Love at First Sight (2 page)

With each prediction of good fortune, she moved another rune from the plate as evidence. At last, only two remained. “And you are to purify yourself by bathing twice each week until you find a man.”

Dorswyth’s face shone with the light of redemption. “That is all? Wot about the egg?”

“’Tis not necessary.”

Eyes shining, Dorswyth rose from her seat and held out a small silver coin. “’Tis all I can spare.”

Golde shook her head and stood, flinging strands of black hair over her shoulder. “I cannot take your money.”

“Wot?” Dorswyth puzzled.

Taller than most men, her body more solid than her slender appearance indicated, Golde propelled Dorswyth toward the door. “’Twas a bright new tunic I saw you wearing in my vision. Your money is meant to buy cloth.”

“But—”

“Off with you.”

She fair slammed the door in Dorswyth’s face, then scowled. A new tunic, indeed. Marching back to the table, she plopped down on the stool and glared at the candle.

Whatever ailed her? ’Twas the third time this week she’d refused coin for her services. At this rate, she’d soon be paying her culls. The money she’d saved against the day her father grew too old to work would dwindle away. Then where would she be?

A shriveled old beggar-woman, she answered herself, for no man would take a spawn of the devil to wife.

And what of her father? Though he’d e’er eased her hurtful childhood with words of love and affection, had he been embarrassed by her, too? Were there even now occasions when he secretly wished she’d never been born? She’d brought naught but misery upon him since her birth. Even as she’d drawn her first breath, her mother had died.

Sighing, she rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. If her father’s future comfort were to be ensured, she must cease feeling sorry for her culls.

Extending a finger, she darted it back and forth through the candle-flame. If only she could garner a new group of culls, people she didn’t know, perhaps some of the wealthy Norman elite . . .

Without warning, the door swung open. Thinking Dorswyth had returned, she swiveled about, only to find Mimskin.

She inclined her head as her great-grandmother ushered a narrow-set man into the cottage. Attired in an immaculate blue tunic with matching braises and sporting a knobby Adam’s apple, he appeared just past the middle of life.

“This fellow has need of yer aid,” Mimskin supplied in her usual brusque tone. She tilted her white-tufted head back to squint at him. “Who’d ye say ye was, boy? Spurvul?”

“’Tis Sper
ville.”
His nasal tone emphasized the
ville. “Sir
Sperville, chamberlain to Sir Gavarnie Delamaure, Baron of Skyenvic.”

Mimskin snorted. “Ye looks more like a Spindleshanks.”

Golde pursed her lips to hide her amusement. The oaf’s dignity would suffer permanent injury were he not careful with her great-grandmother.

“The boy’s liege lord, this Delamaure, has lost his sight.” Mimskin’s watery green eyes bore into Golde’s. “He wishes to acquire yer services to heal the man. Ye’ll have to travel, though to reach this Skyenvic.”

Golde couldn’t prevent the smile that curved her lips as she rose. She’d travel to the mythical Valhalla if she must. Sir Sperville was the answer to her prayers. “Come and sit, sir. Might I fetch you something cool to drink?” The chamberlain shook his balding head. Though he tried to stare down his thin nose at her, he was little taller than she, and the ploy failed.

Mimskin beamed. “Let us discuss matters, then.” Golde’s smile dipped at the corners. If Mimskin thought to appear angelic with such a look, she’d failed. She more resembled a goblin about to devour a small child. Indeed, it could mean naught but trouble that Mimskin would suddenly promote the fraud she claimed to abhor.

Before Golde could ponder further, Sir Sperville commanded her attention. “Your great-grandmother says you are a great mystical healer. Thus, I am prepared to offer you fifty pieces of gold to heal my liege lord’s eyes.”

Golde frowned as a sense of foreboding rippled through her belly. Mimskin had even called her a great, mystical—

Abruptly her brows climbed her forehead.
Fifty pieces of gold!
No wonder Mimskin was willing to suspend her disapproval of Golde’s duplicitous practices.

