The Warrior and the Dove - A Short Novel (Medieval Chronicles)
Read The Warrior and the Dove - A Short Novel (Medieval Chronicles) Online
Authors: Julia Byrne
THE
WARRIOR AND THE DOVE
by
Julia
Byrne
Copyright
© Merilyn Bourke 2014
Worcestershire,
England, in the Year of Our Lord 1265.
Terror slashed through
her dreams, ripping her from sleep and plunging her into the blackest pit. She
woke gasping for air, her heart pounding in her ears. Blind, sick with panic,
she stared into the darkness until at last the nightmare receded and she knew
where she was.
She was safe…she
was alone. But she wasn’t in her bed where she should have been. She was clear
across the room.
Heaven help her,
was she now walking in her sleep?
Her hands and
knees felt raw. She concentrated on the stinging pain while she forced herself
to accept the only possible explanation. She must have leapt from the bed and
scrambled across the floor on all fours, scraping soft skin against rough
boards until she’d fetched up here in the corner, silent and shaking, huddled
in on herself so she wouldn’t be seen or heard.
She fixed her
gaze on the candle that burned through the night, a tiny beacon of light
against the nightmare that haunted her. Dear God, what if she’d knocked it over
in her sleep-walking state? She could have burnt the house down. A disastrous
way to repay Martin and Herleve for all they’d done for her. And all for a
dream she could never remember.
Slowly she
straightened on still trembling legs, using the wall for support until she
could make her way back to bed. She crawled under the covers and curled up in a
tight ball, trying to restore some warmth to her body. She wanted to bury her
face in the bedding and weep, but she bit her lip and blinked back the tears.
This couldn’t go on! Somehow she had to remember what had happened to her,
never mind that whenever she tried to force memory, terror made her almost
physically ill.
But where was
she to start, when she couldn’t even remember her own name?
*
* *
His mysterious
lady was in church again. For the third time this week. Standing across the
aisle from him, bracketed securely by her two guardians.
Hugh de Verney
stifled a wry smile at himself. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a couple of
important tasks to accomplish, and in a short space of time, too. But here he
was, also in church—for the third time this week. Just to catch sight of a girl
who, though beautiful, seemed too shy and meek to account for this strange
attraction, and modest as well if her downcast gaze was any indication. After
all, most girls blessed with the delicate face of an angel, dark long-lashed
eyes, and a mass of sable hair, would be interested in the effect she was
having on the young males in her vicinity. But not her. She looked straight
ahead, or down.
There were
plenty of interested glances cast at her, he realized. Including his own. But
it wasn’t just her beauty that held his gaze. The wary intelligence in her eyes
had caught his attention the first time he’d seen her two days ago, walking
into the church between her protective attendants. There was something pure and
steadfast about her, a sweet, youthful dignity in the way she carried herself,
and withal, an air of vulnerability. Unless he was very much mistaken, trouble
leaned heavily on those slender shoulders.
He studied the
couple who flanked her. They seemed content enough. Both tall and sturdy in
build, their clothing plain but of good quality. The man was likely a tradesman
of the town, successful at his work; his goodwife one of many attending morning
Mass. If
they
had produced that graceful, slender creature standing
between them, he would go hopping all the way to London. Of course, it was
always possible that she was the result of a liaison between the woman and a
knight or baron. God knows, it happened often enough.
Hugh looked back
at the girl and knew that whatever the circumstances of her birth, it was of no
importance to him. More vital was finding out who she was and making her his.
He could do it, but it would take care. He was in a position of power here, on
the King’s business, and he wanted no speculation or gossip about her. Making
enquiries of the priest, rather than the town reeve, would be more discreet,
and Father Robert might be useful later.
As soon as that
thought struck him, Hugh knew he was in trouble. And the source of it didn’t
even realize what had happened, was not even aware of him. He wondered that she
didn’t feel his gaze. Apart from that moment’s study of her guardians, he
hadn’t shifted it in several minutes. Somewhere in the distance he could hear
the priest’s voice droning on, but his whole attention, probably regrettably,
was on matters far removed from the Mass. He would have said
her
attention was on more devout subjects if he hadn’t been studying her so
closely. As it was, although her head was bent, her entire body was so tense
and still she seemed scarcely to breathe. And her small hands were clenched
together in a white-knuckled grip, as if exhorting the Almighty in desperate
need rather than respectful prayer.
