Barbara Leigh Read online

  “The same wind that blows for us fills his sails,” Rory reminded her. “If he has sent out a ship it, too, is dead in the water.”

  “I had not thought of that.” Serine smiled into Rory’s eyes. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe in him. She wanted it more than all else in the world. All else, save Hendrick.

  “Baneford’s emissary would not have known anything was amiss until he arrived for his audience this morning,” Rory said. “It is doubtful he would have the authority to follow, much less have the vessels immediately at hand.” His words were assuring and she relaxed, changing the subject to more mundane conversation.

  “Why would Baneford’s men want to follow?” Drojan directed his question to Old Ethyl. “Once their message is delivered to Sheffield, their duty is done. They care little by whom it is received. I’m sure Dame Margot will be able to do all that needs to be done.”

  “They will be angered when they learn that the Celt is gone,” Old Ethyl said quietly.

  A glance in Ethyl’s direction told Drojan that her concern was genuine. But he had met one of the men during his travels. They had shared bread and ale together while Drojan had ferreted out news of the man’s mission. For the life of him, he could not see the reason for such anxiety.

  “Perhaps we are speaking of different messengers. The men of whom I speak arrived at the gates seeking an audience with Lady Serine shortly before noon two days ago. They were told the lady was indisposed and unable to see them. They were in no great hurry, for the Lord of Sheffield was not expected to arrive for some weeks.”

  Had the women been so addled that they neglected to accept a message from their overlord? Had it truly been fear for Rory’s life that kept the messenger cooling his heels? Or did Serine know that her lord and husband had made his last Crusade?

  The one-eyed witch would know, and Drojan intended to draw her out without volunteering his own information. “Surely your lady received the messenger before her departure.”

  “Had the messenger been received, there would have been no departure,” Ethyl said flatly. “Baneford will not take lightly the loss of a prisoner. Nor will he take lightly the loss of the heir to the estate.”

  “The loss of a child will be of little importance to the overlord, I’ll wager. It is Sheffield’s grown sons who will inherit.”

  “Hah!” Old Ethyl all but growled. “I was right! You are a faker and a liar, else you would know how ridiculous you sound.”

  “Ridiculous or not, it is the way of the world. Men die and their grown sons inherit.”

  “Sheffield has no grown sons,” Ethyl informed him. “It is Hendrick who will inherit, and if you are less a fool than you seem you will say nothing until you are certain of your facts.”

  Her words did, indeed, silence him, for the abduction of the heir of an English estate was worth a man’s life, but the abduction of the lord himself was war.

  Drojan did not doubt but that he had come upon information that could change all that would happen over the next days. Somehow he must find the opportunity to speak privately to Rory. But that would have to wait until they reached Corvus Croft, for the small boat afforded little privacy and even when the eyes of the women were closed, their ears were open.

  “You may return to your home once Rory is safe in his own land,” he told her.

  “We will not go back until Serine has custody of her child, the heir of Sheffield. Even a one-eyed woman can see that, Drojan the Seer.” She sneered out his name, and he bristled at the implication that he had not known the child was also the heir.

  How could he have known? Drojan asked himself. Men the age of the Lord of Sheffield always had grown sons. Until this instance, it seemed.

  Much of his knowledge was gleaned from listening, and many of his predictions were but the culmination of his ability to sort out the facts and form the most likely conclusion to a particular situation. Only when he laid the Runes did he see things that no one else could know. Things like the unwarranted appearance of a woman with one eye who needed to be taken down a peg. And take her down he would.

  “I, too, am surprised,” he said smoothly. “As well informed as you pretend to be regarding Sheffield and its people, I would have thought you would have taken it upon yourself to determine the portent of the message from Baneford, rather than relying on hysterical gossip. If, in fact, you didn’t start the gossip and the hysteria yourself.”

  Ethyl’s hand closed over her bow, only to find that Drojan held it firm against the side of the boat with his foot. “I gave my lady the best report I had.” She all but snarled the words as she tugged at her bow.