Golde’s thoughts raced forward. Why did Mimskin not heal this Delamaure herself? She could easily do so without ever leaving her cottage. Her great-grandmother must think this Delamaure was unworthy of a cure, and deserved to be fleeced. Thus, the trick would be for Golde to secure the fifty gold pieces without restoring the man’s sight.

“Money cannot cure blindness, sir,” she intoned, instinctively slipping into her mystical role even as she wondered how she was going to accomplish such a feat. “However, you are come to the right woman.”

S
QUINTING AGAINST
the midmorning sun, Golde crouched beside Sir Sperville where he slumped with his back against the boat’s bow.

The answer to her prayers, she thought sourly to the whining screech of sea gulls.

Seven days ago, they had left her home in Cyning. Upon reaching Portchester last eve, they’d secured passage aboard a small sailing vessel that would leave at dawn. A short ride across the Solent, Sperville had said, and they would arrive at Castle Skyenvic on the Isle of Wynt long before dusk.

Only, it appeared the chamberlain might not survive the “short ride.”

“If you would drink this”—Golde gestured with the cup she held—“you would feel better.”

The chamberlain puckered his thin lips and turned his head away.

Unable to brace herself against the sway of the boat, Golde was forced to sit beside the stubborn fool. “Why did you not say something of your problem with sea travel? I could have saved you this misery.”

Sweat dripped down the chamberlain’s pasty face and he closed his eyes.

’Od rot, Golde cursed. The three seamen who manned the boat glanced at her surreptitiously, as if she might call monsters from the depths of the Solent to sink them. Did they think she could not see them crossing themselves and making the sign of the evil eye at her? She would not be surprised if they pitched her overboard while Sperville was in his weakened state. And though the boat had remained in sight of land since leaving port, she could not swim.

Fear-borne determination knotted her jaw. She had not traveled in an ox-drawn cart over bone-rattling roads for six days, only to drown on the final day of the journey. Sperville would drink her potion or she would—

Abruptly the chamberlain’s Adam’s apple jerked spasmodically and he lurched to his knees. Golde grabbed the back of his tunic as he wobbled about to clutch the bow, his face aimed over the side.

“Faith,” she muttered, rising on her knees beside him while maintaining a steady hold on the cup. “’Twill be a miracle if your toenails do not fly forth.”

Sperville groaned, then heaved, and Golde ordered a cease to her sharp tongue. Remarks about toenails would hardly improve Sperville’s spirits. Not that her spirits were any better.

Indeed, a sense of unease had plagued her since she’d left Cyning. A sense of disquiet that had ripened with each dawn, despite the clear days and tranquil weather. A sense of impending trouble that had begun with Mimskin’s beaming countenance and sudden approval of Golde’s false practices.

Sperville’s ragged coughing broke into her thoughts. Wiping his mouth, he slumped back down against the bow.

“You will drink this—” Golde stuck the cup under his nose, “or I will shove it—”

The chamberlain grabbed the cup and gulped its contents. “There!” he rasped and flung the cup in the briny Solent. “With luck, your potion will kill me and I will be free of this wretched suffering.”

“Pff,” Golde huffed, hiding her relief that Sperville was finally speaking to her. “’Tis I who am in danger of being killed. While you snivel and whine, yon seafolk are plotting to throw me overboard.”

“An idea that is not without merit,” the chamberlain grumbled. Wrapping his cloak into a ball, he eased himself down on his side and pillowed his head.

Golde gritted her teeth. “How long before we make landfall?”

Sperville pulled the neck of his tunic over his head, ignoring her.

“You said it would be a short ride.”

When the chamberlain did not respond, Golde scowled. “Your cloak and tunic will be wrinkled beyond measure.”

Still, he said nothing.

Golde crossed her arms over her chest and shot a sullen look at the three seamen, who immediately began crossing themselves. Plague take them, and the useless Sir Sperville. She had yet to reach Skyenvic, and already she longed for home.

