Shana Abe Read online

  “What’s this?” said Henry’s man. “You said you were fit.”

  “My shoulder is fit, good sir. My—” She did manage a blush now, amen, and stumbled over her words as if in shyness. “My side is not fit, good sir. You may ask this man if it is not so.” She pointed to the wizard. “He is the one who has been healing me.”

  “Serf,” barked Henry’s man. “Come forward.”

  Balthazar walked up, bowing again, and Avalon marveled at his composure.

  “Is it true that the lady is injured, serf?”

  “It is so, great lord. She fell from a vigorous steed and has cracked her bones apart. If she were to ride, it would be a great misfortune.”

  “Indeed,” sneered the man. “And how would you know a cracked bone from a hole in the sky, serf?”

  Balthazar showed no anger, keeping his placid tone. “I have traveled with my lord from a distant land, great sir. I have studied with healers in Alexandria and Syene. I have studied with them in Jerusalem.”

  “Pagan spells, no doubt,” muttered the elder churchman.

  “I have been before the Great Church in the holiest of lands, your grace. I have carried my cross to Bethlehem itself on my pilgrimage.”

  “But you are marked by heathen signs,” said Henry’s man. “You have the mark of the devil scrawled across your face!”

  “It is the way of my people, sir, to stain our skin such. And this was before my conversion to Christ. I joined the Monastery of Saint Simeon.”

  “A Coptic?” The elder and the younger churchmen looked to each other, then back to the wizard.

  “So you are a Christian monk?” asked the elder.

  “I bear the mark of a Christian.” Balthazar unhurriedly opened the robes that met at his throat.

  A tattooed crucifix spanned the width of his chest, ornate and unmistakable.

  “Another mark, but of our Lord,” said the younger churchman, almost admiring.

  “Coptic ways are inclined to mysticism,” said the elder, doubtful.

  The younger cut in. “But they are of Christ. A monk would not deceive us, no matter his order.”

  “We are in a quandary, still,” fretted the elder. “We cannot leave the lady here, yet it appears we cannot take her. And we cannot stay. It is an unfortunate situation!”

  “If I may be of service, your grace.” The wizard folded his robes again, hiding the cross. “I offer to watch your lady for you. I will be her protector.”

  Clearly the men were taken aback by this suggestion, though Avalon could see they did not find the idea that unpalatable. They leaned in to each other, exchanged whispers.

  Avalon looked at Bal from across the room. Once more he gave her a smile that almost wasn’t there, then erased it, looking courteously to the men.

  “I don’t see why not.” Malcolm’s man stood, stepped back from the table. “It is a proper solution. He is a man of God, of the church. He cannot break his word.”

  The others stood as well. “He will favor the Kincardine,” said Henry’s man, not entirely satisfied.

  “Indeed he cannot,” said the younger churchman. “He is a neutral party, as is the church. Is it not so …”

  “Balthazar, your grace,” said the wizard.

  “There you have it. A fine Christian name for you. We cannot do better than this.”

  The elder churchman approached her. “My lady, I am distressed at this news of your injury. But you say you have not been mistreated, and we cannot tarry here. We were instructed not to spend the night at Sauveur, and are to return immediately.”

  “I understand,” Avalon said.

  “I pray you will be guided by your servant, who has vowed to protect you as we would. When we have news for you we will come again.”

  “I trust the matter will be resolved quickly,” she murmured.

  “As do I. Before we go, have you any message for your cousins?”

  “Only that I pray for their good health, my lord,” she replied evenly.

  “Very well.”

  Avalon curtsied, then added, “And would you also kindly send word to Lady Maribel of Gatting that I am well, and wish her good peace?”

  “As you say, Lady Avalon.”

  She curtsied again to all of them, then began to leave. Balthazar came behind her, a rustle of cloth. Just as she put her hand on the door handle she turned back to the others, as if she had only now remembered something else.

  “Oh, kind sirs, forgive me. I have but one more request.”

  They looked at her, waiting.

  “Pray send word to my cousin Bryce that I would require my clothing sent to Sauveur until I leave here again. I have but this one gown, and it is a great difficulty for me. There are just a few trunks at Trayleigh. The handmaid I had there will know the ones I mean. If he would send them up, I would be fair grateful.”

  The men bowed to her, but she was afraid it wasn’t enough. Avalon made an effort to block out the thoughts of Malcolm’s man as she spoke again.

  “Tell my cousin I wish to wear aught but this tartan, my lords. I am sure he will understand me.”

  She left before the affront of the king of Scotland’s emissary grew too big for her to ignore.

  Balthazar closed the door neatly behind them.

  Avalon went back to her room because she knew of no other place to go, and besides, she needed some time to think about what she had just done. Balthazar trailed her, a mute witness to the fact that she had abandoned her previous life’s plans on an impulse that she would now never outlive.

  The little room had not changed since she left. The bowl of stew still sat on the table. The narrow window still showed her fat clouds not yet rid of their rain.

  The wizard opened the door for her, allowed her to pass through, and then waited, as if he expected more.

  Avalon looked at him over her shoulder. “Have you another sash, I wonder?” she asked.

