Linda Barlow (10 page)

Roger and Francis Lacklin exchanged a look. They were both stripped to short breeches and hose—naked to the waist—and they were sweating. Each held a slim practice sword, and a supply of rapiers stood leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree. They were unusual-looking weapons, slimmer than she was used to, not at all in the English style. She wondered if they were Turkish, Venetian, or Florentine. The rest of their things—clothes, a couple of knapsacks, and a flagon of wine—were also piled there beneath the tree.

"He is, as usual," Roger answered with a genial nod at his companion. His hair was plastered down across his forehead; with one hand he reached up and pushed it aside. There were beads of sweat on his throat, too, and on his wide bare chest. Alexandra stared at them, fascinated, while his glance took in the pack on her arm. "What are you doing here? Are you on an errand of mercy to some woodland cot?"

Alexandra looked into his eyes in a futile attempt to take her mind off his smooth, sun-browned skin with its dusting of silky dark hair. He had beautiful muscles on his chest and belly. Indeed, she was certain she had never seen such beautiful muscles before. His arms, too. His shoulders. "I'm going to visit Merwynna," she managed to say.

"Merwynna? You mean that old witch? God's blood, is she still alive? She must be nearly eighty."

Roger had been friendly with Merwynna too, she remembered. At least until the day he had gone to Merwynna and demanded that she put a spell on his father, who had beaten him bloody for some childish prank. Merwynna had bound up his wounds but refused him the spell, which had angered Roger. He had insisted afterward that she was no true witch at all.

"She's old, but as spry as ever. I see her often. My way lies through this grove. What are you doing here?"

She asked this even though she already knew the answer. Francis Lacklin was leaving Whitcombe tomorrow. He and Roger must have wanted to be alone to discuss their treasonous plans.

She expected Roger's glib tongue to answer her, but it was Lacklin who said, "He's been after me for days to prove I could still cut him to ribbons, so I'm finally obliging, even though I'm out of practice, while he's fresh from fighting Saracens in the Middle Sea."

"Cut me to ribbons! Ha! I felt but one hit, and that barely palpable. Come on, Francis, you pompous blackguard, don't think I'm about to let you catch your bloody breath because of Alix. Defend yourself!"

She felt a rush of excitement. They were going to continue, in spite of her. She knew instinctively it would be a match the like of which she had never seen before.

Lacklin gave her a rare smile and took up his position opposite Roger. "Very well, my reckless friend, I'll give you a lesson or two. And Alexandra too if she pays attention."

She sank down to the forest floor to watch. "I won't miss a moment of this, I promise you."

But in fact she did miss some of it because it went too fast for the eye to see. Not only were their weapons unfamiliar, but they also fought in an atypical manner. Instead of using a long sword to attack and a dagger or buckler in the off hand to defend, they wielded slim and flexible rapiers, attacking and defending in an intricate series of beats, feints, and parries.

They were both excellent swordsmen. Being younger, Roger had an edge in physical conditioning and speed, but Lacklin made up for this with the sheer brilliance of his technique. Every movement he made was fluid and precise, every flick of his wrist and arc of his arm as smooth and controlled as a dance. His blade wove silver threads in the air, perfectly, effortlessly. Roger attacked with great verve and energy, but clever though his offensive moves were, he had difficulty penetrating his old friend's guard.

Smiling abstractedly, Lacklin played Roger until the younger man began to get a little careless. He then picked up the tempo and attacked more vigorously. Roger parried, faltered, and was hit, the blunted tip of his adversary's weapon touching him lightly on the left shoulder. He yelled in frustration and fought harder. Francis Lacklin laughed, sending Roger into full retreat, pressing him until he stumbled and missed a crucial riposte. Lacklin moved in mercilessly, and within seconds he had cut Roger to ribbons as much as it was possible to do with a blunted foil. Moaning with mock despair, Roger threw down his sword, and then his body, collapsing on his back next to Alexandra, breathing hard, running with sweat.

