Wings of the Storm (6 page)

Jane tugged at the veil of her wimple. The gesture was becoming the substitute for her old habit of play-ing with her hair when she was puzzled. As far as she was concerned, the place was crawling with servants. What sort of project did Bertram have in mind? Rebuilding the hall completely by the time Stephan and his lady arrived?

"Oh?" she asked, hoping her tone conveyed dignity along with healthy skepticism. Bertram was very con-cerned for her dignity and sense of status. He was very much in favor of her having both. She tried to live up to his standards.

"You have no women of your own to attend you."

"They died on the journey," she recounted hastily.

"Of course, my lady. But you really should not go unattended," he persisted. "It is not—"

"Proper," she finished for him. She felt a great deal of fondness for Bertram. She wondered what he would have been if he had lived in her time. The CEO of a major corporation, perhaps.

She tucked her hands in the voluminous sleeves of her gown and gave a judicious nod. "Quite right, good Bertram." She looked at him speculatively out of the eye not swollen shut. "You know where I might find a decent woman or two to serve me?"

He gave a decisive nod. "There are three young vil-lage widows you might choose from. They lost their men in the winter's fever. Cerdic can bring them for your inspection."

Mention of the village and its reeve reminded Jane that she hadn't yet inspected the houses or tithe barn, or any of the demesne beyond the fortress's wooden outer walls. She said, "Yes. I must talk to Cerdic."

She picked up her cloak from where she'd left it on the top step. "Where would the reeve be this time of day?"

Bertram wasn't sure, but he gave her directions to the reeve's house. "Shall I come with you. Lady Jehane?"

"No need." She patted the old man's arm. "I need you here to manage while I'm gone." He lifted his head at her words, his bent shoulders straightening a bit.

She walked off, happy her slight praise brought him some pleasure. She walked slowly toward the gate, her sore hip reminding her it wasn't happy at all with this walking nonsense. She told it exercise was the best thing for the stiffness. At the gate one of the stable lads hurried past her, no doubt sent by Bertram to warn the reeve of her impending visit. She sup-posed his forethought saved her the additional exer-cise of searching out Cerdic. She didn't try to hurry her steps but carefully made her way down the rutted track leading to the group of low, thatched huts clus-tered at the foot of the hill. It had rained last

night, and her hem had an extra border of mud by the time she reached Passfair village.

She found the house without trouble; it was the largest daub-and-wattle hut in the village, after all.

Cerdic was there, hurriedly back from whatever task he'd been overseeing. He greeted her with a respect-ful bob of his head. He'd taken off his hat, revealing a wealth of gray-tinged red-gold curls.

The Saxon reeve knew every inch of Stephan's two villages, fields and orchards and pastures and mill and barns and houses. Jane walked him over the well-trodden ground, asking questions as they went.

The sunny day brought a hint of warmth in the air; several of the small fields were greening with early wheat and barley crops. She found out it was late February and that the river running beneath the mill wheel was theStour. He told her eighteen people had died during the winter fever and that there were twenty-one fami-lies in Hwit, which was on the river, and eleven fami-lies in Passfair.

They walked to the edge of the wood where Jane first arrived. Now that she saw it on foot rather than on horseback, the place seemed somehow more formidable, dark and mysterious. Bare branches seemed to reach out for her, or beckon

her onward to explore ancient secrets.

All right, all right, she told herself. There was nothing dark and wild about the place. It was where they pastured the pigs and gathered firewood and—

"There are outlaws in the woods," Cerdic told her, breaking in on her mental catalog.

Jane jumped. "What?" she squeaked nervously. She remembered now that Stephan had warned her.

"A band of outlaws."

"Not like Robin Hood, I bet." The words slipped out before she could catch them.

The reeve blinked his china blue eyes at her in momentary confusion. "Robin Hood's band was in the north. InLincolnshire, I'm told. Or Sherwood. This forest is the Blean. Sikes's band of brigands is smaller but not so kindly. Though the Robin Hood band was in my father's time. There's nothing left of them but the tales. Sikes's leaves bodies and burned houses right now." He scratched his beard thought-fully while Jane tried to keep her head from spinning right out of its wimple.

