R. L. LaFevers (9 page)

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his cloak and took out a small handful of the contents. This he sprinkled over the marks in the earth. Feeling Wat's eyes on him, he turned. "The herbs needed for purification and cleansing," he explained. When he was done, he strode to the very center of the grove and raised his staff high into the air before thrusting it deeply into the ground in front of him. He threw back his head and began to chant. Wat couldn't make out the words, but they sounded strange to his ears, as if they were ancient and sacred.

Wat cocked his head, certain he could hear a faint humming, but was unable to locate it. He began to crawl over to the nearest mark to see if that was where the sound was coming from.

"Don't move!" Wat jumped back at Griswold's command, landing between two of the sigils. With a tingling shock, he felt a shimmer of energy leap from the sigil and run straight through his body until it reached the next sigil. That sigil began to hum and glow and sent an arc of energy onto the next, and the next, until the entire grove was boxed in by five radiant lines of power. It wasn't something Wat could see as much as he could sense it, hear it, feel it deep inside him. He felt like a moth pinned to a wall as the line of power ran through him. It didn't hurt, but it tingled, causing every fiber of his being to quiver.

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Griswold stood in the center of the grove, clutching his staff, staring at Wat with his jaw agape. "By the gods..." Then he threw back his head and cackled with glee.

When the power had faded, Griswold pulled the staff out of the ground and lowered his arms to his sides. He looked drawn and gray, and Wat feared he would topple over. Instead, he leaned heavily on his staff, as if catching his breath. "I suspected you had some natural abilities, but never in my wildest vision..." His voice trailed off.

Wat stood, his knees a bit wobbly. "Wh-what was that?"

"Your power, boy. Your pure, untapped power." Griswold shook his head. "I've never seen any that strong before." He lifted his head and stared at Wat, as if truly seeing him for the first time. "Could it be ...?" he wondered aloud.

"Could what be? Are you all right?" Wat asked, concerned in spite of himself.

Griswold smiled. "I am fine. I am better than I've been in years," he said. "Thanks be to the gods." And indeed, he did look better, as if years had been lifted from his shoulders.

He turned and looked to the sky. "Dusk comes. You must go now."

"I should care for the birds before I leave."

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"I will care for the birds. You must travel in the twilight. It is the most favorable time."

"But the birds--"

"Do not protest," Griswold ordered in a soft voice. "Remember, concealment will be your best defense. Do what you must, but keep safe." He gave Wat a little shove forward. "Use your power when you must, and put your whole heart and soul into it." He raised his staff in a gesture of farewell.

Wat turned and began on his journey. As he reached the thickening trees, he looked back over his shoulder. Griswold remained with his staff still raised in the air, the setting sun blazing red and orange all around him. His head was thrown back, his eyes were closed, and his lips were moving as if in a silent chant.

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***

Chapter 11

Wat trotted through the forest as the twilight deepened, turning the sky to deep purple. The worry over his mother urged him to hurry, and his fear and tiredness fell away. He still wondered how Griswold had managed to talk him into wasting a whole day before beginning his trip back to the village. He worried that something else, something worse, had befallen her since his dream.

The moon rose early, casting a pale, shimmering light on the forest floor. He did not trip or stumble once. As he ran, he planned his strategy, for he would need some clever thinking to get past the guards posted at the gatehouse.

The grounds in front of the large earthen mound on which the castle was built were kept clear of trees and shrubs and other hiding places. When Wat reached the edge of the trees, he circled around to the east side of the castle, keeping to the shadows. Once out of direct sight of the sentry, he crossed the open space to the edge of the moat and continued his approach, being careful to stay low.

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He could make out the dark form of the guard at the gatehouse. It was tall and thin, which meant it was Denorf. Wat cursed his luck. He had been hoping to find the shorter, wider form of Ellis, who often ate too much at supper and slept through the first part of his watch. But Denorf was a sharp one, who took his duties to heart.

Wat would have a hard time getting across the bridge unseen.

He lay down on his belly, as close against the side of the bridge as possible, hoping that the meager shadow cast by the railing would offer him some cover. He crawled forward in an irregular pattern, moving, stopping, and moving again, in order to avoid detection. The hard wood bit painfully into his knees, but he ignored it. Sweat dripped down his face, but he couldn't lift a hand to wipe it for fear the gesture would call attention to himself.

When he drew close to the gate, he searched the bridge beneath his nose and found what he was looking for: a small stone lodged between the wooden planks. He picked it up and threw it back toward the bottom of the bridge. It thudded, making a small hollow sound on the wood before splashing into the water.

The guard stood up, straight and alert, peering into the darkness. He walk forward onto the bridge about fifteen

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paces. Wat pressed himself into the shadows, not even daring to breathe as the guard went to investigate. With the guard away from the gate post, there was just enough space for Wat to belly-crawl through the gate and into the outer bailey.

Once inside, past the guard, Wat laid his forehead on the ground and rested until his tense, knotted muscles finally stopped quivering. After catching his breath, he pushed himself to a standing position, wincing as a splinter from the bridge dug into his hand. Avoiding the path that cut through the center of the courtyard, he circled around the kitchen gardens.

The moon rode high in the sky now as Wat cautiously approached the inner courtyard. The village yards and shops, which would be bustling with activity come morning, were as still as graves. He passed the blacksmith shop and saw the flock of gray pigeons roosting for the night, their small heads tucked under their wings. He wasn't sure where he would find his mother, but he was certain she was here, somewhere within these walls.

Wat approached the center courtyard. Right before the second bridge that led to the lord's keep, he spied a large wooden structure. He had seen it only once before, so it took him a moment to recognize it.

