“Do it now,” Hugh said. “I cannot. He would
not listen to me and I cannot blame him for that. But you can stop
him.”
“Yes.” She hurried after Giles, into the
darkness of an anteroom from which stairs wound upward. Above her
she heard Brice and Alda climbing toward Alda’s chamber at an upper
level of the keep. Alda was complaining about a cold draft.
Mirielle ran up the stairs, knowing she dared not call out to the
man pursuing the couple for if she did, Brice would hear her.
She caught up to Giles just before he reached
the landing where the steps opened onto the musicians’ gallery that
was built above one end of the great hall. The woolen curtain over
the entrance to the gallery had been drawn back so light from the
hall could illuminate this portion of the stairs, thus saving the
use of a torch. Above, Alda and Brice continued their climb.
“Sir Giles, wait, please.”
He heard her whisper and stopped, turning.
The bleak expression in his eyes reminded Mirielle of the mountains
of her native North Wales in wintertime, all bare and cold, hard as
the flint that was their chief component. She had seen men look
that way when they were about to erupt into violence. She did not
know why Giles was so angry, but she did know she had to deflect
his fury.
“Sir, I believe you are lost.” It was the
only thing Mirielle could think of to say that, in his present
mood, he would not dispute. “Your chamber lies on the other side of
the keep.”
“I was not seeking my chamber.” Giles drew a
deep breath. “Surely you know that your cousin Brice is acting
dishonorably. So is Lady Alda.”
It was exactly what Mirielle thought, but she
knew that she was unawakened to the sensual desires that could
drive men—and women—to foolish deeds. Perhaps, once aroused, those
desires were uncontrollable. In any case, she must forestall the
threat of violence against Brice.
“You do not understand,” she said.
“Would you care to explain it to me?” Giles
ground the words out from between clenched teeth.
He stepped onto the narrow balcony that was
the musician’s gallery and Mirielle, with a sigh of relief,
followed him. Below, in the great hall, the servants were clearing
the tables, snuffing the candles, dousing the extra torches that
had been lit during the meal and were no longer needed. The
men-at-arms who slept in the hall were finding their places. Even
the dogs were settling down for the night. Hugh had disappeared. As
more and more torches were put out the gallery grew shadowed,
emphasizing its privacy.
“Well?” Giles’s eyes gleamed in the half
light. “Your explanation of your cousin’s behavior, if you please,
Lady Mirielle.”
“Brice and Lady Alda are very distant cousins
by marriage,” she began.
“And clearly also more than friends,” Giles
snapped.
“This is not your affair,” Mirielle said.
“No, it is theirs. A shameful affair. Tell me
about it.”
Ordinarily, Mirielle would not have made any
explanation for Brice’s actions to someone who was a stranger. But
Hugh had bidden her stop Giles before he caused trouble. If she
kept talking Giles would stay with her, rather than rushing up the
stairs to a confrontation with Brice that could only result in
violence and, probably, bloodshed.
“Lady Alda was only thirteen years old when
she was married to Gavin of Wroxley,” Mirielle said. “She bore a
son when she was but fourteen and she was with child again the next
year when her husband went off to the Holy Land on crusade. Alda
was left here at Wroxley with no companions save for servants and
her father-in-law, who by all reports was a fierce old warrior, not
a person inclined to humor a frightened young girl.”
“Say rather, a foolish girl, who cared only
for her own comforts.” Giles’s voice was harsh. “Other wives have
remained at home, directing the welfare of their castles or manor
houses, recalling always their duties to husband and children.
Other wives, however young and frightened, have been faithful.”
“Sir Giles, I tell you again, this is not
your concern. Alda does not know if her husband is alive or dead.
She has had no word of him for five years. In January a year ago,
when old Lord Udo and his seneschal died within a week of each
other, Alda begged Brice to come to Wroxley to act as seneschal
because she could not hold the castle by herself and she wanted
someone she could trust in that post. Brice went to court and
formally applied to King Henry for approval. That approval was
granted, to the great benefit of Wroxley, which now has a firm,
manly hand in control of its lands and people.