Suddenly, an
errant beam of sunlight, darting about irreverently in the world beyond the
church, lit the glass window above him, making it glow. The flash of silver
light caught her attention. She raised her head, and his breath caught, not at
the sweetness of her uplifted face, although that was arresting enough to cause
a saint to stumble in his devotions, but at the wonder in her eyes, as if here
was the answer to her prayers. Then the expression vanished and she looked
desolate…lost.
His gaze narrowed
thoughtfully. And, as though finally sensing his presence, she turned her head
swiftly so she faced him full-on. Her eyes went wide, although whether in fear
or surprise to find him studying her so intently, he couldn’t tell, before she
turned quickly away, shifting so she was less visible between her companions.
Well, that
reaction wasn’t going to help his cause. He should put her out of his mind and
think about the tasks awaiting him this day. But as he watched, she moved
again, turning her head just enough to send him a sidelong look. No fleeting
glance this, her gaze rested on him for several seconds, and when she looked
away again, he realized every muscle in his body was braced, as if she had
reached out and touched him.
“Annith, pass me
that old loaf, if you will. The crumbs mixed with butter, herbs, and onions
will make a good stuffing for these chickens.” Dame Herleve gave a stir to the
mixture in the bowl on her lap.
Annith looked up
from the peas she was shelling. They were sitting in the kitchen of the simple
town dwelling. The front room served as Martin Fletcher’s workshop, with a
small solar off it and the kitchen behind, which opened onto a yard. A second
door off the solar opened to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the two
bedchambers above.
Lost in her
thoughts, it took a moment for Annith to hand over the loaf. “I’m sorry,
Herleve. I’m grateful for the loan of my name, of course, but sometimes it
takes a moment to realize ’tis me.”
“You may put
that down to the bump on your head,” Herleve said, ruthlessly reducing the loaf
to crumbs. “As for the name, ’tis yours while there’s need and welcome you are
to it.” With a quick sidelong glance at Annith, she added as though in
afterthought, “Did you note that young soldier in church this morning?”
Annith bent her
head over the peas again. Thank the saints removing them from their pods was a
simple task, because she
had
been thinking of the man who’d been
watching her so closely. In truth, for some reason, she could not put him out
of her mind.
Tall,
raven-haired, broad-shouldered and powerful, though not over-muscled as were
some men who made their living wielding broadsword and battle-axe. His was the
lean, lithe power of the wolf. A warrior, certainly, but a hunter also, who
would move through forest and wood with scarcely a sound to mark his passing.
It had been too dim in the church to make out the color of his eyes, but the
intensity of his gaze had sent a strange tingle through her. Fear, sharp but
mercifully brief, followed closely by an unfamiliar…
excitement
. Aye,
that was the word to describe the thrill that had shot through her when their
eyes met.
Shaking off an
echo of the odd feeling, she realized Herleve was still awaiting an answer. “I noticed
him,” she said with a slight smile. “But if I ever knew him I don’t remember
it. Besides, he would have approached me, surely, had we known each other.”
“Hmm. He’s a
deep one, mark my words. A man who keeps his own counsel until he knows
what’s—”
A frantic
rapping on the outer door interrupted her, and a woman called, “Martin?
Herleve? Are you there?”
Recognizing the
voice of their elderly neighbor, Annith relaxed the sudden tension in her
shoulders. At a nod from Herleve, who was busy stuffing her chickens, she rose
and walked through to the shop to open the door. “Mistress Purcell,” she said
in greeting. “Come in.”
“Thank you,
Annith.” Dame Eveta Purcell, somewhat out of breath, her face flushed beneath
her wimple, hurried through the shop and into the kitchen. “Herleve! Thank the
Lord you’re at home. I must go to the castle, but Edric is off on some errand—not
that he would be any help for he swears he’ll have nothing to do with the
matter anyway.”
“If we could
make sense of that gabble, Eveta, ’twould be better for all of us,” stated
Herleve in bracing tones. “Sit down and tell us what ails you.”
“Haven’t you
heard?” demanded Dame Eveta, remaining on her feet. “They’re crying it through
the town. The King’s soldiers have brought in the captives, many of them
wounded, from among the boys who marched with my lord Corbel to take the
castle. Anyone with kin among them can claim them and hear judgment, they say,
with no reprisal to themselves. I must see if Adam is there and bring him home.
