The Heather Moon (39 page)

Tamsin nodded. She had heard the story already, but did not mind hearing it again, for each telling brought more, and interesting, details. As with most men she knew, William's full story was not delivered in the first telling, or even the second, but the three women at Rookhope had persistently drawn it out of him.

William had returned yesterday at midmorning, dirty, hungry, exhausted, and bearing news of Jock's wedding. Tamsin, Emma, and Helen had heard the essentials of the story while he ate, and questioned him again at supper, after he had slept for several hours. Today, they had asked him about it again, and William had answered their questions patiently.

"What a wonderful adventure! To go against the wishes of kin, all for love!" Helen sighed. She smiled and swept a gentle hand over Katharine's head, capped in silk.

Katharine cooed in excitement, then lurched forward in her walker, a lightweight framework of sturdy twigs and wooden wheels with a canvas sling seat. Her little feet, in leather shoes, shoved across the polished wood floor. William, while talking to his sister, reached out and grabbed the walker to pull it away from the hearth. He sent Katharine gliding toward her grandmother, while the baby laughed.

"Will Jock and Anna be at Lincraig now?" Tamsin asked. She bent over a small piece of linen held in her left hand. She had begun to show her hand more often, set free somehow by the fact that no one at Rookhope was bothered by the sight of it. Now she laboriously stitched over a simple flower design that Emma had painted on the cloth for her. The silver needle, dragging blue silk thread, slipped, and she winced as she pricked a finger.

"Nay. I think they will stay in hiding for several days, perhaps weeks," William said. "The Forsters, and Arthur Musgrave in particular, will still be searching for them. When Sandie was here earlier today, he said they rode to Lincraig last night, stole a dozen sheep, and burned a barn—to light the bridal bower, they were heard to shout as they rode away."

"Anna's kinsmen will have to accept that she and Jock are married," Helen said. "Jock woke a priest that very night. She is wedded and bedded now, and her kinsmen can do naught."

"'Tis done, true. Sandie and I witnessed the marriage and signed the document," William said. "Jock sent a man to give a copy to Anna's father, along with a letter in Anna's own hand, explaining that she married by choice rather than force. They slept together as husband and wife. Legally the Forsters and Musgraves can do naught, for she wasna abducted."

"They can carry on a blood feud," Emma said.

"Aye. But all this will cool, I think, given time. The Forsters and Musgraves will cease to demand Jock's life in return for the abduction of the bride. But Jock will lose sheep and cattle to them, I will wager, for the rest of his life."

"As we all do, who live in the Borders," Emma said. "Naught to fret over... unless lives are lost," she added quietly.

Tamsin listened, frowning over the linen, dipping the needle in and out of the cloth, her stitches too large or too small, too tight or loose. She bit her lip in concentration, and bit back the urge, once or twice, to utter a round oath or two. Lady Emma and Helen had facile hands at stitchery, but she did not think she would ever master it. Her left hand was too clumsy, and her right hand was too impatient.

She looked at William, thinking how handsome he looked in the pale light that poured through the high-set glazed windows of the great chamber. The daylight was gray and thin, but pure enough to make William's eyes seem more brilliant a blue than the gypsy flowers that Tamsin so cautiously stitched. She had asked Lady Emma to sketch the flowers on the linen, for she had thought to give William the finished piece to use as a handkerchief. But she was sure that her current effort would not be good enough to give to him.

She did not think she would have a chance to attempt another hand cloth for him. William had told her earlier that he had heard from both Archie and Musgrave, and that he planned to take her back to Merton Rigg that evening. The scheme that Musgrave had put into motion, at King Henry's orders, would begin its spin now, and take them all into its heavy current, like the pull of a mill wheel. She and William had found some respite at Rookhope, but the turn of that wheel was inevitable.

And she did not know, when all was done, what would happen to her, to William, or to the mock marriage that had become so important to her.

Rain beat at the windows, a soothing sound, and mingled with the mellow drone of William's voice as he continued to talk to his mother and sister. Tamsin stitched, and listened, and tried to keep her more vexing thoughts at bay. She watched Katharine with a careful glance, as did the others, as the baby rolled curiously around the room, touching things tentatively.

For years, she had thought that, if she ever married and settled in a household, she would miss the freedom to wander that she had enjoyed as one of the Romany, miss the boldness she was allowed as Archie Armstrong's daughter. But she had freedom at Rookhope, stemming from gentle acceptance and love.

Though she had feared the restraints of this sort of life, she was able to be herself here. That gave her a sense of salvation and contentment. Having come to love that, she would have to give it up.

But there was something missing in this peaceful atmosphere.

William had not approached her privately since their first night at Rookhope Tower, either in daylight or at night. Helen helped her with her clothing and her hair now, at William's suggestion after the first day. And his sister and mother were often with her, since they had quickly included her in their tasks and in their leisure moments.

At night, William found ways to avoid her, even in their chambers. He would enter the room at a late hour, after he thought she was asleep. Too often she lay awake in his luxurious, lonely bed, and heard him cross the room, floorboards creaking, to enter the antechamber.

Sometimes, she would hide her face in her arms and cry herself to sleep, longing to feel his arms around her, yearning for his kindness, for his love. Befriended and accepted for what she was at last, she felt lonelier than ever. Her marriage to William was not real. And she realized how much she wanted that bond with him.

But she was afraid to reveal her thoughts and needs to him. Another rejection, even in the gentle way he had, might destroy her utterly. The courage that passion had given her once, in his arms, had disappeared. Her doubts had overtaken her again.

But she sensed a change in him since he had returned from his adventure with Jock and Sandie. He seemed warmer toward her, catching her glance more often, smiling more. She loved the intimate, subtle lift of his lips that sent shivers all through her, and gave her a fragile hope. Perhaps her imagination created that interest in his eyes. Her yearning and loneliness would find hope in whatever morsel he offered her.