“The castle’s defenses have been strengthened
until no one would dare to attack us. Once there were robbers in
the forest who preyed on villeins and travelers alike; now they are
gone, captured and punished, or fled far away. When Brice and I
first came here, the houses in the village were in a sad state.
Under Brice they have been rebuilt. New fields have been brought
under cultivation. The castle itself is better managed. Stores of
extra food have been laid by in case of famine. In spite of
continual bad weather over the past few years, no one on these
lands starves now. The people are remarkably healthy. In the winter
just past, there were not even any serious illnesses.”
“These are matters usually attended to by the
lady of the castle, including the defenses, the robbers, and the
clearing of the fields, all of which a woman can order in the
absence of her husband,” Giles interrupted her list of
improvements. “Left to herself, Lady Alda would have done none of
what you describe.”
“You do not know Alda. Therefore, you cannot
say what she would or would not have done.”
“I am not a fool, Mirielle. I think much of
the good done here at Wroxley in the last year has been done by
your instigation. Nor, from what I have seen of her, do I imagine
that Lady Alda has ever thanked you for your efforts.”
This was too much. Giles’s words hit too
close to home. While she valued his recognition of all she had
done, still she could not allow him to speak so slightingly of
Alda. Mirielle drew herself up, gathering her courage,
concentrating her will. She looked directly into Giles’s eyes and
lifted her left hand to make a gesture.
Giles caught her wrist, twisting her arm
behind her and pulling her against him. His eyes were blue as the
sky, and as boundless. She could not take her gaze from Giles’s
eyes.
“Stop it!” He commanded. “Play none of your
conjurer’s tricks on me, lady. I recognize them, so they can have
no effect on me.”
“You are not ill,” she whispered, too deeply
shaken by his hard embrace to pretend that she did not understand
what he meant. “You have suffered wounds in the past, but they are
well healed. Why do you pretend to be weak and unable to travel any
farther? Who are you? Why have you come to Wroxley?”
“A man whose wounds have healed may still
bear scars that ache,” he said. “Perhaps it is my scars that bring
me here.”
“You would do well to leave in the morning,”
she told him, “for if you stay, I will tell my cousin Brice that
you have come for some nefarious purpose.”
“You have no proof to back such an
accusation.” His arms tightened around her, making her even more
aware of his masculine strength.
“I need only tell Brice that you have laid
hands on me. My word will be all the proof he will need.” She could
not bear to think what Brice would do if she carried out her
threat, but Giles could not know that. She expected him to let her
go at once. He did not.
“Ah, well,” he said, “if I am to be tortured
and hanged at your accusation, then, my lady, let it be for good
cause.” The pressure of his arms shifted subtly, so that Mirielle
was held in a gentler manner, though still securely.
“What are you doing?” Both of her hands were
now free. She could have fought him, could have pushed against his
shoulders or his chest. She could have called for help from the
men-at-arms below in the hall. She did none of those things.
Instead, she stood quietly while Giles, a stranger to her and
perhaps a villain, lowered his mouth towards hers.
Mirielle trembled, wanting the kiss she knew
was coming, aching for it. Untouched and innocent though she was,
still she desired Giles’s kiss. He had a beautiful mouth, the lips
firmly molded and tempting. Those lips parted a little, and moved
closer.
And then, unexpectedly, he released her,
holding her at arm’s length, steadying her, for without his support
surely she would have crumpled to the floor in shock at the abrupt
change that had come over him.
“On the other hand,” he said, “you may be
right. Perhaps I should go. Will you stand on the battlements and
wave your scarf in farewell to me, Lady Mirielle? Will you give me
a ribbon to wear on my sleeve in memory of you?”
