Chapter 32
Mark the spy was astonished when he
returned to the tourney camp sometime after moonrise. Giles, in one
of his swift mood changes, had swerved back from his intended tour
of his lands. He was standing in the midst of the tourney camp,
bawling out order after order to scampering maids and pages. In the
growing dark there was much tripping and cursing, but Giles was
determined that his people should continue to pack and
load.
Mark swung down from his horse and led
the beast to the river to cool off and to drink. He did not want to
encounter Giles in this busy, angry mood.
Beside the sluggish stream he found a
woman, still washing clothes. A man was with her, as company and
guard, for at this late hour foot-pads and worse could be abroad.
Mark greeted them both: he wanted no slingshot flung at him or his
flagging nag.
The pair kneeling by the
summer-parched, drying river shrank back, giving ground in such
dusty, cringing haste he was astonished. He meant to call out
afresh, wish them good evening, say he was no threat, when the
half-moon broke free of some wisps of cloud and shone bright on
them.
Only long habits of silence kept him
from gasping aloud. Both the man and, worse, the woman were
branded—burned—on their arms, and most sickeningly on their
foreheads, with a badge and banner he knew well. The wounds, even
in this half-dark, looked angry and fresh, with black trails
running down their cheeks and hands that Mark guessed would be
dried blood.
Giles must have
discovered these creatures on other lands than his, working maybe
for a kinder lord or for themselves.
They had survived the scourge of the
pestilence, taken their chance to move to better land, and would
have thought God smiled on them.
But the devil was with Giles. By some
fantastic chance he had actually recognized these peasants as his.
And to make certain of his claim, he had branded them.
They are runaway serfs.
They ran and paid the price.
Mark knew he would dream of those
terrified, wounded, branded faces for nights
to come. And if these, who would be next?
He turned his horse, praying that Sir
Ranulf would be a more lavish lord and paymaster than Giles had
been.
Edith removed her veil, wrapped
Ranulf’s cloak more tightly about her, and walked to the edge of
the wood. She recalled berries growing here and wanted to gather
some for Ranulf.
She was alone. Ranulf’s guards ringed
this part of the camp where her tent and his were pitched, so she
was safe. Ranulf thought one of her maids was with her, and she had
promised him it would be so. At the last moment, seizing the chance
for solitude, she had changed her mind. Her lord was off in another
part of the camp, speaking to his captain, so he did not know. He
would not know, either; she would return to their tents before he
did.
Her head was throbbing: she wanted
quiet and stillness. She longed to stretch out under the trees and
listen only to the rustle of branches and bats and small beasts.
Walking under these limes and elms, feeling the night air on her
face, inhaling the nightly perfume of watch fires, roasting meat,
lime blossom, and Ranulf’s scent that lingered, sensuous and dark,
upon his cloak gave her respite. She wished her mother was still
alive, and she could talk to her. She missed Sir Tancred and his
kind concern.
Why does being in love
frighten me so much?
It was the fear of loss, she knew.
Ranulf loved her, but part of him was ashamed of her, she knew that
most keenly. She longed to be perfect for him, as she was for other
knights.
She feared God would notice her
happiness and crush it.
“Stop moaning and gather those
berries,” she chided herself, now picturing Ranulf’s grin as she
gave them to him. She could make a new game with him: kisses and
strawberries; kisses and cherries; kisses and—
What was
that?
She did not freeze but continued
walking softly and steadily to the nearest elm and pressed her back
against its warm, rough bark. She ducked her head so the moon would
not reflect in her eyes and listened intently, wishing her heart
would not hammer on so.
No adder, she decided, nor a scuttling
shrew; this blundering oncoming beast made too much noise. But not
a boar, either. At each mad snapping of branches there was a sudden
stop, a moment of pause.
A man, then, trying to be
quiet.
Her insides she felt turn into ice as
her armpits tingled with dread and her mouth went dry. Was he
stalking her? He was closing now much too near for her to stir
again without her movement being seen.
You should have obeyed
Ranulf and brought a maid, scolded Gregory.