The needle stuck her and she swore, drawing the startled gazes of the others. Blood beaded on her finger, and she sucked on it, blinking at William, Helen, and Emma. William pinched back a smile and turned to spin Katharine in her walker. Her delighted giggles brought smiles to everyone for a moment.

"Tamsin, you've worked hard at that lovely piece," Emma said. "I will show you how to decorate the flower petals, if you like. But put away the cloth for now, dearling, and come do the
tarocchi
for us. I know you read the picture cards for Helen the other day, but I wasna with you, and would like to watch it done."

"Aye, if you please," Helen said. "Read them for William."

Tamsin hesitated, feeling William's gaze upon her. "If she wants, 'twould be fine," he murmured to his sister.

"Aye, then." Tamsin went to the table beneath a window.

A patterned carpet covered the table, with an ivory gaming box on the bright, soft surface. She opened the box, which contained four packs of cards in pouches, bone dice, and stacks of wooden draughtsmen and counters for various games. Tamsin chose a pouch of heavy black silk and closed the lid.

She sat on a small bench, slid the cards out of the silk bag, and began to sift through them. William drew up another narrow bench and sat opposite Tamsin at the table.

"So," he said. "Do you want to play a game first? We will need a third player. Twenty-five cards each, trumps counting highest. Silence is the rule of play, and honor is all."

Tamsin knew he teased her a little. She laid the cards face up on the table and skimmed her right hand over them to spread them out. "We can play later," she said. "These cards can also show one's life... and fate."

"Ah," he said. "So honor is still the rule of the game."

"Aye," she breathed, knowing he spoke with a double meaning that Helen and Emma, listening, would not understand. She touched the bright cards by their edges and glanced at William. "But if you would rather play the game itself, we can do that."

"We've played enough games," he murmured, his gaze steady, his meaning, again, clear only to her. "'Twould be interesting to have you read my fate." He rested his forearms, folded, on the table. "Go to, then, lass."

She nodded, his close presence making her head spin a bit. His knee bumped hers under the table and lingered there. She wondered suddenly if she would see her own fate along with his in the lay of the cards.

"These are beautiful," she said, as she winnowed them into piles and mixed them again. "I have seen
tarocchi
with engraved designs, colored lightly, but each of these is hand drawn and painted." She touched one image, its background a thin layer of punched gold, its allegorical figure painted in saturated color. The parchment was thick, stiffened with clear glue, but she was still wary of damaging the gilded, decorated surfaces.

"They were a gift from a friend," William murmured.

"From the queen dowager herself. Helen told me," Tamsin said. "Marie of Guise must value your friendship highly."

"I value hers," he said. "These were done by an Italian painter. There are trumps—twenty-two picture cards—and four suits—cups, staves, swords, and coins. Different than the French playing cards we use, with hearts and spades and so on."

"The suit cards in a French pack can be used for fortune-telling as well. But these will tell us your fate most clearly. Now you must mix them," she said, handing him the cards. He poured them from one hand to the next. At her direction, he separated and stacked them.

Tamsin watched his hands, strong and gentle and handsome, as he manipulated the cards. When he set them down, he relaxed a hand on the table, so close to her own that she felt the subtle heat. She took the topmost cards to arrange twenty-two of them facedown.

"Three rows of seven each," William observed, "and one remaining. What is the significance of that?"

"The rows represent past, present, and future. The last card is the resolution," she said. "Now hush." He nodded, and although she focused on the cards as she turned each one over, she was aware of his gaze on her, his hand near her own, his knee against hers beneath the table.

She sighed as she slowly revealed the cards and began to speak about what she saw there. The
tarocchi
images created a story, as they often did, and this tale did not surprise her.

In the rows of past and present, she saw a childhood of security, a home shattered by tragedy; an intelligent, sensitive lad beset by grief and fear, protecting himself from hurt; finally, an educated, sincere, sensible man of achievement and wisdom and passion, grown cautious despite the love around him. Then more tragedy, more hurt, and the further retreat of his heart, even in the presence of a loving family. When she overturned a card of hope, of new beginnings, her heart pounded softly. But it was followed by a card of doubt and fear.

She explained what the cards disclosed. As she did so, she felt a better understanding and a greater sympathy for him.

William listened, his forefinger crooked over his mouth, his eyes shadowed by a frown. Helen and Emma drew close to watch, their expressions somber.

"Cups show harmony and joy in the home," Tamsin said. "There is much of that in your life, earlier, and in the present. But these cards, in the past—the Hanged Man and the Tower—show devastation, and a new direction." She went on, aware of the silence among the others.

"There is strife here, and change. This card, five coins, says you feel... excluded from the warmth of life." She saw Helen and Emma nod soberly. William's face remained impassive.

As Tamsin detailed the other cards, caught by the story they told, she marveled at how precisely the cards had arranged themselves in William's sure hands. He had put something of himself, his heart and hopes and fears, into the cards as he held them. Only then, she knew, could the cards speak the truth and mirror lives and emotions.

All the while, she felt keenly attuned to William's silence. She turned over the last few cards, all but one.

"Ah, the Lovers," Emma said. "A man and a woman, with an angel looking over them."

"But it doesna usually signify an actual pair of lovers," Tamsin said. She glanced at William, whose blue gaze pierced her. "This card, when related to the cards around it, indicates a choice." She looked at him again, though it took courage to do so. "You face a decision. The right path will transform you. But that frightens you."

He glanced away, but she knew he understood and perhaps agreed with her. She moved to the next card. "The Magus. You seek wisdom, the truth. You have more wisdom than you know, and the power to change others around you. The power too to change your own fate... if you wish it," she added softly.