Wings of the Storm (16 page)

trickled from the mark where it punctured his skin.

"You don't have to be frightened," he reassured her. "The man who hurt you is dead."

"I've had enough," she told him. "I want to go home."

"You can't," he said. "Jerusalem's a very long way away. You're safe now. Safe here. This is your home, Jehane."

He couldn't understand.

"What are you doing here?" He wasn't going to touch her. She wasn't going to let any man touch her.

Never again.

"I was concerned, my lady. I wanted to make sure you were all right. You're obviously still upset."

She almost laughed. How could she possibly ever laugh again? But it was funny to hear a man she was holding at knifepoint calmly tell her she was "upset."

"Yes. Smile," he urged. "It's good for you."

She hadn't seen his hands moving, very slowly.

She'd been looking into his eyes. Strong fingers sud-denly clamped onto her wrist, pulling it down and away. A quick twist and the knife was in his hand now. Daffyd jerked his head back, freeing his hair from her loosened grip.

He stood and handed the dagger to her, hilt first. "Very wise to keep this within reach," he commended her. He touched his throat. "But I prefer some small expression of gratitude to a death threat." It was a gently spoken, though sardonic, reminder that he'd saved her life.

Jane's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She wasn't sure she had anything to be grateful about.

"It's all right," he soothed from the distance of the doorway. "You're not ready to talk to anyone yet. The man who attacked you," he went on anyway, "was named Pwyll. One of the leaders of the outlaws."

"I don't want to know his name!"

She didn't want to give that animal an identity. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to think. Pwyll.

She'd heard many stories about Pwyll since arriving at Passfair. The peasants feared him more than they did Sikes, the outlaw leader. Pwyll's temper was unpredictable. He preferred torture and killing to simple robbery. It was said he hated the Normans for killing his own wife and children, that he had a rea-son for hating.

He'd so enjoyed taking his hatred out on her.

Her stomach lurched painfully. The drink Switha had made her swallow came up out of her stomach.

Daffyd was holding her head when she stopped vom-iting. He wiped her mouth with a cloth.

"It's all right," he soothed. "You're strong, Jehane. You're going to be all right. You're never going to be quite the same, but you will be all right." He moved back by the doorway.

She was beginning to feel something other than fear and the memory of fear. Remembering the stories about Pwyll reminded her of the people who'd told them to her. "The village?" she asked. "How many were hurt?"

"The five guards were killed, two others besides." "I'm sorry."

"The merchants lost most of their goods. I don't think there'll be a fair here next year."

"What happened to Berthild?" she wanted to know. "My maid," she added in case he didn't know the serving woman's name.

"Switha's sister?" He gave a curt shake of his head. "They took her with them."

"No. Oh, no." The words came out a tired whisper. "You have to find her."

Daffyd ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair. He looked tired. "When I find their camp, I'll find her. I hope. But I can't mount a massive search for one peasant woman. If I could ..." He gave a fatalistic shrug. "That's not the way the world is run, Lady Jehane."

"You won't look for her?"

"It's no use."

His flat-out refusal infuriated her. No, of course that wasn't the way the world worked. He wouldn't do anything. She couldn't. Chatelaine she might be, but DeCorte would laugh at her if she tried to get his men to search the forest for one village girl who'd been dragged off to serve the lusts of an outlaw band.

What difference did it make? There were plenty more peasant girls where she came from.

No one had any value if they weren't born into the noble class. Nobody cared about the life of one expendable peasant woman. She looked at Sir Daffyd with loathing, hating him and all his kind.

She didn't argue. She wanted to, but she couldn't find any words. The ones she knew, like equality, and justice for all, might be known to him. But her mean-ing and his would not be the same. She wanted to shout and to rage and to defend Berthild's rights. But the man was an alien. Their minds simply couldn't touch. His comprehension was so different from hers that it might have been easier for her to communicate with a being from another galaxy. Too much time and change separated them.

She didn't say anything to him. She just lay down and turned her back to the door. The dogs had gone away while she'd slept. She missed their warmth and companionship. She heard Daffyd as he stood in the doorway for a while, his breathing, the soft
shooshing
of surcoat rubbing against chain mail. She could almost feel his eyes studying her. She ignored every-thing. Eventually he went away. Yet when he was gone, she wanted to call him back.

She sobbed into the pillow—crying for herself and Berthild, and the world she'd never see again and the world where she'd thought she could belong but never really could—until eventually she cried herself to sleep.

15

By dawn, Jane felt better.Or at least able to cope. She didn't want to be alone anymore. By

mid-moming she worked up the courage to dress and step from the alcove to the storage room. She moved slow-ly, stiff with bruises. Her awareness was a fragile thing. She felt insubstantial as a soap bubble. Or trapped behind a wall of glass, perhaps.