  From some hidden pocket he produced it, this one a luminous pink with silver threading.

  She smiled in spite of herself, stood still as he fastened it around her and helped her ease her arm into it.

  “A brave show,” the wizard commented.

  “Mine was not the show,” Avalon replied. “What happened to your lord?”

  “Why, lady, what do you mean?”

  Avalon tried out the strength of her new sling, adjusted it until she was satisfied with the position. She looked up at the wizard, considering, and then decided to test her instincts.

  “There is demon in Marcus Kincardine,” she said.

  The wizard raised one eyebrow, then went to the door and shut it, blocking off their words from the guard nearby.

  “You must know of this. You are a holy man. You have traveled with him.”

  “An unholy demon, does the lady mean?” Balthazar’s light words seemed loaded with double meaning.

  Into her mind came the image of her chimera, a creature of vapor, her enemy and her ally. But she knew it was not evil, and neither was the snake in Marcus.

  “Not unholy,” she said. “But something is there. I saw it myself as I stood beside him in front of those men.”

  “What did you see?” asked the wizard.

  “A snake,” she said at last. “It had him trapped.”

  Balthazar folded his hands together in front of him. “My lady has great insight.”

  “What is this thing, then? It had him so that I feared for his life. He would have done I know not what. He was … not himself.”

  “In each of us there is such a thing. In each of us lives the penchant for doing good, and doing ungood. In some, however, the ungood has turned inside out. It tortures only the spirit within.”

  “Why would that be?” Avalon whispered.

  “The result of an unusual event. A sustained battering of the soul. This is my guess.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “It is not my story to tell, lady.”

  The wizard bowed to her, reopened the door.
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  “Would you inform your lord that I wish to speak with him?” Avalon asked before he could vanish.

  “I will, lady.”

  She was alone again. The stew had grown cold and thick but she ate it anyway out of habit, one small spoonful at a time, watching the clouds outside as they gathered closer together and their darkness spread down to their bellies. Faraway thunder shook the heavens.

  She felt him enter the room, but he gave no other indication that he was there. The door was silent on its hinges, and Marcus Kincardine said nothing once he was in the chamber.

  Avalon wondered if it would always be like this, with her feeling him before anything else, before the rain or the thunder or the voices of all the other minds around her. She shook her head at the clouds, banishing the thought.

  “My lord, I would not be a prisoner in this room,” she said, without turning around.

  He offered no response. Avalon counted to twenty, then faced him.

  He leaned back against the small table as he had before, when he had told her she was being stubborn. His hands were behind his back. His hair was untied and flowing, smooth waves of purest black down to his shoulders, more pure than even the black of the tartan it touched. His head was tilted slightly, frost-blue eyes alight, curious, studying her. She saw no hint of the snake.

  “I must not be confined. I cannot bear it,” she said, hearing her own words but almost not believing she was handing him such a weapon.

  “I see.” He remained where he was, a figure of rain shadows and storm light.

  Avalon made an effort not to sound pleading. “I have informed the emissaries that I will be remaining here at Sauveur for the time being.”

  That got her only a sardonic twist of his lips. She continued, ignoring the feeling that she was being subtly mocked.

  “And since that is the case, I do not see the need to keep me imprisoned. I freely offer to stay, at least for the moment.”

  The wind outside gave her a sudden push from behind, blowing her hair around her shoulders, up into her face. She shook her head, pinning it back again with her good hand.

  “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life,” Marcus said, watching the wind.

  “Oh! Well.” For no reason at all she grew flustered at this, and resisted it by looking away from him, at the bare wall beside him, the layered stone.

  “That’s twice now,” he added, moving his gaze from the invisible currents in the room back to her.

  “Twice? I don’t think so,” she said, confused.

  “Oh, most certainly twice.” Now he came forward, and again he was the wolf, the snake, the untamed thing she had glimpsed before, only slightly subdued. How had she not recognized it until this moment? The demon was still very much alive in him, contained now by a steely will. It must have been the storm, she thought, not afraid but amazed. The storm threw her off, the thunder scrambled her thoughts.

  Marcus stopped only a few feet away from her, scanning her face, keeping that sardonic look.

  “First from the stallion,” he said, barely audible. “Now from the men in my solar, sitting at my table, claiming they would take away my wife.”

  “I’m not—”

  “For do not doubt, Avalon, that I would never have allowed it to happen. They may preach as many edicts as they want, but you belong to me, and you are staying with me and our people. And they would have to kill me to take you away.”

  The storm broke behind them, around them, filling the room with the boom of rainfall, suddenly loud and fierce.

  “But I am staying,” she said above the storm, monitoring his eyes.

  “Aye, you are,” he agreed.

  He took her hand without warning, held it in his own and stared down at it, and Avalon followed his gaze. Her skin was ghostly in the rain light, his was darkened and calloused, his palm so much bigger than hers, his fingers lean and strong. He held her delicately, using almost none of the power she knew he possessed, and yet still there came the keen awareness of him, the searing sensation only he could produce in her. It enveloped her hand, moved up her wrist, her arm, spread with burning warmth throughout her whole being.

