Immortal Warrior (32 page)

“Which means we actually ride at sunset tomorrow. I will say my farewells to Merewyn then.”

“Aye.” Ivo nodded, wishing he had another day before he had to say his own farewells, before he had to make Alaida cry.

Then he started downstairs, because he didn’t.

CHAPTER 22

IT WAS STRANGE how little the days had changed with Ivo gone, reflected Alaida as she watched Tom attack a straw man under Oswald’s observant eye. The servants still went about their duties. The motte still climbed skyward. Her belly still swelled. And Ari still scribbled, though only in his book now, since there was no need to pass messages. Except that the manor’s schedule had shifted back toward normal, every day simply rolled along the same as when Ivo was here.

Every
day
.

The nights were a different matter. It was then she felt his absence. The hall seemed empty with no lord at the table; her bed grew cold with no husband in it. But it was more than that. She missed him with an ache that went beyond Alnwick’s need for a lord, and beyond her body’s cravings for a husband’s touch.

It had been nearly three months now, and she wanted Ivo home. She wanted to play chess with him, to share morsels at supper, to murmur nonsense back and forth in the dark, to fight with him, to hear him laugh with Brand. Anything. She wanted to know he was near, even if he was out doing his mysterious business all day and she could only see him by night.

Her hand rested on her belly, and she felt a tiny flutter, like a hummingbird beneath her palm.
That
was something that had changed. The babe had quickened not long after Ivo left, and every time it had moved since, she’d wished he were here to feel it with her. She wanted to watch his face when he did, to see if he wanted this child or not. The babe moved again, more restlessly, as though it read her thoughts.

“
I
want you, little bird,” she soothed. “And your papa will, too, once he knows you. Never fear.”

Alaida made her way to the
garderobe
, where she’d been headed on one of her ever-more-frequent visits before she’d let herself be distracted. Afterward, she stopped at the kitchen to check that the cook had the day’s spices and to relieve the stores of an apple, then wandered back to the hall. Tom and Oswald had disappeared, and when she entered the hall, she was surprised to find Ari gone, too. His book, however, sat on the table.

She drifted over to look at it. The cover was plain but substantial—boiled leather tacked over boards, with sturdy straps to hold it closed—straps that weren’t fastened right now. Tempting, to just ease it open . . . but she wouldn’t.

“Where is Sir Ari?” she asked a passing varlet.

“Word came of a fight between two crews at the motte. Sir Ari and Oswald ran to see to it.”

The man went on about his business, but the book whispered to her. A fight. They would be gone awhile.

She shouldn’t, but . . . With a quick glance around, she lifted the cover.

She couldn’t read a word.

Whatever Ari wrote, he did it in some strange hand, with spiky letters that looked vaguely familiar though they bore no resemblance to the Latin and French she knew. Disappointed, she turned another few pages to be sure, but found only the same odd markings.

Why he bothered to hide the book, she didn’t know, for surely no one here at Alnwick would be able to decipher it. The only thing she could comprehend at all were the tiny animals decorating the margins: a bear, a wolf, a raven—Brand’s bird, she supposed—and what must be a lion. She found a stag on another page, along with a fearsome hound, a bull, and an eagle. Her eagle, perhaps, if this was a chronicle, or the one from Ivo’s shield. She looked for her dragon.

Approaching voices drifted in the door. Guilt jolted her, and she flipped the book shut and hurried upstairs. Sir Ari was right to keep his chronicle in that strange script, she decided, to keep people like her from prying.

What she’d seen niggled at her, though, through supper and chess and right into bed. She was lying there behind the draperies, half-asleep, when her mind finally drifted to where she’d seen those animals before: some were the same as the beasts on the standing stone. Perhaps Ari had drawn what he’d seen, then added the others for his own amusement. Aye, that must be it.

Except for two things, her sleepy mind whispered: some of his letters were on the stone, too—the lightning bolt, the odd cross, the pitchfork.

And Ari hadn’t been at the standing stone.

Suddenly she wasn’t sleepy anymore.