She could not answer him for fear she would
burst into tears. She turned from him and fled the musicians’
gallery, running down the stairs toward the one place where she
knew she would be safe and undisturbed.
Though she did not know it, Mirielle left
behind a man who was every bit as confused as she. He had come to
Wroxley prepared to meet danger and dark magic and in the knowledge
that he could be recognized as no pilgrim, in which case his true
mission at the castle might then be discovered. He was ready to
face imprisonment and even death if that was required in order for
him to uncover the truth he sought.
Prepared for deceit and violence, he had not
expected to lose his heart in an instant, nor to be perfectly
certain that the loss was not due to any magic other than the
discovery of the one woman who could fulfill the long-repressed
desires of his lonely heart. Clothed in dignity and innocence
Mirielle had walked into the great hall and looked at him with a
rueful smile, accepting that disguise was no longer possible, and
he had seen in her eyes all the honesty and goodness he had always
wanted in his mate.
He could only marvel at the ironic turn his
life had just taken. Scornfully rejected in his youth, when all he
had wanted was the chance to prove his love and to woo his beloved,
in the last dozen years since that rejection he had sternly refused
to allow himself to love again. Yet here, in the most unlikely and
treacherous of places, love had found him despite his firm
intentions against it and he knew in his innermost soul that this
new love would never release him from its tender and
all-encompassing embrace.
He dared not tell Mirielle of his feelings.
It would be too dangerous for her and he would not expose her to
the chance of harm if he could avoid doing so. He wished he could
send her to some safe place and keep her there until he was
finished with what he had come to do. At the same time, he knew
Mirielle must remain at the castle. He also knew that, when she was
aware of the full truth of his presence there, she might hate him
for using her, for lying to her and perhaps destroying her cousin,
Brice.
But he was bound to continue what he had
begun. It was his duty to see the task through to the end, for
other lives than his and Mirielle’s depended on his actions. The
very existence of Wroxley depended on him.
The essence of all art is to conceal art.
Gerald of Wales
The Description of Wales.
Mirielle’s workroom, the place that was her
private sanctuary, was located in a quiet part of the keep. The
walls were lined with wooden shelves to hold the supplies and the
vessels necessary to her work. Herbs were hung from the rafters to
dry above the oak worktable. A single, shuttered window opened onto
the inner bailey to provide light during the daytime hours.
With Brice’s permission, Ewain the blacksmith
had seen to the building of the low, square furnace that was tucked
into one corner. Though untutored in Mirielle’s skills, because of
his own work with metals Ewain understood her requirements and
Mirielle was well pleased with the furnace, which served several
purposes. It kept the room warm, so the herbs dried quickly and
evenly. The flat, waist-high top of the furnace provided a hot
surface when Mirielle was making certain herbal preparations that
required heat. And there was space on the top surface for the
athanor she used when she undertook other, more esoteric work.
There were only two books and one scroll in
the room and these Mirielle kept in a box for safety when she was
not using them. Having studied those written materials frequently,
she knew them almost by heart. With the scroll and the books as her
guides Mirielle had gone on to create her own experiments with
herbs and with the few metals she was able to acquire with the
blacksmith’s help. She had become expert in making herbal
medicines, though her other projects were not always so
successful.
The castle folk valued Mirielle’s abilities
as chatelaine and healer and they were grateful for her influence
over Brice, which she used to encourage him to improve living
conditions on Wroxley lands. Those same folk were more than a bit
wary of the arts Mirielle practiced in her workroom and so they
kept away from it. Being well aware that some of her preparations
could do more harm than good if they should fall into careless
hands, Mirielle used a special latch she had devised to keep the
workroom door securely closed when she was not there.
Reaching the door after her flight from
Giles, Mirielle found the latch untouched since she had secured it
earlier in the day. Minn sat beside the door, waiting for her.
There was no one about to see Mirielle and her cat enter the unlit
workroom and thus no one to hear her exclamation of surprise when
she realized she was not the only person present.