Faerie (19 page)

Philippe frowned. “Gholin? What’s that?”

“Not sure,” said the earl, and his wild black curls bounced with the vigorous shaking of his head. “They’re like walking skeletons. Haps they’re the bones of men who rest unquietly in their graves. Whatever they are, they’re evil. Ilse hates them. She hunts them down. I’ve not seen them about for a long time. Till now.”

His frown deepening, he looked back at Leonie, whose face had turned ashen again.

“Do they—have eyeballs?” she asked.

It was de Mowbray’s turn to frown. “Aye, they might. You haven’t seen them, have you, lass?”

“In the forest. Brodin woods. It was the day Philippe first came to Brodin, when a little boy cut his foot on something
metal. I went back to find the metal but found that thing with a sword.” She shuddered. “But when I had to pass the place again, there was no sign it had ever been there.”

“Then might that have been what assaulted you in the wood?” Philippe asked.

She glared at him. “I know what I saw there, sir.”

Philippe wouldn’t let Leonie out of his sight as long as they remained within de Mowbray’s walls. He had no doubt he owed his own life to her. Why, when she could easily have set de Mowbray against him with a mere nod? Philippe could possibly have taken the Black Earl in a fight, but not all of his men as well. And how strange that de Mowbray honored her requests when just as easily he could have forced her to his will. There was something. Philippe shook his head. He was imagining things. Everyone knew the Black Earl of Northumbria had the blackest of hearts.

After a crude meal of tough meats and havercakes, they set out again, accompanied by de Mowbray and his men. The road to Bosewood was broader, less rutted, and less full of possibilities for havoc, but until they set eyes on the castle’s curtain wall Philippe did not mean to relax his guard.

I
N THE BEGINNING
of the next leg of their journey, Leonie appreciated the protection the two men gave her, but the excessive vigilance soon began to wear thin. She felt like a prisoner with the two enormous men riding on either side of her, so close their leggings often brushed her skirt. They bickered about everything, from who should ride on which side of her to whether she should ride at all. Philippe thought the earl should send to Bosewood for a litter and his own troops to escort them. De Mowbray insisted Philippe was a bloody fool if he expected Bosewood to have such a civilized conveyance.

Every moment she spent with Philippe brought new questions, puzzles to her mind. He had held her so tenderly, cradling her like a mother with her sick child. Sometimes his tongue had been sharp, but he had only protected her. Was it simply because Rufus had commanded it? Something was wrong with that.

Yet the memory was so clear—

She stopped the thought before it could assault her again. It was like a hard wall in her mind that she could not penetrate, and her efforts only battered her mind till it was sore. She must not. Philippe must be right. Something was wrong with her. Very, very wrong.

And if that was so, she could not trust anything her mind told her.

But the men flattered her falsely. She knew she was not beautiful. If men stared when she walked with Claire, it was only to compare her lovely, tiny cousin with the gawky giantess walking beside her. Before, she had never really cared, being secure in the knowledge that her dowry was sufficient that the king would find her a suitable husband.

Then there had been Philippe.

De Mowbray reined in his great brown warhorse, and all the men behind him did the same. He pointed down the road. “There,” he said. “That road turns north toward Bosewood, only a mile more. If you look, you can see its curtain wall where it sits on yonder hill, the River Wear winding at its feet.”

Leonie frowned, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. The hill rose above the trees and was easy to see, but she could not make out the castle.

“I see it,” Philippe said. “Is the wall complete, then?”

De Mowbray gave a disgusted grimace. “They’ve done naught to finish it in several years. There are gaps at the back.”

“A lack of funds? Rufus provided well to have a castle here.”

“A lack of ambition. Theobald paid little attention to his obligations. He was obsessed in searching the woods for some sign of his lost wife.”

“He looked for my mother?” Leonie asked. “I thought he hated her.”

“He did. He hated Herzeloyde even more for escaping him. I don’t doubt what would befall her if he ever found her.”

