Samantha James (21 page)

S
pring came to Brynwald in a burst of warmth and sunshine. The days slipped by, one into another. The seas calmed. The land grew wild and green and vivid color adorned hill and vale.

Even as flowers bloomed and flourished, so did the babe within Alana’s womb. Her hand crept frequently to the mound of her belly, for the child who dwelled there moved often now. Merrick seemed just as fascinated. At night he splayed his palms wide upon the curve of her belly and there was no stopping him. She was relieved beyond measure that he displayed no reticence in claiming fatherhood, yet there was a part of her that was so very afraid to hope.

Since the night of Aubrey’s death, there had been an unspoken truce between them. Alana was only too glad of it, for she was tired of the enmity that had raged between them, weary of the distance and tension. She welcomed the tentative peace that existed…a peace she dared not shatter.

For Merrick, it was the time he’d awaited—
the dream he had envisioned. He was tired of battle, tired of plunder and war. He had come to England to build his future, and Brynwald was a fief worthy of pride—worthy of whatever sacrifice it took to see it thrive. His days were long and hard, but he did not mind. Now Norman and Saxon alike worked side by side for a common goal—to see the fields tilled and seed sown; to reap the rewards of harvest in fruitful abundance that all might feed home and family without worry or care.

But all was not placid or serene. Nay, there was evil afoot…

It happened one fine day in late spring. Alana had been busy gathering herbs and roots in the forest. Merrick had at last relaxed his guard, and given his leave for her to come and go from the keep as she wished. Most often she was accompanied by Genevieve, but on this particular day, she was alone.

She was on the outskirts of the village when she saw a group of villagers gathered in a circle near the pasture. Shrill voices raised in shock reached her ears.

“Mother of Christ, its eyes have been cut out!”

“Merciful God on high,” quavered a voice. “Who would do such a thing?”

An odd prickling trickled up her spine. Not certain she wanted to see, yet unable to stop herself, she stopped near a young boy. The boy’s eyes flew wide. He latched onto his mother’s skirts with a wail.

“’Tis her! ’Tis the witch!”

The crowd fell away. Alana did not hear the gasp that went up. She could only stare in shocked, stunned horror, for there on the muddied ground lay a small white lamb, bloodied and lifeless.

A sick sensation curdled her stomach. Alas, they were right. The lamb’s eyes had been cut out. But it was the gaping hole in its tiny chest that chilled her to the bone…

Its heart had been cut out.

The warm sunshine seemed suddenly obscene. She swayed, feeling as if the earth were giving way beneath her feet. It was then Alana became aware of the frightened murmurings rising all around her. Only then did she realize the villagers had withdrawn, and even now backed away, crossing themselves, their features white with fright.

She stood there, alone…in spirit and in deed. Never had she felt so…so mistrusted. So misunderstood. As if she were the vilest of beings flung from the dregs of the earth…

A thousand layers of hurt descended. Her heart squeezed. This was too much. More than her wounded soul could take right now.

With a cry she wrenched away. Blindly she ran, frantic in her haste to escape. She did not hear the hoarse male voice shouting her name. Desperate and stricken, she was beyond seeing, beyond hearing. She ran until her breath came in jagged sobs, her throat raw and scraping; she ran until she had no strength left within her. Her legs gave out and she sprawled heavily to her knees.

Her stomach heaved. The world spun crazily. Spots danced before her eyes. She retched violently, horribly sick then and there.

She didn’t hear the footsteps pounding along behind her. But when at last she raised her head, Merrick was there on his knees beside her. A supportive arm slid around her waist. He drew her close to his side.

Alana was afraid to look at him, afraid what she would see, what she might not. “Did you see?” she whispered, the words but a breath.

“I did,” was all he said.

Alana’s fingers curled into the front of his tunic. “They think I am responsible, don’t they?”

Merrick said nothing. His expression was lined and drawn.

“Don’t they?” she screamed, the sound rooted in pain.

He hesitated, then nodded, the line of his lips thin.

