What the Heart Sees (3 page)

Cassie’s footsteps slowed again.

Up ahead was a soft flare of light. It emanated from the gap below and the spaces around a doorway, perfectly outlining the arched shape of the stone blocks. For one giddy moment, Cassie likened the sight to the late afternoon sun sending out streaks of light around a dark storm cloud. Or, as a second image took shape in her mind, the shining halo that always surrounded the head of Christ in holy tapestries. The more practical side of her determined this was the door to the armory where the precious ingots of iron were kept.

Raising the lantern above her head, she saw a small carving on the door, a depiction of the moon and several five pointed stars surrounding it. It was odd for an armory; she would have expected swords and daggers and shields for a carving.

She moved forward again, this time letting the metal handle of the lantern rattle by way of announcing her approach if there was someone inside the chamber. To her relief, when she tapped lightly on the door, she heard a voice reply.

“Come.”

The latch moved freely as she lifted it and the door swung silently open on rope hinges.

The room was lit by a brace of candles stuck in pools of their own melted wax, set on a small wooden work table. Seated on a three legged stool was a hooded figure who partly turned his head to acknowledge her arrival, then went back to his task, humming ever so softly under his breath.

“Keep your heels to the floor long enough,” he quipped after a moment, “and roots begin to sprout. Come closer. It is almost done.”

Cassie moistened her lips and stepped inside the chamber. It was apparent, upon the first shocked glance, that this was not the armory. The top of the work table was littered with the tools of a jeweller’s trade: a scarred and charred crucible, tongs, files, sand for polishing, buttons and cakes of argentiferrous lead, tiny dorés of refined silver as well as long thin wires used to shape into filigrees. Hanging on the wall were chains of gold and silver, the candlelight making them glitter and wink with each flicker of the flame. A nearby shelf held goblets and plates stacked elbow-deep, wrought in solid gold.

There was more, all of it dazzling and stunning to eyes accustomed to seeing only wooden bowls and using whittled sticks for spoons. There were sword handles and daggers encrusted with jewels, church plates likely hidden here for safekeeping, alongside gold and silver crucifixes.

The jeweller’s hands were wrinkled with age, and thick around the knuckles. His fingers were blackened by years of working with silver and lead, and were moving slowly, rhythmically as he applied a polishing cloth to the object he held in his palm.

“Bring yourself closer, child. I do not often have the pleasure of company.”

“I am looking for the armory,” she said, staying where she was just inside the doorway.

“Ah yes. I hear the defenses are holding well. The regent’s taxman is not having so easy a time of it as he had hoped.”

“Lord Purefoy has vowed to keep the gates closed until it snows in hell.”

The old man chuckled. “Yes, he would say that. Just as his father would have done.”

Cassie’s interest was roused despite her need to find the armory and leave this creepsome place. Sir Thomas’s father had died before she and her father had come to settle at Belfontaine, but she’d heard tales of his exploits with the old king, Henry Secund. He had been the king’s champion, and—though it was only whispered as a rumor—lover to Queen Eleanor for most of the fifteen years she had been imprisoned by her husband.

“You knew the old master?”

The hooded figure chuckled again. “Aye, and his father before him. And his. I crossed the Channel with William the
Norman
, thinking to return home once he had conquered this strange, savage land. But alas I was needed here and stayed.”

“The Conqueror William?” Her eyebrow inched upward as she felt an imaginary tug on her leg. “You must be very old then.”
Old and addled
, she thought.

“Oh indeed. Verily I am called ancient by all who know me.”

“And who knows you? I, for one, have never seen you before and I have lived in the village these past ten years or more.”

His shoulders shrugged within the cowl. “I live in the forest and come and go without much notice.”

“Even if that is so, the gates have been closed and barred these past two weeks.”

“Ah, but I have my own gate. There.” He pointed a gnarled finger at a niche in the wall, a niche that proved to be, once she lifted her lantern to chase away the shadows, a doorway of sorts, waist high and shaped much like a mouse-hole.

