Knight and the Witch 02 - A Summer Bewitchment (11 page)

This is the ugliest dress I have yet seen and they expect my elf to wear it.

Anger started to burn, a rage that tempered him both hot and cold, like a quenched new sword. Swiftly he unbarred the door and spoke to his own guards, a few crisp words in an old crusader code that only they would understand. Stepping back into the room, he asked, “Where is the maid to help you dress?”

Surprisingly sanguine, Elfrida grinned, giving him a bow that had her bath-towel slipping in an interesting way and quelled his temper for the moment. “You have no fresh clothes at all, my lord, so by those lights I have done quite well.”

“I doubt that any of Lord Richard’s garb will fit me and they dare not give me the clothes of any other.” Admiring afresh his wife’s lissome shape and her smooth, clean skin, Magnus shook out the worst creases and dust in his braies and tunic and began to dress again. Part of him longed to stay and embrace his naked lady, but the warrior in him wanted to hasten out of the chamber, seize the first Percival he found and challenge the fellow to armed combat.

“That will not help the missing girls,” remarked Elfrida quietly, in that uncanny divining of his thoughts.

“But you do realize why they have done this?”

“As a deliberate insult disguised as a courtesy, to remind us of my lower class? To shame me and disconcert you? Yes, I do. What I cannot understand is why.”

Her question caught his smoldering attention, as she must have known it would. “Are we not their guests?” she persisted. “Do they not want our help?”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps Lady Astrid and Lord Richard have come to a new, fresh-minted agreement and look to deal with Silvester themselves.”

“But only for Rowena.”

“Yes, and I would say that rag of a robe is part of their new tactics.” He belted on his sword and immediately felt more himself, more in control. “By this slight, they say ‘There has been a change of plan. A sudden change of plan, but one we like, because we do not need you any longer and we shall waste no more effort in attempting to charm you as guests.’ That is what they believe, I vow. It matches their other hasty designs.”

“The Lady Astrid’s plot to have her own ward kidnapped.”

“Indeed. Their mistake now is that they long to show it off.”

“And break sacred guest bonds to do so,” remarked Elfrida quietly. “They are entirely too proud.”

“Elfrida, their pride shows a fatal arrogance. These are folk who are used to ordering ‘Do this,’ and it is done. They do not understand the limits of their power.”

“As you said to the herald, they make idle threats and are usually believed.”

He looked closely at his wife, marking her unusual stillness. “Did you and Lady Astrid cross each other again earlier today?”

She nodded, toweling herself in a distracted way, for something to do. He lifted the towel from her and began to pat her hair. “So there is malice and revenge on the lady’s part in the giving of that gown.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her “sir” and her nakedness stirred him anew, but, before he could tumble her to bed again, Elfrida hurried to the chamber window. Peeping through the half-closed shutters, displaying the narrow back and pert rump he had so recently soaped and rinsed, she nodded and turned back to him.

“There are flowers growing on the common land, tall, lush flowers. Will you gather some for me, please, Magnus? Enough for me to wind about my arms? The corncockle and oxeye daisies shall do very well and will be pretty.”

She smiled now, her amber eyes sparking with intent. “Purple and white are Silvester’s colors, so we shall see how my costume is received.”

“Sleeves of flowers and not a bud or blossom stolen from any land of theirs.” Grimly satisfied at her ingenuity, he started for the door. “Admit no other but me,” he ordered, and stalked out to the stairway.

None stopped him as he stalked to the common land. A page, kicking up dust on a nearby path, carrying a harp, shrieked in Norman French, “A beast!” He sprinted off as soon as Magnus turned. An older girl, dressed in as drab a robe as the one the Percivals had put by for Elfrida, dropped her spindle when she saw him and crossed herself. She did not pause to recover it while she hurried off, wide-eyed and gasping. No guards ventured close, which displeased him, seeing that he was still itching for a fight, but being undisturbed he swiftly had mounds of flowers.

