Claire Delacroix (15 page)

And I smiled. He was an impossibly handsome man, his wit quick, his charm dangerously engaging. I had never met the like of him - and though I knew him to be a scoundrel, I had not been able to resist his allure. I had been enchanted when he spoke with such passion of the home he desired in Sicily. I had liked that he asked me about Aphrodite as if a woman could know something of merit. I had told myself that I seduced him the second time solely to suit my greater scheme, but the truth was that I could not have resisted his touch once he stood in my chamber.

My plan to distract Gawain in the most primitive way imaginable and thus retrieve the
Titulus
had been simple, hastily concocted, impetuous and for the greater good of Inverfyre. It had been unspeakably bold, and I had felt a wicked tide of delight in my own scheme’s success. I had not, however, expected matters to become so complicated.

More to the point, I had not expected to like Gawain Lammergeier. I had not expected desire to unfurl within me when he caressed me. I had not known that any woman could feel such ardor. I had never imagined that matters between a man and woman could be so sweet, so tender, so exhilarating. I had not known that I could be so wanton, so bold and so unrestrained in my response.

I had briefly been another woman, one without cares, one filled with passion, one I could envy even as I disapproved of her comport. It was no wonder he had invited me to be his harlot - I had behaved as one with astonishing ease.

Indeed, I was yet amazed that this wanton and I were one and the same. The taste of pomegranate recalled - with unwelcome clarity - the rasp of Gawain’s tongue upon my nipples, his kisses upon my belly, the sweet stickiness of the fruit’s juice upon my flesh. I caught my breath in memory of the love play we had made and my mouth, despite the fruit within it, went dry.

He had made it so easy to forget that I had no right to have any desires beyond those demanded of me by my birthright. He had made it so easy to believe that my fate was unfairly cast.

And still, I could not shake my conviction of that. Three months I had listened and watched for him, knowing I should not. Three months I had expected a reckoning over my last victorious possession of the
Titulus
, three months I had hoped for a rousing conclusion to our game.

But he was gone as surely the previous summer’s fruit. Worse, I knew that I should have anticipated as much. Did I not understand the manner of man he was?

The juice found the cut inside my swollen lip and stung mightily, reminding me to use the wits with which I had been born. Men like Gawain Lammergeier saw only to their own pleasures and their own rewards. He was a thief and a scoundrel, a man whose absence I should not mourn and whose temptations I should not heed. Our interval had been sweet solely because it had been short, solely because I had wanted nothing from him that he had not been prepared to give.

I cast the pomegranate from the window, newly vexed by men. I tried to clean the ruby stains of fruit juice from my fingers, but to no avail. Like Gawain himself, its stain was not so readily shed as that.

I reached into the chest of garments, but my hand strayed away from my fine wool gown, seemingly of its own accord, and landed upon my old homespun kirtle with its faded woad dye. It was the most ancient and disreputable gown I owned. Fergus loathed it. I loved its softness, but ceded to his demand.

Not on this day. Defiance rose hot within me, rebellion and recklessness fast on its heels. The truth was that I felt somewhat disloyal to my spouse this morn. I touched my wounded lip with the tip of my tongue, then donned the kirtle.

Its weight upon my back seemed to feed my defiance. It was true that I had made unconventional choices, it was true that the men in my life had left me cornered, it was true that I was yet convinced that I had served the greater good.

I would visit Adaira and ask her counsel, she who made only choices that defied convention, she who was reputed to be able to see the future, she who my mother had bade me seek out.

It was an impulsive thought, and one I knew I should forget. But the prospect was too deliciously forbidden for me to resist on this morn. It was early, too early for lazy Fiona to stop me.

Further, that the snow had melted away. I could leave no trail in the snow to condemn either Adaira or me. Fergus could not disapprove of what he did not know. His male kin had all ridden to the hunt with him, and they were the ones most inclined to whisper in his ear of my transgressions.

It seemed Dame Fortune was on my side. I braided my hair and tucked the braid into my chemise, for my midnight tresses would be readily recognized. I wound my homespun cloak around me and left my chamber on stealthy feet.

To my delight, there were few souls in the hall, all of them taking advantage of the laird’s absence to sleep late. I slipped through them unobserved and darted down the path to the woods.

As I ran, my heart began to sing. I was free of Inverfyre’s walls, free without approval or a chaperon. The sun shone with vigor, the sky was the cleanest blue imaginable and there was a promise of spring in the wind.

I fairly danced along the forest path with an abandon I had not felt since I had welcomed Gawain between my thighs. Though I was late to defiance, I liked it well.

* * *

The forest spreads like a carpet below Inverfyre’s high tower, and appears endless to one who gazes down upon it from the high walls. In truth, it is riddled with paths and streams. It is here that old Adaira makes her home.

There was a time when my mother and I came often to see the old wise woman, a time when I knew the path to her abode as well as the lines in my own hand. That had changed one day, changed so suddenly and with such finality that even as a child I had known better than to question it.

Adaira’s is a hut in the deepest shadows of the forest, a shadow itself which any soul could easily walk past without seeing it. I had not been here in at least a decade, not for two decades with my mother, so was uncommonly pleased when I found my way directly there.

I hesitated just a step from the door, my hand already raised to knock. Perhaps, Adaira would not welcome me. Perhaps, my absence had insulted her.

I wondered at the wisdom of my visit, but it was too late.

“My lady?” she said softly, the sound of her voice making gooseflesh on my skin. Though I have known her since my childhood, she never calls me by my name.