Not badly hurt, if we’re so blessed. But to go alone to such a task… I was
hoping Martin would accompany me.”
“Martin is away
to a customer’s house,” Herleve said. “But—”
Before she could
think better of it, Annith heard herself speak. “I will accompany you, Mistress
Purcell, if you will have me as escort.”
Dame Eveta
turned a thankful face to her. “Gladly, my dear. If Herleve will permit it.”
Annith exchanged
a glance with Herleve. They had put it about that Annith was a distant cousin
of Martin’s, and had come for a visit. But Herleve knew she had no real
authority over the girl in her care. Annith might not remember anything prior
to a few days ago, but Herleve knew quality when she saw it. Her guest was no
tradesman’s niece, or any other female relative for that matter.
“Do you think it
wise, my dove? You don’t know the town,” she added for Eveta’s benefit.
“’Tis time I
learned, then,” Annith replied. “And Dame Eveta will be with me.”
Eveta nodded and
turned to hurry away through the shop. “I’ll fetch my mantle and meet you
outside,” she called back. The outer door slammed after her.
“And if you meet
one who knows you?” Herleve asked, now free to voice her real concern. “Unless
you are without family, without friends even, which is unlikely, surely someone
is searching for you.”
At the
possibility that she might be found, fear wrapped icy fingers around Annith’s
throat. Nausea rose behind it, but she pressed a hand to her stomach and took a
couple of deep breaths. She would
not
give in to terror when she didn’t
even know the cause of it.
“Even if that’s
so, I may not be discovered immediately. You said yourself that you and Martin
had never seen me before, that my clothes were dusty and stained, as if I’d
travelled some distance. And I was in cotte and hose, too, like a boy, although
I have no idea why I was wearing such things. Besides,” she added, her voice
suddenly husky, “hiding here in the house is availing me naught. My prayers go
unanswered. I cannot go on like this.”
“The dreams are
worse?” Herleve asked sympathetically.
Annith nodded,
blinking back tears. “Herleve, I bless the day you and Martin took me in, but
what if danger comes to you because of it? If I’m to be found, better it be
outside these walls now that I’ve recovered somewhat.” She touched the back of
her head gingerly, feeling for the painful lump that was slowly subsiding. “And
mayhap, better for me to face whatever I fear and restore memory.”
“Don’t you worry
about Martin and me,” Herleve said stoutly. “You ventured to the church only
two days ago, and no one knows precisely when you arrived here. As for going
further afield…” She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose ’tis safe enough
now the King’s soldiers have charge of the castle, but remember you are not
friendless here, Annith. If anyone accosts you and you doubt their intent, make
a fuss, call attention. They may think better of their purpose when witnesses
are involved.”
Annith nodded.
She forced a reassuring smile, more for her own benefit than Herleve’s, and
went out to meet Dame Eveta.
A minute later
she was glad she had made the effort. The mild autumn breeze blew away the last
of the headache that had plagued her for the past few days, the sun warmed her
face, and she was happy to be helping someone. Indeed, it felt strangely
familiar, something done often, without thought. Which, for some reason, was a
comforting thought in itself.
“I pray the boy
you seek will be there, Mistress Purcell,” she said, as they passed through the
south gate and walked down to the stone bridge that crossed the Severn. Beyond
the bridge, a short walk along the road to Evesham and to their right stood the
castle, its drawbridge down. A middle-aged woman was passing through the
gateway as Annith spoke.
Eveta shook her
head and indicated the woman. “That it has come to this,” she mourned.
“Respectable townsfolk retrieving their boys from God knows what fate. But I
don’t blame Adam for his foolishness. ’Tis Edric’s fault from start to finish.
Never a good word to the boy, a cuff on the ear for little reason, keeping him
short of money—” She stopped and gave an indignant snort. “Short! What am I
saying? Not a half-penny did he give him but that Adam had to beg and plead for
it. And he apprenticed to his father from the time he was twelve.”
“But what caused
such treatment?” Annith asked, shocked.
“’Tis sorry I am
to say it about a son of mine, but Edric puts money above all, even his own
family, though I know he cares for Adam in his way. But despite that he was too
mean to take on an apprentice. Let the boy earn his keep, he said, which Adam
was willing to do. But to be denied his rightful wage? That he could no longer
bear. And if his death comes of it, I’ll make Edric’s life so miserable he’ll
wish ’twas me in the grave.”