“Do you wish for garlands, too, my lord?” remarked Elfrida when she saw them, her eyes sparkling. “You have certainly brought enough.”

Before he could reply, there was a hesitant knock on the chamber door. “Away!” Magnus roared. “We shall come when we are ready!”

“These are beautiful.” Elfrida meanwhile was lifting up stems of corncockle, of oxeye daisies, of lilies and white roses. She gave him a look warm with gratitude. “Truly beautiful living jewels.”

He smiled, to prove he was not aggrieved with her, and watched in burning indulgence. Flowers flashed under and through her nimble fingers, a cascade of whites and purples, shot through with gold. Elfrida was charming them, using her magic to pin and fasten the blooms to the dull brown gown. In moments, as he leaned against the door, ignoring another careful knock, she threaded flowers into sleeves and made a belt of lilies worthy of Solomon. Her face glittering with concentration, she stripped the roses of their thorns and fashioned them into a crown.

“My lord.” A plea beyond the door.

“Hold!” Magnus ordered, his cheek against the wood.

When he twisted round again Elfrida was robed in her gown and plaiting her long hair. “Splendor in…” The oath died on his lips. At times his wife’s beauty was almost unearthly, utterly peerless.
How?
He wanted to ask, but it was Elfrida herself and what she could do.

The brown dress was transformed, enchanted by the woman wearing it and her flowers. She was a living tapestry, her face that of an angel’s, her unveiled hair brighter than a dragon’s flame and crowned by white and pink roses. Sleeved with oxeye daisies and corncockle, belted by lilies and garlanded with golden marigolds, the sweet fragrance as she moved was rich as the summer itself.

There were even flowers for him, Magnus realized, as she secured a spray of oxeye daisies across his chest.

“Hey!” he half-protested, but she wagged a busy finger. “Today, you are my lord of flowers. These are your banner.”

He raised an eyebrow, which she ignored, being concerned as ever for others. “Your men, Magnus, do they know anything? Can we get a warning to them?”

“Already done. They will have slipped away and have our horses with them. If Lord Richard had more sense, he would have closed his trap first, not shaken it in our faces.”

Elfrida touched her gown. “This dress?”

“That dress.”

“So we should leave soon, should we not?”

He nodded. “Such as it ever was, we have overstayed our welcome.”

She touched the belt of lilies, bowed her head and murmured a prayer, then straightened. “I am ready.”

“To it, then,” he replied, hauling on the door and laughing at the awe-struck faces beyond. “To it.” He relished the coming contest.

Sitting at his supper table, Lord Richard, a stocky, fair-haired, brown-bearded knight, clapped his pale hands together when Elfrida, escorted closely by Magnus, entered the great hall. Staring, the lord jerked his head at Lady Astrid, who had half-risen in a jingle of tiny silver bells, and she subsided at once, sinking low in her seat.

“Their meeting did not go completely smoothly, it seems,” murmured Magnus into Elfrida’s ear. Straightening again, he brushed her rose crown and a petal detached in his fingers.

He released the petal as if it burned him, and Elfrida hid a smile as she nodded agreement. Lord Richard had so fleshy, bearded, and red-nosed a face that he was difficult to read, save for the basic emotions of greed and desire. The lady beside him, turning an unbecoming scarlet in her silken blue and gold gown, was far more open.

Dislike, fear, envy, sadness, wonder, and displeasure
.

“I wear the colors of this land in honor of it, my lord.” Elfrida spoke first, feeling Magnus gently squeeze her fingers in support of her approach. “The purple and white, as you see, and your own colors of red and gold.” She touched her red hair and her marigold necklace.

As she did so, she glimpsed a thought from a mind that was not hers, a picture of a man as tall as Magnus and young-looking as herself, beardless and handsome, garbed in green.
Silvester, where are you?

