Wings of the Storm (15 page)

Riding back along the track leading up the hill, she

passed the pasture wedged between woods and castle and village where a tent and timber village had sprung up overnight. The merchants and traveling entertainers had actually been arriving for three days, though in fact there were only half a dozen traders, two jugglers, a seedy minstrel, and a couple of lady friends who traveled with the minstrel. Not much, really, as culture and commerce went.

But not bad for only a month's preparation, Jane congratulated herself.

Back in the castle courtyard, she turned the horse over to the waiting groom and hurried up to her room.

It was the'full light of day, and everyone from Passfair and Hwit and other outlying areas were gath-ering in the pasture below.

Jane had carefully selected a few of her precious possessions to offer the merchants the night before: some spices and strings of freshwater pearls and lapis. She was beginning to have an idea of what to do with her wealth, but she wanted to get to know the men she traded with before making any concrete plans.

She took her small bundle in hand, said, "Come along, Berthild," and left the castle with the red-haired girl, this time on foot.

On the walk down the hill she considered her plan, hoping it wouldn't be too complicated to pull off.

She'd spent a great deal of time thinking about the possibilities life might have to offer her.

For the sake of preserving this society, Jane knew she had to live apart from it. The only acceptable seclusion where she would be safe and fed and com-pletely anonymous would be as just one more of a group of black-dressed, praying women. She hated her fate but accepted its necessity. Gradually, howev-er, she'd come to the conclusion that she held the power in her hands to make this fate far more pleas-ant than the dreary life she'd first envisioned. It had nothing to do with a sudden discovery of faith.

It had a lot to do with remembering Wolfe had sent her back here with a great deal of wealth.

She couldn't think of anything more proper and acceptable in this religious age than for a rich widow to found her own order of nuns. It was only right for her then to administer the order as the abbess of the establishment she founded. An abbess was law unto herself in her own house.

If she had to live by the rules of the order, she rea-soned, she wanted to be the one who made them up.

An elegant solution to a tricky problem.

All she had to do was get permission from whatev-er bishop first poked his head up after the interdict was lifted, get herself some land, get some peasants to work the land, build the abbey, and get herself some volunteers. She could name it Saint Elizabeth's, after Mom. Or perhaps Our Lady of West Point.

No, she didn't think a militant order of nuns would be quite the right approach. Too bad there weren't any teach-ing or nursing orders yet. Doing something useful would have been a nice way to pass the time.

The pasture was bustling with every inhabitant of the nearby villages by the time she and Berthild arrived.

It was not just the traveling merchants with products to show; local people were busy trading their own wares. Someone was selling little dried fruit pies. A vintner was hawking ale, while his partner was dickering with the cooks from Passfair and Stur-ry over the price of his better wines. Children and young people were gathered around the entertainers. Groups of men clustered together discussing the weather and the crops and the sad state of the world. It was quite a turnout. She estimated at least seventy people spread out among the carts and tents and tables.

Seventy people, Jane thought as she walked with Berthild from one merchant's stand to the next. She stopped to finger some moss-green muslinlike fabric at the cloth merchants. She bought a length of it, secretly planning on making a new dress for the red-haired Berthild.

The silversmith from London said he'd brought only his third-best wares to this tiny fair. She showed her string of freshwater pearls to the jeweler, got his opinion and an asking price, smiled prettily, and moved on.

She'd worked her way to the edge of the pasture where the potter was showing dishes with pretty blue glazing. She picked up one of the larger pots. Its tex-ture and substantial weight felt good in her hands.

She was turning to call to Berthild, who was lingering to haggle over a string of glass beads, when she saw the group of men emerging from between the trees. She thought nothing of it for a moment, assuming they were just some more villagers come to enjoy a day's holiday. She opened her mouth to call her ser-vant but voiced no sound as the sudden tension in the air registered on her mind. Where there had been much talk and laughter only a moment ago, suddenly there was silence.

