Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Rebellion

“Darcy and the others? Where are they?”

“Safely away where Ranulf’ll not find them, no thanks to that great, stupid bull of a man.” She puffed up. “That…that Darcy feared I’d betray you.”

“It’s happened before,” Gowain muttered.

“I’d never hurt you, Gowain.” She laid a work roughened hand on his arm. “Many’s the time I wished I’d gone off to France with you instead of staying to wed John the Miller.”

Gowain swallowed against the sudden tightness in this throat and looked away from her adoring gaze. In his youth, he’d lusted after Maye, but he’d never loved her. “Tis in the past,” he said gruffly. “Do you know what became of my mother?”

“Nay. She…she just disappeared. Rumor had it she was a witch who’d entrapped Lord Warren, and once he was dead, she turned herself into a raven and flew back to Wales.” She snorted. “I say ‘twas a bit of nonsense put about by Ranulf.”

“Aye. Likely she’s gone to Malpas Keep.” At least that’s where he hoped he’d find her. Gowain dragged a hand through his wet hair, more tired and dispirited even than he’d been in prison. “I’ve got to find a place where my men and I can rest till I decide where we’ll go.”

Maye smiled. “I know what you should do. You should join the others who’ve run afoul of Ranulf.”

“What others?”

“The dispossessed ones. Families he threw off the land after he became lord, soldiers who refused when he ordered them to kill, poachers who took his game rather than see their children starve last winter. There’s six score of them, at least, hiding in the caves. They’d fare better, did they have a strong leader to guide them.” She glanced at him as she used to, as though he were the moon and the sun.

“I’m no rebel,” he muttered. “And I’ll not fight my brother, no matter that he just tried to kill me.”

“You may not have much choice. Ranulf’s hatred of you has grown over the years. He’ll not rest till you are dead.”

“I cannot go to Newstead Abbey?” Stunned, Alys Sommerville sank down on the bench in her mother’s workroom. She barely noticed the sharp smell of hot metal in the air, a by-product of her mother’s penchant for goldsmithing. From the time she was old enough to mind, she’d played in a corner while her mother fashioned beautiful artifacts from lumps of ore.

Lady Arianna, Countess of Winchester, sighed, her grimy fingers tightening on the gold candlestick she’d been fashioning when Alys intruded. “Not till your father’s well enough to go with you.”

“But his broken leg is barely healed. It could take weeks before he’s up to so long a journey,” Alys fought to keep her voice steady. A Sommerville did not rail and whine, even for good reason. “Surely William could escort me.”

“He’s gone to Scotland on your father’s business. And Richard,” she added before Alys could drag in her other brother, “sailed for France yesterday.”

“He did? Why was I not told?”

“You were locked in your room finishing your book.”

“Aye, but that is no excuse for ignoring my family.”

Her mother chuckled. “I fear we are alike in that, my love. You lock yourself away with your herbs and potions, I with my metal and files.” She traced the graceful line of the dolphin that formed the base of the candlestick. For all that she was a countess, her lovely face was streaked with dirt, and the linen coif covering her head was askew, leaking strands of blond and silver hair. She’d inherited her talent at metalworking from her goldsmith grandfather. How lucky she was to have wed a man who not only understood her need to pursue her God-given skill, but bit off the head of anyone who decried his wife’s preference for goldsmithing over acting as chatelaine to their castle.

Would that I could be as fortunate, Alys thought. But then, any husband, understanding or otherwise, was denied her by the special gift that was both bane and blessing. “I know you are weary from nursing Papa though his broken leg, and I hate to add to your burdens, but I must go to Newstead. Surely we can find a way,” she added, for her parents had never denied her anything.

“I know you enjoy your visits to the abbey and have gleaned much useful information from the sisters for your books, but…” Her mouth set in a stubborn line Alys saw seldom. Doting as she was, Arianna was fiercely protective. “‘Tis too risky.”

“This is no casual visit,” Alys protested. “I have finally finished the books and would have the sisters copy them as a precaution.” From the velvet bag in her lap, she withdrew ten slender leather-bound ledgers. Lovingly she traced the gilt letters on the topmost one.

The Healing Way by Lady Alys Sommerville. Volume 1.

“Oh, Alys. What an accomplishment.” She wiped her hands on the skirt of her gown with typical disregard for the fine material and reached for Alys’s treasure. “Nay, I am still too dirty,” she remarked, glaring at her stained fingers. “Turn the pages for me, if you will.”

Alys knelt beside her and opened the book. Though the floors of the great hall on the first story were strewn with fresh rushes and those in the bedchambers just below were covered with costly rugs from the East, this garret boasted neither, for fear a spark might catch them on fire. The cold seeped through her heavy velvet gown, but she scarcely felt the chill for her excitement.

The books contained every scrap of knowledge she’d been able to amass on the subject of cures. Penned in her own neat hand, they reflected her need to bring order and logic to a subject fraught with uncertainty and, all too often, failure. “The first three contain drawings of herbs.” She turned the sheets of costly parchment, pointing with pride to the sketches she’d made of each plant, seed and blossom. “And in the second three are recipes for potions. The third group has lists of sage advice on healing, arranged by ailment.” As she spoke, Alys shuffled the books and opened each for her mother.

“This is amazing.” The blue eyes Arianna had bequeathed to her daughter sparkled with joy.

“If only Great-aunt Cici could have lived to see what use I made of the things she took such pains to drum into my head.”

Her mother smiled. “She loved every moment you two spent together. Teaching you all she knew about healing and herb craft gave her a reason to live long past what any of us expected. What of the tenth? You’ve worked on it the longest.”

“It was the hardest to write.” Alys shifted the book to the top of the pile, but didn’t open it. Her gloved hands clenched tight on the slender volume. “It’s about magic. About the healing touch of freaks like me.”

“You are not a freak!” Arianna cried, lifting a hand toward her daughter’s cheek.

Instinctively Alys leaned back. “Is it normal to shy away, even from the caress of a loved one?” she asked angrily.

“Nay, but that doesn’t make you…Oh, Alys.” Arianna bit her lip, tears welling. “I did not know it pained you so.” Her brimming gaze darted to the gloves covering Alys’s hands.

Alys ached with the need to fling herself into the soft haven of her mother’s arms, but that sweet sanctuary had been denied her from her thirteenth year, when the change had come upon her. Though her heavy clothes blocked most of the sensations, a stray touch on her bare face or neck would bring misery.

“I am sorry I said anything, Mama, for truly it does not bother me.” Most of the time. “I am used to being…separate. It helps me with my work.” Yet it cut her off from so much of life. And caused her parents untold anguish. “I am grateful for my skills, especially when I can help someone.”