To Alana it was the final blow. She felt as if every bone in her body had been broken.
Always
, she thought helplessly. Always they judged her. Always they condemned her.

She lurched upright. His hands were there to help steady her, but she did not notice. Her breath was like fire in her lungs, threatening to choke her. “God!” she cried, a broken, tearing sound. “I’ve lived all my life among them. Why can’t they see what I am…what I am not! I am not a witch.
I am not
!”

Merrick’s insides twisted. Something caught in his chest, something that made him hurt
as she was hurting. She had spent her life in the shadows, an outcast. Aye, and therein lay the heartache, for she had been branded different…yet she was not so very different at all.

His arms engulfed her. Never had he felt so helpless in his life, and he knew not how to overcome it. “They fear what they do not understand. Alana, calm yourself. Surely ’twas some prank by some foolish lad.” She shook her head, over and over. When he gathered her closer still, she clung to him, held fast within the binding tightness of his embrace. Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and slow, wetting the hollow of his throat. But she made nary a sound, all the way back to Brynwald.

When next the moon rose high and bright, it happened again…this time with a young calf.

Merrick rode to the village to view the carcass discovered in the pasture. One by one the villagers began to gather round, their faces somber and unsmiling.

A villein shouted out to him. “You know, my lord, there is only one capable of doing such a terrible deed as this.”

Merrick turned burning eyes toward the farmer. He spoke but one word. “Who?”

“Why, who else? The witch. The witch Alana.”

Merrick’s jaw clenched hard. “Do not dare to lay this at her door. She has scarcely left the keep of late, and when she did she was with my sister.” His lip curled. “Why you so
accuse her, I do not know. What harm has she brought to you that you would be so cruel?”

The man said nothing. Merrick turned to a woman clutching a small child. “And you, mistress? What harm has she done to you?”

The woman flushed and stammered. “N-none, my lord.”

The sweep of his gaze took in the others. No one said a word, unwilling to test the patience of their Norman lord. But at last one brave soul ventured to speak.

“But who then, my lord, if not her?” he asked.

“I do not know. But I would tell you this. Look among yourselves instead for one so weak he must blame another, or lacks the courage to claim his deeds.”

“But why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Find the one responsible and you will find the answer,” said Merrick.

The villein who had first shouted nudged his way forward. “You are wrong, my lord. We need look no further than the maid Alana. We know she is the one, for we all know—”

Merrick found himself possessed by a fury to rival the tempest of the sea. He seized the fellow by the throat of his tunic and lifted him clear off his feet. “You know nothing,” he said fiercely. “You pretend she has done all manner of evil when in truth she has done nothing—nothing!” He shook the man as if he were a cur. “By the Virgin, I will hear no more accusations against her. Or I swear I will cut
out your tongue—you or any other who dares speak such lies!”

He released the man, who scrambled back as if he’d been burned.

Yet again within the next few weeks, the butchery continued. Rumors of witchcraft abounded, though all heeded Merrick’s warning—naught was said in his presence, though some whispered that Alana had cast some witch’s spell over him that he might aid her in her cause.

Alana floundered anew. Indeed, to a heart so battered and bruised, this was worse than any of her dreams. How she could survive the coming days and keep her sanity, she didn’t know. She rarely took her meals in the hall anymore, for more oft than not, the moment she entered, the hall would fall quiet and hushed. Genevieve was her only friend…

And Merrick her only hope.

Merrick wanted his child—that she no longer doubted. But to him she was a possession, a pawn, she reflected bitterly. Aye, he kept her now. Aye, he was tender and sweet, for he would have his child from her. Never had he said he loved her—never, in the heat of all the blistering passion that raged between them.

And Alana longed desperately to hear those very words, for only then could she admit what her heart had told her long, long ago.

Nay…
Nay!
She dare not love him. She
did
not, for never must she forget he was a warrior to the very marrow of his bones. He
would command her surrender. Conquer her heart…

Indeed, he’d already done so.