“Do the guards know you come and go at will?”

“Old Ugly-Nose used to know. I made a trinket for his wife so he would keep his tongue between his teeth.”

He still had not looked up or turned around. Cassie inched closer and, detecting her curiosity, he lifted the cloth and tipped his hand to the light. Seeing what he held, what he was so intent on polishing, the breath caught in her throat. Jewels flashed and silver flared, for nestled in his palm was a large, silver pendant. The heart of it was an oval-shaped mirror, polished so finely that the reflection was almost as pure as that from glass or water. Surrounding it were vines made from silver filigree; set in the vines were emeralds representing leaves, and cabochon diamonds representing flowers.

“God’s truth,” she said in a hushed voice. “It is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” she said. “I swear it.”

He turned then and smiled up at her. His face was as wizened as his hands, the skin thin as parchment and wrinkled like berries left too long out in the sun. It was his eyes that caused her mouth to drop open, however. They were completely white, coated with a thick, milky caul that rendered him completely sightless. How he “saw” enough to create such a beautiful jewel was far beyond her knowledge.

“Would you like to hold it?”

“Me?” She took a step back at the thought. Once, when very young, she had held a silver coin until her father had smacked it out of her hand.

“Of course you.”

“Oh, but I mustn’t,” she whispered. “I dare not.”

“There is no one here to see you, child. Take it. Touch it. Hold it to your breast. I have done all I can do, but the metal is cold and needs the warmth of a pure heart to give it life.”

When still she hesitated, he reached around and took her hand in one of his, uncurling her fingers so that he could lay the heavy jewel in her palm. Almost instantly, she felt her skin react, though whether it was from the pendant itself or from the thought of holding something so beautiful and valuable, she could not have said. A tangible warmth started to spread up her arm, tingling across her chest and quivering down into her belly.

“The silver comes from
Damascus
, the gems once belonged to a Syrian prince. Think you it should be a pendant, hung about the neck?” he was asking. “Or a brooch pinned to a comely breast or cloak?”

“I...I have no thought as to either,” she stammered, her gaze locked to the sparkling facets.

“Ah well, we shall leave it up to the wearer then, shall we? But do look into the heart of it, child. Tell me what you see.”

Cassie swallowed hard and although she did not command her hand to do so, it raised the heavy pendant so that she could see into the polished surface of the mirror. She gasped a little, for the face that shone back at her was her own, yet not her own. In the reflection, her hair was full and shining, tousled about her face in a cloud of sunlight-yellow curls. Her large green eyes were wide and calm, her lips tipped at the corners as if sharing a secret smile. Her throat was slender and bare, and she was wearing a gown made of exquisite burgundy silk, brocaded with thread of gold. The very jewel she was holding lay against the bodice, and, reflected in the oval mirror was the face of a man...a man who was handsome beyond all decency. A man who looked shocking like Lord Thomas Purefoy.

She squeezed the pendant so hard she felt a sharp prick on the fleshy part of her thumb. It was enough to draw a tiny bead of blood and to bring her senses crashing back to earth. She all but threw the pendant back on the work table, then wiped her hand down the front of her tunic over and over again trying to rid her palm of the burning impression the jewel had left.

“What did you see?” the jeweller asked, sensing her distress.

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “I saw nonsense.”

He smiled and his hand groped a moment across the table until his fingers located the pendant. “What you saw was your own heart, child. You saw your heart’s fondest desire.”

Cassie backed up toward the door. “My fondest desire is to find the armory and return to the bailey before I am missed.”

“Of course. Of course. I have delayed you long enough. I bid you God’s speed, child, in everything you do.”

“You as well, sir.” She started back out the door, but paused and looked back. “I did not ask your name.”

“Godfrey,” he said, turning slightly. “I am called Godfrey the
Lombard
.”

