Barbara Leigh Read online

  “Everyone is asking about Rory,” Hendrick told his mother as he watched her fuss about her room. “Lord Guthrie was quite concerned when neither of you appeared at the evening meal. Even Drojan the seer seemed concerned, though it was hard to tell, for he was with Old Ethyl and had little time for anyone else.”

  The lad noticed the bright color in his mother’s cheeks, unaware it was from the memory of the previous night when Serine had satiated herself in the loving exploration of Rory’s delectable body.

  “I’m sure Rory will be able to join his brother today. He seems greatly recovered. There is no need for you to stay with me.” Serine smiled as she noted the tiny frown of concern on her son’s face. “Why don’t you go down and watch the jugglers? Perchance there will even be a dancing bear. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Hendrick cared little for the antics of dancing bears. They were usually mangy, smelly creatures with little enthusiasm who must have their feet and legs prodded in order for them to perform. Far better to watch the men. Perhaps, without Rory and his mother to keep watch over him, Hendrick might be able to convince Guthrie that he should be allowed to try his hand at some of the simpler games.

  He had almost reached the door when he remembered the rest of his reason for coming to his mother’s room. “There was a man who asked for you,” Hendrick told her. “He said he traveled with a friend from Sheffield and wanted to be assured of your safety.”

  Serine’s heart sank. “What man? What did he look like?”

  Hendrick shrugged. “He said he’d been in Sheffield when Drojan was there and brought a message for the seer from Dame Margot.”

  “Dame Margot?” Serine repeated like a simpleton. “What would Margot want with the seer?”

  “Something about reading the Runes. Anyway, the man is called Short Will and he will be at the games should you wish to speak to him.”

  “I do wish to speak to him,” Serine said forcefully.

  “Then I will tell him when I see him.” Hendrick did not give his mother time to object as he fled the room and ran toward the sound of the day’s activities.

  * * *

  Even Rory’s love-warm kisses and promises of more erotic delights could not entice Serine back into his bed. He finally gave up and agreed to meet her at the gaming. It seemed odd to him that she would be so anxious to join the others, but he had never been one to understand the ways of women and cast the thought aside as he readied himself for the day.

  A quick glance from the window told him that Serine was with Old Ethyl in the bailey below. Rory reminded himself that he must find a way to apprise Old Ethyl of her duties should it be that Drojan had not yet done. He also ought to congratulate her, as Serine must surely be doing.

  Serine did congratulate Ethyl during their first moments together. That done, their conversation became intense.

  “Hendrick says there is a man here who wishes to see me,” Serine said in a hushed voice, a false smile on her face.

  “The man who wishes to see you is Ellis, the alewife’s husband.”

  “He was on crusade,” Serine exclaimed. “What is he doing here?”

  “I just told you!” Ethyl did not try to hide the impatience in her voice. “The man has a message for you.”

  “Hendrick did not recognize him. He said the message was for Drojan and had something to do with the casting of the Runes.”

  “If you believe every story you hear you are a bigger fool than you seem.” Ethyl whipped the words at her mistress.

  “I am no fool.” Serine glared at the older woman.

  “Then try to keep from acting like one,” Ethyl told her. “Taking a supposedly wounded man to your apartments and staying with him throughout the day and night does nothing to enhance your reputation. Now, you go toward the games and I will go toward the vending tents. Perhaps we will see Ellis or the man who accompanied him here and learn what it is they truly want.”

  Serine nodded her head. “You are right, Ethyl. Perhaps we will.”

  The women went their separate ways, but it was Serine who went sailing around the corner of one of the viewing pavilions and smacked into Ellis, the alewife’s husband.

  “Lady Serine!” he gasped. “I thought never to find you in this maze of people.”

  “Ellis? Is it really you? Where is Hildegard, and how did you find this place?”

  “Dame Margot sent me with Short Will to find you.” Short Will popped out from behind the huge soldier and pulled his forelock in deference to the lady. “Short Will had run across the seer, Drojan, in his travels and knew where to find him. I came with him, bringing a message of great import to you, m’lady.”