  “As did I.” He released the bow as he spoke and she came to her feet quickly, the bow, as well as a nocked arrow, in her hands.

  The little boat swerved, causing Ethyl to lose her balance. Drojan caught her before she pitched over the side and they dropped into the bottom of the boat, the arrow skittering harmlessly away.

  Ethyl did not move. Her breath came in shallow gasps, though her heart beat wildly. She swallowed, trying to pull together her thoughts, for she was at a loss as to how to assess the emotions that surged through her body.

  She would not thank Drojan for his rescue, though she realized her impulsive action could have had dire consequences. Instead, she tried to hold steady her voice and still her leaping heart as she said, “Perhaps we should each rethink our opinions of each other’s abilities.”

  As Drojan released her, his blood quickened as it had not done in a decade, for the body that had fallen against his was strong and firm and resilient. So filled with life that he had been unable to stay his response, not as a seer but as a man.

  Before he could form a reply, the sail fluttered and Drojan scrambled for the tiller to turn the boat into the breeze.

  * * *

  A somber crowd lined the shore as the skiff approached the village. Serine strained her eyes in the hope of catching sight of Hendrick running across the green lawns with the other children. And though she recognized several youngsters, Hendrick was not among them.

  “Is this your village?” Serine clutched Rory’s arm. “Are you certain this is the right place?”

  As though in answer to her words, the villagers caught sight of Rory in the bow of the boat. A cheer went up and Rory got to his feet and waved to the throng.

  Now not only were the children running, but several men raced toward the castle, while women hiked up their skirts and scrambled after them, cries of joy coming from their throats.

  The boat was brought to shore by the willing hands of the villagers who waded out into the water. Rory was all but lifted from the vessel and passed from one exuberant hug to another as he made his way to the shore, where he was almost snatched from the ground by a man of near size and build.

  The resemblance told Serine this man must be the brother of whom Rory had spoken. She watched him closely and was pleased that his pleasure at finding Rory alive was all she could have hoped.

  “And who have you brought with you?” the man asked amid a second series of back poundings that would have felled a lesser man.

  “Serine saved my life.”

  Any other words Rory might have spoken were lost in the cheer that rose from the crowd. A husky lad easily swung Serine up into his arms and carried her the few feet between skiff and shore, leaving Drojan and Ethyl in the boat alone.

  As soon as Serine was placed on dry ground the group began moving toward the castle.

  Ethyl turned to Drojan and then measured the depth of the water with her eye. “Well, Seer, it looks as though we are left to fend for ourselves in getting to shore. A shame your countrymen think so little of you that they do not care if you drown.”

  Drojan understood that with the unexpected return of Rory the villagers were catapulted into celebration. Had Ethyl not spoken of their defection he would have thought little of it, but with her obvious disapproval it took on serious proportions.

  “I fear we will both
get wet,” he admitted. “In their haste to join the merriment they have forgotten their most elemental hospitality.”

  He swung over the side of the boat and sank to his waist in the water.

  “I do not intend to present myself to your village looking like a drowned rat,” Old Ethyl told him. “You will have to carry me.”

  Drojan blanched. “I have not the strength of the young,” he asserted.

  “Then get someone from the village.” She prodded his shoulder. “If you leave me here in the boat I will sail back to Sheffield and be damned to you, for when I return I won’t be alone.”

  Drojan did not think she could find her way back to England alone and return, but even with his powers of perception he could not be certain. And he believed that if the woman was not carried to the shore she would, indeed, set sail and there would be the very devil to pay. “Very well.” He sighed. “I will take you to the shore.”

  He dug his staff deep into the murky water to hold his balance as she perched on the side of the skiff. And so it was that Drojan reached the shores with Old Ethyl on his back, and somehow, from what he knew of the woman, he felt this act might well portend the demeanor of their future.

