Faerie (15 page)

“Yet you went to so much trouble to force me into this marriage.”

“You flatter yourself immensely.”

From the corner of her eye she saw the sides of his mouth lift. She licked her dry lips and rode on, pretending she had not seen his smirk.

The forest grew dense and dark, and the hills steeper. The road they’d found was rutted and so narrow they almost could not ride side by side.

“Are we lost?” she asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Nay, but we might be farther west than I thought.”

“You don’t know this road?”

“I haven’t been on it, but it has to be the road from Carlisle.”

“You don’t know.”

“Of course not. But there aren’t all that many roads from Carlisle. One, in fact.”

“We’re lost,” she said.

“We are not lost, sweet bride,” he snarled. “We only need to travel south and east to eventually reach our destination, and that is easy enough to determine by the sun.”

“We’re lost,” she repeated.

“You do deliberately vex me.”

“’Tis hardly a road,” she said.

“Aye, more like a rut.”

“Then how can it possibly be the road to Carlisle, which surely should be an important road?”

“If you knew anything about roads, lady, I would listen to you. But it is clear you are not a traveler. I doubt if you have ever journeyed beyond the bounds of your uncle’s demesne. So I’ll ignore your snarling.”

“I was born at Bosewood.”

“You left as a babe. That does not count. This may be little more than a path, but it is well used by traders and tinkers. We have passed two travelers’ shelters this morning, and they would not be there if the road were not important.”

Leonie tossed her head, throwing her long, unbound curls back over her shoulder, thinking that she must make it a new habit, considering how he glowered when she did. From then, they rode in silence along the shadowed, tunnellike road between the towering trees. Eventually, the trees became hills of heath, and Leonie could see a crossroads ahead.

“I suppose you think that is the road to Bosewood?” she asked.

“Likely.”

Philippe spurred his mount, and her brown palfrey quickened its pace to race Tonerre to the crossroad. It was rutted and narrow, near a small meadow where they could stop to graze their horses. That, too, was disappointing, for it was so rocky, the grass was almost too sparse.

Philippe dismounted and crouched to study the disturbed track in the road.

He ran his hand above the churned-up dirt. “If this is their track, the dowry train has already been here.”

“How can you tell?”

“Oxen, pulling carts. Two riding horses, likely guards. Others afoot. The tracks are fresh.”

“Then we should catch them.”

He shook his head. “Dusk comes soon. We can’t risk being caught away from shelter. Wolves have a fondness for horseflesh.”

“We should press on to the outpost.”

“Too dangerous. Think of the horses, if not yourself.”

“I do not wish to spend a night alone with you.”

“So you have said.” His jaw set hard. “We’ll stop at the next shelter.”

A shudder rippled up her spine.

“Don’t fear me, lady. I swear to you I will not harm you.”

“’Tis nothing to you, I vow,” she said. “If I’d had no bruises, no doubt you would have persuaded everyone I imagined everything.”

“You think I feel nothing? I still see the bruises on your throat and face. I saw the knot on your head. The blood ran down your hair and caked onto your face. It was a sight I’ll never forget. I know how much your head must hurt still, no matter how you hide it.”

Her chin jutted a little bit more. Now he thought his sympathy would soften her.

“No matter what you think, I did you no harm.”

“I know what I remember.”

“But is what you remember the truth? Could you have awakened briefly and seen me, and the two memories merged as one? Couldn’t you try to remember?”

Her frown deepened. Nay, it could not be. She knew—yet she forced her thoughts back to that horror, searching—

Blinding light flashed. Pain splintered through her head. She cried out, clasping her temples as if her head might burst and spill out like blood—

“I have you.” A murky voice coming from nowhere, wrapping around her.

She couldn’t see. Everything blurred. She swirled, caught in a maelstrom, whirling and whirling as the hammer pounded her head. Sick, she was going to be sick—

“I have you, Leonie. You won’t fall. You’re safe.”

She could hear his voice, far away as she floundered in the dark world that spun her and pummeled her—

The pain—she gasped—her throat filled with choking nausea.