  “And what is this message?” Serine asked carefully.

  “I have the paper here.” Ellis fumbled through his clothing and came out with a small oilcloth pouch. “I do not know what is in the packet, m’lady, and that’s the truth, but your lord husband perished in the Crusades. His body has been brought to Sheffield and Dame Margot has given him right and proper burial. M’lady, you must return to Sheffield as quick as possible. It takes a strong hand to rule a manor. And your voice is the only one the serfs will hear.”

  “I will make my formal petition to Lord Guthrie,” Serine promised. “Stay out of sight. Blend in with the crowds and I will get word to you as quickly as possible.”

  Her heart was pounding loudly as she hurried down the path toward the viewing pavilion, the packet containing the note tucked away in her sleeve. For a few precious hours she had thought perhaps she would find a way to stay with Rory and raise Hendrick in Corvus Croft for a while before returning to Sheffield. No matter how she loved her land, she loved Rory more. The thought of leaving him tore at her heart. It was loyalty, not love, that caused the tumult in her breast. Loyalty to her land, to her heritage and the heritage of her son. Loyalty fighting the love for the man who had stolen both her son and her heart.

  But leave him she must. It was for Hendrick’s freedom that she had followed Rory to Corvus Croft, and she knew she must return her son to his rightful estate despite her aching heart.

  The thought of leaving was almost more than she could bear. But bear it she must, for she knew that it was mandatory she lay her plea before Guthrie without wavering in her premise. She could not risk allowing anyone to know that she did not want to go. She had just discovered what it was to know the glory of loving and being loved, and there was every reason in the world for her to stay—for Rory was every reason in her world. She dared not think of leaving him for the pain.

  She looked around and saw Rory talking to his brother. Steeling herself, Serine started toward them.

  * * *

  “You look well, brother,” Guthrie observed. “It seems your lady knows the way to a man’s recovery, and perchance to a man’s heart, as well.”

  Rory was reluctant to admit the extent to which his brother was correct, but he could not hide the fact that Guthrie’s words rang true.

  “To me, Serine is all that is good,” Rory admitted. “I hope you were not too concerned when you bested me yesterday.”

  Guthrie laughed and clapped his brother’s shoulder. “I was worried at first, then it occurred to me that I had not dealt you a blow strong enough to warrant such a fall. When I saw Serine leap from the stands and run toward you, I decided to leave you to your own devices. I take it I made the right choice.”

  “Absolutely,” Rory concurred.

  Before he could say more, Serine was at his side. He welcomed her with a smile. The smile faded when she spoke.

  “My lord Guthrie, I have waited these long days for the opportunity to have my request formally heard. I feel I have been overly patient. Could you not grant me a hearing this afternoon?”

  Guthrie stared at the woman in disbelief. From his brother’s demeanor he had assumed that she was willing to forget her quest and remain in Corvus Croft without further protest. A glance in Rory’s direction told him that the younger man had thought the same. The s
udden sadness on the face of the brother who had endured so much tragedy in his life made Guthrie realize that Serine’s request must be considered and a ruling given.

  “Very well, then, I will call the council together and we will consider your request, Lady Serine. Be ready to present your case this afternoon.” He then turned to his brother. “If you have anything either for or against the lady’s plea I will hear it at that time.” He turned his back on the couple and his attention to the games that had again started, but his mind mulled over what could have gone so suddenly wrong between Rory and the woman he so obviously loved.

  * * *

  The evening shadows fell across the peaceful countryside. The birds sang out their final farewell to the day, but Serine did not hear them. She stared blindly into the setting sun.

  She had been eloquent in her plea. She could not have been more persuasive in her own behalf, and, in truth, Rory had not hindered her cause. Nor had he encouraged the council in her behalf. He had answered their questions tersely and without elaboration, saying only that Serine had nursed him tirelessly and most surely saved his life after he was wounded during the raid.