  Marcus brought their joined hands up to his lips and kissed her fingers, watching her as he did it. Avalon tried to disguise what was happening to her but she knew he knew. He had already told her he did, earlier today.

  He threw her a sensual smile.

  “I’m pleased you have chosen to stay, Avalon. It makes everything so much easier.”

  When she blinked he was gone, already at the door, departing to someplace where she would not see him again for who knew how long, and this made her almost chase after him, stopping the door from closing completely.

  “My lord!” she called, her hand on the latch.

  Marcus reappeared from the corridor beyond, surveyed her.

  “I would not be a prisoner in this room” she said again, chagrined.

  “When the emissaries leave you will be free to roam the castle as you wish. Until then, my lady, grant me the favor of staying where you are. It gives me such peace of mind, you understand.”

  She released the latch.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Lady Avalon. You said you had offered to stay ‘for the time being.’ When you decide to change your mind and try to leave, I hope you will do me the courtesy of informing me first. It will save a great deal of manpower not to have to go hunting after you.”

  The guard began to shut the door. Avalon watched as Marcus grew thin in the wedge of her view and then was replaced with solid wood. The snake was alive in him, yes. And it had been smiling at her.

  Less than one hour later Avalon spied the three groups of men riding off into the woods, their standards now soaked with water but still raised high.

  When she went back to the door of her chamber, she found it unlocked.

  Chapter Eight

  The storm turned his solar into a mystery of soft darkness: cool air, pewter shadows, the fresh smell of rain.

  Marcus left all the lamps and torches unlit. He liked it this way, he preferred the natural light of the storm to illuminate his surroundings, to remind him that there truly was more to this vast world than sand and sun and parching thirst. It was the opposite of the Holy Land. It was as heaven was to hell. If it rained every day from here to eternity, Marcus would not be sorry for it.

  And for this feeling—the gratitude of rain—Marcus could thank his knight, Trygve.

  Sir Trygve had been educated in a series of monasteries, growing more fervently devout as his youth slipped away to middle age. By the time Marcus arrived from Scotland to be his squire, the knight had required prayers of his entire staff no less than four times a day, and Marcus was to spend many an hour kneeling at the cold stone altar of the family chapel in the tiny English shire that made up Trygve’s home.

  The knight’s lifetime ambition had been to make a pilgrimage to the most holy of cities, Jerusalem. But the news that the infidels grew stronger and stronger in the Holy Land, that they were invading and plundering Christian shrines everywhere, galvanized the knight. The church sent out a war cry: It needed good Christian men to defend it. Trygve had found his cause.

  Marcus had been only fifteen when they set out. They had collected their indulgences from the pope, they were guaranteed a place in heaven for their good deeds, Trygve told him. And this, the knight had continued, looking down at his squire with joyful eyes, this was what set men apart from animals. This was a sanctified war, a glorious cause, and how blessed they were to be a small part of it.

  Marcus had believed him. He had no reason not to. For all his pious words, Trygve had been a wonderful change from Hanoch. For the first time in his life, Marcus had found praise from a man of the world instead of the constant condemnation of his boyhood.

  In every way, he had attempted to match the zeal of his benefactor. He had embraced the church, he had embraced the cry of “Deus vult!”—because Marcus had thought God had willed it, and he was bu
t His vassal to be commanded.

  For all his brave words, Trygve had proven to be past his prime in battle. It was Marcus who shone best there. It was Marcus, growing older than his years under the burning disk of the desert sun, who fought better than most men twice his size, and who gained his reputation as Slayer of the Unholy.

  Trygve seemed to overcome his mounting awe and envy of his pupil. He had seemed truly pleased with Marcus’s progress, which indeed reflected directly upon him. He had bathed in that glory to the extent that the knight declined to return home even after the official Crusade had ended and all the Germans and the French filtered away, leaving just a handful of the dedicated to fight the battle.

  Sir Trygve and his squire lost not only their battalion but their servants, who had one by one crept away into the starry nights, never to return. They took the horses and the camels with them.

  “A true Christian will never abandon the cause,” Trygve had rallied. “We will carry on, squire. We serve only God.”

  His devotion had been real, no doubt of that, Marcus reflected. His pride in Marcus had seemed equally real. The only sign of Trygve’s growing discontent was the ever-increasing bouts of prayer, punctuated with louder and louder supplications, screaming fits to God, and, five times in that last year—Marcus had been there for all of them—falling into deliriums on the ground, writhing and spitting in a religious frenzy.

  The last one had taken place just outside of Damascus. Lost Damascus, held quite firmly by the Muslims. Trygve had come out of his fit and announced that God had spoken to him through one of his glorious angels, descended from heaven to instruct Trygve on what he must do. God had indicated that Trygve had a holy mission, one no other could fulfill.

  Sir Trygve made it his quest to free all of Damascus. Just one crumbling knight and his horrified squire.

  A growling rumble of thunder shook the wood of his table, bringing Marcus back to his solar and the blessed rain.

  Into the hilt of the Spanish sword he carried, some long-ago fervent knight had pressed a minuscule chip of amber said to be from the shroud of Saint Cuthbert. It was firmly entrenched in the metal. Long had Marcus sat and looked at the dot of glowing gold and wondered how best to remove it.