"You're dead," she laughed. Her excitement in the match faded as her consciousness of his nearness increased. She caught the faint masculine scent of tangy exertion and was surprised that it was so pleasant, attracting, compelling. She envisioned him touching her breasts before the hearth at Whitcombe. Jesu! Every hard breath he drew sent tingles through her. His muscles had looked even more beautiful when he was flexing them in battle.

"Aye," he acknowledged when he recovered his breath. He was grinning, and did not seem at all dismayed by his defeat. "God's blood, Francis, remind me never to have a falling-out with you."

"You did very well," said Lacklin, sitting down on the other side of Alexandra.

"A lot of good it does me—I'm still dead."

"This time, yes. One of these days it could go the other way. You're edgy about your parries in quarte, aren't you?"

"Aye," said Roger, rubbing several places on the left upper quadrant of his body where the blunt tip had struck him. "That's where you penetrated. I always feel vulnerable in that area. I was concentrating on parrying effectively."

"Obviously so. You let me see your weakness, so when you got tired..."

"Devil. Exploiting my weaknesses." He rolled over onto his side and leaned up on one elbow. "I said he was good, didn't I, Alix?"

"You said he was the finest you'd ever seen." She was looking at Francis Lacklin with more respect than she'd ever felt for him before. "It was marvelous! I loved it. Thank you for allowing me to watch."

Her enthusiasm must have been catching, for the two men treated her with great good humor as they continued to analyze the bout. Their rapiers were Italian, she learned, and their style of fencing innovative. In battle, said Roger, he would prefer to have a heavier sword and a shield, or perhaps a two-handed broadsword.

"What's in here?" he asked, pouncing on her knapsack and rolling open the canvas that covered the foodstuffs for Merwynna. "God’s blood, this is enough to last a month. Alix, love, I'm starving." He plucked out an apple and bit into it.

"So am I," said Lacklin, helping himself to a pear.

"Merwynna only grows plants and herbs. She depends on me for other things," Alexandra protested. But her knapsack was full today, so she too took a piece of fruit.

"Who is this Merwynna anyway?" asked Lacklin. "I've heard of her, but I don't know much about her."

"She's the local witch," said Roger with his mouth full. "I'm amazed you haven't tried to exorcise her, or whatever one does to witches."

"She's not that sort of witch. She doesn't consort with the devil. She’s a wisewoman. Her gods are the Old Ones, the spirits of trees and rocks and hollow places. They're the ones she prays to, they're the ones who assist her in her magic."

Both men stared at her. "Christ, Francis, listen to her. You're worried about the corrupt practices of the papists, but at least they're Christians. This girl is a bloody pagan."

She laughed. "I'm not."

But Roger was serious. "Whatever gods the old woman worships, people are certain to think she's in league with Satan. Power such as hers is considered evil."

"Nonsense. There's nothing evil about Merwynna—she cures the sick and practices midwifery—women's arts, in other words. She rarely casts spells. I know, I've been her protégée for years."

Roger cursed softly. "You're Sir Charles Douglas' daughter; you can't be the next witch of Westmor Forest. Are you mad to mix in such doings?"

She bristled. "There's no danger, no harm at all in what I do. She's my friend."

His handsome face was thunderous. "Don’t be a fool, Alexandra. What d'you mean, no harm? Witchcraft is a crime punishable by hanging. Do you want to end your life on the scaffold?"

Her own temper flared. "Who are you to be so judgmental? With the sort of life you lead, you're in more danger of ending your life on the scaffold than I!"

Silence greeted this remark. She thought she saw them exchange a lightning-fast look. Twisting her fingers together, she stared down into her lap. Now I've made them suspicious, she thought nervously. When, oh when, am I ever going to learn to control my too-ready tongue?

"What else have you got to eat in there?" Lacklin asked, pointing to her knapsack. She risked a glance at him. He was, as usual, cool and unruffled. Was there anything, she wondered, that could ever shake his self-possession? Just as no one would ever be able to penetrate his guard in a fencing bout, no one would ever understand the mind or heart of him either.

