What kind of directions are those, anyway? Follow the river until it leads to River Tas.” Os snorted, anger and frustration evident in the way he hacked at the brush with his sword, clearing a path for her and the horse.
She’d heard her father bluster often enough that she knew not to answer his question. He’d feel better once he tired his sword arm.
“I know the River Tas. ‘Tis wide and bustling at the south end of Norfolk, nothing like this puny, pissing excuse for a stream.”
Henry sat on her shoulder, calmly surveying the world from his perch. Ela walked behind Bartholomew, careful not to make a wrong step so she did not end up sinking to her ankles in squishy mud. They’d been lucky to lose de Havel’s men before finding the river, so if fortune was smiling as Hilda wished, then she and Os would be clear to Norwich before Thomas caught up with them again.
She knew now that Thomas wouldn’t let her go.
He must have been so sure of his prize—her, and her father’s land—that he hadn’t thought to value her until she’d flown the coop. Now he wanted her for revenge. She curled Henry’s tail around her finger. Mayhap his mother had forced the issue?
Shaking her head, Ela didn’t waste time on speculation, not when she needed to find a way from the predicament she was in now.
Mud aside, she wondered if Os had realized they’d be spending another night alone under the stars, with only God as their witness. Her lips still burned from the kiss they’d shared last eve, and while the honorable Os might feel riddled with guilt, she did not.
In fact, she wouldn’t mind further exploring the feelings he created.
She smiled, then sighed. No doubt he’d come up with many more reasons for them to be separate, the biggest obstacle being his belief that she was a witch. His devotion toward the church was another.
Her grandmother had been a healer, a descendent of Boadicea, and a devout believer in God and the Holy Light. Mayhap there would be a way to make Osbert see that there was more than one rigid path to the Lord.
As stubborn as he was, she knew she would have a hard road ahead of her if she thought to change his mind—before he tied her ankles with stones and tossed her in the water to see if she floated.
Common sense said she’d sink—and die innocent. If she floated, she’d be put to death as a witch, hardly fair, in her opinion. God help the woman who knew how to hold her breath and untie a knot.
Os let out a very ungodly oath as a branch smacked him in the forehead. “Christ’s blood, now I’m bleeding.”
“Really?” Ela skipped past Bartholomew and pulled Os’s hand away from his forehead. Blood pooled and dripped from the gash that was directly in the center of his worry-furrowed brow.
She smiled and rubbed her hands together.
“Why are you smiling? This hurts, damn it.”
His eyes darkened with unnamed emotion as she blew on her fingertips.
“Give me a moment, sir, and the pain will be gone.” She closed her eyes, concentrating on the healing power flowing through her veins, just as it had done for each female healer descended from Boadicea. She would miss this part of herself most once she ended the curse that took her free will.
She reached forward, gently touching the edges of the wound, imagining the gash growing smaller and smaller as it healed itself. The warmth was pleasant, and Os groaned softly—appreciatively—and she sensed that the pain was gone.
Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her—studying her. She tried to joke but couldn’t find anything witty to say. “Better?” Her voice came out as a husky whisper.
“Aye.” He blinked, and she stepped back from his troubled expression. Os brought his hand to his forehead and felt for a wound that was no longer there. His hand came away covered in dried blood—the only reminder that there had ever been an injury. “God save me. That isn’t natural. This is the gift you claim is blessed by our Lord and Savior? ‘Tis magic!”
But he didn’t move away—this time he stayed. To fight? For her? Warmth pooled in her lower belly.
Ela swallowed under his searching gaze. She held her hands out. “Feel them. They are warm. The healing comes from within me—my heart. I am not evil, Osbert Edyvean. I grow tired of trying to convince you that it’s true. I’ve been baptized, as have my sisters, my mother, and my entire family. We go to church, and Father Harold has been with us since Father Jonas died of old age. My healing is a blessing.” Her voice rose as she passionately defended herself from his accusation.
“Oh? Then why were you calling for an ancient goddess to take this blessing from you? Calling down evil spirits to do your will—you know it’s wrong.”
She deflated beneath his scorn. “Because, sir knight, I would have the right to choose for myself.”
