The Reluctant Countess (41 page)

“
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
,” Brian choked out, striking his chest with a mailed fist, and Rhys turned to give him a quelling glance.

When he turned back, the maid had faded into the shade of an ancient hawthorn; snow-white flower petals trembled delicately. Shadows darkened, obscuring all but her voice. “I am no man’s enemy. And I fear no man.”

Rhys blinked again, and the dwindling sunlight disappeared with a startling swiftness, as if an oil lamp had been doused. Staring into the black
void, his first instinct was to call her back. “Demoiselle—come here. You should not be alone in the night.”

Faint laughter drifted back on a sudden gust of wind. The sweet scent of hawthorn blended with a vaguely familiar, intriguing fragrance. In a trice, Rhys dismounted to follow her. His spurs chinked softly as he strode toward the trees.

Despite his fear, Brian flung himself from his horse, catching up to Rhys to tug frantically at his mantle. “Nay, Rhys—do not! If you follow her, she will take you into the faerie world and you will never escape.”

Rhys shook his arm loose impatiently. “Don’t be a fool, Brian.”

But when he moved close to the line of trees into which the maid had disappeared, he saw no sign of her presence. No broken branch gave indication of
her passage. Only the faintly familiar whiff of fragrance remained as a teasing reminder. He jerked at a handful of hawthorn flowers, and swore softly when a barb found its way through the metal links of his gauntlets to prick him. No one could just disappear like that, like—like mist.

Brian nudged close to him, his voice rough with fear. “I cannot say if the maid was elf or faerie, but whatever, she has frightening powers.”

“Do you think she summoned the dark?” Rhys mocked to hide his own misgivings. “She’s only a simple maiden warning us of danger ahead. If she has any sense, she’s wise enough not to become too friendly with roaming knights.”

“Still, I cannot like this,” Brian muttered. Rhys fell silent. There was no point in arguing deeply held
superstitions. Pointing out to Brian now that dark oft came abruptly in the deep forests would do nothing to abate his belief that the maid had summoned the night. Nay, it would be a waste of breath even to attempt it.

The maid certainly wasn’t a faerie. But who was she? If she was from the village they had left, she was too far from home and safety. No young maiden should be alone in the forest, day or night. But was she alone? She could be a ruse, a distraction, while villains lay in the trees ahead to fall upon them. Mercenaries could always set upon them, for the forests were thick with thieves on the roads leading to Wales.

Yet it was not a mortal enemy his men feared.…

Just a glance at their strained faces and wide eyes was enough to convince him they would be worthless the rest of
the night. It would take a miracle to put them at ease—or more magic to counter what they feared.

He managed a tight smile. “There’s a clearing not far behind. We’ll halt and light a
coelcerth
for the Beltane Eve.”

Some of the Welsh soldiers nodded in relief. Rhys hoped it worked. A ritual bonfire to chase away the demons should restore their courage, so that the morrow would find the men free of the numbing fear that seemed to grip them now. When they returned to the clearing, the sounds of making camp lent a reassuring normalcy to the night. Welshmen readied themselves to gather the sticks from nine different kinds of trees to perform their ceremony, removing all metal from their bodies, including mail and swords.

Rhys looked down. He still held his naked sword. Slowly, he sheathed it.
This sword had been used on the field of battle at Acre, and was forged of the finest steel, with a hilt of carved copper and bronze. He had captured it while on the Crusades with Richard, and it had served him well.

He thought of those distant, sun-drenched lands where towering stone fortresses stood stark against barren hills. It hit him then, as he stared into the enveloping darkness, that the intriguing fragrance he had detected was Turkish jasmine.

“That was foolish,” Elspeth said sourly.

Sasha flushed with indignation. Her chin came up instinctively as she caught Elspeth’s unspoken words
Reckless—and proud as Lucifer’s own daughter …

Ignoring the thought and addressing the spoken reprimand, Sasha said, “What, to warn the knights of the bridge? Nay, ’twas only kindness.”

“They could have killed you. I’ve noticed no kindness from wandering knights to solitary maidens.” Elspeth shook her head. A long shadow wavered on the cave wall. “Your Gift won’t protect you from folly. It was foolish.”

Sasha didn’t want to admit how unsettled the encounter had left her. She managed a careless shrug as she seated herself before the fire and held her hands out to warm them. She was still shaking with reaction. Faintly amazed at her own daring, she’d not expected to have such an effect on the knights. She couldn’t say she was sorry for frightening them, but she had expected the full use of her Gift to learn how
best to approach the tall, lean knight who was their leader.

