Kim Iverson Headlee Read online

  TWO DAYS AFTER Alain’s departure and almost a week since her abduction, Kendra had never felt so miserable. She missed her rose garden at Edgarburh. She missed her evening ritual of selecting a blossom for Del’s tomb and feeling closest to his memory during those precious few minutes. In spite of her recent differences with her father, she missed him terribly.

  Worse, she ached with despair because Alain had ridden out of her life forever, and she had forced him to leave.

  For solace she fled to Thornhill’s bee garden.

  Its lavender and hyssop hedge stood abloom with delicate purple and bluish flowers ready for harvesting. Inside the enclosure swayed tall hollyhock stalks just beginning to form bulbous buds alongside scarlet-blooming bee balm, bright yellow mullein on downy spikes, globular yellow tansy blossoms, and pink and blue star-shaped borage flowers. She sampled a few borage leaves for their refreshing taste of cucumber.

  These tallest herbs stood among beds of ground-hugging thyme and hellebore, both of which had finished blooming for the year, the creamy blossoms of lemon balm, and the spidery leaves of meadow saffron, whose purple blossoms were not due to appear for several months yet. She wondered at the inclusion of this last plant, for it could make a lethal poison, although she supposed the beekeepers had planted meadow saffron just to extend the honey-making season.

  The air thrummed with the buzzing of bees flitting from bloom to aromatic bloom.

  An apple tree arched over one corner of the garden, and in its shade the groundskeepers had planted a bench. As she neared it, she noticed the tiny greenish-yellow flowers of wormwood, an invaluable herb for protecting beekeepers from suffering stings. The bees gave the wormwood a wide berth, making this bench an ideal spot from which to contemplate the garden’s beauty—which included, on the far side, the ancient tree that had inspired this estate’s name and whose Cristes-mæsse petals had ignited her healing gift.

  What she wished to contemplate had naught to do with her present surroundings or her gift.

  She picked another borage stalk, sat on the bench, popped a few more leaves in her mouth, and closed her eyes with a sigh.

  Sending Alain away had been the worst mistake of her life.

  But he had gone willingly enough.

  Nay, she sadly corrected herself, recalling the anguish she’d seen writhing in his gaze at their parting.

  She traced slow circles around the patch of skin on the back of her hand that he had kissed. Imagining that kiss aroused memories of his other kisses and caresses.

  When she and Alain had stood in the depths of life-threatening danger, it hadn’t seemed so bad. With him, her fear of the future’s uncertainty had all but disappeared.

  Not true. The uncertainty of their future together had loomed as a barrier between them even as they had fought to demolish it with their kisses. By far the largest block in the wall was her vow to never marry a Norman.

  Bowing her head, she covered her face with her hands and wept. The prospect of recanting that vow, forsaking Del for Alain’s sake, tore her heart asunder.

  More than ever, she longed for her brother’s counsel.

  The wish’s irony forced a rueful laugh from her throat: if Del were alive to advise her, she never would have had to make that accursed vow.

  A shuffling tread upon the path invaded her thoughts. She rubbed her eyes and looked up to find Ethel standing before her.

  “Please forgive me for disturbing you, my lady.” Wringing her hands, Ethel sucked in a breath. “Thane Ulfric requires a service from you.”

  Surprise caused Kendra to overlook the odd formality of Ethel’s tone. “What do you mean?”

  The woman only bowed and gestured for Kendra to follow her. But rather than walking toward the manor house, Ethel set off in the opposite direction, toward what appeared to be a large cluster of storage sheds. As they walked closer, Kendra realized the sheds were in fact cottages.

  What few folk she saw abroad in this area of the estate seemed to be suffering a variety of ailments, everything from wracking coughs to missing limbs. Some women, wearing brown overdresses and wimples, mingled among the ill as the apparent caretakers, toting supplies, serving food and drink, assisting those having trouble walking, drying tears.

  One man, who at first didn’t seem to have anything wrong with him, dropped to the ground nearby, flailing his limbs and moaning. Two other men, wearing hooded robes of the same hue as the women’s dresses, emerged from one of the cottages and ran to restrain the writhing man. Through the cottage’s open door drifted more wails and groans.

