Wings of the Storm (10 page)

Switha shook her head. Her expression was grave and still; anguish showed only in her eyes. There was blood on her hands as well. Jane recalled that a plague had taken many villagers' lives that winter. Switha must have had her fill of death by now. How many had she lost in childbirth? To simple infec-tions? To stupid accidents like today's? Never mind the unheeded peasant deaths when the nobles fought out their petty squabbles, using the countryside as though it were a playing field.

"I'm so sorry," Jane told her. She apologized not just for Oswy, but for all of history where the poor and powerless died without any help.

Switha acknowledged her understanding with the slightest of nods. Then the Saxon woman knelt beside the Norman girl. Sibelle was cradling Oswy's head in her ample lap. Switha put a hand on the girl's shoul-der. "My lady?"

Sibelle looked up at Jane. "I'll take the death-watch," she told her. "Send Marguerite and Alais to me."

"I'll stay as well," Switha said. "There's nothing we can do but wait for his spirit to leave his body."

"If only we could have a priest here for the last rites," Sibelle added sadly. "Poor lost soul."

Switha placed a comforting hand on Sibelle's

shoulder. "We will pray. To the Lord, and the Lady Mother."

Jane watched them exchange a quick, understand-ing glance. "Each in their own way," Sibelle agreed.

It was the only thing left to do. Jane said, "I'll be back."

But when she had walked stiffly from the chapel, she realized she wasn't sure she could go back. She marveled at the women she'd left behind. She had thought Sibelle was just a fat, snivelly kid, she reflect-ed in confusion. Maybe there was more to her. Obvi-ously there was.

She found the serving women by the hearth and sent them to the chapel, then stayed by the fire her-self, trying to get some warmth into her chilled bones. A few minutes later Marguerite and Alais came back into the hall again. They stopped Bertram, and after a short conversation oil lamps and linens and various other things were gathered and carried back into the chapel. Jane watched the activity with numb detachment. It all seemed well practiced, so commonplace. She'd thought she'd understood the reality of this era. Now she was beginning to realize she didn't know anything.

She didn't return to the chapel. She sat on the dais step with her hands propping up her chin, staring at the glowing embers in the hearth for hours instead. She sensed Bertram hovering nearby, but he left her

alone.

She didn't let anything disturb her until Sir Daffyd entered the hall, his spurs and mail jangling with the rhythm of his stride. She rubbed her aching temples and stood, wondering irritably what the devil he was doing here.

He came and took her by the arm and led her to one of the carved chairs. He had beautiful hands; they covered hers comfortingly for a moment. "You don't look well."

She turned her pained gaze on him. "There's been an accident," she explained. "Someone's dying."

He nodded, understanding in his gold-green eyes. "Wine for the lady," he ordered Bertram. When Bertram brought two silver goblets, Daffyd handed one to her and ignored the other.

He took the seat beside her. "Drink deep." The wine tasted like vinegar—with a heavy kick.

"What happened?" he asked after she'd finished the cup. It should have made her head swim. Instead she felt more clearheaded.

"A lad fell from a roof. Broke his back. I should go to the chapel," she said, getting tiredly to her feet.

"Sibelle's with him, but I—"

He rose in a swift, graceful movement to stand over her. He didn't loom; instead his large presence seemed like a protective shield. He touched her cheek with a callused fingertip and wiped a tear she hadn't noticed shedding from her cheek. It was the faintest of touches, but it heated her, not just her cheek, but fire raced to the very core of her being. She was shak-en and confused as he stepped swiftly back to his chair and seated himself once more.

"Stay." He waved her back down, his deep voice not quite steady. "The little nun will be used to doing such a friend's service."

Jane settled back on the hard wooden seat. She gave a very small, very bitter laugh. "'Death hath no friend.'" The irony of her words could be understood by no one but herself.

He sat back in his chair. Tapping his beaky nose thoughtfully, Daffyd said, "I've heard that some-where."

It was a quote from Guillaume le Marechal's biog-raphy. Something he probably hadn't said yet. More likely it was a commonNormansaying. She looked down at the gleaming silver cup she was rolling on her palms. The same silver cup had been blackened with tarnish when she'd arrived. If only she hadn't interfered. If only she could interfere more.

