King's Blood (19 page)

“I would hope so,” Edith said, “unless God gets me first.”

“Then we'll hope He doesn't,” William said.

CHAPTER 21

Was that a disaster?” William asked. They were back in Gloucester, and it was late: well past midnight. But William could not find it in himself to fall asleep.

Robin arched a brow at him. “Does it feel like a disaster?”

“No,” said William. Then, less quickly, “No. It feels as if something happened, something important—but I don't know what.”

“You'll find out soon enough,” Robin said.

“That's the trouble with this world,” muttered William. “Too damned much of it is waiting and watching and trying to see what will happen next.”

“I rather think that's part of the pleasure,” Robin said sleepily.

“You would.” William flung himself on the bed. Robin was already asleep, gone far away from William and his fretting and his memory of the clear-eyed child with the face that would, in time, be beautiful.

She reminded him of his sister Cecilia. Even if women had been to his taste, he would have found her too witchy for him. But that she could and indeed would be a queen, he had no doubt. A king would find her someday, and set her as high as she deserved to be.

Which of course did nothing to solve his problem—but then nothing could. That was the lesson he had learned in Wilton Abbey. She had said it. He was what he was. There was no changing it.

The king's visit left a strange scent in the abbey's air—as if he had flung open the doors on something new and as yet unfathomed. Edith's mind was clearer. She had come to a decision.

Once William was gone, she had to face the abbess. She had expected that, and rather oddly, she did not dread it. For the first time since she read her father's letters, she was calm inside herself.

Sister Gunnhild was interrogated first. Edith had to stand in the hallway. The time for dinner came and went; the bread she had worked so hard to make was fed to everyone else while she went hungry.

It was a sacrifice. Perhaps spitefully, she chose not to offer it to God. She gave it to Britain instead, to the earth beneath her and the air she breathed, and the folk of air who shrank from coming so close to the nullity that was the abbess' presence.

Maybe it was spite, but once she had done it, she knew it had been the right thing to do. She leaned against the wall, and the stones held her in a cool embrace. It was like a long draught of clean water, or a deep night's sleep.

When Sister Gunnhild came out of the abbess' study, Edith was almost sorry to leave the place of rest she had found in herself. She was ready, she thought, to face whatever the abbess had in store for her.

Sister Gunnhild's face gave her nothing to hold to: no warning and no reassurance. The walls were high and the gates barred.

Edith took a deep breath and mustered what defenses she had, and stepped through the door.

 
She almost lost her resolve when she saw the abbess' face. The abbess was not smiling, but there was an air about her that Edith had never seen before. It was approval; gratification. “Come,” she said as Edith hesitated. “Sit.”

She had never said that before, either. Edith had not even known there was a chair in the corner, or that the privileged might sit in it.

She sat very carefully, knees together, hands folded in her lap. Abbess Christina regarded her with a notable lack of coldness. Edith would never have called it warmth, but it was warmer than anything she had shown before.

“Sister Gunnhild tells me,” the abbess said, “that you dealt most adeptly with the king.”

Edith kept her eyes on her interlaced fingers. That had always been the safest course during these audiences, and she saw no reason to change now. “Sister Gunnhild is very kind,” she said.

“Is it not the truth?” said the abbess. “He demanded that you be his queen. You rightly and properly refused him.”

That was not all that had gone on, but Edith was hardly inclined to say so. “Yes, Mother Abbess,” she said. “I told him I am to take full vows. He accepted that.”

“Did he indeed?” said the abbess.

Edith shot a glance at her. She was much more gratified than Edith might have expected—in fact she sounded almost triumphant. “Was that a mistake?” Edith asked. “Should I have said something else?”

“No,” said the abbess. “Oh, no. That was excellently done.”

“Then what—”

“Child,” said the abbess with a return of her old, grim manner, “you have done well. That is all you need to know.”

“Yes, Mother Abbess,” Edith said as meekly as she could force herself to be.

“Good, then,” said the abbess. “Go; continue your studies. Be assiduous in your devotions. It will all be done soon enough, and you will rejoice to be the bride of Christ.”

Edith bit her tongue until the pain made her eyes water. She rose and genuflected, and kissed the ring that was presented for that purpose. The stone was cold under her lips, with an odd tingle, as if some spell lay on it.

Whatever it was, it could not pass her wards. She was safe—though from what, she was not exactly sure.

 
The next morning, when Edith went to her lessons, she found only a single book on the table in the library, and no Sister Gunnhild. The book was one she had often read from before: a collection of bits from old philosophers. There was a scrap of parchment in it, and on the parchment a handful of words in Greek:
In the orchard, by the oldest tree.

It looked like a fragment of poetry, and there was no doubt that was what it was meant to seem. Edith raised her brows at it. Notes and secrets were not like Sister Gunnhild at all. But who else in the abbey could either read or write Greek, except Edith?

It could be a trap. If it was, Edith had wards, and the folk of air were flocking thick today. She tucked the scrap of parchment into her sleeve, closed the book neatly and left it exactly where she had found it, and made her casual and unconcerned way out of the library and the cloister and through the orchard.

The day was glorious: warm, bright, sweet-scented. The grass was almost as green as that of the Otherworld; the sun was nearly as splendid. Apples and pears were swelling on the boughs. Some had begun already to blush with ripeness.

Such a day reminded Edith more vividly than ever that the life of the cloister was remote and cold, and her body was young and beginning, itself, to ripen. She was powerfully tempted to cast off the heavy bindings of her habit, but she was not that far gone—yet. She did slip out of her sandals and dangle them from a finger, and if the wind chose to pluck the veil from her hair, well then, she could catch and carry it, but she did not have to put it back on—not yet.