  Appalled, Kendra stopped and stared at Ethel. “What is this place?” she whispered.

  “Those whose ailments have placed too great a burden on their families come here.”

  “To recover?”

  “The lucky ones do.” Ethel watched the men struggling with the man suffering from fits. When they calmed him enough to move him inside, she regarded Kendra. “Most come here to die.”

  Kendra felt her eyes widen. “And Ulfric cares for them?”

  Ethel snorted. “My lord Ulfric keeps the cottages provisioned and in good repair. The Church”—she waved an arm toward a knot of nuns hauling bulging baskets of damp laundry toward ropes strung between the trees—“supplies the work and compassion.”

  A girl, aged no more than ten summers, wandered up to them. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and when she wasn’t sniffling, her breaths came in high-pitched wheezes. She wiped her nose on her sleeve—not for the first time, to judge by the stains—and gazed hopefully up at Kendra.

  She touched the girl’s head. Heat rushed to her palm. The girl yelped and dashed away as fast as her illness permitted.

  Mortified, Kendra watched her leave. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the fleeing child. “I meant you no harm, little one.”

  “Na, na, of course you didn’t, poppet,” Ethel crooned, patting Kendra’s arm.

  “I—” She didn’t want to confess her secret, but she needed to offer some explanation. “My hand felt so hot, I thought I was burning her.” Tears stung as she considered the girl’s response. “I must have burned her.”

  Ethel made no comment except, “Please follow me, my lady. Thane Ulfric wishes you to meet one of the residents.”

  She strode across the yard to another cottage, with a puzzled Kendra trailing after her.

  A pair of monks blocked the door at their approach, arms crossed. The men’s builds and demeanors reminded Kendra more of warriors than of God’s servants. When Ethel explained that Ulfric had commanded Kendra’s visit and produced a ring from her pouch they seemed to recognize, they nodded and allowed the women inside.

  It took several moments for Kendra’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The windows were shuttered, with only a handful of candles to stave off the darkness, which Kendra found odd. Common wisdom stated that most ailing people benefited from fresh air and sunlight. She expressed her concern to one of the monks.

  He shook his head. “Thane’s orders, my lady.”

  She submerged her concern and absorbed the rest of the one-room cottage’s details.

  A large bed had been pushed against one wall; the hearth, its iron implements, and stacks of logs and kindling occupied the opposite one. Two straw-stuffed pallets lay spread near the hearth. In the center of the planked floor stood a square table and two chairs. Another pair of chairs graced the cottage’s door, and a sideboard holding a basin, pitcher, trenchers, and flagons occupied the fourth wall. The scent of lavender permeated the air from flowers that had been strewn among the rushes.

  From one of the chairs beside the table a figure rose slowly. He didn’t seem capable of standing fully erect, and he supported himself by gripping the chair’s tall back. After a monk stepped closer to assist him, he turned to face Kendra.

  His plain garb hung loosely over his large frame, and he looked as if he might have been powerful in his prime. Wisps of tawny hair sticking out at odd angles combined with the crooked posture to
bestow upon him a wizened appearance.

  A black leather mask obscured one eye and half his face. The other eye looked pinched and haunted, as if he harbored inner torment beyond measure.

  Kendra cocked a questioning glance at Ethel.

  “One of Thane Ulfric’s guests, my lady,” Ethel said. “Can’t speak much.” With two fingers, she tapped the side of her head.

  Something in the man’s bearing, in spite of his infirmity, gave Kendra the impression that he had held an important office. She curtseyed deeply. This seemed to revive a memory, for he straightened and gave a slight bow. He swept a wave at the other chair as if he wanted her to sit beside him.

  While she did, Ethel asked privacy from the monks, again citing Ulfric’s request. By turns they eyed her, Kendra, and the injured man, finally exchanging a glance with each other. As if of one mind, they hefted the chairs from beside the door and carried them outside.

  Their behavior strengthened Kendra’s suspicion that they’d been charged to protect this man more so than to attend to his daily physical needs.

