Autumn Lord (5 page)

being harvested. Beyond the fields were a line of jagged hills covered in dense forest. There was no

semblance of a town in sight, nothing which even vaguely resembled civilization. Diane was alone, in the

middle of nowhere, and night was slowly falling.

What did I do to him?
she wondered.
What did I say? What did I—

Don't think about him,
she commanded herself. She ordered herself to think about the fact that her

feet hurt, or that she was hungry. No, maybe it was better not to think of those unpleasant details. Of

course it was very hard not to think of them, when she was miserable, and frightened. Eventually, she

took off her shoes while she stood at a fork in the path, and debated which way to go. She chose the

wider track to the left, and continued on. Hobbled, really, as her flimsy pumps had raised blisters on both

heels, and she'd bruised her ankle badly when she'd slipped off the dais.

Night closed in quickly as she moved into the depths of the forest. She had no idea where she was

going. As long as it was away from Simon de Argent she supposed the journey was worth it. Things had

to get better soon, didn't they? They had to start making sense. All she knew was that she wasn't in

Seattle—hell, she wasn't even in Kansas.

Gradually, the track widened a bit. As she rounded a curve she could see a bonfire in the distance.

The sounds of laughter and singing and the scent of roasting meat floated to her on the evening breeze.

As she hurried forward, houses came into view, and a crowd of people. Hopefulness flooded her to

know that she wasn't completely alone in the world. She hurried on, dropping her shoes in her haste to

reach the village. She would have called out if she could, she would have laughed. Tears of relief did

stream down her face as people turned her way.

Then the singing stopped. Hands pointed. Looks of horror appeared on dirty faces as she came into

the firelight. An angry, frightened murmur began, growing in volume like the incoming tide on a small sea.

The mob closed in around her before she had a chance to turn and run.

******************

Simon de Argent was so full of fury that he scarcely heard the angry accusation in the old man's voice.

He continued to pace before the fireplace in his chamber, unable to even try to assume the false calm he

normally wore. "Of course I sent the vixen packing."

"Where?"

He stopped and turned on Jacques. His old friend had come into his chamber holding a report from

one of his spies, but had brought up the subject of Diane before handing over the parchment. Simon

wanted to study the needed information, but supposed he'd have to deal with the news that Jacques's pro

tégé was no longer in the castle. "Where did she go? Back to Brittany, or to the devil. What do I care as

long as she gets off my lands?"

Jacques eyes widened with alarm. "She's outside? Alone?"

"That's how she came to Marbeau, isn't it? On her own?"

"NO!"

Simon frowned at the old man's strangled shout. He could tell that an explanation he wasn't going to

like was in the offing. "She's not a traveling player, I suppose?"

"No. She's—" Jacques's pointed dramatically toward the door. "Never mind what she is. You must go

after her."

"I'll do no such thing." He paced the room, still burning with humiliation from the storyteller's thinly

disguised rumor mongering. He paused before the fireplace and stared into the dancing flames for a few

moments, but turned abruptly back to Jacques as the memories began to claw at him.

Words came out of him, clipped and hard as stone. "It's lucky I didn't kill her." Red rage had almost

overtaken him. He almost had.

The puzzled look on Jacques face nearly made him laugh. But the laugh would have been full of

madness. Madness had its appeal, but he couldn't afford to take that kind of comfort.

"What did Diane do? Was her story not to your liking?"

Simon couldn't stop the laughter this time, but he cut it off before it could get out of control. Since

Jacques knew the events better than anyone, in fact had his own part in them, Simon managed to explain,

"Genevieve and Berengar," he said. "Denis. Even you and Vivienne. The whole sordid tale. She only left

out Felice. Which is good, since I surely would have killed her if she'd tried to amuse the household with

that tale."

Jacques ran his fingers through his beard. "She did what? In detail? How could she know about—"

"Oh, she dressed the telling up in romance, with kings and quests and holy relics, changed the names,

even, but with enough truth intact to scald the skin off me. I wanted to stop her as soon as I saw where

the story was going, and I should have. Instead I was frozen in place, in shock at the effrontery. It was

like being in hell and having the devil recite all my sins for the world to hear. I should have killed her," he

added. His hand closed tightly over his sword hilt. "Perhaps I'll hunt her down and do it now."

When he would have left the room, Jacques stepped in his way. "You'll hunt her down, my friend," he

said. His wizened features had grown as stiff and stern as granite. "You'll find her, and you'll bring her

back. Safe and unharmed."

"I'll do no—"

"She knows nothing of your sins. Or of the sins against you. She knows nothing of you. She was only

telling a story that has nothing to do with you."

"Nothing? Indeed. And how can you say she knows nothing of me?"

"How could she? She's from the future."

Simon found himself blinking, owl-like, with confusion. Jacques had said many an odd thing to him in

his time, but this was the strangest statement of all. "What?"

Jacques nodded. "From the future, I tell you. She was born many centuries from now, and comes

from a land we've never heard of. I've been thinking over the spell I cast to draw her to Marbeau and

that is the only feasible explanation."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Jacques's expression remained hard with anger. "I'm talking about your selfish, foolish, behavior and

what I tried to do to help you! I ripped an innocent woman out of her own time and place for your sake."

He pointed to the door. "Now you're going to fetch her back and treat her with the honor she deserves!"

