Linda Barlow (11 page)

If he was going to London, he would be mixing in Lacklin's nefarious doings, of that she had no doubt. "What about your responsibilities here?"

"What about them?" His voice had gone cold. "My father hates me; we do nothing but argue, and even Alan's hero worship is wearing thin, just as I knew it would. Once the hero is revealed to be an ordinary human being, the worshiper invariably turns on him."

"Alan's turning on you? After only one week?"

"Come over and see for yourself. It's my own fault, of course. I'm impatient and bad-tempered, not to mention bored. I'm accustomed to more activity."

"It's a comedown after playing sea lord of the Mediterranean," said Lacklin sarcastically.

"I'm willing to concede that. My father still rules Whitcombe, and I have never been good at adopting a subordinate role."

"You'll be under the queen's authority if you go to court. You'll have to simper and fawn and play the hypocrite, going to Mass twice a day whether you like it or not." She paused, fiddling with an acorn cap. "Unless of course you opt for danger, excitement, and freedom of conscience by joining the heretics."

"Thank you," said Lacklin. "I couldn't have put it any better myself. Appeal to his spirit of adventure."

"I'd rather simper and fawn than have anything to do with a pack of raving dissenters. No, Alix. I have no intention of seeing anything of Francis and his fanatical friends in London."

He spoke it very slowly and clearly, as if he wanted to be absolutely certain that she put any such idea out of her mind. She wished she could believe him, but she didn’t. "Well, you might see something of me. As I told you, my father intends to drag me to London to marry me off."

A silence; then Roger said silkily, "Not to me, I trust."

Alexandra rose, collecting her knapsack and her knife. "We've already established that." She gnawed on her bottom lip a moment, then added, "I'll probably be over at Whitcombe this afternoon." She was determined not to take them by surprise again. "Alan and I plan to study some Greek."

Roger's eyebrows went up. "Greek, is it? Excellent Alexandra, you are a woman of many talents."

She was tempted to stick out her tongue at him, but she rejected the gesture as too childish. "'Til later, then."

"'Til later, poppy-top," said Roger, employing one of his oldest nicknames for her. It made her smile.

Chapter 5

Alexandra fingered the carved hilt of Ned's dagger as she hiked on toward Merwynna's cottage. She wondered why Ned had wanted her to have the broken old thing. She would swear that Roger and Francis Lacklin had treated her differently after seeing it. She wished she hadn't show it to them.

If she hadn't been so enthralled by the sight of Roger's half-naked body, she wouldn't have been so careless. But lecturing herself did no good at all. It wasn’t long before she forgot about the dagger. Instead her mind began conjuring up a few special images: Roger's merrily-arching eyebrows, his bare sculpted chest, the flash of his smile, the look in his brown eyes when he'd called her his "oldest, dearest friend."

Warming to the theme, her imagination pictured him passing his hands through her hair, pulling her close against his sun-browned body and kissing her passionately. His fingers would wander a little, gently along her collarbone, softly upon her breasts, seeking out those tender, wayward nipples once again. Maybe, like a virtuous maiden, she would protest a little as he jerked apart her laces, but she wouldn’t truly want him to stop. And he wouldn't stop. He would be too enflamed to listen to her half-hearted pleas for restraint. He would stroke her naked breasts, then slide his hands lower... he would smooth away her skirts, then strip his own virile body bare... he would press her back in the sweet-smelling grass and come down atop her, against her, between her naked thighs... seeking her, finding her, making hot, sweet love to her until all the stars exploded with light and fell from their spheres.

She pushed a branch aside so carelessly that it came back and slapped her in the face. Cursing in an unmaidenly fashion, she muttered, "The devil take Roger Trevor." He cared about her, yes, but not in the way she had just envisioned, despite what had happened between them on his first night back. He had imbibed too much wine that evening.

Stop thinking about it! Even if Roger did feel a lusting for her again, he had made his feelings about honorable wedlock very clear. He would never marry her. If she were so foolish as to develop a passion for him, she would deserve the heartache that could be its only possible outcome.

The path to Merwynna's wound around a small hidden lake. One minute all was dark and green; then the woods opened up like a mouth to reveal the lake's silent waters. As always, the sight swept Alexandra clean of thoughts and passions. Her sense of the forest's power was strong here. Standing on the flower-laden bank, she watched a crow wheel over the water, then rise and disappear. She shivered, hoping the dark bird was not an ill omen.

Sometimes, if the weather was hot and she was feeling adventuresome, Alexandra would swim the lake rather than go round on foot, but today she did not attempt it. The ancient wooden boat, kept by Merwynna for emergencies, was tied up on the far side. It was rarely used. Alexandra jested with her that like all witches, Merwynna did not care to cross over water.

She was so heated by the time she reached the thatched cottage that she wished she'd swum across after all. She knocked on the oaken door, but received no answer. Leaving her sack of provisions inside, she went around the back and found Merwynna bent over in her herb garden, gathering herbs for her healing brews. The old woman turned at the sound of Alexandra's approach, her vivid dark eyes acknowledging the girl, but she did not speak. Talking would break the age-old charm.

Silently Alexandra removed her shoes and stepped into the garden to help. Merwynna had taught her to go barefoot as a sign of respect for the earth. Some said it was even more efficacious to remove all clothes and gather the herbs sky-clad, but Merwynna wore her usual gown of brown homespun. The dress was a mystery to Alexandra. She had never seen the wisewoman wash or mend it, yet it always looked clean and new.