  * * *

  As they paraded through the village Serine took in the neat houses before passing into the area where the craftsmen sold their wares.

  Rory had not lied, it seemed, for the people that called out their greetings and paused in their work carried the sound of free men.

  Not that Serine had thought Rory would lie to her. Still, it seemed strange that these people would seem so bound together in joy and sorrow when they had but to leave to find a new life filled with all they lacked in Corvus Croft.

  Time and again Rory pulled himself from his brother’s grasp to stop and ruffle the hair of an apprentice or greet a craftsman and his wife.

  Perhaps she had been wrong about Rory, Serine mused. Perhaps he was not a lord of Corvus Croft and worth a ransom or a great boon. Yet the regard of the people for this man was impressive, and the affection between Rory and his brother not to be denied.

  “Well met!” the tailor called from the door of his shop. “‘Tis a fine apprentice ye have acquired for me. He learns quickly and makes me a proud and happy father.” The man beamed at a towheaded boy that Serine recognized as one of the Sheffield children.

  Her face lit with joy. The children had indeed been brought here. She smiled, ready to call out a greeting, but the boy looked uncomfortable and turned away, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  She scanned the crowd, ferreting out the familiar little faces that peered from doorways and windows and from behind the skirts of some of the village matrons. She longed to hold out her arms and take them all to her breast, but dared not. There was but one child she could take into her arms. One face that would bring the ultimate joy to her aching heart, and that face she did not see.

  What had they done with her Hendrick? He must be about somewhere? Surely nothing had happened to him? She positioned herself more closely to Rory and his brother as they entered the bailey, trying to catch the gist of their conversation and find the opportunity to ask the all-important question. But, in the end, she did not need to ask. For as they came to a halt in the great hall of the castle, Guthrie shouted for food, drink and his wife.

  “And the lad!” he ordered as the varlet sped away with his orders. “I kept the boy you favored the night of the raid. The one you sent early to the ship and who was rescued from its flames. I vowed to keep him as my own and give to him all that would have been yours had he been your own son.”

  Rory’s eyes met those of Serine. They did not need to speak to know that the Celt headman spoke of Serine’s child. “And how has he adjusted to his new home?” Rory asked without giving inference that the lad was the cause of great conflict between himself and the woman who had saved his life.

  “He is a wild one, he is,” Guthrie boasted. “Outspoken and set in his ways for one so young. You’ll find him a challenge, I vow, but well worth it.”

  “As my son and heir, I am given a free hand with him, am I not?” Rory asked, knowing that Serine hung on his every word.

  “You may do anything with the boy except break his spirit or take him back to his place of birth. Beyond that, you are welcome to teach him anything you like. Even my wife has taken a liking to the boy, so should you decide he is too much trouble I would be more than happy to keep him in my household. I will miss him sorely when he is gone, but not as much as I thought to miss you when I believed I would never see you again.” And Guthrie’s arm came down around his brother’s shoulder once more.

  As the men spoke, Serine had come to stand at Rory’s side. And, although the moment was informal, it was then Rory decided to reveal her true identity to his brother.

  “This is the Lady Serine.” Rory drew her forward. “It is through her skill and many hours of selfless attendance that I am alive.” Although there were times when he wondered if she hadn’t wished him dead. “She has come to ask a boon in return for my life.”

  In her colorless clothing Serine lacked the obvious symbols of status that would have proclaimed her a lady of rank far above a Celt overlord in a little village half a league from nowhere. She drew herself up to her full height, wishing Rory had given her time to prepare herself to more advantage. But of course, perhaps it was his plan to make her look as insignificant as possible so that her plea would be discounted before it was given.

  “I fear we have but little here in the way of riches,” Guthrie said thoughtfully, “but I will gladly pay what ransom I can for the return of my brother.”

  “I want no ransom,” Serine said with quiet dignity. “I want my son returned to me.”

  “Your son is here?” Guthrie looked to Rory for confirmation.

