Boadicea's Legacy (13 page)

Ela munched furiously on a stick, taking her frustration out on it instead of pounding sense into one Warrior of God, Osbert Edyvean. Had there ever been a man so foolish? Were the male species all so blindly focused?

No wonder women had to be manipulative, after being constantly told that they were the weaker sex … by men. Men were strong, with brute, immovable muscles, but it was common knowledge that if you didn't bend in a gale storm—she bit down so hard that her stick snapped and her
teeth cracked together—you'd break. She tossed the stick to the side of the road. Who was stronger, then?

She shifted, uncomfortable sitting so close behind him. She would offer to walk, but there was no way she would be able to keep up with Bartholomew's pace.

Instead of wearing her veil to cover her hair, she'd made a sling from it to carry Henry in. After this unchaperoned trip her reputation would never recover. So why worry about uncovered hair?

Unfortunately, she didn't care about what other people thought.
Most
other people, she quickly amended. Her grandmother had encouraged her curiosity and had introduced her to Meg when Ela had been just a child. Her parents adored her, and the greatest gift they'd ever given her was the freedom to be herself.

The “curse” had guaranteed that she'd be able to choose her own mate—if she fell in love. Since she hadn't, she was an old maid at twenty, cursed to live out her life alone, no children to hold, no husband to whisper secrets to in the night.

She thought of her sisters, Celestia and Galiana, and their children. She blinked away silly tears as she imagined how they'd talk about her.
I am going to be Crazy Aunt Ela
, she thought.
Alone with cats, like Aunt Nan
.

She could take lovers, she supposed. After all, her reputation was in tatters. How did one go about finding a lover? Os's kisses made her body tremble.

Staring at the back of Os's head, she noticed the different colors in the strands of darkly gold hair. Would he have
hair on his chest? What color would it be?

Her cheeks warmed and she squirmed again.

“What ails you? Do we need to stop?” His cold voice reminded her that she hated him.

His distrust of her—as if she, at her core, was evil—hurt. She was thoughtless and wild, mayhap—certainly not conventional—but not evil. How could he believe such a thing, as if his path to God was the only way to see Him?

Father Jonas, and then Father Harold, had taught them that God was in every tree branch and every blade of grass. God and God's love were all-encompassing. It seemed to her that Os's God had a more narrow view of things.

She shivered, hating constraints of any kind.

“We will stop in the next village.”

Ela rolled her eyes. His voice and stance shouted for her to stay clear of him, and yet he worried over her comfort. Os was not a cruel man, just confused and stubborn.

How am I supposed to hate you?

It wasn't long before they came to a dirt crossroads. “Fardonton to the left, and the fields are plowed. Surely they will have a place where we can get food and … rest.”

Ela had noticed that most villages seen from the road consisted of a chapel and a few houses with thatched roofs. The fact that Fardonton had a road sign was a step above the rest. Her stomach growled. “Whatever you want to do,” she said.

“You'll have to hide the weasel and cover your hair.” His voice dropped as if he spoke of something distasteful.

Ela ran her hand through a few of the gnarled strands and wished for a comb. “Henry is a polecat, not a weasel.”

“He's a pest, and you've tamed him like a cat—nay, a cat would never play fetch.”

She stiffened. “Is this where you accuse me of spell-craft? I'll have you know that it took me from spring to winter to train him to do that. It was hard, not impossible.”

He rode silently, as if refusing to waste his breath, either on arguing with her or on acknowledging that she was right. Finally he asked, “Why would you even think to teach a wild animal a silly pet's trick?”

Inhaling through her nose, she counted to ten and exhaled. “Henry needed to learn how to balance on three legs. It was part of his recovery—and as you can see, he runs fine.” She shrugged. “With a list to the right, mayhap, but as fast as ever. And since he isn't leashed or bound, he needed to have the skills to protect himself in the forest.”

Again, Os was silent.
Now what is he thinking?

The least he could offer was a grunt that he'd heard her.

If he were going to ignore her, then she would ignore him right back.