"There's nothing I can do," she said softly.

"No," he said. "There isn't." His deep voice was troubled. As were the shadows in his green-flecked eyes. He gave a bitter laugh of his own. She got the impression he wasn't thinking about the dying boy.

"It's all my fault," she said. "I ordered the roof repaired."

"It was an act of fate," he countered. "The roof needed fixing?"

"Yes."

"Then you made no mistake. It was no deliberate act of negligence on your part. Don't be hard on yourself, lady. Don't eat yourself up with guilt. It'll eat you up inside." He sounded as if he were talking from experience.

She found herself wanting to find out just what sins were causing haunted shadows in the depths of his eyes, but she didn't know him, and it wasn't her place to pry. He didn't look like the sort to exchange intimate confidences with womenfolk, anyway.

"What are you doing here?" she asked instead. "The outlaws?"

"They're nowhere nearby. Probably feasting on the king's deer in the forest as we speak," he said.

"In truth, I came to convey greetings to the new lady of Passfair." The look she gave him must have con-tained more skepticism than she intended. He gave her a crooked, and totally cynical, smile.

"Perhaps you did not know the lady's a kinswoman of the king. Her father's a by-blow of one of King Henry's lemans. Being the king's man, it does me no harm to speak soft and fair to his family, no matter how loose the connection."

It occurred to her that the Welshman was a land-less knight, his only support coming from the favor of King John. Most such knights were always on the lookout for an estate to hold as their own. It remind-ed her of her resolve not to be attracted to him.

Perhaps he hadn't been quite honest when he'd said he preferred a pretty face over a rich dowry. Sibelle was a considerable heiress. She was also still an unmarried virgin, with her protector doing his best to put a great many miles between them. What if Sir Daffyd had heard of Stephan's absence and had showed up to sniff around the honey pot a bit? Or to kidnap the prize outright, as Hugh of Lilydrake had tried to do?

Well, he wasn't going to get the chance to steal Sibelle away as long as she was in charge of Passfair.

Stephan's treatment of the poor girl was shabby enough, but at least he'd never do anything to harm her.

This gold-maned
male
probably never even both-ered to take off the at least forty pounds of chain mail he wore.

She swore silently at the perfidy of all men. And almost laughed when she noticed that the colorful language rolling through her mind wasn't English. In just a few days' time she was beginning to think in Norman French. She wondered inanely if her accent was improving as well.

Such speculation did nothing to alleviate her immediate problems. Suddenly wary of Sir Daffyd, she wondered if she should call DeCorte into the hall. Not that Raoul would be any match for the formidable younger soldier. Raoul and about a dozen guards might even the score considerably.

She rose and said, "Excuse me."

As she stepped off the dais, Switha and Alais came out of the chapel. She changed course to go to them. "It's over," Switha told her.

Jane gave an almost relieved sigh. At least the boy was out of pain. She crossed herself before she real-ized she actually meant the gesture. "His family?" she asked.

"They died of the fever. I'll see to the burial."

"Thank you. Sibelle?"

"Praying in the chapel," Alais answered.

Jane nodded. The light coming in the windows was beginning to fade. The tables would be set up for din-ner any minute now. Then the guards would wander in without any need to call them. She would speak to Bertram and DeCorte. They had to protect Lady Sibelle, but there was no need outright to offend the man who commanded the king's force in this part of the countryside. She could get Stephan in trouble if she wasn't careful. She fingered the dagger on her belt. It wasn't much protection, but there was also strength in numbers.

"I'll join Lady Sibelle at her prayers," she told the women. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder.

Sir Daffyd was lounging comfortably on his chair, one muscular thigh thrown casually over the sturdy armrest. The carved lines of his face reflected a somber mood, his eyes seeing into an inward dis-tance.

For a moment she thought she saw something familiar about the brooding cast of his features.

She shook off the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He wasn't a lamb who'd strayed into her keeping. Sibelle was. And he was the strongest eon-tender for the wolf who could snatch her away.

The day, she thought, had been one damn thing after another. She turned her back on Daffyd and went in to Sibelle.

