Faerie (8 page)

When the sun rose, the knights of the Warrior of God rode out, much as the Peregrine and his knights had done the morning before. All Leonie could think was that she wished she had not been so arrogant with Philippe le Peregrine. Even if he wouldn’t choose to marry her.

As she had every day since Sigge had cut his foot, Leonie went to the modest blacksmith’s quarters within the castle’s lower bailey. And every day, right in front of both Sigge’s parents, she had swiftly traced her thumb over the wound as if merely touching it.

Days before, Harald’s wife had returned Leonie’s veil, carefully soaked and cleaned of the last trace of blood, presenting it to her meekly, as if she had personally caused great harm to the lady’s fine possession, and this day Leonie wore that same veil with pride. Leonie was as fond of Gerdrund and Harald as she was of Sigge.

“I can walk now, Leonie,” Sigge said, his squeaky voice rising as if he pleaded.

His mother turned a beseeching look on Leonie.

“Nay,” Leonie replied. “I said your foot is healing the way it should. I did not say it has healed. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Sigge stuck out his lower lip and slumped into a wretched heap where he sat by the empty hearth. Only dire threats from his father kept him within the house, but that was where he needed to stay a bit longer.

Leonie kept herself busy in the castle, making up a new batch of green dye in various shades to color wool for embroidery. Green had become the castle’s favorite color, not merely because it was Leonie’s preferred color, but also because it was her best dye. She knew full well that if she could just find a way to make her scarlet more brilliant or her blue more like the bright summer sky, those colors would soon become the new favorites. As it was, the only way she could get the bright colors she wanted was to trade her green wool to peddlers.

Several days of rain that heralded the beginning of September also kept her within the castle, embroidering fanciful beasts along the neckline of a new kirtle for Claire. But as busy as she kept herself, the mystery that lay in the forest lingered in her mind.

Lingered. And made a shiver rumble down her spine. Twice she set out when the sun broke through the clouds, but both times she stopped at the forest’s edge and turned away, thinking there was surely something else she needed to do instead.

At last she gave in to Sigge’s pleas, for the wound was completely healed. And she needed a companion in the forest. If she did not return to the forest soon, fear would take over and she would lose her favorite place in all the world.

And soon she would be married. Who knew if her new husband would allow her the pleasure of walking among the trees, or of gathering leaves and moss for dying the wool? If Rufus chose Fulk, she suspected he would forbid even her experiments with dyes as being beneath her dignity.

Ha. She was a Faerie halfling—not a lady. She had no dignity.

Sigge danced about like a young puppy, circling and hopping as they crossed the meadow below the castle. As they came within the boundaries of the trees, he found a long, straight stick and began swinging it about, swishing, swiping, and jabbing into the air. “I’m a brave knight, Leonie!” he shouted, parrying his invisible opponent. “I’m the Peregrine, and I’m fighting the King of Scotland!”

Leonie found a pained smile. Why did it have to be Philippe the boy idolized? But she knew. All the boys wanted to grow up to be the legendary Peregrine.

“I wish I had a real sword,” Sigge said. “One just like the Peregrine’s with that big red stone on the pommel. And the falcon etched on the blade.” He swung his play sword in wide arcs that would have cut through the brush if the sword had been real.

“You’re too young for a sword. You’d probably cut off your other foot.”

“Would not!” He shouted a battle cry and jabbed at an imaginary enemy.

“Don’t you want to be a blacksmith like your father?”

The lad hung his head. Leonie knew how much he loved his father.

“Mayhap your father would let you become a monk so you could study, and learn to read and write. You are always so interested in everything.”

“I don’t want to be a monk. They never have any fun. And they have to shave their heads funny. And besides, my father wouldn’t ever have any grandchildren and he wouldn’t like that.”

“You have two brothers and two sisters, Sigge.”

“I know, but he still wouldn’t like it.”

“I suppose you’ll have to be a blacksmith, then.”

“I want to be a knight,” Sigge replied. “I’d ride on a huge white charger to war like the Peregrine, and slay lots of enemies so the king would make me his favorite knight.”

“His horse isn’t white. It’s grey.”

“Mine would be white.”

His dream tugged at her heart. She knew what it was like to have dreams that could never come true. “You know it is not likely, Sigge.”

“That’s what Papa said, too. A blacksmith’s son is always a blacksmith’s son. And then he’s a blacksmith himself.”

“’Tis an honorable heritage. And your father is Lord Geoffrey’s armorer, not just any blacksmith.”

“But he can’t ever be a knight. So I can’t be either. But my grandfather was a knight. Only he had to go be a traitor. I guess my father was lucky the king let him live.”

So he was. Leonie had heard the story told in the hall when she was very young. Some even mentioned Emilien, the Norman given name Harald had disowned. But Harald was valued and honored in this household, so no one mentioned it anymore.

Today she had to smile. There was nothing wrong with Sigge’s foot now besides an ugly red scar, and Sigge would be far less likely to get into trouble if he went with her.

“Can you show me how to find the good mushrooms, Leonie?” he asked as he bobbed along beside her.

“I don’t know them, Sigge,” she replied. “I always go get old nanny Brigid to look at them.”

He swaggered a bit as he walked. “I know some of them.”

“No, you don’t. You only think you do. Only old nanny Brigid can always tell. When you are older, we will ask her to show us both.”

“Aw.” He kicked at a stone in their path. “Ow!”

