Snow in July (32 page)

“Was he eating anything?”

“Nay, my lady,” said Ethel, swabbing the king’s face with a damp cloth. The gesture seemed to lessen the tension crouching there, though his eyes didn’t open.

Kendra pried apart his jaws and forced her fingers down his throat until he gagged, just to be sure. Satisfied that the airway was clear, she sat and grasped his limp hand. The familiar heat flared, and neither of them flinched.

The mental picture that formed was one of infinite, empty blackness.

Not knowing what else to do, she willed her healing energy into the void, hoping to contain and conquer it. But weariness weighted her mind, and the blackness intensified around her.

“Your Majesty, please,” she whispered, feeling her voice quiver. “Please don’t leave us. We need you.”

“England needs you,” said Ulfric, hovering over Kendra’s shoulder.

England? England is done with me.

The strength of the voice in Kendra’s mind caused her to open her eyes and study the man sprawling on the bed. His color had improved, and he seemed to be breathing easier, but her sense of his imminent danger remained.

She closed her eyes and plunged into the blackness, where a faint pinpoint of light glimmered. She concentrated on coaxing that light to brighten and spread.

My cousin doesn’t seem to think England is done with you.

Your cousin has his own plans, and I factor into them only to a limited degree.

’Tis not true.

Oh, yes. What do you think we talk about after you leave?

I don’t know, Your Majesty. Battle strategies?

An odd, buoyant sensation shivered through her, as though King Harold had laughed.

Mundane matters, Lady Kendra. My childhood, my family, my training, my friends. Ways I had gotten into trouble, and the punishments that had been meted out. My favorite food, favorite drink, favorite horse, favorite hound. Likes and dislikes. My greatest joys and worst fears. Strengths. Weaknesses. Things about me that no one else would know. Things no one else would even care to know unless he was planning to take my place.

What?
Sheer determination kept her gripping his hand.
Ulfric looks nothing at all like Your Majesty. How can he believe he could take your place? Perhaps he knows someone who does resemble you.

If that were so, then why doesn’t that man talk to me?
As her mind spluttered about for an answer, the king continued,
You and your mother are not the only ones in your family with strange abilities.

How do you know about my mother, my lord? What abilities do you believe Ulfric possesses?

Your mother, dear lady, I learned about from your conversation with Ethel a few days ago. My body may no longer obey my will, but I hear and comprehend everything.
A long pause ensued, as if the king were contemplating a matter of state.
Thane Ulfric I am less certain about, for I have not seen him use his power upon himself. But when he and I are alone together, he grasps my hand, and it feels as if a portion of me is flowing into him, somehow—the exact opposite of what your healing power does for me.

No wonder the king had appeared to suffer a reversal after each of Ulfric’s visits. She felt her mind reel from the implications.
But how—draining your life force? How can that be possible?
Anger ignited.
Never mind how he accomplishes it; how dare he even contemplate such a despicable act?

How, indeed. I have no answers for those questions, Lady Kendra.

I will stop him, my lord. I must stop him if you are to recover. He shall harm you no longer.

Your cousin’s ambitions run dangerously high. How can you hope to combat that?

I don’t know, but I shall try. Please sleep now, Your Majesty—feign it, if you must—and leave Ulfric to me.

As she sensed his consciousness relax, she pondered his startling revelations. With her pouring her energy into him, only to have Ulfric suck it out, small wonder she kept feeling like a piece of damp, wrung linen. Nevertheless, before severing contact she willed as much energy as she could spare to bolster him.

For she feared that if King Harold died, Ulfric would cease to find her useful, especially if he suspected her of understanding his scheme.

Her pulse racing, she released his hand and opened her eyes. Ulfric reached for him, but she tangled her hand in Ulfric’s and stood. “I believe I’ve pulled him back from the brink, cousin, but he needs to sleep.” She tugged Ulfric away from the bed and disengaged her hand.

“But—”

Brother Eric courteously but firmly grasped Ulfric’s arm and escorted him toward the cottage’s door. “Remember, my lord. Brother Oswald and I serve him, first and foremost. Not you.”

Ulfric glared at the monk, but he wrenched his arm free, snatched his cloak from a peg by the door, flung it about his shoulders, and stormed out of the cottage without comment.

After the door had swung to, she noticed that Ethel had resumed her bedside vigil. Kendra stepped to within whispering distance of Brother Eric.

“If you value your lord’s life, don’t let
her
lord back in here ever again.”

Eric’s wide-eyed expression demanded her to elaborate, but she pointed a glance toward Ethel. “Trust me,” she mouthed.

Nodding, he ushered her outside. Ulfric, thank heaven, was nowhere in sight, though Kendra couldn’t help but associate the roiling rain clouds with the political storm he was fostering. After pulling up her cloak’s hood to fend off the downpour, she dashed for the manor and the tenuous safety of her chambers, wondering how long she could remain safe while protecting King Harold’s life.

Chapter 19

W
HAT HAD BEGUN late Wednesday afternoon as a drizzle had by Thursday morning transformed into a deluge of biblical proportions that persisted, to varying degrees, through Friday. Rations, clothing, bedrolls, skin: nothing escaped the wetness. Even when Lofwin led the rest of the troop to make camp in an old Roman temple, the structure’s ruined roof offered little respite.

As the waters rose, so did tempers. Horses snapped at each other and their riders. Men snapped at each other and their mounts. Noir snapped at everyone.