 

ALAIDA WAS STILL mulling over what she’d seen some days later as she strolled through the tiny village market—not a proper market, for that would have to be chartered and taxed by the king, but the simple local trade of extra food and goods that sprung up at the crossroads like a
dent-de-lion
each year at the Feast of the Magdalen and again in the fall after harvest. She was hoping a clever hand had created some small token she could buy as a gift for Ivo on his return, to add to the new cloak she was embroidering for him. Nothing immediately drew her eye, but she laid down a half-penny for a bone flute and handed it to Tom.

“My thanks, my lady, but I do not play.”

“Then learn,” she ordered. “We need more music in the hall, and you need some way to entertain the ladies when you begin to travel with your knight. Esmund here can teach you—for a penny?”

“He’ll be playing a simple tune by the end of the day, my lady,” said Esmund, beaming. “Here, boy, let me show you.”

She left Tom to his lesson and drifted along to where the next man had brought out what he’d carved over winter. She was admiring a cloak pin when she heard a familiar voice.

Alaida turned, smiling. “Merewyn. You’ve come to market.”

“Aye, my lady. To see what I might get in trade for my cheeses.” She tilted the basket at her hip to show off several wrapped and salted rounds. “I’ve still a few for the manor if you want them.”

“I do, and we will have them all,” said Alaida, motioning for one of the servants who followed her to collect the cheeses and for Geoff, who carried the manor purse, to pay. “Do we have leeks for a tart?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. That’s what I want for supper. See to it, then you and the others may do as you will for a time. I wish to walk with Merewyn.”

Merewyn slipped her coins into her purse and followed Alaida along the row until they left the market and its crowd behind.

“I have not seen you to thank you,” said Alaida when they were alone. “Your potion worked as you said, and afterward all was easy between us.”

“I am glad of it, my lady, but sad your lord husband had to leave so soon after.”

“ ‘Service to the king is the price of land’—or so I tell myself, little as it gladdens me.”

“Lord Ivo will return well before the child comes,” said Merewyn. “Did you have some question, my lady?”

Alaida sighed. “Many, but for today I wish to learn about the standing stone. What do you know of it?”

“’Tis very old, my lady, from the days when a monster roamed these lands.”

“I know the story. What interests me is the marks on the stone. What are they?”

“Runes—a kind of writing the old ones used.”

Alaida’s hopes flared. “Can you read them?”

“Alas, no, though I do know their names and meanings in magic. In proper hands, they can reveal much of a man’s fate. I use them, at times, though with less skill than my mother.”

“Do you know anyone who
can
read them?”

Merewyn pondered a moment, then shook her head. Disappointed, Alaida pressed on. “What about the creatures carved with the runes?”

“My grandmother said they betoken the souls of those the monster destroyed. My lady, what brings this sudden curiosity?”

“I rode past the stone sometime back and it has been in my head. In my dreams. I thought perhaps you could settle my mind about it.”

Merewyn frowned, clearly disturbed. “Beware, my lady. The stone possesses great binding magic—it must, to hold back a monster all these years. Do not let it touch you, lest it do you great harm.”

Merewyn looked so worried that Alaida confessed. “In truth, ’tis not the stone that absorbs me, but Sir Ari’s book.” She glanced about to make certain no one was within hearing, then told the story quickly.

“Tell me the animals again, my lady,” said Merewyn, and Alaida listed them off. “Are you certain he has never been to the stone?”

“No, but he did not go with me, and when I mentioned it, he said nothing.”

“’Tis said the seneschal is a great storyteller. Perhaps he chronicles the tales he spins.”

“I had not thought of that.” Alaida considered a moment. “But you said the rune-writing was only used in the olden times.”

“In England, my lady. I know nothing of how they write in other lands. I think you have let your imagination fly with you.”

“Perhaps you are right. I felt such evil at the stone, and then to see the same marks in Sir Ari’s writing . . .”

“’Tis natural enough, but truly, my lady, you cannot let yourself dwell on such dark matters. They will do you ill. Turn your mind to other, happier things, for the sake of yourself and your child.” She set her basket on the grass and extended her open palms toward Alaida. “May I?”

Alaida nodded and stood while Merewyn’s hands traveled over her taut belly. A profound peacefulness flowed into Alaida and sent the babe tumbling and thumping as if dancing, and a slow smile lit Merewyn’s face.