She knelt beside her friend in the rich earth and gathered herbs carefully in her left hand, transferring them afterward to her right while she continued to pluck. Each herb had to be addressed with an old rhyme, some of these in languages so ancient that Alexandra could only mouth the sounds, having no idea of their meaning. After she plucked each herb, she poured a libation of mead from Merwynna's jug into the earth from which the plant had sprung.

Merwynna collected many of her herbs, barks, and roots from the wilds of the forest, but here in the neatly laid-out garden she cultivated the plants that she used most often. There was yarrow, the blood-stauncher for wounds, and the bitter-smelling wormwood, which brings down fevers and keeps the demons away. There was the tall valerian, also bad-smelling, but an excellent cure for insomnia and nervousness. The scrubby thyme, good for preventing infection, grew in the front, where it could garner plenty of sun, near the square-stemmed vervain, a necessary ingredient in Merwynna's much-in-demand love potions.

She also grew mullein, St. John's wort, tanzy, chamomile, cinquefoil, and fennel, all important remedies for various ills; and, in one corner apart from the others, the powerful narcotic poisons: henbane, wolfsbane, hellebore, and deadly nightshade. The uses of these plants were unclear to Alexandra and she was not permitted to touch them. Even in small quantities, their distillate could kill, although there were many nonlethal uses for them. "Ye're an apt pupil, but never can ye be an initiate," Merwynna had told her when refusing to explain the rites that depended upon these plants. "Such knowledge is not for ye."

When the herbs were gathered, Alexandra and Merwynna carried them into the cottage to sort them. Some would be mixed into brews, others dried and stored for the winter. Now that the ritual picking was over, they could talk, so Alexandra launched into her story about Ned's broken dagger, and her meeting with Roger and Francis Lacklin.

Merwynna knew Ned. He was the only other person who made his home in Westmor Forest, although not even she was certain exactly where he lived. "I havna' seen the lad for some days. The last time we met there was a shadow round about him."

"A shadow? What does that signify?"

Merwynna's gnarled fingers made the sign against evil. "I offered him an amulet to wear about his neck. 'Twould ha' warded off the dark powers, but he didna' seem to understand. He fled, the fool."

"Ned's usually not so timorous. He acted oddly that day when Roger caught him lurking near the road. Even after Roger put his sword away, Ned was still afraid." She looked into Merwynna's black pool eyes. Her friend had an angular face, with a bony nose and narrow lips; her skin was dry and thin as parchment. Her braided hair had long been white, but her eyebrows remained dark and bushy, giving her face an undeniable forcefulness. "Is there any reason why Ned should fear Roger?"

"Bring Roger to visit me and I shall tell ye."

"But surely you remember him?"

"I remember the lad he used to be, but I know not what path he's followed since he left his home. Deeply troubled, he was, growing up torn betwixt two warring parents. He is Scorpio; ye must beware the men of his birth sign."

"He and I ought to be compatible, then. I am Pisces."

Merwynna gave her a sharp-eyed look. "Do ye burn for him?"

Sometimes it could be unnerving, knowing a witch. "It scarcely matters, since he doesn't burn for me."

Merwynna shrugged. "There are ways."

Perhaps there were, but Alexandra didn't think she wanted to bewitch Roger Trevor, or any other man. It would be dishonest, and besides, what would happen when the spell wore off?

"He draws me," she admitted. "But I don't understand him. I like to be able to understand people. I like things to make sense."

Merwynna nodded slowly. "Ye strive with yer mind, analyzing the world and all the people in it. Ye come to me, ye go to the farms to talk with peasants, ye read all those ancient historians and poets, filling yer brain with knowledge."

Thinking she was being praised, Alexandra said, "I also waste a good deal of time dreaming."

"Ye waste all of yer time. No soul may know the hearts of people nor the mysteries of the gods by means of reason. Ye're proud, my daughter. Ye shall suffer for it."

Alexandra was stung by this criticism. "I don't put all my trust in reason. I wouldn't be here with you if I did, would I? I have faith in God and in the powers that dwell here in the forest. I've no desire to unravel divine mysteries. I simply wish to solve the human ones around me."

Merwynna simply frowned and repeated, "Ye are proud."

Alexandra sighed. Merwynna was always urging her to rely more upon her intuition. She gathered up the last bunch of herbs and tied them into a bundle while Merwynna swept the table clear. "Forgive me my pride, then, and use your magic to help me solve this mystery." She brought out Ned's dagger and placed it in the center of the table. "Reason certainly hasn't told me much about it so far. I want to know where it came from, whom it belongs to, and if it is important."

Merwynna looked long into Alexandra's eyes before nodding in agreement. She passed her hand over the blade and repeated a charm in an ancient tongue. Then she lifted the carved hilt and held it high over her head on the flat of her hands.

Alexandra watched anxiously. She did not often ask Merwynna to perform her magic—the part of her that wanted the world to make sense did not know how to deal with Merwynna's strange powers. There were moments when her old friend frightened her profoundly.

For several minutes there was silence. At last the wisewoman opened her eyes. "I receive nothing. The Goddess is not with me today."

"Nothing at all?"

"I am sorry, child."

Alexandra tried to hide her disappointment. Was it possible that the broken dagger had no tale to tell?

As she reached for it to put it away, Merwynna took her hand and turned it palm-up on the table. "What are you doing? You never look into my hand."

When her friend didn't reply, an irresistible desire to know her future seized Alexandra. "What am I fated for?" A question came into her mind, the same one the village girls so frequently asked. "Will I ever marry, Merwynna? When Will was alive, my future was certain, but now I have no idea what to expect."