Behind his supple figure lay a field of marigolds, a distant castle, a wagon. She concentrated on the wagon, trying to see more, just a little more…

She had to draw a breath and the picture fractured, flinging her back into the present. The silence that had begun to fall like snow in the hall was now complete. In the midst of rushing supper food to the high table, the pages and servers had stopped, as if they were encased in ice. Elfrida knew that for the sake of courtesy she should have waited for the lord to attempt some form of welcome, but she did not care.

What grace has this man shown to me or to the missing girls?

Lord Richard blinked a pair of flinty gray eyes at her and seemed to recover himself, his pride at least. He said something in Norman French, but was swiftly stopped by Magnus’s answering burst of English.

“Oh, please, do not trot out a word about betters. I have slain better men for less.”

“This is my hall—”

“Do not dare threaten me or mine.” Towering beside her, Magnus had no time for fine manners, either—the Percivals’ mean trick with the “gift” of her brown gown had seen to that.

“Where is Silvester, so I may challenge him?” he demanded. “But of course, you do not know where he is, just as you cannot find Rowena.”

“Or the other girls,” said Elfrida.

“Have a care,” Lord Richard spat, his round face glistening as his eyes narrowed with distaste. “I need only clap my hands a second time and you shall be cut down by arrows.”

“Your archers will not see.” Casting the doubt, Elfrida prayed for clouds, whispering an earnest spell within her own mind, a charm of darkness and flowers, a promise to the Holy Mother.

Please accept this vow, my lady, and I shall offer marigolds and honey at your altars throughout this midsummer, also garlands of sweet cicely and lilies.

The scent of the flowers spiked around her and the heavens granted her wish. Daylight in the hall dropped abruptly as the sun dipped below the horizon. She sensed the distant crackle of thunder on the fine hairs of her arms, a sign of power and magic in play.

Magnus unsheathed his sword, the blade glittering in the sullen air. “I see right well.”

“As do I.” Elfrida stepped forward. “My knife would fall faster than any arrow.”

Lady Astrid spat words in Norman French, her features revealing her speech.

“I need no weapon at my belt,” answered Elfrida. “There are many kinds of blades.”

She touched her belt of lilies, releasing another swirl of perfume, and Lord Richard flinched.

Sensing the moment as well as she did, Magnus touched her shoulder lightly and nodded to the entrance of the great hall. Elfrida turned and walked out, her flower garlands rustling, the marigolds sparkling, purple and white petals falling about her like rare silks and jewels. Sensing the whole hall bewitched by her progress, she clung to one of her protective amulets as she won every slow, careful step.

Please let him follow in safety
.
Please let my charm hold till then
.

She heard a shout behind her, a war cry, and her spine chilled. She longed to turn, look back, though guessed it would be fatal to do so.

Please let Magnus be safe.

She heard a strong, heavy man striding behind her, then, as she tried to run down the outer steps of the manor, she felt his arms hook her right off her feet.

“No running,” Magnus warned, bristling a kiss against her ear as he slammed her tight against his body and carried her away. “Never run from cowards. That is when they shoot you in the back.”

“What did you shout just now?”

“When I stepped from the hall? An old Viking curse I learned from my granddad. It seemed fitting.”

Relief, and the power that her spell had taken from her, made her light-headed. Around her, the setting sun was a glowing blood red, an unholy omen. Though she struggled against it, her vision was darkening. Blood thumped in her head and ears and sticky heat smothered her limbs.

“We should hurry,” she said.

Magnus whistled, a single, piercing note, a signal. She could not stop herself from shuddering. “Forgive me,” she tried to say, ashamed of her sudden weakness, but her throat was dry.

He tightened his hold on her. “My men are here. Not far now, a few more steps to our horses.”

The gathering night swirled closer, spiraling round into a single black point. She strained for the light, for her own sweetly whispering flowers, but saw and heard no more.

Tumbling down into the dark, Elfrida dreamed of the Lady Astrid. In the dream they were outside the lady’s manor, strolling within a garden. Elfrida tried to see if any opium poppies grew there, while Lady Astrid sat on a grassy bank that sparkled with nodding cowslips. She did not invite Elfrida to join her.