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It was the pillory. The large wooden trap they used to punish the villagers for their offenses against Lord Sherborne.

It was where they had held Will Thatcher until it was time to hang him. Even though that particular piece of justice had been carried out fortnights ago, Wat could still remember watching with fascinated terror as they placed Thatcher in the pillory. He had never dreamed a man could be punished so severely for wanting to feed his family.

Wat drew closer to the pillory and saw it wasn't empty. Even though he couldn't make out the face covered in matted red hair, he knew who was being punished.

***

HIS mother stood, bent forward, her neck and arms clasped in the large frame. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, her body unmoving. Wat fought down the fury that welled up inside him. He felt her shame as she must have felt it, pinned in the frame with all the villagers watching.

Calm. He needed to keep calm. He pushed the anger from his mind and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

He wanted to run to her, but fear held him back. He drew closer with halting, clumsy steps, his misshapen foot managing to get in the way of his good one. As he approached,

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he could see the slight rise and fall of his mother's back as she breathed. She was, at least, alive.

His toe dislodged a broken cobble from the yard beneath his feet. The noise startled his mother out of her stupor. She looked up, and started as if she had seen a ghost.

Wat took a step closer. At his movement his mother opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out.

"Mother?" he whispered.

"Is it really you, then?" she asked. Her voice, normally clear and sweet, croaked with disuse. "I thought perhaps you were a vision."

"No. I've come to help." He stood before her, uncertain what to do. His dream came back to him, the hair hanging in his face, the terrible ache in his neck and shoulders, and his dreadful thirst.

"I'll be right back," he said. He turned and ran to the village well. He took the common cup that was always there, filled it, and carried it back to his mother. He held it for her as she awkwardly tried to drink.

"Thank you, Wat."

He said nothing but gathered her hair up in his hands and twisted it into a long red rope and looped it around her neck, where it would be out of her way. He reached into the

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small space between the wooden prison and her neck and did his best to soothe her aching muscles.

"Ah, Wat," she said, closing her eyes as his hands worked the knots from her shoulders. "How did you know just what I needed?"

He shrugged, unwilling to tell her of his dream. When his hands grew tired, he sat down on the ground in front of her so they could see each other eye to eye. His mother studied his face.

"My heart is glad to see you, but you shouldn't have come. It is too great a risk."

"I had to," said Wat.

"But you shouldn't have. You're an outlaw now. With a price on your head." She raised her voice as much as she dared. "Do you know what Hugh will do to you when he catches you?"

Wat shook his head.

"Well, I do," she continued. "The whole village has talked of nothing else since yesterday. They will hang you for your crimes."

She paused and took a deep breath. Wat saw that she was trying to calm herself. "How have you managed to evade the search parties? Where have you been hiding?" His mother's

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eyes burned bright with her fear for him. "Never mind. Where you must go is the forest. If you travel deep enough within it, perhaps they will not find you. It is a big place, even they cannot know all of it."

"That's where I have been, Mother." Wat watched her closely, wanting to see her reaction to his next words. "I have found Grandfather."

Wat's mother closed her eyes, and her body sagged in relief. "He still lives." She opened her eyes, her voice urgent. "You must stay with him. He will guard you and keep you safe."

"He looks too old to guard a flea!"

"Do not mock him, Wat. He has powers beyond your understanding. They were most certainly beyond mine, when I was your age. But if I had just opened myself to the understanding of it ...well, things would have been different. But I didn't, and now here we are."

"I can't leave you here like this," Wat insisted.

"You must. It will be better if you do so. They will release me at sundown today, and I will have been duly punished for my wayward son." A gentle smile crossed her face. For the first time, Wat realized that his mother was beautiful. "My wayward son with a true heart. That was a wondrous good thing you did, Wat."

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Wat was surprised. He had not expected to hear those words. "You are not angry?"

"Nay. You followed your heart, righted a wrong, replaced cruelty with freedom. How could I be angry at that?"

"But ...you are being punished for it."

"We are all punished in one way or another by these Normans. It is easier to bear when some good comes of it."

Her praise warmed him and gave him the courage to do what he knew he must do. "I don't want you to suffer anymore. I will stay and take their punishment."

"No!" she said forcefully. "You will do me no favors by staying. Do you think I will suffer less when they punish you?

"But what will you do?"

She looked at the ground in front of Wat's feet. "Olin, the blacksmith, has offered to make me his wife, now that..."

"Now that I'm gone," Wat finished for her, hot shame suffusing him. What other fine things had his mother missed because of him?

"He is kind and gentle, if a bit superstitious," she said with a wry smile. An awkward silence stood between them. She studied him closely, as if memorizing his face. "You have been the most blessed thing in my life. All of the

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mistakes I've made are put right when I look at you." She sighed. "But now is the time for you to break free."

Wat could see the glint of tears in her eyes as she spoke. In the distance, a dog barked somewhere in the village. A voice called out for it to be quiet. His mother craned her neck around to look in the direction the voice had come from. "People will be up soon. You must leave before you are spotted."

"Shhh!" Wat hissed. Someone was coming.

The pillory stood out in the open courtyard. There was no good place to hide, so he stepped behind the large wooden frame and stood as close as possible, hoping his form would blend into that of the pillory. He emptied his mind of all thoughts and concentrated on being solid, rough-hewn wood.

"Who were you talking to?" The blacksmith's voice came through the night.

"No one." Wat heard his mother's voice quaver.

"Don't take me for a fool, Brenna.' I heard you with my own ears!"

Wat heard a muffled step, then Olin spoke again. "Has Wat come back?"

There was a deep silence.

"Do you promise to help?" Brenna asked.