My mother always said that the blind see more than the sighted, for their vision is in another realm. So it seems with Adaira. Her eyes are glazed with that bluish hue of thin milk and she holds her head oddly, but she always faces the person she addresses, even when the person has moved silently. When she fixes her blind stare upon me, her lips twisted in a cunning smile, I feel that she can see my very thoughts.

It is a most unsettling sensation.

My mother had also said that Adaira had been an uncommon beauty in her youth. I could recall none of this, for she had been blind and old even when I was a child. Her eyes still fascinated and repelled me.

I stood on the threshold, reluctant to invite myself into her abode. “I would ask for your counsel, Adaira.”

She nodded but once, then stepped back into the hut, leaving the door open between us. After a moment, I chose to enter, though I was uncertain how welcome I was. I shut the door of the hut behind me and the shadows closed around me like an embrace.

Adaira said nothing, but stirred the contents of her old iron pot, which was set over the glowing coals of an old fire. She had always stirred that pot when I came here as a child, always wore the same homespun shift of mustard hue, always had her hair tied back in a leather thong. The hut always smelled of precisely the same pleasant mix of earth and damp and nameless herbs.

Not for the first time, I had the whimsical thought that there was no passage of time in this hut, that I interrupted her at the same moment over and over again. Adaira was waiting for me, as always she had been, and she looked as always she had. Time might not have passed in this place. That was foolery indeed, for I knew that I was both older and taller, that at least a decade had slipped away since last I stood here.

“Counsel, from me?”

“Perhaps wisdom is a better word,” I said. “I have been compelled to make uncommon choices, as you oft have done, and am uncertain.”

Adaira chuckled at this, then bent over her pot. “Come here and take a deep breath.”

I did as I was bidden. It is pointless to defy Adaira’s commands and even more pointless to ask her any question outright.

I inhaled the rich scent of what seemed to be a rabbit stew, then stepped back to regard her with surprise. “I have never known you to eat meat.”

“And still I do not.”

“Where is Annelise?” I asked, peering again into the hut’s shadowy but vacant corners. “Does she yet abide with you? Or has she wed and moved away?”

Adaira’s lips tightened. “Annelise is dead.”

My lips parted, though no sound came forth. The old woman seemed to watch me struggle with this news, her expression shrewd. “I am sorry. I did not know…”

“A year ago, she died birthing a child got upon her by a man I will not name.”

“He did not wed her.”

Adaira shrugged. “It is of no import. My daughter is dead either way.”

Her manner was so final that I guessed the baby must have died as well. “You should have come to the village…”

“And to what purpose? That others could mock me, the finest midwife in all of Christendom, yet one unable to save her own child? I would not give them the pleasure.” She abruptly turned back to the stew. “I have prepared this for you,” she said, her words so measured that I understood we would speak of Annelise no more.

Then I realized what she had said. I had never before eaten in Adaira’s abode. “You knew I would come, even afore I did?”

“Some events are less a matter of personal choice than we would like to believe.” She fetched a carved wooden bowl with the surety of one who knows her surroundings well, ladled a generous portion of stew into it and pressed the bowl into my hands. In truth, it smelled delicious, the meat stewed with wild onions. I had eaten nothing this morn and my belly growled.

She smiled thinly. “Sit. Eat.”

I did as I was bidden, making short work of the unexpected feast. Adaira stirred the cauldron with such concentration that she might have been alone or unaware of my presence. I guessed that she mourned her daughter, for she and Annelise had been close.

When I put down the spoon, well sated, she spoke.

“Have you bled since Christmastide?”

I caught my breath. A child was both my greatest hope and my greatest fear, but Adaira spoke as casually as one might when discussing the hue of a cloak. I sat forward, desperate for whatever she might tell me, but spoke with care. “I seldom bleed in the winter, and have had false hope before.”

Adaira smiled coyly. “Perhaps the hope is only false when you plant a withered seed.”

How could she know of my digression? I swallowed before I could speak, and even though I decided she could not know the truth, my voice was strained. “I do not understand what you mean.”

Adaira laughed and I knew then that she knew about Gawain, though still I could not imagine how she could be so certain.

Instead of asking what she would not answer, I asked what I most wanted to know. “Are you certain that I carry a child? Is it a boy?”

She snorted, then shook her head. “You and your mother. A son, a son, a son. It was all she asked of me when she ripened with you.” Her voice turned harsh. “Whether it is a son or a daughter is of less import than if the child is hale.”

I was duly chastened. “Of course, I did not mean to imply otherwise…”

Adaira interrupted me with the old verse, her tone mocking.

“When the seventh son of Inverfyre,

Saves his legacy from intrigue and mire,

Only then shall glorious Inverfyre,

Reflect in full its first laird’s desire.”

To my astonishment, she then spat into the embers of the fire.

I sat straighter, affronted. “Do you deny that it is time for the seventh son of Inverfyre? It is my duty to be the vessel for that prophesied child…”

“You stole a man’s seed to beget the boy you carry.” Adaira clicked her tongue to chide me. “It is an ominous beginning to a life, to be the product of a woman’s deceit.”

“No one needs to know…”

Adaira laughed harshly. “Will they not guess? I, an old madwoman living in the woods, have guessed the truth! Do you think that no one will whisper if the child is born fair of hair?” My heart leapt in terror. “You are all dark, all of you of Inverfyre.”

“Fergus’ hair is ruddy. It may have been fair when he was a child,” I argued with resolve. “All will be too relieved to ask questions.”

“People always ask questions,” she said tartly. “It is in our nature to not believe whatsoever we are told to be fact.”

“What else was I to do?” I demanded in frustration. “Five years I have been wed, and five years I have been barren. I saw a chance to conceive a child and I took it, though it is true that I did not consider the hue of the man’s hair.”