Lady Knight (9 page)

Cicely’s eyes widened and she hesitated, then tentatively slipped her hand into
the stream.

Aveline closed her eyes. She could hear Cicely’s breathing and feel the girl’s
hand trembling in her grasp, but concentrated on the chilliness within her hand
and arm, and the firmness of the ground beneath her legs. She reached out to the
primeval power flowing around and through the grove and world. She opened
herself to it. She invited it to coalesce within her. The edges of herself
blurred and the coldness crept down her arm and spread into her chest.
Something cool clutched her heart. Aveline gasped, but didn’t let it break her
concentration. She had felt this touch of the Goddess before. The ground beneath
her rippled as if giant roots burrowed beneath the grass.

Cicely shrieked and jerked. Aveline held the girl’s hand clamped between hers.
A jolt hammered up from the ground and a searing iciness pulled at Aveline
through the contact with Cicely. The shadow in Aveline’s chest thrust outwards
to meld with the rest of creation. Her body spasmed. Her head was flung back.
Cicely’s scream came from afar. The shadow swallowed Aveline’s senses.

When Aveline grew aware of herself again, she sat slumped with her chin on her
chest. She panted. But she was whole and fully within her own body. She heard
whimpering.

Aveline’s body ached as she straightened and lifted her head. Cicely looked
terrified. Aveline’s hands, locked in a claw-like rictus, still held the girl
and the brooch.

“You can remove your hand from the water,” Aveline said. Cicely yanked her hand
out.

Aveline forced her fingers to move. She peeled her hands apart. Cicely snatched
her hand away and protectively clutched it to her bosom. Aveline looked down at
the brooch she held. The pin had driven into her palm. She gritted her teeth and
tugged it loose. Blood welled from the puncture.

“Here.” Aveline offered the brooch. “Keep it safe and wrapped in silk. Do not
wear it again until you are alone with your husband.” Cicely looked more scared
than ever she might at the prospect of defloration by a stranger. She stared
wide-eyed at the brooch, seeming unsure whether to regard it as precious or
venomous.

“You have what you asked for,” Aveline said. “Now, you must leave me.”

“Th-thank you, Eminence. I don’t know how to repay you. Should… should I promise
the Lady of Mercy and Healing that I’ll pledge my second-born daughter to her
service?”

Aveline suppressed a weary smile. “Let us agree, for now, that you owe. We can
determine an appropriate payment later.”

Riannon guided her horse through the press of grooms, squires, clerks, women,
and horses. Barely a square foot of the ground of the enormous expanse of the
bailey of Sadiston Castle stood bare of a person or animal. Half of the wooden
buildings inside the grey stone walls looked of recent erection, and they
further limited the space. Riannon’s memory was of a space vast enough to hold
jousts. Today, people had to squeeze out of the path of her mount.

Riannon looked up at the tall round tower at the northeastern corner of the
walls. This was where Aveline said Lord and Lady Northmarch lodged. Riannon
dismounted, passed her reins to Alan and told him to wait. She ignored his
surprise at being left behind. Had Riannon her way, she would have no witness to
her meeting with her sister.

Riannon ignored the second looks and stares as she stepped inside the tower and
worked her way through a crowd of messengers, clerks, petitioners, and
hangers-on. One man wearing the green and black livery of the Earl of Northmarch
broke off a conversation at her approach. His gaze held no recognition. She had
lived barely a year in her sister’s household before her father disowned Riannon
and she had escaped. No doubt, though, the servants still circulated gossip
about the countess’s sister. But it might be that this man simply reacted to the
distinctive height and colouring which marked so many of her family.

“A good day to you, sir,” he said. “I’m one of lady Northmarch’s clerks. How may
I help you?”

“I would see the lady,” Riannon said.

He bowed. “I’ll send a message to her. What name shall I give?”

“Riannon of Gast.” She heard herself hesitate before she claimed a relationship
that she did not know if Joan still acknowledged. “I’m her sister.”

His eyes widened as he stared up at her. She saw the familiar disbelief not
completely dissolve into astonishment. She also grew aware of a sudden hush and
watchfulness in the chamber.

The clerk quickly regained possession of himself and dispatched a page boy at a
run. He himself escorted Riannon up the curving stairs to a quieter and
luxuriously appointed upper chamber. The half dozen people in the chamber broke
off their conversations to stare. Riannon ignored them. She refused the clerk’s
offer of wine.

Hangings covered the walls and the rushes strewn on the floor were fresh. The
chests and bench bore cushions. As Riannon turned, her fingers found the hilt of
her sword and curled around it for unthinking reassurance. She strode to the
window. Woods stretched away from the base of the castle hill to the north and
west. The river curved through it. Part of the land belonged to the huge grove
house on the northern fringe of the city.