“Oh, do not say
so, Dame Eveta. See, we’re here. Pray that all will be well.”
They crossed the
drawbridge and, after a word with a helpful porter, passed into the bailey.
Annith shivered as the shadows cast by the high walls engulfed them. There were
few people about—a groom inspecting the hooves of a huge black destrier, a man
in clerical garb crossing the bailey. In the deep shade of one corner,
half-shielded from view by a wagon, shrouded forms were laid out.
“Holy Mother,
have some died already?” Eveta turned pale and crossed herself. She
hesitated, uncertain whether or not to search there first, but Annith took the
old woman’s arm and turned her toward the doorway to the undercroft, where they
had been directed.
“We’ll look for
your Adam among the living,” she murmured. “No need to distress yourself before
we know more. Come.”
*
* *
“I still say we
need more soldiers on the walls, my lord. Look at those two, strolling around
as if they’re at a fair.”
Hugh glanced up
at the men pacing the walls. It wasn’t an arduous duty. Whenever they passed
each other they would halt for a quick word and a glance down at the bailey to
ensure all was quiet, before resuming their patrol. They appeared relaxed, but
he knew they were alert for trouble.
“That’s right,”
the sergeant growled, watching them. “Stop and have a chat. ’Tis no way to keep
watch, sir.”
Hugh stifled a
sigh. The sergeant was conscientious in the performance of his duties, but he
wasn’t the sharpest sword in the armory. “Sergeant, we don’t wish to terrify
the entire town of Crofton-on-Severn. Your men are of more use driving stray
rebels out of the forest. The families of those young idiots in the undercroft
are not going to collect them if they fear they’ll be fired on from the
ramparts. Ask fitzWalter here.”
The stocky,
fair-haired man standing with them at the top of the outer stairs giving access
to the hall, grinned. “’Tis not as if all the townsmen took up arms with Corbel
against the King, Sergeant. I don’t say we couldn’t have hanged a few more
along with him, instead of slapping them with fines and imprisonments, but I’m
not the one in charge.”
Hugh sent him a
sardonic look. “My thanks, Ranulf. Why not undermine my authority while you’re
at it.”
The sergeant
looked doubtfully from Hugh to fitzWalter. However, since he owed his position
to the fact that the former castellan was one of those slapped with a fine and
imprisonment, he prudently decided against further argument.
“Well, Maurice
Corbel was the only trouble-maker in these parts,” he said with a resigned
shrug. “And we’ve accounted for most of his men. The rest will have scurried
off to their villages to lie low.”
“And long may
they remain there,” fitzWalter said. “I, for one, need a rest before I face
another rabble wielding pitchforks and shovels. Nearly scurried off, myself.”
The sergeant
gaped at him. Hugh suppressed a grin, and dismissed the man. “When you
are
in charge,” he said to his friend with heavy meaning. “Try not to horrify the sergeant
with your odd notion of humor.”
“I don’t think
you’ve convinced him, or me for that matter, that leniency is a virtue,” Ranulf
retorted.
“I have no
intention of killing children,” Hugh said mildly. “Some of those lads are no
older than fifteen.”
“The age when
you and I won our spurs, as I recall.”
Hugh’s eyes
narrowed. “We were brought up to be knights, and in the royal household.”
“I can see I’m
not going to win this argument,” sighed fitzWalter. “Especially as you’re now a
baron, confirmed in your lands, and I was fool enough to swear allegiance to
you.” He laughed when Hugh cuffed him on the shoulder, and peered at the
parchment in his friend’s hand. “Well, the sooner we’re rid of those
dung-brained fools, the better. How many are left down there?”
Hugh was about
to consult the list in his hand when he saw the two women crossing the bailey.
For an instant he couldn’t believe his eyes. His mysterious lady was
here?
Utterly dumbstruck, he stood frozen for a full five seconds, then, with a
bitten-off oath, smacked his parchment against fitzWalter’s chest, barely
giving his friend time enough to grab it, and leapt for the stairs.
He took them in
three reckless bounds, landed in the bailey, and strode toward her, fuming.
Even if she had kin here, what was she about? A girl so young and gentle would
never have looked on the aftermath of battle. The thought that she was about to
do so now, appalled him.