She almost had to bite down on her tongue to keep from demanding every word of Cerdic's father's tales. She was
not
a historian, she told herself firmly. She was chatelaine of Passfair. She was not going to take notes or write monographs. Robin Hood was not real. And even if he was, who was she going to impress with her well-researched, documented knowledge?

As she stood on the edge of the wood trying to for-get Dr. Jane Florian's passion for the past, a slight fig-ure stepped from behind an oak's wide trunk, onto the narrow track leading out of the wood. It was an elfin-featured woman with gray-streaked black braids. She was wearing a brown dress and a faded green shawl. She carried a reed basket on one arm.

Cerdic raised a hand in greeting. His affable face lit with pleasure. "My wife, Switha," he explained. "She can help you choose a woman to serve you at the hall."

Switha arrived beside them and looked up at Jane with sooty-lidded blue eyes. Jane remembered being told Cerdic's wife was the village midwife and wise-woman.

"I've heard you have a woman's illness," she said. Like Cerdic, she spoke to Jane in Norman French, but her accent was not as thick. "And about the fall," she went on, reaching up to touch the swollen and discol-ored skin around Jane's eye. "I've herbs for both problems, my lady. You'll be well soon," she said reassuringly.

"May I return to the fields, my lady?" Cerdic requested, backing a pace from the two women on the edge of the woods.

Jane's gaze was caught by Switha's. The woman was studying her critically, her head cocked to one side. It was almost as if Switha's intent scrutiny was more for the ills inside her head than for the injuries to her body. Jane barely had enough attention left over to nod dismissal at the reeve. She was too caught up in Switha's stare.

She didn't know how long she and the little woman stood staring eye to eye, but when she man-aged to blink her good eye and look around, it seemed as if the sun had moved nearer to the horizon.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"The wrong time for you, I think," Switha answered equally softly. The woman shook her head sadly, her braids swinging gently on her breasts.

A natural empath, the reasonable part of Jane's mind supplied as she gave her head a hard shake her-self. Back home Switha'd be wearing crystals and reading tarot cards and conducting seminars.

Village wisewomen were supposed to be wise women. It was in the job description. Jane laughed nervously. The sound seemed too loud, spreading out to fill the silent landscape on the edge of the wood.

"You said something about herbs?" she ques-tioned, her voice still too loud in her own ears. "Actu-ally,"

she went on, "apparently what I really need is an attendant. I was told you—"

"I'll send Berthild to you," Switha interjected. She fiddled with a clump of moss in her basket, breaking it up into tiny pieces. Its earthy smell tickled the back of Jane's nose.

Switha went on, "Berthild's gentle and biddable." Her far-seeing blue eyes took on a glint of amusement as she admitted, "Also my sister. One of the castle guards taught her some of your language while her husband journeyed toLondontown last year. She'll be happy to serve in the castle now her man's gone."

"I see," Jane said. "Thank you."

She was prepared to take her leave then, but Switha tugged on her sleeve and pointed into the for-est.

"As for your other problem, I think I know the way to the cure for it. Come with me." She marched off the way she'd come, down the faint trail among the ancient trees. She didn't bother to see if Jane would follow.

Intrigued, Jane trailed slowly behind, glad her long walk with Cerdic had helped ease the stiffness from her sore leg. Her skirts and veil immediately began catching on the thick undergrowth. This side of the wood was darker, the trees bunched together more closely, than the area around the old tower. Switha moved with fleet assurance, leaving the trail to pick a path between the trees.

Jane moved with more care. The layers of leaf mold under her feet were springy. The aromas of

impend-ing spring, damp earth, wood rot, and moss filled the air. In sheltered spots she saw the beginnings of ferns and fungi, and maybe violets. The wind was still, but the birds overhead were raucously noisy. The place was dark, but it soon lost its air of mystery for Jane. She began to enjoy the walk despite the trouble with her voluminous layers of clothing.

She had no way of guessing how far they'd strayed from their starting point when the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the earth echoed off to the left.

A horse! Her first thought was of outlaws, her first instinct to climb a tree and hide.

Ahead of her, Switha stopped. She tilted her head to listen for a moment before turning to look at Jane.