Braiding her hair to hide the worst of the knotted mess, she was never so happy to pass by the unguarded gates of Fardonton. There was but one main road, and it didn't take long to find the wood board with a blue mug painted on it announcing the inn.

Without waiting for Os to help her, she jumped to the ground. Henry crawled up by her nape, and she draped the
gold veil over her hair and back, hiding her red braids as well as her odd pet.

She understood, on an educated level, why Osbert was wary of her, but from pure emotion she was disappointed that he didn't understand that her gifts were as old as the earth. It didn't matter.

He used his faith as a shield from his emotions, and she couldn't get past it.

Ela would meet with the Earl of Norfolk—who would hopefully be more open to her talents than Os—answer his questions, find answers to her questions, and return home to help her family replant the crops that Thomas de Havel had burned.

If they lived.
Of course they lived
. She would be an empty husk if they'd died.

It was a practical plan. In her own eclectic way, she was a pragmatist at heart.

Os tied Bartholomew to the hitching post, and Ela followed him inside. The interior of the Blue Mug Inn was dark and smelled of earthy hops and rich lamb stew.

Ela's mouth watered, but this time it was Os's rumbling belly that rang out loud and clear.

She couldn't help but laugh softly at his mortified look. “Hungry?”

“Aye,” he admitted, relaxing his animosity toward her. “But it seems nobody is here. Where are the people?”

“Ring the bell on the counter.” She pointed at the long wooden high bar, then at a side door. “I wonder if that is the
kitchen where all of those wonderful smells are coming from.”

“Should we be worried that there aren't any customers?” Os's brow furrowed. He was dedicated, loyal, and conflicted.
And so handsome
. Ela reached out her hand to touch his forearm, wondering if she could help ease the headache she was certain he had.

“And what am I, then?” An old, quavering voice came from a shadowed area to the left, and Ela whirled toward the sound.

The crone scooted to the edge of the bench so that her face was visible. Ela smiled warmly. The old woman's aura was a deep rose, rich with compassion and health.

The woman smiled back, her teeth interspersed randomly along her gums. “The stew is worth getting here early for, aye, and by noon there won't be room ta stand at the bar. Good thing, strangers, that ye're here early too. Care to share my table?”

Ela nodded, but Os held her back. He said, “You don't know her. Let's take a different table.”

“So you can ignore me all during the meal? Nay, I would rather sit with the woman. Her aura is lovely, and for certes, she will be better company than you. Come.”

She took his hand and led him to the table.

“New married, are ye?” The old woman laughed and rubbed her gnarled hands together. “Been a long time since me Len passed. Me nights are a lot colder now,” she winked at them and Ela grinned.

Os sputtered. “We aren't married.”

The old woman nodded wisely. “Ah.”

“Ah?” he asked suspiciously.

Ela elbowed him, hoping he would take the hint and be quiet. “I'm Ela, and this is Osbert. What is your name?”

“Hilda. Old Woman. Wise One. Hag to some,” she laughed again. “Depends on whether they come to the front door or back, aye?”

Ela sighed. “Truth, I've seen it with my own eyes. Our village wisewoman can save a mother and child with her herbs and prayers, but come Sunday, they won't meet her gaze at church.” Ela glanced at Os, who was staring at Hilda in horrified fascination. “Meg says she doesn't mind. It's doing good works that matters.”

“She sounds wise indeed, this Meg,” Hilda said. “You, sir, would ye care to hang your cloak? There's pegs by the door.”

Os shook his head. “Nay. It stays with me.”

Hilda patted his shoulder. “I see you wear the cross. Have you been to the Holy City? You don't look old enough to have fought in the Crusades. My grandson died, fighting in a strange land.”

“I was in Jerusalem. Because of brave men like your grandson, I was able to see the Holy City without fear.” Os lowered his eyes respectfully. “Many died, Hilda. I am sorry for your loss.”