“Women don’t have the intelligence to choose—’tis why they need husbands.”
Ela shoved Os back, and he stumbled into a tree. “You are just as much of an idiot as Thomas de Havel. At least he makes no pretense of what he is. His evil is plain to see. Yours is hidden in shadows.” She wished she could see his aura—he had to have one! Everybody did.
“You are calling me evil?” His brows rose in disbelief. “You pointed your finger at my horse’s tie, and it severed into two pieces! Did you use your ‘healing’ finger?”
Ela raised her hands in the air and shook her fists. “Idiot. I told you that I was a champion knife thrower. I used my dagger to sever the leather braid. I have skills, Os, skills.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why? Is it easier to think me a witch than a woman able to handle her own fate? Hmm?” She felt her temper grow, and her cheeks flushed with heat. “I don’t need you, and that confuses you.”
“You need me. You’d be dead without me.”
“I had already freed myself by the time you came along … remember that?”
His lips were pursed, and his hair was gold and dark in the late afternoon shadows. He was a dark knight bent on making her life miserable. “Show me your dagger.”
“The one I don’t have anymore? You should be a court jester, you are so funny.”
“Nobody could have thrown that dagger, severed the leather, and not made a sound. I heard nothing drop, my lady witch, and that means that it wasn’t there.” He crossed his arms over his chest, giving stubborn a new look.
“The dagger landed in the flower basket by the stairs. I saw it.”
His jaw clenched. “Impossible.”
She crossed her arms too. She was no slouch when it came to being stubborn. She was a Montehue, after all.
“And what about how you call that damn weasel of yours to you?”
“It would be very similar, in fact quite the same, to how you call that damn horse of yours. Begging your pardon, Bartholomew.”
The air between them crackled and grew heavy. Os lifted his head, observing the sky. “Storm clouds. Did you call them?”
Ela dropped her arms to her sides and rolled her eyes. “Oh aye. And next I’ll snap my fingers and wish for a heavy iron pot. To hit you over the head with.”
“We’ll need to find shelter. Or get drenched.”
“Is this where I am supposed to be impressed by your male intelligence?” Ela shook out her veil and wrapped it over her head and around her shoulders—keeping Henry tucked in and dry.
“I’ll thank you to stop prattling whilst I find us somewhere safe from the storm.”
Furious, Ela didn’t bother replying, but gathered lush, foliage-heavy branches as they walked. The muddy path by the river soon grew even muddier and they were forced away from the water’s marshy edge.
Inland was dryer, but there was no coverage on the rolling fields. Not even a haystack was in sight.
A boom of thunder made her jump.
“Why are you dragging a tree behind you?”
“These, sir knight, are branches. We might need them to keep us dry.”
“There will be something soon. If you drop those branches, we can ride Bartholomew now that we are in the open.”
“You’ve been so busy destroying the path by the river that you didn’t notice Bartholomew has picked up a stone. A slight limp, but putting weight on it will only make it worse.”
He stopped, turned, and pointed his finger at her. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“When would I have done that? There was no place to stop and fix it. You think I want to see the horse in pain? If you even think that the answer to that is yes, then I will give you a wart on the end of your nose.” She smacked his finger down and glared.
“Is it any wonder that people think you a witch when you talk like that?”
“You are the only one to think so—and you are the only one I talk to like that because I know how much it bothers you.” Ela fought down the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him.
“No wonder you aren’t married.”
Oh! “And you’ve been entangled in wedded bliss how many times? Oh, that’s right. You are a penniless but godly knight who goes around saving damsels in distress whether they need your help or not.”
“You were glad to see me yesterday.”
“I don’t remember.” Thunder crashed, and Bartholomew neighed. The scent of oncoming rain urged her to scan the horizon for anything that they could use as shelter.
“Can you run?” His brow quirked.
“Faster than you,” she answered, lifting her gown and dashing through the field. An old earth mound rose ahead of them, and they crested the top. Black clouds drizzled rain from overhead, and they slid down the opposite damp slope. They climbed halfway to the other side of the ditch to where a single skinny sycamore tree made its stand.
