called back, and collapsed on his bed. She touched the rumpled covers, remembering the night, but perplexed. She didn't have Sister Wenna's confidence to command, “Go, go.” No raven called. No path glimmered.

She'd found her protector, but how was she to persuade him to their task?

Chapter 7

Michael hurried to the shed where Rannulf and Alain lived with the horses and weapons. He was still stunned by the appearance of his bride, the lovely maiden of his dreams, but perplexed by her story. It made no sense, especially now that he was out in the rough and raucous real world. But her story seemed to explain his mother's strange demands, and perhaps his mother had concealed that he was her seventh child.

Then there was the fact that she'd insisted he go into the church. She'd been a practical woman with all her other children—ten born, six growing to adulthood. A good woman, but not excessively pious. Not the sort to insist on at least one son and daughter giving their lives to God, and yet that was what she had done.

“What's the matter with you? Not drunk, are you?”

Michael blinked and realized he was in the shed and both Rannulf and Alain were staring at him. Perhaps they'd been talking to him.

“No,” he said quickly. “Just thinking.”

“Well, think about the fighting,” said Rannulf, and began to spew information about the men in the duke's party and de Bohun's, and anything else he'd learned that might affect the fighting. Michael paid attention. It seemed the time of concealing his abilities was over, for he needed to make sure the duke's side won.

The favor of Henry of Anjou, future monarch, might persuade Gledys's family to overlook his lack of land. More urgent, if she persuaded him to leave the camp without permission, he might need the goodwill of Henry of Anjou to save his neck.

***

The afternoon crept by for Gledys, even though she tried to occupy it with prayer. She wasn't used to an idle life. She smelled cooking from below and then heard voices as people gathered, presumably to eat. Chatter and laughter followed. And then suddenly, a man burst into the room. He was young, tall, gnawing on a crust of bread, and he stopped to gape at her.

Gledys had to say something. “I'm Michael de Loury's betrothed.”

The man grinned. “Lucky de Loury! If he gets killed in the tourney, I'm at your service, lovely lady.”

He was gone before Gledys could shout her affront at that, but then she had to smile. It was still a new delight to be found pretty. Lovely, even. She wanted to be lovely for Michael.

The weaver's wife came up bearing a bowl of stew, some bread and some fruit. Gledys took the tray and thanked her, but she only picked at the food. Her appetite had gone.

She was aware of the street getting quieter, and she went to the small window to look out. Yes, there were fewer people. She supposed all who could had gone to watch the duke fight.
Just a tournament
, she told herself.
No one's supposed to get killed
.

She remembered the prophecy and found more reassurance there. Michael could not die as long as he remained a virgin.

Then she heard it: the awful sounds of battle, howling from men and beasts, clangs and bangs of blows and damage. She covered her ears, but couldn't leave the window, as if her being there might keep him safe.

Craak!

Gledys jerked and searched. There, on the opposite roof, perched the raven. “You'd best be careful,” she hissed. “If anyone sees you, they'll kill you.”

It stepped from side to side as if anxious and didn't call again.

“What?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do now?”

The bird moved away, stepping along the roof, but still looking at her.

“Follow? I'm not supposed to leave here.”

It opened its beak, but didn't make a noise. All the same, she knew it was a silent command.

“Where am I supposed to go? I've found my protector.”

It came into her mind, a clear and dreadful message. She moaned. She'd obeyed and obeyed, but this was the most terrifying task of all.

“I can't
do
this,” she protested, but she turned, knees shaking, to put on her veil and go down the difficult stairs.

At the bottom, the weaver's wife frowned at her. “Are you going out, lady? It's not safe out there for the likes of you.”

“It seems quieter.”

“Aye, many are watching the fighting, but there's still enough around to make trouble.”

“I'll be safe,” Gledys assured her, certain that the garalarl could ensure that, at least. In any case, idle men around the town were no threat at all compared to what she faced.

She went out into the street, looking around for her guide.

Gone again.

