I DROPPED out of Hugh’s mind and back into my own with stomach-jarring abruptness. I swallowed my revulsion but couldn’t stop the shaking in my arms. Cold sweat poured down my face and back, between my breasts and under my arms.
Hugh had not the talent to share death with the woman, so I did not have to. But the insanity, the senselessness of her death plagued me.
Hugh thrashed back and forth, moaning. His arms flailed about, fighting the memory.
“Wake up, Hugh,” I whispered. I clung to his shoulders shaking him slightly. “ ’Tis only a dream. Wake up, please.”
His eyes flew open. He stilled his body as he searched the shadows with a minimum of movement. The sheen of his perspiration gleamed in the faint light from the oil lamp.
Sensing his need for physical contact, I left my hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve had a bad dream. A dream only,” I whispered, soothing him with words as well as an extra push from my mind. The intimacy of our previous contact allowed me easy access to the vulnerable portions of his thoughts. “Sleep now. Sleep easy and dream free.”
He heaved over onto his side, back turned to me. “I’ll not sleep again. I’ve had this dream before,” he muttered.
My mind hit a wall of resistance. I couldn’t penetrate his thoughts to force him into restful sleep.
When I closed my eyes, the scene of torture and ritual murder played itself over and over in vivid detail. When I stared into the shadows of the armory I saw Blakely’s aura and the crackling red demon faces hiding within it.
Witchchild! The accusation of that night of invasion and death at Kirkenwood nine years ago rang again in my head. He had been my accuser then. Like seeking like.
I shuddered again.
Never. I had used magic of a sort. But I would never succumb to the temptation of following Blakely’s example.
He had made a pact with Satan’s dark forces, that much was obvious. What could he do with the magical power he gained from the pact?
I needed more information.
As much as I wanted to go home, hide myself in the healing peace at Kirkenwood, I needed to stay close to King John and observe his pet assassin. No, Blakely was Satan’s pet, not John’s. But did John allow Blakely to manipulate him? Did he know the forces Blakely tapped?
For England’s sake, I prayed John had become another innocent victim of Radburn Blakely. He needed my help to separate himself from the dark aura that extended to him and threatened to smother whatever goodness and wisdom were left.
I would need control over my own powers to even hope to counteract Blakely’s evil.
I shivered with a new chill. To defeat Blakely I would have to resort to magic, to condemn myself in God’s eyes by using Satan’s own methods.
The light guides me.
I work for the light.
I work with the light.
Darkness has no power over the light.
Let God’s light shine through the ages.
I murmured Uncle Henry’s litany for reassurance.
“Rest easy, Lady Ana Griffin. ’Twas my dream, not yours,” Hugh murmured. “You have no need to fear the darkness. I won’t let anyone throw you into an oubliette.” He rolled onto his back. His hand crept across the pallet to touch mine.
I entwined my fingers with his. Holy Mother! He read my dreams and innermost fears while I read his.
We lay awake for a long time, connected by our joined hands, his terrible memories, and my dream of portent.
o0o
With the clarity that follows a long sleepless night, I knew what I had to do. I must spend long hours alone practicing my magic, relearning skills Uncle Henry had tried to teach me but which I had resisted. Only with my magic intact and under full control could I ever hope to negate Radburn Blakely’s evil influence upon King John and England.
My first step was to re-create Uncle Henry’s morning ritual, without Uncle Henry’s guiding hand.
At the first lightening in the sky, I crawled out of my bed. As silently as possible I rummaged through the tangle of blankets to find my bliaud, stockings, and shoes.
“What?” Hugh whispered, rising upon one elbow. He looked at me suspiciously through narrowed eyes.
“No one must find me here,” I hissed back at him. I padded out of the armory with Newynog at my heels.
No one seemed to be stirring in the Hall. I tiptoed down two steps and through another short passage to the kitchen. Like all kitchens it smelled wonderfully of fresh bread, spices, and roasted meat. I inhaled deeply of the rich scents. My stomach growled in response, reminding me that I had eaten lightly the night before.
Newynog looked at me expectantly.
“Not yet, but soon,” I reassured her. She followed me to the postern door, looking back toward the hearth as if to find her breakfast there.
“Who’s there?” a querulous voice sounded from the pantry. Probably the cook getting ready to put the bread into the oven.
I closed the outside door quietly before he could shuffle out to investigate.
Predawn chill slithered into my bones the moment I stepped out of the kitchen hut. Instead of shivering and wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the cold, I opened myself, embracing the discomfort as the first herald of the new day.
Uncle Henry had greeted each dawn barefoot, bare-headed, and wearing only his underdrawers. I think he’d have gone nude except to appease my convent-reared sensibilities.