Two things kept the group from each other’s throats: food, sodden as it was, and their mutual desire to see Kendra safe.

Alain suspected he wasn’t the only one chafing at the fact that the rain and mud had almost doubled their journey’s time. He’d hoped to confront Ulfric yesterday. Now, Friday morning found them with a long day’s ride before reaching Thornhill.

After the men had broken fast and buried the meal’s remains, he ordered them to don their pilgrims’ robes. If Ulfric could use the trick to hide troops, then, by God, so would Alain. Riding would present a challenge, but traveling all day in the mucky spray thrown up by the horses’ hooves would soil the robes and lend more credibility to the disguises.

Having another layer of cloth to cut the wind was welcome too.

At sext, when the sun deigned to show itself at its zenith and the company paused for the midday meal, Alain selected Garth and Lofwin to ride ahead and scout Glastonbury and Thornhill.

“Sir Alain, let me go with Lofwin instead.” Grizzled Cæwlin, his injured shoulder still bandaged, gazed at Alain steadily, fierce determination masking whatever pain he must be feeling. “I may not be much good in a fight, but I can help keep you out of one until the right time.”

Alain had to smile, as much for Cæwlin’s pluckiness as for the fact that he’d called him “Sir Alain,” a habit that had been adopted by most of the fyrd as a sign of acceptance.

While Chou tossed her head and splashed a hoof in a puddle, her rider pondered Cæwlin’s request. The pilgrim garb would help shield their identities, coupled with Lofwin’s gift for exercising stealth. Besides, Alain could well imagine Cæwlin’s yearning to expunge his guilt for having allowed Kendra to be abducted by contributing to her return.

He nodded at Cæwlin and Lofwin in turn. “God speed and protect you both. Report back as soon as you can.”

Their report, when they returned after nones, he didn’t like in the least. The pilgrims’ encampment, which had lain south of Glastonbury, now sprawled east of it, between Alain’s troop and Thornhill. A washed-out bridge along the road leading south from town had necessitated the camp’s move, but the river’s course bent around to flow beside the east-west road for a while, and it had flooded that road as well.

“You think they were moving out when the bridge washed away?” Ruaud asked. “Where do you suppose they were headed?”

“Planning to move, yes. But as to where…” Alain stroked Chou’s neck, trying to recall the deerhide map he’d seen in Regent Odo’s workroom. “I wager they want a good road that heads east to Sarum, where they can pick up the road that will take them to London and William’s doorstep.”

“If he’s in residence,” Ruaud reminded him.

“Perhaps he has returned and they know it. Or they might be planning to make trouble for Regent Odo, hoping to lure William back across the Channel.” Alain made a fist and pounded his thigh; never before had duty yanked him so hard in different directions. “We must stop them.”

Ruaud rolled his eyes; it was Lofwin who voiced the objection. “With all due respect, Sir Alain, what chance do you believe a hundred will stand against more than a thousand?”

“Using armed force?” Alain pinched thumb and forefinger together to indicate his answer and regarded Lofwin levelly. “Besides, your lady—and mine—comes first.”

That won a grunt of approval from Cæwlin, who, busy massaging his shoulder, had been content to let Lofwin deliver their scouting report. “We could skirt the camp.” He squinted up at the soggy skies, swiped rain from his face, and shrugged. “’Twould take the rest of the day, mayhap past nightfall, but it could be done. Any patrols they might have out won’t be ranging far in this weather.”

“Did you find a ford?” Ruaud asked.

“The river has flooded the road for quite some way, Sir Ruaud,” Lofwin replied, “but doesn’t cross it. An army would have a lot of trouble, what with wagons and such, but a troop our size could pick our way around the flooded areas.”

Alain heard the hesitation in Lofwin’s suggestion. Staring toward the as yet unseen army and river that blocked his path, he pondered his options. “Either way, we lose too much time. We will be unable to assist Kendra until the morrow.” Lofwin and Cæwlin nodded resignedly. Alain continued, “Therefore, we shall gather as much information as we can—”

“And hope we survive to report it to the king, eh?” Ruaud gave Alain an incredulous look. “You, who live by stealth and subterfuge, shall ride straight into the enemy’s encampment? Is that what you propose?”

Alain grinned. “My mother had a cardinal rule for mingling within the various circles at King Edward’s court:

“Always act like you belong.”

“
Ah, oui, mes amis,
” Ruaud said to their gaping Saxon companions, chuckling. “Alain, he always does this. He loves to makes life—what is your word? Interesting.”

EOSA THORGUDSON hunkered on the cot in his rawhide tent, tracing patterns in the muck with his dagger’s point while waiting for the end of the deluge or the end of the world, whichever came first.

At the rate this damned rain was falling, with no letup in sight, he felt the end of the world to be the safer wager.

The hides kept the rain off his head, and his men had done a credible job of trenching around the tents, but water blew in every time someone poked his head through the flap.

He should be thankful for this weather, he reminded himself, for it kept all but the most intrepid folks indoors and away from the temptation of asking too many questions about the “pilgrims.”

Oh, his men had frequented the abbey church, and no mistake. With the help of his scribe, Eosa had developed a rotation so that a contingent attended all services during daylight hours: prime, at dawn, followed at three-hour intervals by tierce, sext, nones, and vespers. Men of a more religious bent—and he had several, along with a huge number of lazy sods seeking to escape camp chores—could attend as many services as they wished.