Faerie (9 page)

Now, as he snapped the reins and urged Tonerre through the shallow waters of the ford, a new sense of urgency filled him. The castle was only on the far side of the woods that lay on the other side of the beck. He had been looking forward to reaching the castle and throwing off the mail that chafed through his tunic, to drinking deep of the castle’s fine ale. And a long night’s sleep. In the morning, he would have to rise and leave before the castle folk broke their fast. But he would rest and eat with his old friends this night.

And the audacious Leonie. He chuckled aloud. Though she vexed him deeply, he would rue the day she married, for something in him was aroused to life by her untrammeled spirit. What would happen to her? If only Rufus could find a gentle man like the uncle who had raised her and doted on her too much. But men like Geoffrey or Hugh were hard to find and usually of modest means, or too mild of manner to become a marcher lord.

He frowned. Perhaps when Rufus came, he would plead for the girl—as long as Rufus didn’t mistake his intentions.

The trail through the woods was narrow, meant only for walkers. But it was a shortcut, and he felt a longing to reach the castle that grew by the minute. He dismounted, leading Tonerre, but still had to dodge low-hanging branches. The path broadened and cleared as he reached a stand of ancient beeches. He walked easier, catching occasional glimpses of the meadow through the brush, but he was still too far to see the castle.

Across the path to his left, he spotted an odd patch of something about the color of hay, dappled by light sifting through the leaves. Odd, for a forest. It looked like someone had dropped a cloak of a dusky golden color. It reminded him of the impossible mane of curls on the little lioness’s head. He drew closer, not taking his eyes off the splash of color.

It could not be an animal. He knew of none that color.

Quickly, the pale golden mass came into view, spread out at the base of a huge old oak among the beeches, amid a mass of old, dry leaves.

The reins fell from his hands. His heart stopped.

Leonie!

He dashed to the tree and knelt beside her where she sprawled nearly facedown, her wild hair flung over her face.

“Leonie!” he shouted, brushing away her hair.

Her skin was chilled. Blood caked on her scalp and splattered her clothes. He turned her ashen face upward and saw dark bruises on her throat.

“Leonie, wake up,” he cried. He felt for a pulse at her neck but found none, nor at her wrist.

He leaned over her, his cheek to her face, and felt no hint of breath. It could not be! He’d warned Geoffrey something could happen to her. She was so vulnerable and didn’t know it.

Like Joceline.
God help him, he didn’t want any woman murdered like Joceline!

He scooped her into his arms and sat among the thick roots of the tree, cradling her, rubbing his cheek against her matted hair. He should have made Geoffrey lock her up where she’d be safe.
Too late, too late. You’ve failed again. Someone evil has killed her and you could have stopped it.
Yet what could he have done? Something, surely. He had sworn never to let a woman go unprotected.

Did her hand move? Or had the shaking of his own body jostled it? He frowned, watching her fingers for any twitch.

Nothing.

It was too late. His throat ached with pain and he wanted to throw back his head and scream his rage to the sky. But he leaned his cheek against her face, waiting with patience strained to breaking. He thought—or was it a breath of breeze he felt? Did he merely fool himself?

There. Aye!

Quickly, he stretched her out again on the ground, placed his mouth to hers, and blew a breath into her. He sucked it out, took a deeper breath, and closed his mouth around hers to blow again. Over and over he did the same.

Her hand flopped. Again. Did he imagine it, or had he shaken it somehow? He breathed more air into her.

“Leonie, breathe. Come on, breathe.” He blew some more.

And he could see, she was breathing. He found a faint pulse in her neck.

“Leonie, can you hear me?”

If she did, she gave no sign.

Philippe jumped to his feet with her in his arms and carried her to his horse, where he lifted and pushed her limp body over the saddle, facedown. He mounted behind the saddle, then shifted her into his arms as he worked himself into the saddle’s seat. With spurs to the grey warhorse, he rode toward the edge of the wood. In the meadow beyond, he spurred the horse to a gallop over the meadow and up the slope to the road to the castle gate.

Villagers, soldiers, knights, all saw them. Cheers went up as they ran with them, but he ignored them, focusing on the open gatehouse. He galloped through the passage into the lower bailey, across it and up the slope to the stone-paved upper bailey, and didn’t stop until he reached the wooden doors of the hall.

The knight Gerard ran out and reached up for Leonie. His heart still pounding, Philippe lowered her into the knight’s arms. As he released her to the knight and dismounted from his horse, all his strength fell away, a black nothingness taking over. He thought he would collapse to the pavement, but he grasped Tonerre’s stirrup.

As Gerard rushed into the hall, Geoffrey and Lady Beatrice ran to him, screaming and wringing hands. Gerard kept on
going through the doors as if they were not there. The crowd cut in front of Philippe so he could soon no longer see.

“Come, Philippe.” He turned to see tiny Claire, who took his arm despite the fear he saw in her eyes. “You look as weak as a new kitten. Into the hall, now.”

It took him a breath’s time to absorb what she was saying. He nodded. Just having her beside him seemed to restore his strength.

“Where did you find her?”

“In the forest. On the path from the ford.”

She frowned, tilting her head to one side. “But the forest was searched. I was there, myself. It is her favorite place, so we went through it again and again.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “This is all I know. She was lying beneath an oak tree amid a stand of beeches, off the path to my left. I could see her hair from the path. I thought at first it was a piece of cloth. But no other has hair like hers, so I knew.”

“Who could have done this thing?”

“A fiend.”

She nodded. “Is she alive?”

“Barely. How long has she gone missing?”

“Since yesterday. She went into the woods with Sigge, the blacksmith’s son, to collect leaves for dying. Whatever happened, Sigge can’t even talk, not even a sound. Whatever he has seen, he is struck dumb with terror.”