With no words, they set to work using the tree, his cloak, her veil, and the heavily foliaged branches to make a small but cozy enclosure. Bartholomew’s bulk as he leaned against the tree trunk helped keep the wind from coming inside.
As they hunkered down and watched the rain drop like a waterfall, Ela started to giggle. “If we’d stayed by the river, we’d be drowned by now.”
“We might drown anyway, if this valley fills up to where the ledge is.”
She became very aware of his body heat as their arms touched in the tight space. Ela’s blood warmed, and she had to force herself to think of something besides his muscles beneath her palms. “Nothing like an adventure, eh? You must be full of stories. Tell me what it is like to be in the midst of a battle.” Maybe blood and gore would keep her from recalling his mouth against hers.
“Battle stories? I don’t think it is appropriate—” “If you say ‘for the fairer sex,’ I might toss you into the rain. Haven’t you learned yet that I can take care of myself?” She pointed to the branches that made the skeleton of their tent.
He looked down, his mouth twitching. “You may just be the exception to the rule.” Os pushed back the edge of the cloak and poked his head out, getting a splash of water in his eye. “I think we’ll be safe enough for now.”
Ela sensed rather than saw his body relax. At least he didn’t feel the need to be on guard around her—which meant that he couldn’t really be afraid of her. The thought brought comfort to her bruised pride.
Os sighed, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. Each position he was in, he found himself breathing in Ela’s wildflower scent. Or he was brushing her leg with his, or his arm touched her shoulder—there was just no getting away from her.
Maybe telling her war stories would keep his mind off of her sweet pink lips.
Or her generous mouth surrendering to the onslaught of his heated kiss.
He touched the healed wound on his forehead and wondered if she’d bewitched him thoroughly—and if that was the truth, then why, please God, couldn’t he give in to her spell?
Honor.
He’d promised her father that she would come back safe. The same as when she’d left, complete with her virginity intact.
He cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “Battles aren’t romantic drivel. Not like the tales that are so popular in court right now.”
Her expressive green eyes waited for him to tell something better. The rain dripped against their tent. He relented.
“But aye, some battles are filled with courageous men. Men of valor. Honor. I’ll tell you something that they don’t write about in court.”
“Yea?” She leaned forward, her uncovered head a mass of curling red hair. A curtain that would cover them both if he … nay.
“It doesn’t matter how strong or brave a man is. There is always the specter of death riding pinion into battle with him. Minstrels don’t sing about it, and men don’t talk about it because there’s naught you can do to change it. I’ve known men to take a few minutes for prayers before battle, just as I’ve known men who charged into the fray without a thought to death, as if to acknowledge death was to let it in.”
“You say prayers, I would bet Henry on it.”
Henry chortled from his place on Ela’s lap.
“I don’t want Henry, thank you.” He eyed the weasel-polecat with disgust. “But you’re right. I prayed. It brought me comfort to speak to God before possibly meeting Him.”
“Was that a joke? From Osbert the Serious?” She reached over and poked his chest.
He smiled. “I’ve not had many reasons to jest. Unlike you, my lady Ela, who finds something amusing in everything.”
“Better to laugh than cry, my Gram always said.”
“Sir Percy wouldn’t agree. Actually, he wouldn’t approve of tears either.”
She sat back, tilting her head to the side. “How sad.”
“No. Sir Percy saved my life. I owe him much.”
“Now this sounds like an interesting story. Much better than death. Did he take you after your family died?”
Os hadn’t had someone interested in his life history—ever. Uncomfortable, he shrugged. “My family was dead. I lived by my wits for less than a year on the streets, down by the docks in Yarmouth. I tried to be a sailor, but the sea made me sick.”
He rubbed his belly as Ela laughed softly. “Poor boy.”
“Well, I stole what I could, but I was no good as a thief.”
“Even starving, you felt guilty taking bread? Oh, Osbert.” Ela clucked her teeth.
“I didn’t have the stealth needed to snatch a hot eel pie when the vendor had his back turned. Soon they all knew that I was desperate, and that made me a target for bullies. One night I lay down beneath the dock on the sand and dreamed that I would never wake up. But when I did, it was because Sir Percy had found me.”
Ela stayed quiet, just listening. It was nice, Os thought.