How could he be so suspicious of everyone and yet so decent at the same time?
Ela studied his Romanesque profile. He was classically beautiful, but he carried a bitterness beneath the surface. It bothered her that she couldn't read his aura. She missed her
grandmother, wishing she had someone to talk to about it.

Lady Evianne would understand. Her sisters were too far away to be of any help, and besides, they had their own families now. Her brothers, bless them, cared only about fighting and women and war. The curse left the males unaffected, and they could do as they pleased.
Lucky them
.

“Thank ye. Ah, here comes Sal with the bread. She's quite the cook. Of course, she's on her fifth husband, but never mind that. Her stew will leave you moaning with joy.”

Ela smothered a laugh as Os sent a concerned glance toward Sal. Sal weighed more than five men put together, and from the ease with which she carried seven trays filled with steaming loaves, not all of it was fat.

Os quickly leapt up to help her, but she shooed him out of the way. “Thank ye, but I've got it balanced just so. Ye'd only make me drop the lot!” She set the trays side by side along the bar, then began slicing and scooping some of the insides of the bread to hollow out a bowl. “No touching these while they cool, Hilda, dearie, or I'll serve ye last.”

“Ach! Ain't my fingers ye need to warn,” she laughed and Sal joined in. Ela watched, enjoying the companionship vicariously. She and Meg were friends such as this.
Had Meg made it through the fires safely?

She felt Henry sniff her neck and laughed at the tickle.
Stay. No need to terrify poor Hilda by having you peek your nose out of my hair, you rascal … you know I'll save you a bite of lamb
.

He settled down against her nape, his whiskers twitching. Ela and Henry weren't the only ones being tormented
by the scent of sage and rosemary, garlic and butter. Hilda and Os were silently appreciative too.

The door to the inn banged open, and two men in work boots came in. “Sal, ‘tis like I've died and gone to heaven.”

“Ye ain't dead yet,” came the shout from the kitchen. “But ye will be, Will Morris, if ye touch my loaves afore they're cooled.”

Ela watched Os as he eyed the men and the loaves. She could just imagine him guarding the bread as if it were precious gold.
Honor
.

Soon the inn was filled just as Hilda predicted. Sal, and a young man who was obviously her progeny, came out of the kitchen with a vat of stew. The man grabbed the cooled loaves and literally tossed them one to a customer. Then Sal followed, ladling stew into each one.

Theirs was a practiced routine that had everyone served while the food was hot and fresh. Next, frothing mugs of ale were poured and passed with familiarity and goodwill. “This is a wonderful inn,” Ela said, taking another mouthful of lamb stew. “How long has it been here?”

“It was Sal's father's, and his father's before him, and so on. She'll give it to her son. The stew recipe is only passed from word of mouth, one to the next, within the family.” Hilda licked her lips and set the bread bowl back on the table.

Os rubbed his belly, and Ela's eyes were drawn downward as he pressed his hand against his flat abdomen. She remembered the hard ridge of muscle playing against her palms as they rode Bartholomew, the solid feel of his
shoulders against her cheek when she'd rested her head, the strength he controlled when he rode.

Her stomach fluttered, and she was no longer hungry.

Once again, the door slammed open, this time with such force that the walls shook. The jovial atmosphere ended as two men, dressed in black with a red fox's crest, stomped inside. “We're looking for strangers.”

Ela gasped, touching Os's shoulder. She heeded his signal to be quiet.

Hilda's gaze darted between them like a savvy bird's, and she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I didn't think to ask if ye were hiding from someone.”

Os's expression dared the woman to betray them, though Ela could have told him that she wouldn't.

Hilda jerked her head to a darkened door behind the booth. “It leads to an alleyway and the privy.” She cocked her head to the side, her old eyes wise. “And from there ye'll head west of town to the river—after two days or more, it'll lead ye to the River Tas. Go north, toward the sea. Good luck to ye both, dearies. Ye'll need to have fortune smile upon ye, methinks.”

Ela grasped Hilda's hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She dropped coin on the table, then turned to her knight and shoved him toward the back door. “Os, hurry. Before they see us.”