The spinning slowed as the pounding eased. She gasped for her breath. She was on the brown palfrey, and Philippe held her in the saddle, his own horse pressing against the brown as he clenched her against his chest.

Her fingers probed the iron mail beneath his tabard. Taut, hard-muscled arms wrapped around her, supporting her. She could not fall. She had not realized she was falling, but now she was safe.

“That’s good,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. “Take deep breaths. It’s passing.”

What was passing? What had happened? She blinked and forced her eyes open, surprised to realize they had been closed. Or had they just not been able to see? The ferocious pain still swirled in purple bands inside her head, but slower, slower, fading.

She clutched his arms and forced her sharp, shallow breaths to slow, breathing deep. She rested her cheek against the mail, absorbing its iron bite as something precious. The brown palfrey danced a jittery step beneath her.

“You need to rest. We’ll stop for a while,” Philippe said. Odd, how soothing the throaty, rumbling words were.

The last of the attack, whatever it was, was fading away now. She pushed against his arms and straightened up in her saddle. “Nay,” she said, taking in one more slow, deep breath. “Let us keep going. It cannot be much farther.”

“It’s too far,” he replied. “It’s almost dark.”

“But soon after, surely.”

He shook his head. “There’ll be a stream in the next valley,” he said. “Probably a traveler’s shelter too.”

“If not?”

“Then we’ll go till we find one, but no farther. They aren’t far apart. Travelers build these small stockades to keep their stock safe when they must stop for the night. It is a custom to leave them for other travelers, and each one who stops tries to leave the stockade better than he found it.”

Leonie nodded, but even that slight motion hurt her head. And every time she glanced at him, she saw him watching her as if he thought she might faint again.

She would not. She would not let it happen again, ever.

Over the hill and down into the next valley they rode. As if at his command, the beck and little stockade appeared.

The ragged camp was set into the earth not far from the beck in a clearing, much like a stockade wall surrounding a wooden castle. Instead of huge logs set upright in the earth to protect the mound behind, the staves were tall, straight saplings, crudely bound together. It was well sited, with a good grazing meadow and a clear beck, but close enough to a stand of trees for firewood. The gate stood ajar, giving it an abandoned look, but it was stout enough. Some of the poles were so short Philippe could look over their tops, and a few well-aimed blows from an axe would bring it down, but he doubted any wolf could jump those spiked tips without impaling itself.

“Wait,” he ordered, and he quickly dismounted and rushed to the palfrey’s side to help her down. But when he tried to carry her, she brushed him off.

“My foot has rested all day,” she announced. “It’s time I try it again.”

Oddly, it didn’t hurt all that much as she hobbled down to the beck. She splashed her face with the mercifully cooling, soothing water and filled the waterskins while the horses drank. Philippe took the horses from the water and led them to graze until sundown, and Leonie hobbled back to the little stockade.

She had no choice but to comply with him. She hated it, but she was in no shape to escape now.

He told her to sit. She ignored him and went off to gather an armful of kindling and firewood. Like it or not, she was beginning to look forward to sitting by a hot fire and eating food that had been cooked. And she’d comb and braid her hair, not caring a whit if he liked it or not.

With her arms full of good, dry wood, she turned back toward the camp. She heard a hiss and stopped cold.

Something reared up before her, like a huge rope rising into the air.

Snake!

She screamed.

She stepped back. It dropped to the ground and slithered toward her. She retreated again, afraid to take her eyes off it. She’d never seen any snake like it, huge, long, and black. Enormous fangs showed when it opened its ashen white mouth and struck at her. She dodged, barely in time to escape the snake’s lunge. Hissing, it fixed its slanted red eyes on her and swayed a strange dance.

She snatched a broken branch from the pile in her arms and threw it. The snake dodged sinuously, its lower coils moving forward as it swung its long body side to side, each move advancing on her. She threw more kindling and more, but the creature evaded each. All she was doing was slowing it down.

The last log gone, she grabbed a long branch for a club, but the branch snagged on the brush. She yanked it free, swinging it like a sword.