Exhaling with relief, she turned back toward the house, but a flutter of black wings caught her eye. The raven was on a roof down the street, hopping from foot to foot nervously, but clearly indicating the way she must go.

She obeyed, surprised not to be taken to the castle. Instead, the raven led her toward the camp, fluttering sneakily from place to place, trying to avoid being seen. She supposed the bird risked as much as or more than she did. Then the raven took to the air, swooping around and around a large tent gay with pennants before flying away.

How could it abandon her? And yet already men were pointing at it and exclaiming. An arrow streaked upward, seeking to kill. It missed, thank heavens, but Gledys saw the risk the raven had taken. Could she do less than a bird?

She turned toward the tent, seeing a man on guard, eyeing her curiously.

“Whose tent is this?” she asked.

“Why are you here if you don't know?” he asked, playing with her.

“Is it a secret?”

After a moment, he shrugged. “Duke Henry's.”

That was what she'd feared. That was what she'd known. She made herself stroll closer. “He's still at the fighting, I assume.”

“Probably in the baths by now. Can't you hear that it's over?”

Gledys realized the din had stopped. The sun was setting, too. It was later than she'd thought.

“My lord duke will have won, of course,” the guard said proudly.

Gledys swallowed to moisten her throat and forced out the words she knew she must say. “Then he will want to speak to me. May I wait inside?”

The man stared, but then he slapped his thigh and laughed. “You're a bold one, and no mistake. But why not? You're pretty enough to interest him.”

He pulled back the flap of a door and called a name. An older man appeared.

“This one wants to wait for him. No harm in it, but make sure she gets up to no mischief.”

The older man looked at her sourly, but he gestured, and Gledys had no choice but to enter the gloom of the tent, feeling as if she entered a lion's den. Silently she wailed,
I really don't want to do this
.

“Sit there,” the man said, moving a bench into an open space. “Stay there, and don't touch anything.”

Gledys sat, her empty stomach churning, but she was curious enough to look around. This part of the tent held a table with benches and one chair. There were other benches and stools and some chests. The man began putting out goblets and platters, and somewhere nearby she smelled roasting meat. A flap in one side was open to let in air and some light, but still it was dim and stuffy here, and she felt as if she struggled for air.

The man suddenly spoke. “What are you doing here, girl? He'll only use you for the night and leave you with a trinket, and you don't look the type.”

“I'm not,” Gledys said thinly. “I simply need to speak to him.”

He shook his head. “There's still time to go home, wherever that is.”

Gledys sighed. “No, I don't think there is.”

As if predicted by her words, a small party burst in, a group of men surrounding a stocky, laughing man—who sobered at sight of her, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Into the silence, someone said, “Gledys?”

Her eyes went to the taller figure. She rose to her feet.

Michael stepped forward. “Lord, I don't know why she's here, but—”

A raised hand stopped him. “Let her speak for herself.”

Henry of Anjou was not a handsome man, but his energy and power filled the tent, making her shiver.

She fell to her knees. “Forgive me, lord, but I must speak with you.”

“And who are you?”

Gledys wanted to say,
Gledys of Rosewell
, but that didn't seem wise.

“Lady Gledys of Buckford, my lord,” she whispered.

“Buckford? The de Brescars?” He almost spat it. “They hold fast to Stephen.” With that, Henry turned angrily to Michael. “You know her?”

Gledys looked up to see Michael frowning at her. She realized that she'd never given him that name.

But he said, “She's my promised bride, my lord.”

“And your family is loyal.” The duke looked between them, and then he shrugged. “A mystery, and a pretty one. Eat, drink and we'll explore it.”

He threw himself into the chair and the other men took the benches. Servants hurried to serve them. Michael, however, came to stand by Gledys's side. She supposed he was supporting her, but she could feel exasperation coming off him like steam.

Why was she forced to these things? Was this how it went with martyrs? Did they not go to their fate with resolute intent, but instead were carried to fire or gallows with no power to resist, quaking all the way?

The duke washed down some meat with wine. “I spoke with your father not a week ago, de Loury, and he didn't mention this. So she's your leman. No shame in that.”