Then she noticed there must be at least twenty hard-faced, filthy strangers spreading out in a long line as if to circle the encampment. They were mov-ing at a swift lope now, long bows slung across wide backs,

staffs, rusty broadswords, and sharp daggers held poised and ready. For a long instant the stunned crowd remained paralyzed, staring in frightened silence while the bandits bore down on them.

Then a woman's shrill scream pierced the air. Someone yelled, "Outlaws!"

There were castle guards patrolling the fair, of course. They rushed forward to meet the advancing outlaws, forming a thin shell of protection as the vil-lagers began running from the attack. But there were only five guards. And although they were trained and well armed, they were only five against at least twen-ty. The rest of Passfair's men were still at the castle. The king's guard from Reculver was expected but hadn't yet put in an appearance. The five castle swordsmen didn't slow the armed and vicious attack-ers for long.

lane watched the fight. She had no weapon, she had no training, and she was terrified, but she just couldn't bring herself to run away. People milled around her. She was responsible for them.

She grabbed a woman by the shoulders, ordered, "To the castle," and pushed her toward the hill. The woman snatched up a child and ran, calling other folk to join her.

There was a deafening crash as one of the mer-chant carts was turned on its side. Several of the out-laws began pawing through the remains. A woman cried out as she was pulled to the ground. The air was filled with screams and begging and the iron smell of blood. The last of the guards went down with a trio of arrows in his stomach. Jane saw a flash of red hair and Berthild's flailing arms and legs as the girl was

grabbed around the waist by a big man with filthy yellow braids. She started to run forward to help the girl but was cut off by a pair of leering outlaws, both with daggers clutched in bloodstained hands. She registered greasy hair, grime-encrusted features, hun-gry, pitiless eyes.

One of the men lunged forward to grab her, and Jane danced backward out of his reach. The other moved closer. She threw the heavy blue pot in her hands at his head. She turned and ran, hearing a crash and cry behind her. She also heard the other one hot on her heels.

She ran up the hill, her heart racing/her fear laced with revulsion as she caught the heavy reeking odor of the man so close behind her. Her legs pumped. Suddenly every steep step of the hill track seemed unfamiliar, the footing uncertain. She gave one quick glance up at the castle, caught a glimpse of the gate.

There were castle men there, guarding the entrance and helping the steady stream of visitors inside.

Archers were perched up on the wall, ready to shoot at any invader coming too near. She caught a flash of peach and gold: Sibelle was up on the wall with a bow, ready to defend her land and people.

Jane ran harder, hoping to get within arrowshot of the castle before the man behind her dragged her down. She felt the rush of air as he reached for her. She ran harder, feeling her breath sobbing, her ribs and calf muscles aching from the effort at speed.

She felt the man's breath. He laughed in her ear. So close. His hands grabbed again, snatching a hand-ful of silk, pulling her backward, pushing her down.

She writhed on the ground beneath him, frantic to get away. She tore and clawed and kicked, actions driven by blind panic. He laughed. Laughed and brought his filthy mouth down hungrily on hers. She screamed and tasted blood from her own cut lips. He held her down, ripping away her silken dress. His hands moved obscenely over her half-naked body.

She prayed and cursed as his laughter and grunting sounded in her ears. Her head pounded and the earth beneath her pounded, shaking like the strong hoof-beats of a charging horse.

The outlaw's hand moved roughly between her legs, prying them brutally.apart. She opened her mouth and screamed again, continuing to scream as the man was pulled backward. Off her and onto the ground.

The outlaw lunged forward with his dagger. A booted foot kicked it out of his hand. Jane climbed to her knees. Her eyes registered chain mail, an arro-gant, hawk-nosed face beneath a conical iron helmet.

Chain mail. A sword held tightly in a large gloved hand. A gray horse breathing heavily somewhere in the background. Daffyd ap Bleddyn.

The outlaw sprang up off the ground, attacking the knight barehanded. Daffyd ap Bleddyn, his face cold as death, smiled just a little and gutted him.

The man died holding his insides in his hands. Daffyd turned to her without a backward glance at the man he'd killed.