“So she is alive,” Leonie said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what did happen to her?”

The earl’s black eyes studied her solemnly. “She walked into the woods one day and was never seen again by the likes of man.”

“That is a word puzzle,” she said. “You say she was not seen, but not that she died. A woman would not likely survive long
alone in the woods. But you do not say she stayed in the woods. Or is the puzzle with the word ‘man’?”

“Clever lass.” The black-eyed Black Earl focused on the narrow dirt road, refusing to look her way.

“Without a trace. It makes no sense. Even if she had been devoured by wild animals, something would have been found. So my father thought she was alive, too. And you know, don’t you?”

The muscles in the man’s dark face drew tight. “She’s gone, lass.”

Now she was sure. He was the key. “But you know, don’t you?”

De Mowbray didn’t answer. A strange thing for a man who otherwise talked so freely.

“Do you know where she is?”

“I do.”

“Then can you not take me to her?”

“I know where she is, but not how to find her.”

“Another game with words.”

“Nay. I know the place, but one such as I cannot find it.”

“Then would you if you could?”

“Nay. Let it go, lass. It is not for you to know.”

“She’s my mother.”

He shook his head. “’Tis not for you to know. If it is meant to be, it will come to be.”

“Your outrider comes,” Philippe said.

“Aye,” de Mowbray replied as they watched the dust kicked up on the road ahead. “Arm yourselves.”

Leonie had kept her bow strung, though why she had felt the need among so many armed men she did not know. But she positioned her quiver forward near her waist so the arrows could easily be drawn.

The outrider was easy to distinguish, wearing de Mowbray’s black-and-silver crest of battling wolf and dog. She watched the man race up to the master and turn. The horse whuffed heavily.

“’Tis Fulk,” the rider said. “The bishop rides with him.”

A shiver jolted her, remembering the last time she had seen Fulk. But they were all Normans, were they not? Surely he would be civil.

“Haps he brings news of Malcolm,” replied Philippe.

“Malcolm it was who laid the cornerstone for Durham’s new cathedral, not a month past. Do you think that makes him friend or foe?”

“Not a comforting thought,” Philippe muttered.

“Aye. More like, he wants to know what Rufus is about, to tell to Malcolm. Best mind your words.”

“There’s no other route to the castle?”

“Nay, unless you mean to swim the river twice and scale its walls. ’Tis well sited, the river on three sides and the steep hill ahead of us. Look ahead. They approach now.”

She guessed as she watched the oncoming riders that they outnumbered de Mowbray’s men, but not by much, and if she must stake her life on the ferocity of warriors, her chances were probably better in her present company. But Fulk, facing her and riding in the fore with his great black horse emblazoned with his colors of red on black, was considered a mighty knight. She would not take anything for granted.

On the opposite corner, the Bishop of Durham, wearing a crimson cloak. Strange that he wore a miter when traveling, although this one, William of St. Calais, was well known for his pomp.

“Odd to have the bishop with him,” Philippe said.

“Aye. It means something,” the Black Earl replied in a low growl.

“He’s there to give validity to something.”

“Something they mean to do.”

“Something they want the Church to back. Keep a close watch. I trust neither of them. Leonie, behind me.”

“They will not harm me. I know Fulk. Haps I can talk—”

De Mowbray frowned. “’Tis for men to parley, lass. Stay out of the way.”

She didn’t like it, but they were right. She did know Fulk, and he had not listened to her the last time. He would not be different now.

Fulk’s knights had a sameness to them, with their bright red tabards over their mail and mail coifs. She had seen them at Brodin. All of them wore the backs of their heads shaved in the same old-fashioned way as Fulk wore his.

The horses came to a halt a few lengths apart. The men called out their wary greetings.

“What brings you from Durham, Your Grace?” Philippe called out across the gap.

Glances shot back and forth between the bishop and his warrior.