“A maid would be no use,” Edith hissed,
under tight breath. How is it that I, who have made
so many blades, have none to hand? Her eating dagger was
altogether too blunt. “A stone, now, a rough pebble, large as my
fist—that would be very good.”
But the undergrowth of dry bracken,
brambles, dying-back wild garlic, and shiny bluebell leaves yielded
no such wonder. Peering down into the darkness by her feet, Edith
longed again for a decent knife and more for a good, brightly
burning torch. She liked fire and knew it well: it would work for
her against any scurvy knave. . . .
He had ridden a while before creeping
here, she decided, catching his limping, faintly bowlegged gait. He
kept stopping to listen and look about, sometimes turning his whole
body. Was he afraid of being followed? As he took another halting
step, the moon shone on his upturned face and Edith clapped her
fingers to her lips, not wanting even a breath to
escape.
I know this
man!
The bolt of shock made her briefly numb
all over as her mind raced like a charging warhorse. How could she
forget those hooded eyes and that large, loose-lipped mouth that
was ever ready with a smile but never with words? His sparse hair
and beard were the color of cooling resin, she knew, and the tip of
his smallest finger was missing. He had touched her shoulder with
that hand when he herded her into the church.
She flinched, the stink of old panic
rearing in her mind, and stepped on a puff ball that exploded in a
gray dust of spores. The motes sparkled in the moonlight and he saw
them.
His hooded eyes opened wide as he saw
her. He stopped, stretching out a hand, then withdrawing
it.
“Is the priest still with
you?”
It was the first time she had heard him
speak, and he did so in the dialect of Warren Hemlet—not the old
speech she and her people used to fool the knights, but the dialect
her mother had used.
She shook her head.
“He is branding folk now, you know. You
did right to break out.” He shuffled a step closer. “I am seeking
Sir Ranulf. Do you know where he is? He is a man much wronged by
Sir Giles, though he does not know it. At home he should look at
his woodland paths, see what is left there, tied
there.”
He paused, allowing those teasing
statements to hover like flies in the air between them, irritating
and intriguing together. When she still refused to speak, he
sighed. “Are you of his party now? Sir Ranulf, I
mean.”
If she answered, or even pointed, he
would know she understood him. He could be a witness for anyone as
to who she was. He did not know her name, but that did not matter.
He recognized her from the church. He had known her
once.
What do I do? Shake my
head again, shrug, look puzzled? Will he go from here straight to
Giles? And what does he mean about Ranulf being wronged? What else
has Giles done?
Almost as if he understood her dread,
the man said softly, “I have quit Sir Giles’s service. I owe him no
more loyalty. Loyalty! As if Giles, who ordered the branding of his
own nurse, his nurse, mark you, deserves
it!”
He took another, smaller step. “I will
not harm you. ’Fore God, I swear it.”
So men have always
claimed, she might have answered, but he halted when she
raised a hand. The half-moon, bright as a cleaned, cored apple,
picked out the scars on her fingers.
“You were a smith there?” When she
remained silent, he added, “It is my trade to see
things.”
His words were an elegant admission of
spying, Edith thought, wishing more and more for an escort. Even
one of the camp dogs would do in this pinch.
“Did you get them out of the church?”
From saying nothing when they had last met he seemed almost
garrulous, and now he whistled. “A woman! I had thought it was the
priest, but—”
He grunted, spinning right off his feet
and collapsing face-down into a patch of nettles. Something long
and black quivered between his shoulders.
Edith shuddered and sank down, trying
to hide. Now she could hear more men and see flares of movement as
they searched the undergrowth with torches.
“Princess!”
Ranulf’s roar was too urgent to ignore.
“I am here!” she called, shifting from the safety of the elm tree,
her limbs feeling as stiff and heavy as iron. “Here, my
lord!”
He will be furious and
he will be right. I have cost a man his life by my
folly!
But it was even worse than that. As
Ranulf sprinted through bushes and hacked through low branches,
straining to reach her, she saw who had cast the spear that had
killed the nameless spy. Straight in line with the spear-cast,
Giles stepped past a hawthorn bush and grinned at her. “Princess.
Not so well met, but even so, always a pleasure.”