There had been a bit more arguing, and more explanations from Jacques about the
geis
and the

storytelling. Since Jacques did not lie, Simon eventually came to believe that the old man at least believed

the tale he told. Which was how Simon came to be riding along the forest trail looking for Jacques's lost

lamb as dark fell on the countryside.

Despite the light of a harvest moon, Diane had been nowhere to be seen in the open countryside. He

didn't know if she'd stayed to the road or taken off across the newly harvested fields. She might be on

her way to Tours, or Chinon, or asleep in the warm depths of a stack of grain. He had no way of

knowing. It was too dark to follow a trail, and she couldn't answer him if he called out.

"Jacques and his foolish dabbling in magic," Simon complained to his horse as he came to the edge of

the forest south of the castle. What was most annoying was that the dear old man had only been trying to

help him. In trying to help, Jacques had brought about more trouble than either Simon or this Diane of

Brittany—who wasn't actually from Brittany—needed or deserved.

Well, perhaps he deserved the trouble, Simon conceded as the horse picked its way carefully along

the rutted roadway. He had been sulking and brooding and in a foul temper—and he didn't intend to

change his mood, either. He had no reason too. The world was ugly and harsh. There was no love or

loyalty or friendship or honor or God that could be trusted. Yet, friendship, honor, loyalty, and

submission to God were the only life he knew.

"Why bother?" he muttered darkly.

He came to a split in the road and hesitated for a moment beneath the shadowed trees. Each track led

to two villages in his demesne: one of farmers who worked his fields, the other of woodsmen,

woodcutters, charcoal burners, gamekeepers and the like. All of his folk would be celebrating the harvest

festival tonight. Simon felt no cause for celebrating.

His only hope was that the hard-negotiated truce and Peace of God would last long enough for the

earth's bounty to be taken in and safely stored, that his people would survive through one more winter.

His dark thoughts were punctuated by the soft call of an owl, and then, faintly, off to the left, shouting. He

spurred the horse to the left.

Apparently, Diane's storytelling didn't suit the farmers of Marbeau any better than it did their lord.

* * *

Diane silently screamed as a rock hit her in the ribs. Her throat hurt even without the sound. The sharp

edge of the stone cut her on the forehead. The heat from the towering blaze behind her singed her skin.

The mob surrounded her in a vicious crescent, making a game of backing her toward the bonfire. They

were going to burn her to death, she knew it. They joked about it among themselves.

She was terrified, hurting, but angry as well. The tears that nearly blinded her were from anger. She

hated the helplessness. She hated being the victim. She hated this place and these people.

"Demon!" someone shouted", and hit her on the shoulder with his fist.

Another rock hit her on the back. With the air knocked out of her, she fell to the ground, and very

nearly under the stamping hooves of a big white horse.

The horse reared and turned aside. Diane rolled away. The crowd parted in front of the big animal as

she fought her way to her knees.

"Stand back!"

The voice came from far above her, a deep, furious shout. Like the voice of God. Still gasping hard

for breath, Diane looked up, and higher up, until she saw the rider on the white horse. Not God, but a

warrior angel, hawk-faced, with a nimbus of gold hair for a halo. Fierce, dangerous, and furious, he was

the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.

"Go."

Simon didn't need to say another word to disperse the villagers. One word, and his angry look was

enough to turn the peasants' mob frenzy into cold terror. He was their lord and they knew the best way

to stay alive this night was to get out of his sight. They melted away, slinking back to their hovels, leaving

him alone with their victim before the fire.

Why had they attacked her? he wondered as he got down from his horse. Because her eyes had an

odd shape to them? Because her skin was a different color than theirs? How could they tell, when they

were as encrusted with dirt as the earth itself?

"Fools," he muttered. "Do they think she's a demon?" Then he laughed at his own foolishness, because

he'd had the same notion himself last night. This was no demon before him, but an injured, frightened

woman.

He knelt beside her, careful to move slowly so as not to frighten her anymore than she already

seemed. She looked at him in awe for a moment, then recognition slowly dawned in her large dark eyes.

She turned her face away from him, her eyes closed as he ran his hands over her. Her silk dress was

torn, tattered, and stained, but still soft to the touch. The skin beneath it was soft as well, he noted,

though he kept his touch impersonal as he checked her for wounds. After a few moments, he decided it

would be better to continue the examination back at the castle where he could call for bandages and

salves if they proved necessary. So, he helped her up and onto the horse.

She didn't speak, of course, on the way back. Jacques and his
geis
saw to that. The silence was to be

expected, and he didn't say anything either. He would have, he supposed, if she'd even once looked at

him. She didn't turn her head, or acknowledge him in any way, though he could feel the heat of her body,

like branding accusations, burning into his skin.

After a while it occurred to him that she was somewhat annoyed with him for tossing her out into the

ugly world in the first place.

The room was warm.
Diane hadn't realized that she was so cold until her teeth chattered when

Simon carried her into the warm room. She must have been in some kind of shock, she supposed,

because she didn't really
feel
cold. She must have fallen into some kind of daze during the ride, because

as the warmth spread over her she became aware of being held in the arms of the man who'd rescued

her. She was holding onto him, her arms slung around his neck, her head rested on his chest. It was as

though she was taking comfort from his strong embrace and the deep, steady thud of his heartbeat.