14

Jane was on her hands and knees,retching uncontrollably, when Daffyd ap Bleddyn reached her. She looked up at him. The horrible smile was gone, but his eyes as they swept over her were hard and intense. He had put away his sword and was reaching for her with gloved hands.

She screamed and slithered backward, still on hands and knees. "Don't touch me!"

He came closer. She tried to rise, tripped on her torn skirt, and rolled farther down the hill.

She had to get up! She wasn't that far from the gate. She had to run before he touched her. But her limbs wouldn't obey her. There was a sharp pain in her side. She clutched at it, trying once more to find her feet. She made it this time. She struggled to run up the rutted hill track.

The gray horse loomed up in front of her, its dan-gerous hooves flashing near her head as she stum-bled, almost falling into the animal's path. She screamed, just barely recovering her balance. The horse was too close. The man's shadow fell over her. He leaned from the saddle, reaching with a muscular arm. He grabbed her around the waist, hauling her up before him.

Jane tried to pull away, but she was quickly pressed to his chest, her arms pinioned. He said something.

The words were soft but they were just sounds to her, drowned out by the screams and laughter filling her mind. He smelled of blood. Her bare flesh was pressed to unyielding armor. She squeezed her eyes shut, all fight going out of her. He held her tightly, urging the horse forward. She held on, her fingers digging into the heavy iron mesh covering his shoulders, sobs shaking her.

There was more shouting, and the sound of run-ning feet. Jane ducked her head lower, trying to hide, to curl up into a tiny ball. But she was caught in the man's iron grip. There were more hands, and voices.

She was pried away from the man and lowered to the ground. So many hands touching her!

"How badly is she hurt?"

"I don't know! She's hysterical. Someone get her inside!"

"Did the bastard
...?"

"Hedidn't have the time. Care for her. What about the others?"

"Where were you and your men? This wouldn't have happened if you—"

"We were stopped on the road by a messenger from the king. I'm sorry. My men are still chasing the bastards. I've got to go."

There was a loud clattering of hooves. Many voices surrounded her, some warm and soothing. Jane latched on to the comforting sounds. She was

wrapped in some rough cloth, helped to walk. There were stairs, then a bed. Wonderfully cool, wet cloths washed her. A cup was held to her lips; its warm con-tents smelled of chamomile.

jane opened her eyes, recognized Switha bending toward her, holding the cup to her lips. Beyond Switha was Sibelle. Marguerite stood gravely in the doorway, the alcove curtain held back with one hand.

"Berthild?" Jane asked.

Switha just shook her head. A look passed between her and Sibelle. "Drink," the wisewoman urged.

Jane opened her mouth and gulped the liquid down. She dropped her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes once more.

When she woke it was night, but a lamp had been left burning, placed on a small upturned wine cask.

The familiar weighty warmth of the dogs surrounded her feet. The panic was gone. She knew she could think if she wanted to. But she didn't want to think. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want anyone near her, either. She knew she never wanted to stir from what little safety this place offered. She hurt.

She was bruised all over, outside and in. The whole world was tainted with fear.

She didn't want to remember. She couldn't help but remember.

In her memory it all happened slowly. Especially the laughter, and the screams both distant and her own.

She fell asleep again to the memory of screams.

She woke next at the sound of footsteps moving closer. She heard the chink of mail. Terror was like bile in her mouth as her hand flew under her pillow. The curtain was shoved aside. She kept her eyes on Daffyd ap Bleddyn as he walked softly into the room. His face wore the mask of a smile. She stiffened with fear, waiting without moving as he bent over her.

Before he knew what was happening she had a handful of his soft, golden hair twisted in her fist. She pressed the sharp tip of her dagger into the unprotect-ed flesh at the base of his exposed throat.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed.

The man lifted his hands out at his side. He spoke quietly, his deep chocolate-and-cream voice infinitely reasonable. "I won't touch you."

He moved his head slowly, pulling against the pressure on his hair. He managed to bend his head far enough so they were gazing eye to eye. He ignored the dagger point even though a tiny line of blood