9

It was. no hardship for Jane to fastthrough the dinner hour. From her place kneeling before the empty altar she could hear the sounds of the household at dinner, but she couldn't understand how anyone could find an appetite. Marguerite and Alais came and went and came back again as the long hours wore on.

She and Sibelle remained. She hoped her mind would go numb, as numb as her body gradually became.

The stones beneath her knees were hard, the chill of the unheated room seeped through the layers of cloth-ing and into tense muscle and bone. Early in the vigil, Alais placed a lit candle on the altar. Jane marked the time by watching the small spark of light eat its way through the fine beeswax. The scent of wax and honey spread out on the chapel air, lingering after the light died away.

Jane endured the hours with stubborn stoicism. This was proper. This was expected. This was what she'd been sentenced to. Once she entered a convent there would be regular prayers five times a day, fasting, and the narrow rules of the order. And there'd be many more long hours on her knees through all hours of day and night for saints' days and penitence and holy days and vigil for the dead and dying. This was her future, her life. After a few hours she thought she was going to go mad.

The older women stirred occasionally, easing tired bones. Sibelle simply kept her eyes on the altar, her lips moving in silently whispered prayer. While the faint golden light of the candle remained, it shed a warm glow over the girl's fine pink complexion. Sibelle's expression was serene with prayer. Her large eyes focused with intense concentration. Glancing at the overweight girl out of the corner of her eye, Jane made a startling discovery: Sibelle's face was actually quite pretty. After the light went out, Jane, who had no prayers in her, considered this new bit of informa-tion.

She had no idea how long it was before Alais and Marguerite came to silent agreement and rose

pon-derously to their feet.

"Come, my lamb," Marguerite said, touching Sibelle's shoulder. "Time to rest now."

"But—" Sibelle began.

"No prayers can help the poor lad, anyway. He died in sin. There's nothing even the blessed Mother can do to save his soul."

"Come away, my lady." Alais added her urgings as the girl hesitated reluctantly.

Jane waited on her knees, unwilling to rise, if her numb legs would let her rise, until Sibelle acquiesced to her women. She kept her mouth firmly shut. No era was a good one to argue religious philosophy. An era where torture and execution awaited those who

didn't follow the current party line or the right pope was an especially dangerous place to voice an opin-ion. So she kept still and fumed over the notion of eternal damnation for anyone who didn't receive the sacraments. These people believed it; that was what made excommunication such a powerful political weapon.

Sibelle didn't hesitate for long. She crossed herself and let Marguerite help her up. "Kings and priests shouldn't bring God into their arguments," she com-plained, expressing an opinion of her own.

"Come away," Alais coaxed. "You're cold, my love. Let's get you to bed."

Jane waited until the other three left before climb-ing to her feet. It took a few minutes of stumbling painfully around the dark chapel before she got enough circulation back to attempt the walk up to her room. She picked her way silently through the sleeping forms in the main hall, managing to find her way up the stairs and into her bed without any light. Berthild didn't seem to be anywhere for her to trip over as she passed through the storeroom. The dogs were already comfortably curled up on the fur bed-cover.

Once in bed, she thought it would be easy to find sleep. The day had gone on forever, and she was wea-rier than she'd ever been in her life. But sleep didn't come, although she gradually grew warm and relaxed, and the image of the dying boy didn't haunt her as she thought it would. The regret was there, but not so sharp and immediate as it had been. Perhaps the hours in the chapel had done something to allevi-ate her sense of blame. But still she couldn't sleep. The events of the day had been too overwhelming, and the realization that she was trapped forever in an alien culture was hitting her with the force of a blow.

She didn't toss restlessly, just lay on the straw mat-tress and listened. To the roar of blood in her ears, to the dogs' breathing, to rodents skittering among the storage barrels. She made a mental note about bring-ing in some hungry cats from the tithe barn. Some-time, very late, the storeroom door creaked open. She assumed it was Berthild until she heard the unmistak-able, soft clinking of chain mail. She started up with a terrified gasp. Her hand grasped the hilt of the dagger she made a habit of leaving under her pillow. Melisande whuffed gently and got up to investigate, in no hurry to attack the intruder.