Leonie smirked. Bright as the boy was, he seemed always to have to learn the hard way.

“We’re looking for sumac leaves today. I want to see if they make better dyes when they first get their autumn color, or if it helps to wait till they fall. And while we’re there, you can show me the piece of metal where you cut your foot.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Can you make something really bright yellow, so I can have a tunic of it? I’m getting tired of green.”

Leonie laughed. “I am too. Yellow is hard, though. Some of the leaves may work better this year, but most of them aren’t very
bright or the dye fades too quickly. I need a different mordant to set them, I think. The coneflowers were the best last year. I’ll have you pick them from the herb garden when we return.”

Sigge whistled as he danced along the path. Leonie began to feel the now familiar dread soaking into her, as it had all week, and she took a deep breath. She had taken to thumping her fingers against her palm as a way to remind herself not to become embroiled in ridiculous fears. Now she thumped her hand with increasing ferocity. If one had reason to be afraid, that was one thing. But not silly fancies. That was cowardly.

The first sumac was turning a brilliant scarlet, and Leonie picked some of the lower leaves from a climbing vine. She sent Sigge to find yellow ash leaves that had drifted to the ground near the forest’s edge. Whenever he moved out of sight, she called him back and changed his task. The boy was too curious for his own good.

Toward the middle of the small forest, she edged closer and closer to the place where Sigge had cut his foot. She thought of calling to him but he was close enough for her to see him. So she exhaled hard and walked over the old leaf debris until she stood near the base of the big beech tree.

How strange it was that there was no sign that the decaying leaves had ever been disturbed. They had that greyed look of leaves dried out where they were exposed to air and filtered light. She picked up a dead branch and stirred up the leaves, revealing the dark humus beneath them. Gingerly, she scooted more leaves about, trying to make herself come up with the courage to bend down and dig with the small trowel she had brought along. Instead, she just kept stirring, as she might a dye pot.

“Leonie!”

The hairs on her nape spiked at the terror in Sigge’s voice.

“Leonie, run!”

She whirled about. Her heart stopped cold.

The thing. Standing between her and the boy, tall as the tallest man. Grey bones hung with rotting rags, but its armor gleamed as if freshly sanded. Bloodred eyeballs fixed on her. The hand of bones raised a sword into the air.

“Run, Sigge! To the castle!” She spun back toward the path, stumbling on an old oak’s roots, and dodged behind the tree, then scrambled through hazel bushes, heading for the beck.

The thing behind her roared.

Hazel bushes snagged her clothing. She tore free and sped through a gap.

“Run!” she screamed.

“I can’t! I can’t move! Help me, Leonie!”

It roared again. In front of her. It blocked her path. She had to get to Sigge. She turned back again. Now it was behind her. Another to the side. Another and another. Her heart pounded and raced as she gasped tiny, worthless breaths.

Four of them, all around her, leaves clinging to their rags. Leonie turned in a circle, moving slowly, looking for escape. The tree—could she climb it? Could they come up after her?

She jumped to grab the lowest branch, wrapped her legs around it, and swung herself on top of the branch. She grabbed the branch above it.

In a flash, long bones wrapped around her neck and jerked, crashing her to the ground on her back, knocking her breathless. She gasped, her lungs burning, fighting for air.

The monsters closed in. She pushed to her feet.

“Leonie!”

“Run!” she gasped. “Sigge, get help!”

“You!” said the thing, pointing its fleshless finger at the boy. “You cannot speak.”

Sigge’s mouth hung open, silent, as if he couldn’t close it.

Bright stars flashed in her head, blinding pain, and she fell back to the ground, fighting as she faded.

The thing leaned down and touched its bone fingers to her forehead. Lightning sprang from the bare bones and streamed through her skull, pulsing and twisting like bright ribbons into her head.

“You,” it said. “You cannot remember.”

The monster became flesh and blood, clothed in fine silks. It was no monster that leaned over her, but the king’s courtier.

Philippe.

He smiled as he caressed her cheek. The warmth in his Frankish honey-brown eyes gleamed and lit a reddish fire that turned to malice. He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed.

She clung to the light in the farthest corner of her mind, for it was her life, its circles of colored bands receding and merging with red, green, dull blue, each band smaller and smaller to a pinpoint, fading into an alien blue glow.

Philippe.

P
HILIPPE NEARED
C
ASTLE
Brodin as the late afternoon sun slanted long rays through the trees onto the beck’s sparkling waters. The day was cool, unlike the sticky, hot day a few weeks before when he and his men had bathed here.

He frowned, remembering the prickly feeling of someone watching them as they bathed. He supposed, though, all manner of persons might find it interesting to watch formidable knights frolicking in the water like young boys. The dip had cooled and refreshed them all, and that was what mattered, and so he had let it drop. Then as they had approached the castle, still no more than half-dressed, he had seen the sprite-like Leonie fleeing across the meadow, long-legged and graceful as a leaping roe deer. Then he had known who was watching them. And now he laughed to himself. He hoped she liked what she had seen.

The weariness of the long ride had preyed on Philippe since early afternoon, but he had pressed onward, wanting to reach Brodin before nightfall. The king’s courier had caught up with him and his knights only yesterday with word that Malcolm was on the move back to Scotland, spurred by rage, where it was suspected he meant to gather his army and invade. And Rufus was coming north to head him off. Philippe had immediately dispersed his men to spread the news to castles nearby and ridden alone to take the word to Brodin.