  When she returned her attention to him, his demeanor brightened. “Love…lee,” he croaked. His lips formed the barest of smiles, and he seemed unaware of the tears slipping down the uncovered half of his cheek.

  Without thinking, she began to brush away the tears.

  She might as well have thrust her hand into a boiling cauldron.

  Gasping, she pulled back. He leapt to his feet, flailing his arms and screeching an incoherent alarm. His chair clattered to the floor behind him, which seemed to agitate him further. Ethel hurried to his side, murmuring soothing words and trying to catch his hands.

  Unsure what to do and feeling terrible for having upset him, Kendra rose and backed away.

  The monks burst into the cottage, fists knotted and eyes flashing. “What happened, woman?” demanded the taller one.

  Although the question was directed at Ethel, Kendra bristled. Being bodyguards gave them no right to bully an old woman. She drew the power of her rank about her like a cloak and, setting her jaw, stepped between Ethel and the monks.

  “It was an accident, good brethren. The fault lies with me. I made a sudden movement that must have startled him.”

  “Aye,” Ethel said. “You know how he gets, Brother Eric.”

  Kendra glanced over her shoulder at the injured man and was grateful to note that he had calmed. To both monks she said, “I assure you that it shan’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” grumbled Brother Eric. “My lady.”

  His companion, fists on hips, didn’t appear to be as easily mollified. “Why are you here, Lady Kendra?”

  “I—” She stopped, stymied.

  “She is a healer, Brother Oswald,” Ethel insisted. “If you don’t believe me, ask Thane Ulfric, though he shan’t take kindly to having his orders questioned.”

  When the monk called Oswald offered no further objections, Ethel made a shooing motion. “Good brethren, Lady Kendra must have privacy for her work.” She followed them to the door as if she didn’t trust them to leave. “And, please, no more interruptions, no matter what you might hear.”

  Their eyes widened at that before narrowing in obvious suspicion. “Please,” Ethel whispered as she stepped around them to fling open the door. “Trust us.”

  “Trust us? Trust me, you mean,” Kendra said after the monks had trooped out and the door swung shut. “To do what?”

  Ethel’s gaze turned matter-of-fact. “Heal him, of course, my lady. That is well and truly why you are here.”

  “I—what?” She regarded Ethel, who had busied herself with seating the injured man. “What are you talking about?”

  Ethel chuckled. “Why, your dear mother’s gift, of course. Nay, don’t bother to deny it: look at your palms.”

  Kendra looked. And had trouble believing the evidence presented by her eyes.

  Her left palm appeared normal. Her right one, where she had touched the child’s head and the man’s face, was coated with a fine white residue.

  Wonderingly, she traced circles in it with the fingers of her opposite hand and held them up for Ethel to view. “What do you know of this?” She rubbed the powder between her fingers, and particles drifted into the candle’s gleam.

  “Not much, save that I saw it when your mother tried to heal someone.” Ethel’s gaze unfocused. “It’s as if you—and your mother before you—have the power to draw forth a person’s pain and scorch it.” Shrugging, she looked at Kendra again. “More than that, I know not.”

  Kendra curled the afflicted hand into a fist so tightly the nails dug into her palm. Jaw clenched and eyes shut, she tilted her face toward the thatch and rafters.

  If this gift is such a boon, then why couldn’t it have manifested in time to save my mother’s life, or Del’s? Why did it have to manifest for the man I love but can never wed? Why must I use it for this stranger?

  Why do I even possess this power at all?

  In the midst of her mental railings, another thought intruded. She glared at Ethel. “Ulfric knows about this ability of mine. You! You told him, didn’t you?” When the servant cast her gaze downward, Kendra forged on, “Now he wants me to heal everyone here, beginning with this man?” Perhaps so he could send them home and reclaim this land for some other purpose, she mused. A profitable purpose, probably, rather than a charitable one.

  Considering the plights of the people she’d seen thus far, though, how could she refuse?

  But, Lord, there are so many! Gift or no gift, how can I heal them all?