"Here, take whatever you want."

Lacklin removed a chunk of cheese, saying, "May I share some of this with you?"

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." She no longer felt easy with either of them. Lacklin was dour and cold, and as for Roger, he was damnably moody. One minute he could be the pleasantest man she had never known, and the next he was an angry, opinionated bully. He had been like that as a boy, too: she remembered how often they'd argued with each other. She'd adored him, it was true, but she’d never cared for the way he used to order her about.

She glared at him, but he was looking at the ground, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration or annoyance.

Francis Lacklin said, "Here, Roger, have some cheese. And stop worrying. I’m sure Alexandra knows what she's doing."

Roger looked up and Alexandra felt the power of his dynamic brown-eyed stare. His eyes were beautiful. They drew her, lured her, bewitched her. Gazing into them, she felt something leap inside her. Once again she was burning with the memory of the way he had touched her on his first evening home. Her belly tightened and her heartbeats thickened as she yearned to feel that delicious touch again.

"Give me a piece," Roger said to Lacklin, not dropping Alexandra's gaze. He spoke her name: "Alix. You're my oldest, dearest friend. It frightens me to think of you tangling with such a crime as witchcraft. I want you to be careful, that's all."

Her color rose. He was smiling at her. She loved his smile. It made him look younger, almost boyish. "I'm always careful, Roger."

They stared at one another until Francis Lacklin cleared his throat rather loudly. "Got a knife? This cheese is like a rock."

"Here," Alexandra said, pulling her dagger from her girdle. She was focused again on Roger's lean and tough body, bare to the waist...the subtle play of those lovely muscles beneath the skin, the light sprinkling of hair that she longed to stroke, the scars of other weapons that had snaked inside his guard. She drew an uneven breath, dropping her eyes to his long-fingered hands playing idly with the forest moss. She was his oldest, dearest friend. He was domineering and quick to anger, but he cared about her. She closed her eyes. He's a traitor, she warned herself. He might even end up a regicide.

Francis Lacklin made an exasperated sound. "This is useless," he said, looking down at the dagger she’d handed him. "It’s broken."

As she realized her mistake, Alexandra's fingers flew to the leather girdle at her waist, where her own knife still lay cradled. She had forgotten that she’d stuck Ned’s broken dagger in there next to hers.

She shot a quick look at Lacklin's face, but it was, as usual, impassive. She didn't know where Ned had found it, or what the battered object represented, but her mother's tale of the peasant boy's urgency had troubled her. "Sorry, I pulled out the wrong one."

"Let's see that thing," said Roger. Before she could grab it, he reached across her and took Ned’s knife from Lacklin's hand. "This isn't yours, is it, Alix?" He was turning it over and staring at the intricate carving on the hilt. He rubbed at it a bit with his thumb. "Where did you get it?"

"Ned gave it to me. You remember him—the half-witted boy whose throat you threatened to slit on your first day home."

Roger looked up, saw her watching him, and frowned. He glanced at Lacklin, who seemed to be ignoring them both. Roger’s expression turned bland. He handed the dagger back to her. "Worthless. You might as well get rid of it."

She felt a ripple of unease. Something seemed off, although she couldn’t have said what, exactly. Did the broken dagger hold significance for Roger? She recalled that Ned had been frightened of him. Terrified, in fact.

"Who's Ned?" Francis Lacklin asked.

"Just a harmless peasant boy." She thrust the hilt back into her girdle. "Here," she said, giving Lacklin her other one. "I understand you're leaving tomorrow, Mr. Lacklin?" She was eager to change the subject. "Where are you going?"

Lacklin tossed Roger a piece of cheese before answering, but his cold gray eyes were on her. "London. I have friends there."

In sooth, you do, she thought. Murderous, treasonous friends.

"I might be going to London myself shortly," Roger said.

"Why? You've only just returned."

"He can't abide his father."

"That, yes. But I also thought I'd taste the pleasures of the English court, if there are any to be had among that bunch of Mass-mouthing papists."