Instead, she’d encountered only a brilliant silence when she bent her talent toward the knight. No identity, unspoken words, or images had come to her when bid, only that bright, brittle band of silence. Alarmed, she’d turned her talent to the two-score men ranging behind the blond giant. Jumbled impressions couched in foreign languages had come from the armed men with him, restoring a shaky faith in her Gift. It was not gone, only powerless with this one man. She’d found the lack bewildering, then frightening.

Why couldn’t she read his thoughts? It had never happened to her before. So she’d stood staring up at him while mist coiled along the ground in annoying shreds, dampening her cloak and veiling the knight in gauzy streamers.
And then, bright and swift as a bolt of lightning had come the illuminating explanation: He must be the answer to the prophecy.

Elspeth made a soft clucking sound in the back of her throat, and Sasha looked up. Firelight danced over craggy walls and ceiling. Tucked beneath a shelf of rock and heavy brush not far from the road, the cave was well hidden and not easily seen, a perfect spot for travelers seeking safe shelter for a night. The low roof grew higher toward the back, and a bone-deep chill emanated from the rock walls. She also felt the chill of Elspeth’s disapproval, and Sasha answered her at last.

“Not so foolish, if you will. My Gift has always given me the ability to see the true nature of men. The blond knight is not evil. I knew that when I
spoke with him, even without using my Gift.”

“Bah. He is arrogant and proud,” Elspeth grumbled. “You should have fled, as did Biagio and I.”

“Biagio fled with you?” she murmured. “ ’Twould be the first time that brash youth abandoned danger.”

Elspeth shrugged. “I did not say he came with me willingly. But at least
he
gave heed to my warnings. If those men had taken you …”

She let her voice fade, but Sasha did not need to hear thoughts or spoken words to know what she meant. Outlaw knights had little compunction about taking a woman against her will, even killing her. Richard was on his Crusades, and all of England had been left in the hands of his brother Prince John. With a villain as their ruler, villains roamed freely.

“Where is Biagio now?” she asked to avoid more censure from Elspeth. “We must re-pack the cart for the morrow.”

“He went back to look for you.”

Elspeth turned her head, but Sasha intercepted a brief mental vision of Biagio’s face, contorted and angry, his words sharp.
Dio—I am going back … I will find her … should not have left
 … Then Elspeth firmly focused on the leaping flames of the fire, and her mental images of Biagio disappeared to be replaced by a resolute study of the flames.

Sasha’s cheeks puffed out in a sigh. Elspeth and Biagio worried unduly. But she couldn’t change that. And in truth, there was often reason for apprehension. “I hope Biagio is careful,” was all she said.

Biagio could take care of himself well enough. The young Italian seemed to
have a multitude of talents, none of them fully developed, some of them irritating, but all accompanied by a strong sense of self-preservation. He was reckless and insolent, and though she would never have admitted it to him for fear his head would swell with conceit, she blessed the day he had joined them. And she was infinitely grateful that he had not interfered in the weald.

She thought again of the knight who had resented her warning. Having newly come from the ruined bridge, they’d had only enough time to hide in the trees upon first sighting the approaching knights, peering out at them through thorny branches. The men made no effort to be quiet, and Sasha found herself greatly amused by the man named Rhys’s disbelief in superstitions. His arrogant denials had
prompted her to mischief, to tweak him a little. It was easy for her to frighten their horses. And it had been worth it to see Richard’s stalwart knights struggle with uncontrollable mounts, swearing and praying and sweating. She’d not been able to contain her laughter. There was a deep-seated belief in the world of elves and faeries in all men, whether they wished to acknowledge it or not.

But then the leader had shifted his shield and she’d glimpsed a mythical beast on the hammered metal surface. The griffyn—it was the sign she had sought.

Half-closing her eyes, Sasha gazed into the leaping flames. She’d not expected the answer to the prophecy to be so young. She’d envisioned a grizzled warrior with battle scars aplenty, savage and impressive, bellowing threats and
even defying the heavens. But not this, not a man who looked more like a princely knight in a chansons de geste than a fierce fighter. She didn’t want a romantic hero. She wanted a proficient warrior. That was what it would take to succeed.