The sun was warm on her uncovered head, the wind playful, plucking at the tight braid of her hair, teasing out random curls. She almost hated to go on, but the sooner it was done, the better.

Sister Gunnhild was waiting deep in the orchard, near the wall that divided it from the open downs. The apple tree that grew there had been planted when Rome ruled in Britain, or so the story went. Edith sometimes wondered if it was older even than that. Its roots were sunk deep, and it drank the power of this earth—drawing up strength from the great stone circle that was not so very far away at all.

Edith seldom thought directly of the circle, the Giants' Dance as people called it in the Otherworld. It was there, drawing in power and radiating it out, but it had never seemed to have much to do with her.

For some reason, today it was strong in her awareness. Things were stirring. The king had come here, and brought with him more maybe than he knew.

While Edith's awareness leaped suddenly wide, Sister Gunnhild rose from where she had been sitting.
Her
veil was still in place, but her feet were bare, too. Her face was guarded as always. Still, Edith could feel gates opening under it, and walls crumbling that had stood for years, maybe all her life.

When she spoke, the words came tumbling out—strange, because her tone was still so composed. “Ever since you walked out of air, I've been gathering courage to ask you something.”

“Ever since I—” Edith began.

“Please,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I know you have no reason to trust me. I was set over you to be your watchdog, to shape your mind and bind your spirit. I was supposed to empty you of everything that was not perfectly Saxon.”

“You never even tried,” Edith said. “We were learning philosophy, theology, Greek, but not—”

“Not what I was supposed to teach you,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I know. I lied to the abbess. For years I told her you were learning prayers as she instructed, and histories of your ancestors, and invocations of their memory. I let her believe that you were perfectly prepared to be what she wished you to be. There are great sins on my soul, and I will atone for them.”

“Why?”

Sister Gunnhild's shoulders tightened, then eased. She drew a long sigh. “Because I loathe this life. Because I was never made to live in walls, constrained in a cage. Because I saw from the beginning what the queen your namesake would have made of this isle, and what the abbess still labors to make it. I have no love for Normans, but I believe God has given them this kingdom for His own good reasons. I also believe the abbess has let her hate for them overcome her acceptance of God's will—and I will not be a part of it.”

Edith did not know what to say. Some of it was not so surprising, once she thought about it, but the rest had taken her off guard. It had been a while since she felt too young for anything. Just now, she was making up for it.

“Can you help me?” Sister Gunnhild asked. “Can you send me away? It doesn't matter where. Wherever you go, I'd far rather be there than here.”

“Even if it costs you your soul?”

Sister Gunnhild never even flinched. “If I stay in these chains, my soul will die.”

Since that was how Edith felt, she could hardly argue with it. But she said, “How do you know I go anywhere?”

“For years, I've watched you,” Sister Gunnhild said. “You're never at recreation with the others. You're always gone—vanished. I've seen you slip through air as through a curtain. Wherever you go, it must be better than here.”

“It is,” Edith said, “but not for long. Not for mortals. We can't eat or drink there, or we'll be bound forever.”

“That,” said Sister Gunnhild, “I could well bear.”

“I can't do it,” Edith said. It was hard, because Sister Gunnhild was so desperate, but Edith could never have forgiven herself if she had given way. “I am sorry, really I am. But I hate it here, too—and I haven't vanished forever. There's no place there for a mortal soul.”

Sister Gunnhild lowered her eyes. Edith knew that gesture all too well. She refused to waver because of it, but it did make her heart twinge.

“Please,” said Edith. “Don't do something you can't get out of.”

“Such as take vows in this abbey?” Sister Gunnhild did not sound as bitter as she might, all things considered—but Edith was little comforted. It was even less comfort that she sighed and said, “I'm desperate, I suppose. And cowardly. I could run away and trust to God to keep me safe in the world. But would God do that? I'm supposed to be His bride. How angry will He be when I repudiate Him?”

“I'm not sure God minds,” Edith said.

“That's heresy,” said Sister Gunnhild, but she sounded more bemused than appalled.

“Heresy is what old men in Rome say it is,” Edith said. “What do they know of women in Britain?”

Sister Gunnhild stared. Suddenly she laughed. Edith had never heard her laugh before. It was a remarkable sound, light and young. “Sweet saints! What would the abbess say to that?”

“Are you going to tell her?”

Sister Gunnhild shook her head. “Not a word. Did you think I would?”

“No,” said Edith. “We have a bargain, I think.”

“I believe we must,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I hope you can escape before the vows bind you. I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone.”

“I never knew,” said Edith. “I'm sorry for that.”

“Don't be. It means I've played my part well—and I'm still safe. The abbess still believes me to be her ally.”

“Were you ever?” Edith asked.

“I wanted to live like a real woman,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I wanted a husband. Children. A household to manage and a life to live. Not this living death.”

Edith found that her fists were clenched. She knew better than to ask why Sister Gunnhild had not refused to take vows. She was the daughter of a conquered king—enemy by blood and breeding. What could she hope for in the world but dishonor or worse?

Or so the abbess would have told her. The truth would have been less simple. Maybe she could have had the life she wanted. Now . . .

“I can't help you,” Edith said. “I don't even know that I can help myself. But if I can, I will.”

Sister Gunnhild spread her hands. “You have a generous heart. Don't fret for me. I've burdened you with more than you need to carry. If you can get out of here, by all means do. Don't hobble yourself with trying to save me.”

“I will try,” Edith said. “I promise you that.”

CHAPTER 22

The world was heavy on Edith's shoulders. All the deceptions, the games she had to play, the preparation for vows that she hoped—even prayed—she would never be forced to take, weighed her down until she could hardly bear it. Her only hope was the message she had asked the Norman king to give her father—and there was no surety that he would do any such thing.