She seemed rather pleased with herself.

Jane whispered a nervous "What?"

"Sir Daffyd's been quartering this part of the woods with his men all day. But I doubt he'll find any outlaws here today."

Jane relaxed, glad to know the unseen rider was a soldier, not a criminal. She got the impression the peasant woman wasn't exactly in favor of the man-hunt. She supposed the arrogant Sir Daffyd was unpopular with the locals. He was a king's man after all.

"I think the lad should find what he seeks," Switha said, apparently reading Jane's thoughts. "Then he'll go away and leave us alone." She pointed to where a clearing appeared through a gap in the trees. She set off once more, and Jane followed.

The horseman was waiting on the other side of the small clearing. His gold head was bared to the sun, his sword drawn and resting on the high saddle front. Sir Daffyd glared down his aquiline nose at them from the back of a deep-chested gray warhorse. He sat still as a statue, cape thrown back, muscular body poised in the center of a sunbeam. The sight of Daffyd ap Bleddyn against a backdrop of mistletoe-draped oak and clear blue sky was riveting. He seemed to Jane the living personification of ancient war.

Switha continued toward the knight. Jane hesitat-ed at the edge of the clearing, half tempted to run from this theoretical protector of the people. He looked anything but benign. Stephan armored, with sword in hand, looked a bit like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. Sir Daffyd looked as though he meant business.

But she was also half tempted to move forward. The dangerous figure of the horseman was oddly compelling. )ane found herself waiting, one foot in the wood, one in the clearing, biting her lip while indecision and the half-recalled memory of a dream froze her in place.

Sir Daffyd solved her dilemma by spurring the big gray forward. He stopped briefly to speak to Switha, curt words in the Saxon woman's own lan-guage. From the look of pained concentration on the woman's face, Jane assumed the man spoke Saxon with a particularly garbled accent. The woman eventually bobbed her head in understand-ing, pointing at Jane.

Sir Daffyd moved the horse closer. When she could feel its warm breath on her shoulder, he jumped out of the saddle to stand before her. Loom. He was shorter than Stephan, but not by much. He was a looming sort of guy. His sword dis-appeared into its sheath with a dangerous snick. She noticed his eyes were hazel, highlighted with green. They looked her up and down with chilling contempt.

"What?" he demanded. "Did your husband beat you?"

"What?" Jane asked in her turn.

He pointed to her cheek.

She had almost forgotten her bruised and swollen face. She touched the swollen eye while reminding the knight sternly, "I'm a widow. I fell down some stairs." He didn't look as though he believed her. Not that how she'd injured herself was any business of his. "It was one of those stupid dogs," she started to explain.

"And what are you doing out here alone?" he demanded. He rested his hands on his narrow hips.

She didn't suppose it would do any good to point out to Sir Daffyd that he had a definite attitude prob-lem. She was seething inwardly, but she tried for a conciliatory smile. All the gesture did was pull at the aching muscles of her cheek.

"I'm with Switha," she said reasonably.

He looked around the clearing, then raised a heavy, pale eyebrow at her. "Oh?"

She peered over his shoulder. The Saxon woman

had disappeared from the clearing. So much for find-ing the cure for her problem.

"I sent her home," he explained shortly. "I doubt there's anyone in the region who'd dare to harm the goodwife, so she's safe enough. But you." He pointed an accusing finger at her.

"Me?" she heard herself squeak. She cleared her throat."I'm chatelaine of this holding," she went on defensively. "Who would dare ..."

"Any outlaw who can catch you alone," he cut in. "You've guards at the castle," he pointed out. "Bring some with you when you venture out."

It was good advice, though his contemptuous tone was anything but endearing. She gave him a curt, imperious nod, thinking with annoyance that she wasn't used to living life with a bodyguard in tow. She was not a rock star. Although
he
certainly looked like one with all that gorgeous naturally blond hair and the gold hoop earring in his right ear.

He took her arm and said, "Come along, lady. I haven't got all day." It was a large hand. She could feel its warmth, and a heavy layer of callusing, through her three layers of sleeves. The calluses were from wielding a sword, she supposed.