She smoothed the skirts of her blue tunic. At least her dearest friend’s husband, the Baron of Cyning, would be attending the king’s tourney five weeks hence. By coincidence, the tourney would be held at Atherbrook on the Isle of Wynt, a mere half-day’s ride by horse from Skyenvic. Lady Roscelyn’s husband would fetch Golde when the festivities concluded, and see her home.

Everything was perfect, Golde told herself firmly. Her uneasiness was no more than a result of her ridiculous sentimentality over leaving home. She would have her fifty pieces of gold and return to Cyning a rich woman, a woman who would never have to beg, a woman who would never be dependent on anyone, least of all a husband—

“Do your shoulders always slump thus?” Sir Sperville interrupted her internal diatribe as he rose to sit beside her. “You appear to be malformed.”

“Malformed!” Golde squared her shoulders and sat straighter. “What would you call your spindly shanks?” The chamberlain’s nose twitched as if there was a bothersome gnat flying about his face. “Must you always scowl? His lordship will find it most unbecoming.”

“His lordship is blind,” Golde sneered. “Once I heal him, his joy will be such that he will not care if I am a toothless dragon.”

“All the same,” Sperville sniffed, “your bearing is a reflection upon me. I’ll not have the good folk of Skyenvic questioning my choice of healers.”

Golde cast him a disbelieving look. “Ungrateful cur. You are recovered from your ceaseless retching by my good hand, yet you dare to insult me. Doubtless, your master is just as thankless, and my time will be wasted restoring his sight. I may as well order the boat about and return home.”

Her tone belied the true sentiments behind her words, for the closer they drew to Skyenvic, the greater grew her discomfort. She would return home in an instant if Sperville agreed.

But Spindleshanks, as Golde decided then and there to think of him, demurred. “Think of me as you will. My shortcomings are indeed great. Unlike me,” he continued, “Sir Gavarnie e’er places the needs of others before his own. Since his wife’s premature death, none at Skyenvic go hungry, nor cold in winter. He is praised by Church and serf alike for his generosity, while wisdom tempers his judgment and manner so that he is never cruel or cross. Wishes for his long life and good health follow him wherever he goes.”

Golde envisioned an elderly, white-haired man, a widower. A saint, no less, if one believed Spindleshanks. “It strikes me that your Gavarnie Delamaure is trying to assure himself a place in heaven by atoning for his sins here on earth. Thus, he’s brought blindness upon himself that he will appear more worthy in God’s eyes.”

She waited for an enraged response from Sperville. Instead, his owlish eyes appeared fixated upon her, while his mouth hung slightly open.

Then he blinked and turned his head that she could not see his countenance. “I am no healer and cannot say what stole my liege’s sight. I can only say that Sir Gavarnie will never be whole until he is able to see.” Golde’s breath caught. ’Twas respect she’d seen in the chamberlain’s eyes; respect for her. She was right in her assumptions about Delamaure bringing blindness upon himself.

Well, not exactly
her
assumptions, she admitted. ’Twas Mimskin who’d determined the cause of Delamaure’s ailment, before she’d brought Sperville to Golde’s cottage that day.

“Can’t abide them snufflers wot inflicts hurts on themselves to gain God’s favor,” Mimskin had said later, after Sperville had taken himself off to dine. “No reason why ye shouldn’t profit from the man’s stupidity. All ye need do is make the man believe in yer magic, and his eyes will heal themselves.”

Golde’s gaze slid now to the chest that contained her clothing and medicines. Not that the medicines would be useful in curing aught but the most common of illnesses. Rather, Mimskin had instructed her to mix several potions together until they stank “worse than a buzzard’s supper.” Then she was to convince this Gavarnie Delamaure that the concoction would heal his eyes.

Which should not be difficult. Had she not spent the past four years of her life convincing people of her prophesies? Did any amongst her culls doubt her word?

Yet, she was unable to completely reassure herself, and her spirits tumbled further when the rudderman called, “Port, ho!”

In short order, they had docked in the town of New Market, loaded their belongings on a cart, and set off for Castle Skyenvic where Golde would collect her fortune.