“He asked me if I was hungry, and I could only nod. I hadn’t spoken in so long a time, I was afraid I’d forgotten how. But he was kind. Fair. And he saw in me a chance to save an innocent soul. He had much he regretted from his youth, I think.”
Ela leaned forward and hugged him tight before sitting back on her heels. Her green eyes brimmed with tears. For him? For Sir Percy?
“For both of you,” she said, as if reading his thoughts again. “What things he might have done surely will be forgiven. You are an honorable man, one to be proud of, and he raised you. Where is he now?”
“Dead.” Osbert scratched his chin. “I saw to it that he was buried with dignity in the churchyard at St. George’s Church, inside Norwich’s city gates. I’ll show you, if you like.”
“I’d like that, very much.”
It was quiet for a while as they sat listening to the rain against the makeshift tent. Evening fell, and the last of the light faded away.
“I think we may have to spend the night here.” Os hated to break the comfortable silence, but he couldn’t bear to dwell on the death of his family anymore, and in the quiet, his mind wandered to his mother and brothers. He should have saved them all, even his father, but he’d been selfish, so sure that he was right. “You should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
“I’m not tired,” Ela said. “You sleep, and I’ll take the first watch.”
Os smiled in the dark. “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever met. You must have caused your parents many headaches.”
She made a snuffling noise, as if trying to hide her laugh. It was growing on him, the way she gave in to her emotions in a way he never could.
“Headaches? I am the perfect daughter. So long as you don’t mind your daughters exceptionally tall, with great flexibility, phenomenal eyesight, and yes, the ability to see people’s auras. Aye, ‘tis perfect they call me,” she chuckled. “Or didn’t you say that the villagers thought me fey? Silly peasants. I’m too tall to be a fairy.”
“What is an aura exactly? Is it a person’s spirit? Why can’t you see mine?” What if he didn’t have a spirit? What if I haven’t been forgiven for surviving when the rest of my family died?
“I don’t know,” she said. He heard her coo to Henry, and he wondered if she was going to change the subject. She didn’t. “I see a person’s … energy, I suppose. For example, when we met Hilda, she had a beautiful aura. Warm and rosy, and I knew that she would be compassionate and kind. Sal, she was a bustling bright yellow. Her son was a muted yellow. Hard workers, both of them.”
“What color is your aura?”
He heard her fussing with her hair, and his fingers itched to touch the red strands. “Silver.” She paused. “When I heal, I also see colors. My sister Celestia is the same.”
“She is the oldest, aye?”
“Yes. According to the family legend, only one healer is supposed to be born in each generation. That healer is supposed to be tall, red-haired, and green-eyed. Celestia is short and blond, and she has one green eye and one blue. She married her knight, Nicholas, and they’ve got a few children now. They have a keep, in the north, by the Scottish border. Galiana is so beautiful that she makes grown men cry. Her baby girls will no doubt do the same as they grow up.”
“But she can’t heal?”
“Nay, she has no healing power—but she has other gifts. Sometimes when she holds something, she can see details about the object or the object’s owner.” She hesitated, and he wondered what she wasn’t telling him.
“And then there is you.” A trio of witches. God help him.
“Don’t forget the twins! Ed and Ned. They are grand warriors, eager to make a name for themselves.”
“And you?” He waited with growing impatience.
“I am the puzzle in the family. Tall, red-haired, green-eyed, and with the ability to heal and see auras.” Her deep sigh reached his heart. But unlike her, he would no more reach across to offer a hug than he would willingly turn into a frog. “I shouldn’t be able to see colors, and heal, and be intuitive. Especially since I am thirdborn. I should have been … normal.”
“Mayhap that is a good thing?” If you were born a witch, why not be the most powerful witch in the family?
“‘Tis just that I am different than the legend in so many ways. I am plagued by nightmares. My grandmother Evianne said she’d never heard of such a thing either, and she knew everything about our history. If she was alive, she could help you find Boadicea’s spear for the earl.”
“I don’t understand why you are upset that you also got these … extra gifts.” He stumbled over the word she used.