“Turn over the Lady Leonie to us and your lives will be spared,” said the bishop.

“For what purpose?”

“She is the lawful betrothed of Fulk of Durham, and you have taken her against her will. We have heard of your treatment of her, and we will not tolerate such shame to a lady. But all will be forgiven if you relinquish her to her rightful husband.”

Leonie gasped. Could he have mistaken her so thoroughly? “You have misunderstood me, Lord Fulk,” she said. “I gave you no promise. I told you instead the choice of my husband belonged to the king, my guardian, and I would abide by his choice.”

“Nay, lady, you gave me your promise, if only the king would grant our wish,” said Fulk, giving her an almost beatific smile. “We know you are coerced and cannot speak freely. I shall save you from these beasts who abuse you for their own purposes.”

“You lie, Fulk,” Philippe said. “Before I left the king at Castle Brodin, he told me he had rejected your suit. You already know he will not permit her to marry you.”

Leonie’s jaw dropped open. He had not said this. Fulk had come to Brodin with his suit after Philippe had left. Could Fulk have gone to the king in Gloucester after seeing her, then hurried back to Durham? It was possible. Or had Fulk lied to her, saying he was on his way to see the king, when he had already been there and been rejected? What would he gain by such deception? Rufus would call him traitor. But Fulk had the Bishop of Durham here as witness, and it was well known the Bishop of Durham did as he pleased, almost as if Durham were its own country.

The Earl of Northumbria guided his massive horse ahead of Philippe. “I have heard her pledge her troth to this man, Philippe le Peregrine,” he said. “And that is as good as a marriage in the law. She belongs to the Peregrine.”

“Nay,” retorted the bishop, oddly agitated, his eyes strangely bright and wild, and his hands shaking. “It is not valid, for her promise was already given to Fulk, God’s Warrior. She cannot give it again to another. We will take her for her own safety, or all of you will die, your souls consigned to Satan himself.”

She caught the malice in Fulk’s eye as he focused on Philippe, and she saw the plan. Fulk would first kill Philippe, then there would be no husband to contest him. He had the bishop here to lend sanctity to his scheme. If she didn’t do something quickly, all the men who protected her were at risk. A shiver traversed her spine with the realization that Fulk was the most evil of all the men here, Warrior of God or no.

All of a piece, she raised her bow, the arrow already nocked in the string, with three more in her bow hand waiting. She drew and aimed, straight at Fulk’s throat.

“Turn around!” she demanded. “Go back to Durham. You do not mean to rescue me, you mean to imprison me. I call you liar, Fulk of Durham, for I never gave you my troth. I have no such right, and so I told you clearly. The king and my uncle will both support me.”

“Don’t be absurd, girl,” said the bishop. “Put down that silly weapon before you hurt someone.”

“That is my intention. If you move so much as a hoof forward, I shall shoot.”

“What little can you do with one arrow, lady?” said Fulk. “You cannot kill us all, and we outnumber you. They will all be dead.”

“Ah. A pity. Then I shall have to settle for killing only you. Move back or my arrow will pierce your throat. Haps for good measure, one through your eye.”

“I’d listen to her if I were you, Fulk,” said Philippe. “You know her repute with a bow. One arrow will kill you before any of you can raise your sword. You have to kill all of us to win. We only have to kill you.”

“This is nonsense,” the bishop shouted.

Leonie pulled that last inch of bowstring, her ivorywood bow flexed to its limit. “So be it. I claim Fulk and the three men on his right. They are close enough, their mail will be of no use. Philippe, you may have the bishop’s guards, and the bishop too, if he raises his hand in battle. My gift to you, my Lord Northumbria, and to your men, the remainder.”

“My pleasure, lady,” de Mowbray said with a growl. “We’ll acquit ourselves as well as you.”

All around her, she could hear the jingle and clopping of horses sensing the tension that rose before a battle, as eager to lunge forth as their riders.