She walked often on the beach, for the forest held too many memories of Aubrey. But on this day, despair was a heavy weight on her breast. Mayhap ’twas due to those horrible mutilations, but the future preyed ever on her mind.

Oft as she had grown to womanhood, Alana had pondered long and hard as to why her mother had chosen to remain at Brynwald, there in the shadow of another…a wife. Aye, her mother had loved her father. But it was a love that had only brought anguish. A love that hurt all of them—a love that did not heal.

And now she, too, was to bear a child, a child of the lord of Brynwald, a man not her husband…a man who would
never
be her husband. Aye, her father had not deigned to marry beneath him.

Nor would Merrick.

So while Alana strived oft to cling to a frail tendril of hope that he might someday come to care for her—to love her—on this day she did not. She feared she was like her mother. Blind to her fate. Resigned to her future, a future that could only lead to heartache.

She thought of her child, who kicked strongly in her womb. Would his hair be dark as a raven’s wing, like his father’s? Or would his hair be as hers, pale as the moon? She thought often of Aubrey’s last words—his prediction that she would bear Merrick a son. She prayed
Aubrey was right, for he had seemed so certain! And indeed, she had come to think of the babe as a boy as well.

Her heart clamped down in misery. She could not bear to think of Merrick with another…with a
wife
. Her mind wandered where it would, and there was no leashing it. What would happen when he married, as surely he would?
What then?
How could she stand to leave, never to see him again? Yet how could she stay?

And what of her babe? Her son would be of no more consequence than she had been. He would be…the lord’s
bastard
. A stark pain wrenched her breast. She wanted for her son all that had never been hers. She could not bear to think her child must endure the secret shame that had always been hers…

All these things and more circled through her mind, over and over. Though the summer sun shone down in showery rays of golden splendor, a melancholy bleakness enshrouded her. Her head down, she plodded onward through the sand, paying no heed to the surf that dampened her boots from time to time. So engrossed was she in her troubles that she didn’t see the figure that stopped squarely in her path—alas, until it was too late and she had collided full tilt with a hard male chest.

It was Raoul. Rough hands came out to steady her, but she wrenched herself away, loath to feel his touch.

He laughed softly. “Greetings, Alana.”

Alana said nothing, but inclined her chin to
show she would not stand meekly before him. Once again he stretched out a hand but she quickly retreated a step.

“What, Alana! Do you scorn me?”

“Aye,” she responded curtly, “for it seems you are without sight or even wits. I am scarcely in need of your assistance, Norman, now or ever.”

He smiled at her coolness. “Your sister is hardly so averse to my attentions.”

My sister and I have little in common
, she almost snapped. She didn’t, and was heartily glad she held her tongue, for it would have seemed petty and mean.

He ran his eye over her with practiced ease, lingering long on the generous swell of her breasts beneath her bliaud. Alana’s face burned painfully.

“Indeed,” he said suddenly. “I would not speak so hastily were I you, Alana. For you may well be wrong—and far more in need of my attentions than you think.” He laughed, a sound that made her skin crawl. “Aye, and far sooner than you think.”

Alana’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

That mocking smile continued to play about his lips. He spread his hands wide. “Only this, my lovely. I fully understand why Merrick was so captivated with one so lovely as you. But ’tis scarcely his way to remain so for long. And so I fear I must tell you, it cannot last.”

Alana inhaled sharply. A part of her was well aware Raoul sought deliberately to wound her.
But that he voiced her every fear lent no ease to her troubled mind.

But by God, she would not let him know it. She squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “And I fear I must tell you, Raoul, to tend to your own affairs and leave well off mine.”

Still he smiled. He moved closer. “And I vow, lady, the time will come when you will turn to me.” He laughed, a sound that sent a chill the length of her spine. “Should you please me well enough, I might even be persuaded to marry you.”

Alana’s eyes flamed. “Never would I turn to you—never!”

His smile vanished. A hand shot out and he snared her wrist, his hold so tight she gasped aloud. “You shun me now, lady. But where will you be without him?” he sneered. “The time will come when you will not spurn me. I told you once my blade would please you far better than his—”