Behind the beast, Philippe called for her, and the brush and ground thrashed as he ran.

He wouldn’t see it in time! Wild terror flooding into her, Leonie leaped toward the snake, shouting and flailing her weapon in furious strokes.

The snake dropped to the ground and slithered away beneath the brush. Leonie gawked at the great length that seemed to go and keep on going into the brush. Philippe leaped into the clearing just as the last of the malignant black creature disappeared.

“What?” he shouted. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“A snake. A big one.” Leonie gasped for breath, her pulse still racing.

He stared at the firewood pitched around the glade. “You’ve scared it off. Adders are usually shy of men.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t an adder. It was much too big. And black.”

“There are some black adders.”

“Not like this. Its head was wrong. It was round, sort of spoon-shaped, and it had huge fangs. And it was about as long as you are tall.”

He looked at her like her brain was addled and shook his head. “There are no snakes like that in England. Only adders. It is getting very dark. You must have seen a vine or a fallen branch.”

She couldn’t blame him. It was impossible to believe. He was right, there couldn’t be such a creature. Was it her imagination once more spinning out of control?

“Aye,” she replied. “A branch. No doubt.”

“Come back to the stockade now. The light’s almost gone. I’ve brought the horses in and pulled some forage for them. We need to shut the gate.”

She mumbled some sounds even she didn’t understand and picked up the firewood she had thrown at the snake.

“Don’t mind the firewood,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

She shook her head and continued her gathering.

“I want you to go back to the stockade and lie down,” he said. “Prop your foot up on my saddle. It’s supposed to be good to keep an injured foot elevated.”

“Only a few more minutes. And the more wood we have, the better our fire.”

“And if your leg putrefies and falls off, Rufus will surely blame me and cut off my leg to match. You might want to spite me, but surely not enough to lose your leg.”

“I might,” she grumbled.

Philippe shrugged and helped pick up the remaining chunks of wood. Leonie hobbled back to the stockade with her arms full and let the pile in her arms roll off onto the stack Philippe had already begun. Once safely inside the stockade, she gave in and lay down on her cloak, her aching foot propped up on his saddle, while he whittled two sharp sticks and threaded long strips of the boar haunch back and forth. Her heart just kept pounding every time she thought of the evil gleam in the snake’s eyes. Did snakes have red eyes?

“Do you know how to cook?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Can you roast the pork over the fire?”

She nodded.

“Then do your best to keep your foot propped up while you cook it. I’ll see to the horses and our packs.”

The last of the bread had dried, and Leonie cut it into two long halves to serve as trenchers while the meat was roasting in the flames. She turned the skewers several times, grimly laughing to herself at the impossibility of meeting Philippe’s demands. Her foot didn’t really hurt much. The leftover ache in her head was worse. She promised herself, as soon as she had time when he was not looking, she would make another attempt to heal the cut on her ankle.

She sighed. That was the worst of the entire situation. If her Faerie skills had not so suddenly deserted her, she might have been long gone through the night while he had slept. But if she regained them now and he saw her using them, he’d leap to the conclusion she was a witch.

Or was she going mad after all? He was right, there could be no such snake in all of England. She shuddered.

She watched him tending the horses, quietly currying, humming softly to them. He had not yet taken any time for his own needs, seeing to the animals. And to her.

So beautiful to have so much hidden malice. A body and face that put all other men to shame. What a waste it was! Why did no one else see the evil in him? Yet she knew why they did not, for just looking at him it was so hard even for her to believe. Even his face, that of a peacemaker, belied it.

She winced, remembering the dream she’d had the night he’d visited Brodin. She had not understood it for what it really was: feelings, wishes, desires for what could never be, because he was not the man he appeared to be.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Nothing.”

“Does your head hurt? Your leg?”

“Nay.”

“Lie down. I will tend the meat.”

“Nay.” Frowning, she turned the handmade spits, noting the wild pork seemed done, for the drippings sizzled into the fire, tantalizing her nostrils with delicious smells.