He bowed.
She backed hastily into the shadows,
hiding her mouth with her fingers. To Giles no doubt she seemed
shy, for he wagged a playful finger at her, remarking to the
onrushing Ranulf, “You should give your lady more praise, Ran. Her
beauty outshines the moon, yet she seems not to know
it.”
Ranulf did not look at Giles. “You are
unharmed?” he panted, his face dark with strain and
running.
“Yes, my lord.” Her apology to him must
wait, but she scanned his grimly handsome face for any kind of
understanding.
He frowned, the briefest downward quirk
of his lips, and she felt the rest of the air drain from her lungs.
What did he think of her now? What did he think had been happening
here?
He stamped through the grass to her,
pausing to roll the dead man over with his foot. “Who is this?” he
demanded.
In her dread of his displeasure, the
horror at her feet had been put at a distance. Now it returned in
force and she could only stare at the dead, unnamed spy, knowing
that this man had once served Giles and that Giles knew it. Knew
it, and acted. He had stopped the man’s mouth by
murder.
“Him? A peasant, a runaway, a nobody
who would have ravished your lady, had I not stopped him,” Giles
said now, before she could speak. “You should take more care of
her.”
“I intend to,” vowed Ranulf as he
reached out and took one of her hands in his. He did not squeeze
her fingers or smile down at her: he was all hard
possession.
“Edmund,” he called to his squire,
“please escort my lady to her tent. I will join her as soon as I
may.”
In the teeth of such a polite, chilly
request, where he would not speak to her, Edith felt unmade. Her
force of argument deserted her.
Silently, numb with the shock of his
rejection and denial of her, she allowed his squire to take her arm
and to lead her away.
As she waited for Ranulf in her own
tent, surrounded by her people and her things, her mood reforged,
becoming hotter and brighter.
He must know that she had not met the
dead man for any kind of tryst.
How will you prove
that? whispered Gregory in her mind. You
have no witnesses.
“I need none, dear brother, for he had
better know that already,” said Edith under her
breath.
She smiled at Lucy and Teodwin, playing
dice sitting together on the great bed with her baby sleeping
between them. Also lolling on the bed on his belly, Ranulf’s page
Gawain was helping Lucy with her numbers, whispering the number on
the dice each time it fell.
Ranulf must know he can
trust me, she thought, wishing he could see this cozy,
domestic scene.
She swept to the entrance and peeped
out, hoping to catch a glimpse of him coming. It would not be for
some time yet, she guessed.
She closed her eyes and immediately saw
the stranger again, flying in the air, knocked off his feet by the
force of the spear. Giles would leave him to rot, but not Ranulf.
Yet what could he do with the body? Were the mob still in the
churchyard?
She listened, hearing the crackle of
fires, the yapping of dogs, the snorting of horses, and the low
mumble of men. The usual sounds of any camp. The crowds of people
from the church had not ventured here, she decided.
“Is the moon still up?” Maria, jiggling
her faintly mewling baby on her shoulder and walking up and down in
the tent, now broke into her reverie with a very weary-sounding
question.
“Yes, and it burns like a brand,” she
replied, stopping as she realized what she had said. What had the
stranger told her? He is branding folk now . . .
his own nurse . . . Ranulf much wronged . . . You did right to
break out.
The dead spy knew they had escaped from
the church. Did Giles know, too? Was that why he had murdered the
man? What had he done to Ranulf in her lord’s own homeland? And
who, besides his own nurse, had Giles branded?
Edith began to count off names in her
head and on her hands. Villagers of Warren Hemlet who had chosen to
go on farming, who had decided that was the safer way of life than
following the tourneys. Were those Giles’s victims? But how,
besides his own nurse, had he recognized them? Giles never knew any
serfs, few knights ever did.
Ranulf knows. ’Tis one
of the many reasons why I love him.
Ranulf was not in sight yet. Giles
would surely not dare move against him, a fellow knight, a hardened
warrior, but even so, she would be very glad when she could see him
returning, safe and whole.
She trusted him, but not Giles. She
trusted her former master not at all, no, not at all. . .
.