She tried to remember her sister on an occasion before that last time. She
failed. Her cheek all but stung with the memory of Joan’s slap. She had every
right to be angry and disappointed with Riannon. And to feel betrayed. Joan had
tried to shield Riannon and return her to a more conventional path, one that
their father would find acceptable. Joan was not to blame for what Riannon had
done or had become. Yet their father had cast out Joan as well. Riannon did not
know how to atone for that.

“Dear gods. Nonnie?”

Riannon turned. The well-dressed woman in the doorway should have looked
magisterial save she still held her skirts from hurrying down stairs. Riannon
looked past the greying hair and more wellfleshed frame to see the sister of her
memories. With recognition, Riannon knew a stab of fear. Not for the negligible
hurt of another slap to the face, but for the repudiation it enacted.

“It
is
you,” Joan said. “I do not think even now I believe it, though I look
upon you.”

Joan started across the chamber. Riannon knelt.

“Please rise,” Joan said. “I would look at you.”

“There is a matter betwixt us that I would settle,” Riannon said. “Name your
penance.”

Riannon heard an intake of breath and muttering from the side of the room.

“Leave us,” Joan said.

Feet scuffed the rushes and a door shut.

“I must be in my dotage,” Joan said, “for my wits deserted me utterly when
Walter said you waited upon me. I should’ve had you brought upstairs rather than
hurtle down here. Nonnie, you owe me nothing. Save, perhaps, the chance to look
at you properly. Please rise.”

Riannon reluctantly stood. “I betrayed your trust.”

“That you did. I cannot pretend that I wasn’t hurt and angry. But that was the
better part of ten years ago. I’ve long since concluded that it was not nearly
good enough cause for me to lose my only sister.”

Joan lifted a hand to Riannon’s face. Riannon fought the urge to turn her
scarred cheek out of reach.

“Was it worth it, Nonnie?”

“I am what I am.”

Joan nodded and let her hand fall. “I didn’t understand that. Nor do I think I
truly do now.”

Riannon stood for Joan’s open scrutiny. Part of her could not believe in her
reprieve. Part of her did not want to be forgiven so lightly.

“It was my fault that our father disinherited you,” Riannon said.

“You know that he died the winter before last? He spent the last months of his
life in great pain and unable to walk. He sent for me and asked my forgiveness.”

Riannon did not ask if he had extended his deathbed remorse to herself. He had
declared her dead to him eight years ago.

Joan took one of Riannon’s hands and clasped it to her bosom. “I’m still having
trouble crediting the evidence of my eyes and hands. I’ve lost count of the
skirts I’ve worn thin at the knees praying that you were well and would come
home. Or that you’d send me some message. I’ve been waiting for word of you for
years. How is it that you come now? I confess that Henry’s wedding seems an
unlikely event. I do not complain if it is so, though you must have changed
greatly if you now have a taste for such grand festivities.”

Riannon answered Joan’s smile with a grin. She received a shock when she noticed
the lines on her sister’s face. Joan must now be older than their mother had
been when she died giving birth to Riannon.

“What does bring you back?” Joan said.

“I travelled with cousin Aveline.”

Joan didn’t hide her surprise. “By choice?”

“I’m bound in service to the Order of the Goddess.”

“In truth? I’ve not heard of such a thing. Though, if any knight were to serve
the order, who more fitting could there be than you?”

The door opened. The man who walked in was a familiar looking stranger standing
eye to eye with Riannon. He returned her stare with open and amused surprise.
He wore a jaunty cap over short-cropped black hair. A neatly trimmed black beard
framed his smile. His blue overtunic formed a fashionably gaudy contrast to a
green tunic and red hose.

“Brother Aymer?” he said. “No, you cannot be him, for he is as fat as a
farrowing sow and as dour as his prayer books. But, unless my eyes deceive me,
you must be one of the brood. I offer my commiserations.”

Joan cast an indulgent smile at him. “Nonnie, you may not remember this lad o’
light and peacock. Guy, meet our sister Riannon.”

“Sister?” He offered Riannon his hand. “They call me the family jester. You must
be the family skeleton. Though, by the look of you, I’d rather meet any number
of spectres on a dark night than cross you.”

Riannon clasped his hand and detected not the faintest reserve in his welcome.
She looked pointedly at his brightly coloured clothes. “I’d prefer to have met
you at night.”

Guy laughed. “I’d be wounded, save you so obviously lack the least knowledge
about what you speak. Well, little Nonnie, I think you and I are going to deal
well together. I do so prefer my sisters to my brothers.”

Joan smiled. “Nonnie, where do you lodge? I’ve room here for you and would
welcome your company.”

“My thanks, but I stay at the house of Lady Barrowmere.”

“The lovely Lady Eleanor?” Guy said. “You know her? You may have no taste in
clothes, but no one could fault you for choosing the charming widow’s company.
Passing strange that she has never said aught about knowing you.”

“Our friendship is of recent making,” Riannon said.

“Henry’s bride’s aunt.” Joan nodded. “You said that you travelled with Aveline?”