  To give him credit, he had not said that Old Ethyl had shot the arrow, though he knew it to be true. And Old Ethyl had not volunteered the information, which in itself was amazing.

  In the end it had made no difference. The council had ruled that Serine would not be allowed to take her son from Corvus Croft. It had been then she had made her fatal mistake.

  “You cannot keep Hendrick here.” The words burst from her lips without hesitation or thought. “He is the Lord of Sheffield and if he is not returned to his estate at once it will mean war. You can hold him for ransom, but you cannot hold him as your captive. My son is a lord of England.”

  “Your son is but heir to Sheffield, Lady, and—” Guthrie tried to argue before Serine cut him off.

  “My husband is dead. It is Hendrick who is lord of Sheffield Manor and all the rest of his father’s holdings. I demand that he be returned to his rightful estate.”

  Rory had grabbed her then. “Serine, think what you say. It will do you no good to lie about your situation. Guthrie is well aware that you have a husband, living and on crusade.”

  She had stared defiantly into his eyes. “My husband is dead and my son is Lord of Sheffield.”

  Guthrie came to stand between them. “It matters little. You would never have found Hendrick had it not been that Drojan brought you to our village. By the time your son’s whereabouts are discovered, he will be a man grown, and it will be for him to decide whether or not he wishes to claim his estate in England or remain here in Corvus Croft.” He returned to his seat and conferred with the council again before once more addressing Serine.

  “You are welcome to remain here with your son,” the headman said. “But you will not be allowed to leave Corvus Croft with Hendrick, on pain of death.”

  * * *

  Serine shook herself back to the present. Night had all but fallen and twilight crept across the land. She felt betrayed by both Rory and the council. When Rory found her, her mood was as dark as the advancing shadows.

  He came to a stop at her side and waited for her to speak.

  “Your people care more for their partying than they do for you,” she said bitterly. “They would as soon you had died, and perhaps they would have found a reason to celebrate that, too.”

  “Serine, there was no reason to lie about Hendrick’s estate. Surely you knew I had told Guthrie all that I knew about you.”

  “Sheffield is mine. It is of my blood and of my family, not Elreath’s. And while all Elreath’s holdings now belong to Hendrick, it is Sheffield that is most important to me.”

  “You denied me last night because of your husband and today you tell me the man is dead. Have you had a vision? Or are you keeping something from me?”

  He tried to look into her eyes, but Serine evaded his gaze and clutched the slit in her sleeve where the missive was concealed. She hated concealing anything from Rory, but when he had not proclaimed himself her ally during the meeting of the council, he had aligned himself with her enemies.

  “I did what I felt I had to do to obtain the release of my son,” she said without meeting his eyes. “I would do it again. I will do whatever is necessary to gain my son’s freedom and protect his estate.”

  “Even if it means staying here with him until he reaches his majority?” Rory challenged.

  “It won’t come to that,” Serine said flatly as she brushed past him and returned to her rooms.

  The thought, a brief glimmer of hope, had come to her that the existence of a living husband no longer kept her from Rory’s bed. She was free to know the full measure of his love. Now it was anger and distrust that formed a barrier between them, more devastating even than her marriage vows had been.

  For Rory was not satisfied with her answers and her sudden change in demeanor. He would have sworn that she spoke truth the night before when she had bared her soul as well as her lovely body to him. And if this was so, something had happened after she had left.

  * * *

  Serine awoke to hear someone banging on the door. Before she could move, Hendrick ran forward to the door of the apartment they shared, while Ethyl watched from the doorway of her room.

  “We have come for the archer,” the men declared as they filled the doorway.

  Serine placed herself between the excited men and her liege woman. “Why do you seek Ethyl?” she demanded.

  “We have discovered a stranger in our midst. It is for the archer to prove whether the man is innocent or guilty of being a spy.”