Gledys could hear Michael breathing, but he answered steadily. “No, lord. She is a virtuous maid who will soon be my bride. My father doesn't yet know.”

The duke laughed. “Then I'm glad I'm not you. But what's she doing here? In the camp? In my tent?”

Gledys was feeling truly sick. The power of the duke was a physical thing, like a dreadful storm, making her want to melt away into nothingness to escape. She couldn't imagine how the men around him bore it, how Michael could speak so firmly. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding so hard she felt it should be audible, and she wasn't sure she had breath, but she knew what she had to say.

“I came to the camp, my lord, to find Michael. I came to your tent because I have a message for you.”

“For me?” the duke asked sharply. “From your family?”

“No, my lord.” She swallowed. “May I be private with you, my lord?”

After a moment of dead silence, Henry of Anjou burst out laughing. “De Loury, you should beat her!”

“No, no!” Gledys gasped, horrified. “I mean with you and Michael, my lord.”

“Even worse,” said the duke, and the men around him guffawed.

“Gledys, be quiet,” Michael said from his throat. “You're making a scandal of yourself.” He put a hand under her arm to raise her. “Come away.”

“No,” said the duke sharply. “I want to know what this is about. Come.”

He rose and swept through a curtain into another section of the tent. Gledys was hauled to her feet and pushed after him as gleeful speculation started up behind them. The small chamber contained a bed, some chests and a chair in which the duke sat.

“Well?” he asked quietly, eyes cold on her. “Whose messenger are you, Gledys of Buckford?”

Gledys swayed on her feet, but the words came anyway, thinly but audibly. “I am sent to offer peace.”

“Gledys—”

Again a hand silenced Michael. “From Stephen of Blois?” Duke Henry asked in a flat voice.

“No, my lord.” Without hope, she said, “From a sacred vessel called the garalarl.”

The duke grimaced and drank from his cup. “De Loury, what's she talking about?”

Gledys expected Michael to apologize, even to claim she was mad, but after a moment he said, “Lord, she believes she has a mission to find the holy chalice, the one used at the Last Supper, which will then bring peace to England.”

Gledys looked up at him, astonished. Did he believe?

She flicked a glance at the duke. Instead of anger or incredulity, he looked thoughtful. “Why you?” he asked.

A strange question.

“I . . . I don't know,” she said, voice trembling. “I am a seventh child, and that is important. . . . Truly, my lord duke, I don't want to be here doing this.”

“No, I don't suppose you do. And you, de Loury. What part have you in this?”

“I am also a seventh, and apparently her protector. My lord, this is new to me, too, but”—he paused in thought—“if there's any truth in it, I cannot turn away. England does need peace.”

“This struggle is not of my making,” Henry said fiercely. “The barons of England swore my mother would reign, and I will hold them to it. There will be peace only when she has her rights, through me.”

“You have the right of it, my lord,” Michael agreed in a level voice.

“And I don't need miracles to achieve it. Stephen's always been weak, and now he's old and tired. This spurt of activity will fade and he'll capitulate.”

Michael spoke again. “She says that Eustace has the holy lance, and that has caused the new resolve.”

Gledys expected that to mystify, but Henry's face set in grim lines, too grim for a young man. His eyes turned on her. “How?” he demanded.

Gledys blinked. He believed?

“I don't know, my lord. There is an evil force. . . .”

“Eustace!” he spat, surging out of his chair to pace the small area. “I had word of this from the Templars in the spring, that the lance had been stolen, that it could reinflame the war. I thought it nonsense, but then Stephen almost became a new man, and Eustace burst beyond all restraint. He is ravaging the lands of the abbey of Saint Edmundsbury.”

Gledys heard Michael suck in a breath. She knew that name. It was a place, like Rosewell, designed for sevenths. Was that where he'd been sent? And did Prince Eustace have some reason for harrying it other than greed? Was he seeking possible protectors to destroy?

They had to summon the chalice immediately.