“Thank Atuan’s toes,” Guy said, “that the lovely lady herself was not wasted on
our beef-witted brother. She deserves a better, more handsome man than Henry.
Someone lively and pleasant.”

“Yourself, you mean?” Joan said.

Guy spread his hands. “It’d sadden me to disappoint all those poor creatures who
have set their hopes on me and who thrust their favours so pathetically at me in
the hopes that I’ll carry theirs in the tourney. Alas, only one can prevail. I’m
not above an act of charity for a lonely widow.”

Riannon could not tell how deeply his jesting ran.

“This self-sacrifice has nought to do with the lady’s abundant charms, fairness
of face, and the length of her rent-roll?” Joan turned to Riannon. “I’ll believe
he is serious about marriage when the priest tells him he may kiss his bride,
and not a moment before.”

Guy put a hand to his chest and assumed a look of deepest hurt. “You wound me
with your lack of faith. Are you not the loudest in telling me that I must
hasten to marry and establish my poor self in the world ere I fade into
miserable destitution? Surely you’d not disapprove of the charming Lady
Eleanor?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you wed her,” Joan said.
“Had you shown more resolution, you could have had the niece and an earldom. If
you’re serious about Lady Barrowmere, you’ll need to exert yourself a little.
Take a few hours away from your tourneying and carousing to ask the queen for
her permission. I can see no reason why she’d not look with favour upon the
match.”

Riannon’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her brother was to marry
Eleanor? Could the gods have played a more cruel jest on her?

Eleanor cast another glance around the cavernous great hall at Sadiston Castle
but failed to locate the queen amongst the knots of colourful courtiers. Lord
Deerfield, the chamberlain, assured her that this morning would be propitious
for approaching the queen about her continuing widowhood. She returned her
attention to Lady Overwood to hear her tone change from delight at relating
scandal to outright condemnation.

“So wholly unnatural,” Lady Overwood said. “My lord husband spoke rightly when
he said that he’d confine to chains any daughter of his who shamed his blood in
such a way. Aye, and whip her daily until he beat the error out of her.”

Eleanor made a distracted response as she saw the queen and her sister, the
naer, stride into the chamber. The queen stood two or three inches shorter than
her sister, though that still constituted a goodly height for a female.
Combined with her fuller-bodied figure and a dress sense with a sharp eye for
conveying magnificence, the sovereign lady possessed a presence that none could
overlook. Still, no woman who faded into the tapestries would ever have stood
her ground and claimed the throne. It helped, too, that Mathilda had two
promising, healthy sons. Though, again, it was a testament to her strength of
character that it was the mother who gained the crown in her own right, rather
than be appointed regent for her elder son.

Lady Overwood put her hand on Eleanor’s arm and leaned closer to continue her
gossip about Riannon. “The old Earl Marshal tried to keep her locked away. She
was raised alone under the care of a priestess. Not even at a grove house or
basilica. They say it was at a hunting lodge. It’s no wonder she turned out
unnatural. Her mother died at her birth.”

Eleanor wasted no breath on pointing out that Riannon’s mother was neither the
first nor last woman to die in childbed. Her attention again strayed beyond Lady
Overwood.

Queen Mathilda was the only woman able to put into the shade the naer, her
sister. Having travelled for several days in Aveline’s company, Eleanor wondered
at the reality behind such an impression. Eleanor had not met a person with
ambition if that flame did not burn hot within Aveline. How many would get
blistered by her? Eleanor feared for Riannon; Aveline clearly wanted something
from her and exercised some hold over her, though Eleanor could not begin to
imagine what it might be. As much a knight errant as any younger son, Riannon
owned little and carried no political weight. As so unusual a female, Riannon
would hardly be useful as a marriage pawn. But what other role could there be
for a woman who was not already bound to the grove, a throne, or a man?

Eleanor imagined Riannon standing with her cousins. What a curious trio those
women would make – queen, priestess, and warrior.

“She dressed in men’s clothes.” Lady Overwood shook her head in disbelief. “And
acted like a man. By I know not what trickery, she fooled the late king himself
into knighting her!”

Eleanor might have encouraged Lady Overwood to elaborate on that interesting
point, save the queen paused to exchange a word with Lord Deerfield. The queen
briefly glanced in Eleanor’s direction, nodded to him, and continued towards the
doors.

Eleanor excused herself from Lady Overwood. There would be plenty of other
opportunities for her to learn more about Riannon. First, she must deal with her
own nearest concern. Lord Deerfield met her halfway across the hall.

“Her Grace will be happy to have you as part of her audience on the morrow
before dinner,” he said.

“My deepest thanks,” Eleanor said. “I hope Lady Deerfield will be pleased with
that blue silk brocade. The colour will become her well.”

He nodded and moved away. Eleanor sighed with relief. One hurdle cleared at the
cost of a small bribe. The queen, of course, would want far more than a length
of silk, but Eleanor was willing to pay much for her continued widowhood.