“All is well.” She gave Alaida a keen look. “Keep it so, my lady, I pray you.”

“I shall,” said Alaida, properly chided. “You have, indeed, given me ease. Now I must go, for I have much to do today before I sit down to my leek tart. Farewell, Healer.”

“Farewell, my lady.” Merewyn scooped up her basket and headed off toward her cottage.

Alaida turned toward the hall and the various duties that occupied the rest of her day, ate her leek tart for supper, and slept that night for the first time in several nights without thoughts of book or stone.

CHAPTER 23

ONE LAST TASK, Ivo told himself. One last message to deliver, and he could go home.

He approached the isolated hall carefully, his skin prickling with caution as he presented himself at the gate shortly after full dark. The guard quickly passed him into the yard, where he was greeted by a sow-bellied old knight whose legs bowed like they’d been formed ’round a barrel.

“Welcome to Ribbleswood, my lord. I am Godfrith, and this is my hall. Come. There is someone who wishes to meet you.” He led the way around the hall proper to a second, smaller building and pushed the door open. “This is our chamber bower—a wedding gift to my young bride. You will have better privacy here. Join us in the hall when you finish.” Godfrith backed out and pulled the door shut.

The man inside knelt. “Lord Ivo. I am Wakelin. You may remember me.”

“You ride for de Jeune,” said Ivo, motioning him to his feet.

Wakelin nodded. “My lord sends his greetings and asks if you ever killed that eagle.”

“A wise man does not kill his wife’s pet lightly.”

“No, my lord,” Wakelin said soberly.

Ivo pulled off his gloves. “You’re married, I take it.”

“I am, my lord, though I see her seldom. Do you have news for Lord Robert? He told me to say the redwing lost his voice.”

“And the wren lost her wings,” said Ivo, completing the pass code. He pulled the prepared message from his sleeve. After nearly two months in Wales leading William’s forces to the hidden camps of outlaw lords, he’d spent a third month here watching Roger of Poitou, with no sign the man was doing anything other than minding his lands. William’s suspicions that Roger and Dolfin Dunbar were plotting to restore Cumberland to the Scots had proved unfounded.

Wakelin tucked the message securely into his boot. “Lord Robert waits in London to carry this to the king in Normandy. Now, Sir Godfrith has held supper for us. We should join him.”

“How is it this Godfrith provides refuge for us?” wondered Ivo aloud as he pulled open the door. “Doesn’t he owe his lands to the Poitevin?”

“Aye, but his new wife is Lord Robert’s niece.”

“Ah. So, does he lay a good table?” asked Ivo.

“Not as good as yours, my lord, but better than most.”

“Then it will be far better than what I’ve had these past months.”

Godfrith’s wife bore an unfortunate resemblance to her uncle, but her smile was genuine and her husband’s table generous, as his belly should have made evident. By the time the bones were thrown to the dogs, Ivo had managed to fill a hollow under his belt that hadn’t been filled since he left home. He leaned back, sated, and studied the men around him. They were a mixed bunch, some Norman, some English, and some few who looked like their fathers must have been raiding Scots or Danes.

Suddenly, he saw a familiar face, lurking at the back of the hall. “What’s fitz Hubert doing here?”

Wakelin followed his eyes. “Lord Robert loaned him as part of Lady Ivetta’s escort.”

“Aye. Said I could keep him if I want,” said Godfrith. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

With all three of them staring his way, Neville quickly realized they were talking about him. He glared at Ivo, eyes narrowed and lips drawn thin as a sword edge.

Godfrith was too pleasant a man—and his new wife too young a woman—to have Neville fitz Hubert poisoning his hall. Smiling evenly, Ivo pronounced each word so the weasel could read them over the chatter in the hall. “If you do keep him,
messire
, watch him closely and do not expect much in the way of courage.”

Godfrith crinkled his brow into three deep furrows that made him look like a new-plowed field. “And you, Sir Wakelin. What say you on this?”

“That Lord Ivo gives good advice.”

Godfrith’s furrows deepened, then cleared as he made his decision. “Sir Neville, attend me.”