Elspeth was right. It had been very foolish to stand in the midst of the forest road gazing up at an angry knight and gaping like a lackwit, but she’d been so startled by the lack of her Gift that she couldn’t react. And then she’d seen the emblem he wore, and really looked at him. That had almost been her undoing. He could have been Apollo stepped down from the sun—as blinding, blond and beautiful as the Greek god. No helmet hid his bright hair or clean-shaven features, and she’d found herself staring at him as if struck
dumb, thinking that he couldn’t be the man for whom she’d searched so long.

But perhaps he was.…

There was character in his noble visage, in high cheekbones not at all marred by the scar curving from one temple, integrity in the cool gray eyes beneath a slash of dark brows, strength in the hard, arrogant set of his jaw. The very air had seemed to shimmer, as it did in the midst of a summer storm, when lightning charged the air … Yea, perhaps he was the man she’d been promised, the champion who would fulfill the prophecy …

Sasha
.

Drifting to her through leaping flame and smoke, the unspoken word had all the raw power of a scream. Sasha looked up from the fire, reluctantly meeting Elspeth’s eyes. As usual, she knew what the older woman was
thinking. She slowly shook her head, and the tiny bells sewn into the lining of her cloak tinkled lightly.

“Elspeth, I must confess. His mind is closed to me. But this is the one—I’m certain that he is the man of the prophecy.”

Elspeth stared at her. A frail hand moved up to her throat with a small flutter. “The prophecy … child, child, you were only eight years old when Rina told you of it. She was just a crazy Russian Gypsy. Who could know if this prophecy is true?”

“It’s true. Nothing else makes sense.” She drew in a deep breath. “It has to be true. I have searched so long for my champion, and now he is come.”

Elspeth moaned. “Nay, Sasha, he’s a rogue knight. He cannot be the one. You said yourself his mind is closed to you. It must be a mistake. We shall yet
find the one who was promised. Perhaps when we get to my village—”

“It’s this one. I’m certain of it. Do not ask me how I know. It’s a feeling … think of the prophecy, the chance meeting with a fierce knight who is half eagle, half lion.”

“How can you be so certain it’s this one?” Elspeth’s veined hands shook as she held them out. “Your Gift cannot foretell the future—”

“You didn’t see his crest before you fled.” Sasha’s eyes began to burn, and she closed them against the smoke and doubt. “He wore the sign of the griffyn on his shield and surcoat. It was the half eagle, half lion that has haunted my dreams since I was only a child. ’Tis he, I know it. I cannot be wrong—”

“Because he wears the griffyn? Perchance, it’s only his overlord’s colors he wears, and not his.”

“That’s a possibility, of course, but it doesn’t matter. He wears the sign. This is the one. I feel it, Elspeth.”

“Holy Mary, child.” Her voice quavered. “What if you’re wrong? You know your Gift is truly useful, but it cannot save you from disaster.”

“Yea, I know that well. Too well. There are times this Gift is a curse, though it’s often helped me learn truths others cannot see. He must be the one, Elspeth, he must—or I would be able to see in his mind as I can all others. He’s too strong for me to penetrate the wall of light around him, too powerful for my Gift.” She opened her eyes. “I intend to ask him to help us.”

“Aiee! Child, you frighten me. Have you no regard for your own safety?” Elspeth rocked back and forth, her arms crossed over her bony chest in a gesture of grief. “I fear for you if you deal with
rogue knights. They’re evil men, with no regard for others, devouring all in their paths. If it’s meant to be, it will happen. Do not ask him, I beg of you.”

“But this knight is different.” She searched for the words to explain herself, to make Elspeth understand. “When I look at him, I
see
a griffyn. We need such a fabled beast, need a man with the strength of a lion and the fierce courage of an eagle. Take heart. He’s the knight that was promised, and he’ll help us. I know he will.”

Elspeth subsided, but the discussion was not ended. Sasha knew better. In truth, she had misgivings of her own. What if Elspeth was right? What if she’d made a mistake? But even if she had, wasn’t anything better than what yawned before her—living out her years in a remote English village so far from everything? In a moment of
despair and weakness she had yielded to Elspeth’s pleas, and now they were so close to the village where Elspeth had been born, so close to the end of their long journey across most of Europe and all of England. Years of wandering, from gilded palaces to burning desert sands, over towering mountain heights and down into valleys beautiful enough to hurt the eyes, would soon be over. It hadn’t all been wonderful. There had been terrifying times, times when she was certain they would be killed and their bodies left in a desolate wilderness, but they’d survived. She had done what she must—donned disguises, foretold futures at country fairs, even danced with a bear once on frozen tundra.