“Be well and safe, Godfrey the
Lombard
,” she said, and left him to his work.

~~~

Cassie found the armory—duly marked with a carved shield on the door—and returned to the smithy with her sacks filled with iron for the arrowheads. William was pleased to find several small squares of hammered steel as well. He had already culled men from the walls who were familiar with fletching and tipping, foresters and huntsmen for the most part, all of whom he set to work at once. Cassie would have preferred to remain with them and make the arrowheads, but she departed reluctantly and found her way to the bath house.

It was located in a cluster of outbuildings near to the scullery and bread ovens, used mostly by huntsmen and visiting knights to refresh themselves before being presented to the lord. The tub was metal, lined with wood and sat on a raised platform under which fires were kept burning to keep the water hot. It was large enough to accommodate five or six big men at a time but at the moment there was only Cassandra and another older woman she knew as Nosey Rosie in the hut.

“I’ll take them rags of yourn, dearie,” Rosie said, wrinkling up her nose, which was prodigious enough to have earned her the nickname. “I’ve orders to see ye clean and presentable, a term ye could use to describe owt yer wearin’ at the moment.”

Cassie hugged her arms across her chest, protecting the leather jerkin from the fat hands that reached for it. “What are you going to do with my clothes?”

“Burning would be my first choice,” Rosie declared, “but leave go o’ them now. I’ll see they’re washed an’ hung out to dry in the sun.”

Warily, Cassie lowered her arms. She had but one pair of leggings, one tunic and one shirt and could ill afford to have any of the three burned or lost.

“God’s trewth, girl.” Rosie was behind her unplaiting the tangle of her hair as Cassie unlaced her shirt and leggings and set them aside. “Ye’ve got whole families o’ creatures livin’ in here.”

She clucked her tongue and shooed Cassie into the hot water while she went and found some harsh soap. It was only the second time in her life that Cassie had bathed in a proper tub. Usually she made do with a bucket and cloth, or washed in a nearby icy stream. Heating water was an unheard-of luxury.

As she sank up to her shoulders in the warmed water, she smiled. This must be why noble men and women had such white skin and smelled so sweet. She splashed her hands across the surface and carried water to her shoulders and neck, thinking she felt quite regal in a genuine real hot bath.

A large fat hand covered her head and pushed, sending her down under the surface of the water. It held her there while she thrashed and spluttered and her lungs were emptied of air. The hand let her come up again, but only long enough to pour something horrid and smelly in her hair, give it a rub, then dunk her under again.

“Lice,” Rosie declared. “Ye’d not want to see them hoppin’ from yer head to his lordship’s pigeon pie, now would ye?”

Cassie was still swearing, still sputtering. Her eyes were stinging from whatever Rosie had poured onto her head, and now it was compounded by yet another concoction that was rubbed and scrubbed into her hair half a dozen times, before being rinsed and scrubbed again. By the time Rosie declared the waist-long mass bug-free, her scalp was on fire and she was fuming close to tears.

“Do ye need help scrubbin’ yer nether parts or can ye manage that much yer own self?”

“Myself,” Cassie gasped. “I can manage myself.”

“Good. Here’s the soap, here’s the cloth. I’ll be checkin’ when yer done so no sense just ticklin’ it over yer hide an’ callin’ it clean.”

Cassie glared, but the woman simply put her hands to her hips and glared back.

In the end, she soaked and scrubbed and rubbed her toes and fingernails with sand; she soaped her face until she was sure her freckles had come off then stood and allowed Rosie to pour a bucket of water scented with lavender oil over her hair and body. Following a harsh drubbing with a towel, she sat in front of the fire and endured another round of cussing while her hair was brushed and dried. A plain white linen sheath was dropped over her head followed by a tunic of pale green damask. Long sleeves were laced to the shoulders and a narrow braided rope of silk threads went around her waist, tied so the tasselled ends fell straight down the middle, almost to the floor.