  Ethel shook her head. “Not everyone unless you so choose, my lady. The only person Thane Ulfric would like you to help, if you can, is this man.”

  She motioned for Kendra to sit beside him, which she did without fully understanding the impulse to obey. Her fingers remained clenched around the ash coating her palm.

  Ethel’s cool, leathery hands gently but firmly pried her fist open and guided it to grasp another hand, one scarred and callused…from battle, Kendra realized.

  The man’s agony exploded within her brain. They uttered a long scream as if sharing one throat. She squeezed her eyes and his hand tighter, fighting to channel the pain away from them both.

  CHEERING PEASANTS welcomed Alain and his escort to Edgarburh, although he suspected the people’s warmth extended more toward the fyrd members.

  Wherever they rode, however, one thing remained constant: the cheering ebbed to a confused murmur when the crowd realized their beloved Lady Kendra was not riding with them.

  Alain knew how they felt. Without Kendra to brighten his days, he despaired of ever finding a reason to cheer again.

  “Where is she?” Waldron demanded from the steps of Edgarburh’s hall as the party dismounted. Noir bristled at the thane, but Alain silenced the dog with a reprimand.

  “Lady Kendra lodges at Thornhill, my lord,” Alain replied, “resting from her ordeal.”

  Her father looked none too pleased. He glanced at Ruaud before piercing Alain with his glare. “Your master still allows you to speak for him, squire?”

  Alain stifled a sigh and went to one knee at Waldron’s feet. So did Ruaud, to the surprised whisperings of Lofwin’s men and other residents of the burh who had interrupted their tasks to watch the proceedings.

  “Thane Waldron, I have sinned against you, your daughter, and God.” Alain held up a hand to forestall the storm of rage collecting on the thane’s face. “My lord, please accept my assurances that your daughter’s virtue remains intact.” At least, as far as I know. “My sin is one of deception, and I beg your forgiveness. I ask not as Squire Alain but as my true self.” He drew a breath. “Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre.”

  As the people’s murmurings grew louder and more hostile, he bowed his head under the weight of shame and guilt.

  Chapter 15

  KENDRA FELT AS if her head were being roasted on a spit. With her eyes shut, and while grasping the injured man’s hand, she visualized
the flames being drenched by a cold torrent. As the imaginary rainstorm intensified, the fire died and the pain abated, praise God.

  Beneath his pain lay a paralyzing blanket of numbness interwoven with strands of anguish, hopelessness, and despair. As she retained her grip upon the man’s hand, the blanket threatened to suffocate her too. She lost touch with her senses, not knowing whether she imagined herself panting for breath or did so in truth.

  Whoever this half-masked man was and whatever the source of his grief, its depth far outstripped Kendra’s own. The realization both humbled and emboldened her. Without opening her eyes, she wrapped her other hand around his.

  A frightening array of images branded her mind: horses rearing, screaming, and pounding foes into the ground; weapons shattering from the force of impact; men slipping, falling, and dying in the muddy gore; wounded warriors moaning for help. Soldiers looting the bodies of the fallen to raise newfound weapons against a relentless adversary. A shield wall buckling from within as greed asserted its dominion over the wall’s members. The flight of a single arrow, its point bearing toward her with breathtaking speed, and the excruciating agony when it found its target.

  Through it all ran an undercurrent of shock, disbelief, rage, betrayal, and, ultimately, dejected resignation.

  Such a fathomless well of emotional pain she felt utterly powerless to combat.

  SIR ROBERT Alain de Bellencombre, once known as Squire Alain, knelt in abject humility at Waldron’s feet.

  The Norman’s admission robbed Waldron of his worry-fueled anger. Yet, while gazing down upon the knight guarded by the hellhound, he realized the revelation didn’t take him by surprise. From the start he had sensed this man must be someone other than who he’d claimed to be.

  And Alain—or Robert, or whatever he called himself—loved Kendra. Waldron knew this as surely as he knew the battle-forged contours of his sword hand. He had recognized the lad’s anguished expression as one he’d seen on his own face whenever he encountered a reflective surface: the anguish of being separated from the better half of one’s life, one’s heart, one’s very soul.