  “He was one of the children stolen in the raid,” Rory told him.

  In his euphoria at having his beloved brother returned to him Guthrie was prone to promise Serine any boon her heart desired, but at the end of the great hall he spied the dour countenance of Drojan. The man was water soaked, and his face resembled a prune. There was a warning in his expression, and even from the length of the room, Guthrie was inspired to hold his tongue and contain his gratitude.

  “Tell me his name and I will do all that I can to see that you are reunited,” Guthrie promised with diplomacy that surprised even himself.

  “My son is Hendrick, the heir to Sheffield.” Serine looked the man square in the eye and did not flinch when realization touched him.

  “I will send for my wife, Damask. Perhaps the child is with her.”

  Serine nodded her head. There was nothing more she could do that would save her honor and identify her through her aplomb as a woman of good blood. In her heart she wanted to drop to her knees and beg. In her mind she wanted to snatch up her son and flee aboard the little skiff that bobbed in the harbor. But she knew this could not be. She would stand like a puppet, waiting for her son, her beloved child, to enter the hall, and then she would wait again to see if he would acknowledge her, or turn away, as the children from her own village had done when she’d tried to meet their eyes.

  A gossamer woman lighted the shadows of the hall. Guthrie held out his hand and the sylph skimmed forward across the rushes, stirring the scent of cinnamon and cloves as she ran.

  Barely touching her husband’s hand, she curtsied low before turning toward her brother-in-law and throwing herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Rory, Rory, we thought you lost. Guthrie was beside himself. I doubt he ever allows you to fight again.”

  Rory lifted the shining being in his arms and whirled her around the floor as the castle folk cheered their merrymaking.

  Breathless, she regained her feet and tottered to the arm of her husband. “Fie on your brother, my lord. He is bad for me. He causes me to lose my breath and behave like a hoyden. I am shamed before the children.” Her gaze crept toward the hallway to the kitchens, and she held out her hand. “Bid my li
ttle lord to come to me,” she called.

  There was a pause and the sound of scuffling somewhere deep in the recesses of the scullery. A few moments later a well-dressed boy appeared. A hand urged him forward, but he moved willingly when he saw Guthrie and his wife. He wiped the cinnamon and honey from his chin, brushed off his sleeve and smiled.

  He had reached the middle of the floor when he took the time to survey the scene. His eyes fell first on Rory, and they narrowed in direct challenge. He had admiration for Guthrie and abject worship for Damask. He discounted the seer, who had taken his place with his superiors on the dais, but his mouth dropped open when he recognized the unique countenance of Old Ethyl. He took another step, wondering if he dared ask about the welfare of his mother, whom he hadn’t seen since she had fallen against the stairs of the keep at Sheffield that last, desperate night.

  Old Ethyl spoke not, but her eye, like the arrows she aimed, centered on a woman who stood but a few feet away. Her dress was of a drab wool, green in color, and her hair fell to her waist in a mahogany veil, but when he raised his eyes to her face there was no question that his mother had come to save him and return him to his true estate. Without thought to anyone else in the hall, he brushed past them all and flew into his mother’s arms.

  “I thought you dead!” His words were wrung from his heart, and the men who overheard them were moved to shame at his open admission.

  “And I thought you lost forever,” Serine said as she clutched him to her breast. “Do not fear. We will return to our home. They dare not deny me, for they know that they owe me more than they can ever repay.”

  Her eyes flashed across the others on the dais, and she openly dared them to deny her words. With her son at her side, Serine challenged the Celts—the ones she despised for their raid on her property, and the one she loved for his raid on her heart. She turned and faced Guthrie, the headman.

  “Hendrick is my son and heir to the Sheffield estates. Rory is your brother and, as I understand Celtic law, heir to all you possess until your lady wife delivers you a son. I have delivered your heir to you, hale and hearty, though I was forced to bring him from the jaws of death to do so. In the name of justice, I ask that you give me my son in return.”