I wasn’t about to shed my clothing out here in the open, but I stooped to remove my shoes and stockings. Barefoot, I ran lightly toward the herb garden behind the manor. The surrounding walls here were low, more ornamental than protective. Barely taller than I, they offered only a slight protection from the wind and concentrated some sunshine within the space. But they gave a semblance of privacy.
Magic grounded in the light relied on contact with the earth and a true balance among all the elements. I sank my toes into the rich loam of the vegetable plots, feeling it squish and mold to my feet; a comforting cradle of moisture. Instinctively, I shifted until my feet found a puddle left over from last night’s rain. Gently I opened myself to the sensation of connection to the root crops growing within the dirt.
The paganism of my actions made me heavy with guilt.
“God created Adam from clay. Then he created Eve from Adam’s rib. Humanity began within the earth and to the earth we return. Water nurtures the earth as it nurtures my soul. Air supports the light of God’s love as it fills us with the fire of faith and hope. We are part of the whole. One with God.” I created my own litany, blending the old ways with the faith I had relied upon all my life. I couldn’t run back to the familiar comfort of the chapel yet. I had to complete this.
A bird chirped from the pear tree in the corner. I chirped back at it. The bird returned my call with a question. Warm joy spread from my smile down toward my heart.
I wiggled my toes again, seeking... I didn’t know what I sought, only that Uncle Henry thought it important to greet the dawn every morning with joy and thanksgiving. I could do that. Every day God gave me was a gift to be treasured. With all of the uncertainty, peril, and confusion I had endured of late, this dawn was special. Filled with light to banish the darkness of bad dreams and memories. I lived for a while longer at least.
Gradually the light increased around me. I looked east and waited.
More birds joined the one in the pear tree, singing their morning ritual. I longed to lift my voice in song, one of the songs Uncle Henry used each morning. But he sang in Gaelic, the old language. I didn’t know enough of it to be certain the words remained true to my faith. I had to fully believe in this ritual, this connection to God, the earth, and every living thing for it to help me.
A prayer Father Truman had taught me when I was very young to say each morning at Prime wiggled into my memory. I let the words flow quietly through me and out my mouth. A tune followed the words and swelled within me.
Blessed Mary, Holy Mother of
God,
Give me strength to live this day
With love in my heart
With joy in my mind
With Praise on my lips.
Sweet Jesu, Son of God
Receive my thanks for another day.
Receive my prayers for another chance
To praise you in every deed.
Guiding Spirit most Holy,
Fill me with faith unshakable,
Show me the path of truth,
Let me not go astray
Along roads of darkness and peril to my soul.
Hollowed Father of all
Creator most wise,
Bless me this day that I may be a daughter true,
That I may walk in this world holding
Reverence for the earth,
Respect for your people,
Obedience to your Church.
Just as I finished, the first ray of sunshine peeked above the horizon. I stared at the red-gold shaft of light with new appreciation. It looked so close, so tangible I could almost touch it. I reached a hand toward the brightness and grasped empty air.
My lungs deflated. My joy fled.
The birds took flight.
“So, Lady Resmiranda, you too practice the old ways. I had hoped to make you an ally, to enlighten you to true power. It seems you already embrace the truth,” Radburn Blakely said as he leaned indolently against the gate.
“Truth has many faces, is seen from many eyes. I embrace the truth as revealed to me by God.” I faced him unflinching. The glory of the morning still filled me with resolution despite the black shadow that encircled his head.
“I have the time and patience as well as the authority to teach you differently, Lady Resmiranda.”
“I recognize only the authority of the church.”
“And of your king?” A chuckle filled with satire began deep in his chest and bubbled outward. He continued to lean against the gate.
That sense of safety I had felt so many years ago when he invaded Kirkenwood repulsed me now. The haven he offered reeked of evil and black sorcery. “King John is now my guardian. I must acknowledge his authority over me.”
“Ah, so you will also accept the betrothal agreement signed by your late guardian, Lord Henry Griffin.”
A chill began in my belly and threatened to freeze my muscles again. I fought it with a deep breath and flexing fingers.
“I did not know that agreement still existed. Uncle Henry died before any vows or bride gifts could be exchanged. As far as I know, no one has attempted to see it through.”
“Oh, but vows were recited—yours by proxy before King John, mine by proxy before Henry Griffin—when the agreement was signed and witnessed by the church as well as the king’s representative. The betrothal was the price he paid for his release from King John’s prison. Did your great-uncle even tell you the name of your betrothed—your husband in all but ritual consummation?”
I shook my head, unable to say the words. My heart stuttered and began to pound furiously.
“Your uncle and your king arranged for you to marry me. The decree is signed. You are mine, Lady Resmiranda, you and all of the secrets hidden within Kirkenwood. We have only to consummate the relationship to complete the transaction.”