“Because obviously Boadicea’s curse is just getting stronger. Soon, she will have us all caught in her love spell, and none of our family will have the freedom to choose whom they marry. And you know what is bad about that? I worry that, like me, others after me will be willing to give up their abilities rather than give up a life with children. Not everybody falls in love. And if we wed without it, we lose our gifts. Is that fair, I ask you?”
Uncertain, he made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat.
“Just so,” she said. “It isn’t fair. Our gifts will fade back into time, and there will come a line of women who won’t know what they might have had. ‘Tis shameful, but neither Andraste or Boadicea is listening to my plea.”
He didn’t want to offend her, not when she believed everything so … enthusiastically. “Would it be so bad, not being able to see people’s auras? You don’t see mine, and that’s not terrible, is it?”
Ela huffed. “I would hate to think that you thought my abilities were expendable. Losing them would make me as hobbled as poor Henry with his three legs. Would I survive? Aye. I am a strong woman. Would I laugh? St. Agnes help me, I would try. But it would be very, very hard.”
He was struck mute by the pain in her voice and by her acceptance of her fate, if she wagered on love and lost. Os found that they had more in common than he ever would have thought. He buried his emotions, and she laughed hers away. “I did not mean to sound condescending.”
The feel of her fingertips against his face startled him. “What are you doing?”
“Stay still. I am trying to see if I can ease the frown lines between your brows. You worry too much. You must have a constant headache.” Her touch found his jaw, and he clenched it tight before he moaned with pleasure.
Her hands were slightly warm and welcome in the chilled air. The rain had dropped the temperature, and though they were somewhat dry within their cozy cave, it was still cool.
Then her fingers traveled up his cheekbones, across the line of his nose. She gently massaged the space between his brows, and the last of the tension disappeared.
He fully expected the feel of her lips, so when she kissed him, he welcomed it. Joined just at the mouth, they lightly explored the texture and taste of one another. She pressed harder, wanting more, and he pulled back. “Nay.”
“‘Tis just a kiss,” she whispered.
“It is not, and you know it, my lady Ela. Between you and I, there is no such thing as just a kiss.”
She gave him another sample of her mouth. “I suppose not.”
“I promised your father that I would bring you back untouched.”
Her sigh was so huge that it shook the tent. “My father understands the dilemma I am in. If I choose to take a lover, then so be it.”
“A lover?” He coughed into his hand, uncomfortable. “I would not be a means to an end.”
“Why not?” She caressed his shoulders, her touch tempting.
“My honor demands that I protect your honor, even if you don’t want it.”
“My virginity does not equal my honor. I told you this.”
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but for her own good, he pushed her away. “Would your father agree? Or would he demand a marriage that I can’t, in good conscience, offer?”
Her sharp intake of breath caught him by surprise. Had he hurt her with his words? He thought back over what he’d said. “As you already made clear, I have no money and no land. And you are the daughter of a lord.”
“As if I would ever marry you!” He heard the hurt in her voice but didn’t understand it. “Be honest, Osbert. It’s because you’re worried in your warrior’s heart that I might snap my fingers and turn you into a mushroom.” Then she made a great show of curling up to rest.
He reminded himself that she was her most viciously amusing when she was cornered and feeling uncertain, but it didn’t help him sleep. He thought he may have just said something to cause her to hate him. He didn’t know what it was.
Ela wished that she could tear her own heart from her chest and toss it out to the rain. She’d douse the damnable spark Os caused and end the hurt he managed to inflict without even knowing he did it.
Was she wanton or immoral for wanting to kiss him? Her entire being cried out to be held in his arms. The tiniest flame of interest kept growing despite his displays of controlled temper and his annoying honor. Fate was the cruelest joker of all to put him in her path just when she’d made a bargain to give up her gifts. I could love him.
Her eyes drooped, and she gave in to the lull of sleep, hoping that she wouldn’t be sent in to fight the nightly battle of Boadicea against a Roman named Claudius.
Since she’d been a little girl, her head had been filled with images of Boadicea riding into battle, adorned with gold and silver. She drove a two-wheeled chariot—a mighty figure filled with rage.
In the dreams, she rode up in the front with her mother, while her sister rode a white horse next to the chariot.
The dreams never changed, and Boadicea always died at the Roman’s hand.