  Serine looked from the men to Ethyl. She had told Ethyl of her meeting with Ellis, how she had blurted out the truth of the situation in Sheffield when the council denied her request. And how Rory had looked at her with distrust, as if he knew she wasn’t telling him the truth. But how could she tell him what was true and endanger one of her serfs?

  Now, however, it seemed a moot point. From what the men said, Ellis had been discovered, and most likely his cohort with him. For some reason Serine had yet to understand, the people of Corvus Croft had come to fetch Ethyl.

  Ethyl disappeared into her room, only to emerge a few minutes later totally transformed.

  She had split the heavy material of her skirt down the middle and bound it about her legs with leather thongs. Her smock had been discarded and her arms were bare. They looked strong and sturdy. Not the aged flesh of an old woman at all, Serine thought as she watched Ethyl take up her bow and arrows and join the men as they made their way to the village.

  Serine followed behind the group, Hendrick close beside her. When they reached the place where the stranger was being held, she saw that Rory was already present, as was Drojan.

  She recognized Ellis immediately. He did not acknowledge her presence, but his eyes rolled with fear, as he knew not what fate awaited him.

  Ellis stood near a wall of tightly packed straw and daub. The man looked as though he would bolt and run, but listened when Guthrie spoke.

  “This man has been found within our village. He is a stranger and will not tell from whence he has come. The council has ruled that he must face the arrows of truth and summoned the village archer for that purpose.” He stepped back and turned to Ethyl. “Do you understand what you must do?” he asked quietly.

  “I understand,” Ethyl replied firmly.

  “Very well.” Guthrie nodded. “Whenever you are ready.”

  “She’s not going to kill him, is she?” Hendrick’s voice piped up over the mumblings of the crowd.

  Serine tried to silence her son, but it was Rory who explained to them both.

  “The archer will shoot six arrows outlining the accused man. If he is innocent of any crime he will come away unscathed, for the archer is our champion and we are assured of her skill. The man must stand perfectly still. If he flinches he must take the consequences, if he flees he will be killed.”

  �
�Oh,” Hendrick and his mother said in unison.

  “Why does he wear a cloak?” Serine asked. “Doesn’t that make him a more difficult target?”

  “The cloak is symbolic,” Drojan answered. “It indicates that his intentions are hidden by a cloak of secrecy and the archer must pierce through that secrecy and strike as close as possible, pinning the bulky cloak to the wall without seriously injuring the accused.”

  “It sounds barbaric,” Serine gasped.

  “It is barbaric,” Drojan conceded. “It is also effective and has saved many a brave man’s life. Here in Corvus Croft we live in constant danger from those who would conquer us from both land and sea. We have only our instinct to guide us. The village archer is one of the most valuable weapons in ferreting out those who seek our demise.”

  “I only hope Ethyl will be able to come up to your expectations,” Serine said.

  “I would stake my life on her ability,” Drojan returned, unaware that before the sun set he would be asked to do just that.

  * * *

  Ellis glared at the target wall. He understood that he must stand still and that the village archer would place arrows as close as possible without causing undue harm. Ellis was a brave man, having soldiered through two Crusades and many local skirmishes, minor wars and disputes in Sheffield. He did not look forward to standing as target, but knew it was the only way to prove his innocence. He vowed to stand his ground.

  Guards had placed a voluminous hooded cloak about his shoulders and shoved him flat against the wall. The hood covered the better part of his face. He welcomed the shelter, for it blocked his vision; he felt it best that he not be able to see too clearly, but could not help but peer through the narrow opening at the archer who was taking up the bow.

  His mouth dropped open. This was no ordinary archer. This one-eyed creature was more than vaguely familiar. He lifted his head and brushed back the hood, his mouth still agape, his heart pounding in his throat and banging loudly into his head. He uttered a prayer, closed his eyes and looked again, but there was no mistake. No two alike were on the face of the earth. The archer who would hold his life in her hands was Old Ethyl, the cranky crone from Sheffield.