“She has been brutalized,” he said. “A blow to the head and bruises on her throat. I cannot say what else.”

“Do you think—”

“I do not know. She should have never been let to roam the way she does.”

“There was no stopping her, Philippe. Come inside.”

A page held open the door for them. “I must leave you now. Mother becomes distraught at times like this. Father is not much
better. Someone must take over and manage things.” She gestured to a servant. “Leof, fetch water for the Peregrine, and food and wine. A place to lie down.”

The thought of food roiled Philippe’s stomach. “I’ll just wash and drink some ale. I’ll fast and go to the chapel to keep a vigil through the night.”

“Say a prayer for her in my name too, sir knight. I fear I shall have a very long night.”

“God bless you, Claire. Thank you for your kindness and your calm. Take care of her.”

Claire licked her lower lip and bright moisture formed in her eyes, bringing tears to his own. She nodded, even attempted a smile, then hurried toward stone stairs at the far end of the hall.

“Claire,” he called, and she turned back to look at him. “I nearly forgot my purpose. Your father will not forgive me if I fail to tell him Rufus is coming.”

“When?”

“Likely in a day or two. Malcolm has seized his daughter from the convent and hastened back to Scotland. There may be war on the border.”

“Do not fear, sir knight. I shall handle it.”

Philippe nodded and found a hint of a smile for her. She surprised him. He had thought her a mere fragile petal of a rose, easily bruised.

He soon lost patience with the young servant Leof, who hovered over him, and he begged the boy to go be of help to the family. Then, freed of his mail and wiped reasonably clean, he entered the chapel.

It was cool and dark, quiet in a hollow kind of way. He approached the altar, which was draped in a cloth edged with Leonie’s easily recognizable embroidery. He dropped to his knees. In his lonely silence, he prayed with no words, only offering up the ancient wound in his heart that had never healed.
The horror of Joceline’s death revisited in the violence done to Leonie. Men could die horribly; that he could accept. But such a young, innocent girl? It should not be.

For hours, he stayed on his knees. Family and servants came and left, all finding a few moments to fall on their knees in prayer. And very late, even the distraught Geoffrey, whose tears became sobs. Philippe’s heart was torn at the man’s grief.

When Geoffrey had shed all his tears, he rose from his knees and touched Philippe’s shoulder as he left the chapel. But Philippe had no other way of helping, so he kept his vigil.

At last, exhaustion from the nearly three nights he had gone without sleep claimed him. He prostrated himself on the cold stone floor before the altar.

Please, God, don’t let her die. I am deserving of death. Take my life instead.

The sorcerer’s cloak swirled like rising smoke as Philippe ran after him, and he caught but a glimpse of the prisoner. Joceline, his Joceline, captive of the evil Clodomir.

There they were, cornered in the tower chamber, as she begged him to save himself. But the sorcerer’s spell bound Philippe like chains.

“Yield if you want to save her,” shouted the demon from Satan. Philippe knew it was true. Joceline, his wife, given to him by the Conqueror. He would lose her if he didn’t give Clodomir what he wanted. But to put his wife above his liege lord and king—to betray his king...

“Philippe, nay! Your soul! Your oath!” Joceline pleaded with him, her dark eyes round and huge, the whites glowing with terror.

He would do anything to save her. Anything. Defeated, he knelt at the feet of the sorcerer. He would become the weapon to destroy the Conqueror, the very man who had given him his beautiful wife.

She broke free of the sorcerer, ran across the chamber, and leaped to the window. Blue, jagged lightning streaked from Clodomir’s extended fingers. Beautiful Joceline’s dark, dark hair burst into dancing flames. Amid her screams, screams of fear and hideous pain, she tumbled through the air.

“Joceline!”

His magic fetters vanished, yet he did not think of them, for his heart was tearing from his soul as he ran to the window. But it was too late. Her last screams faded in the rush of flames engulfing the corpse below.

“Joceline!”

Anguish wrenched through him and turned to murderous rage. With one fierce move, he drew his sword and slashed through the sorcerer’s neck. The head bounced and rolled across the chamber and came to a stop, sitting erect on the cleanly severed base of its neck.

The eyes still moved. The mouth opened. Philippe froze in shock, gaping at the impossible.

“I curse you!” said the head. “By my blood, I curse you, Philippe, spawn of Evraneaux. Never shall you love again, save she who you will slay by your own hand.”

Rage turned his vision black. Philippe speared the head with his sword and flung it through the lancet window as far as it would go.

“Joceline, Joceline, it is my fault. You died because of my failure.”

When he returned to the tower, the sorcerer’s body was gone. And out in the bailey where he had flung the head, not even a drop of blood could be found.

The Peregrine rode, endlessly searching for the sorcerer Clodomir, to free the world from his evil. All over the known world
he rode for two years, pursuing the vanished sorcerer, seeking clues and finding none. Defeated, he returned to Evraneaux.

The wandering Peregrine held the falcon seal of Evraneaux in his hand and passed it to his brother, Jean. His failure was bitter gall.

“You should not do this, brother.”

But Philippe knew he must. His shame that he had ruined family and manor in his quest was more than he could bear. Jean could save them. Philippe would only destroy them.

“I must. Now I am the true Peregrine.”

The seal of Evraneaux belonged to Jean now.

Only Philippe knew his great guilt. Only he knew why he would remain landless and penniless and penitent to the end of his days.

He rode and rode and rode, vowing never again to fail. Never again betray.

“Joceline.”

“Philippe?”

Claire’s soft voice echoed in the damp air of the chapel, stirring Philippe where he lay on the stone floor. He rose to his knees, then stood, his body stiff and aching. Around him others stood in the chapel or prayed on their knees. Had he fallen asleep? Or had the old vision come upon him once again as it had so many times, waking or sleeping?