A woman who was not Berthild was waiting for her, seated patiently on the sleeping pallet. She stood when Jane came around the curtain. Jane ignored her. The woman dutifully followed her down to the hall.

Sibelle came to her as she approached the hearth. The girl's face had changed since yesterday. There was more strength there than Jane remembered seeing before. She flinched as Sibelle's arms came around her but appreciated the warm embrace and returned it after a moment.

"I was so worried," Sibelle told her. "But Switha said it was best to give you time alone. That you would come to us when you were ready."

"Switha was right," Jane acknowledged tiredly.

"You don't look well."

"I'm better."

Sibelle crossed herself. "At least you're alive. We buried the dead this morning." She gave a sad shake of her head, and her braids swung gently. "We're going to have to pray very hard for an increase in births to rebuild our hearts and our losses. Come." She lead Jane to a chair. "Rest today. I will deal with what has to be done."

Jane didn't argue. She didn't care. Passfair could fall down around her ears and she wouldn't care. Her new servant brought some sewing and took a seat on the floor beside her. Bertram came in from the pantry. He and Sibelle went off together. Other people came and went about their duties. No one paid much attention to her. Jane watched, feeling as though she weren't really there. She tried to pre-tend she was back at the Time Search Project, observing with equipment that provided video instead of the energy readings she'd painstakingly learned to interpret.

After several hours the hall began to seem small to her. It was a cloudy day outside, the light coming in the narrow windows above the table was thin and uneven. She found herself wanting to instruct the lights to turn on. Her lips twisted in a sour smile: in her up-to-date town house, talking to the appliances was standard operating procedure. Here telling the light to shine was blasphemy. Possibly witchcraft, if it actually worked. Or a miracle if the situation was politically correct.

I want out.She squeezed her eyes shut hard in frustration, hands bunching into fists.
Iwant out so bad!

She'd been resigned. She'd been content. She'd played happy housekeeper and fairy godmother and fooled herself into thinking she belonged in this horri-ble place. Well, yesterday reality had reminded her of just what was really going on here. She wanted out.

She got up and walked out of the hall.

It was better in the open space of the courtyard. She stood on the castle steps, drinking in great gulps of mist-laden air. Much better. The cool breeze was reviving. The world out here was alive. Full of every-day sights and sounds. There was smoke coming from smithy and kitchen. Children were playing near the gate, lunging back and forth, using sticks as swords. The goosegirl was chasing after her

charges. They'd somehow strayed as far as the inner bailey this time. Her little brother was toddling after the geese while she kept calling for him and them to go home. It was nice to know the children were all right. It was good to hear their shouts and laughter. They were so
alive.

The adults she saw went more somberly about their duties, but no one seemed to be hiding away today but her.

She walked away from the castle, down the hill to the village, passing guards patrolling near the gate.

Along the way she deliberately stopped at the spot where she thought she'd been attacked. Rain had washed away any hint of bloodstains. She didn't want to know what had happened to the body. She did kick at a muddy clod of earth.

"It's over," she told herself. "It happened. Don't let it haunt you. You can't let it haunt you if you're going to survive. The people here live with disaster, day in,

day out. Maybe they're stronger than you. Leam from them."

The feeling of being an observer lingered. She didn't know if or when it would fade. She knew there was nothing she could do but go on. So she straight-ened her spine, tried to put confidence in her walk, and went down into the village. She spoke to no one, disturbed none of the women working near the huts, but she was very glad to see them. Glad they were alive and unharmed. She made a quick tour of the vil-lage, then headed back up the hill.

The guards at the outer gate were peering atten-tively into the distance as she finished the climb. "What?"

she asked. Fear grabbed at her, but she pushed it back. Turning, she looked where one was pointing.

"Riders," he said, though she could clearly see the line of horsemen from this vantage point. One of the men disappeared. A minute later Raoul DeCorte was at the gate, and a group of archers were on the platforms at the top of the wall. Jane was relieved to see the precautions being taken since yesterday's attack.

Not that they mattered, of course. By now the big black stallion and tall, thin rider leading the line of horsemen were clearly recognizable. It seemed that without word, without warning. Sir Stephan DuVrai was coming home.

DeCorte went forward to meet his liege before he reached the gate. Jane followed after. She scanned the group of riders. Stephan had left with only a groom and a few guards. He'd returned with a few extra peo-ple in tow. Several servant types were bringing up the rear of the column. Up front, riding abreast with Stephan, were two well-dressed strangers.

One was a scrawny boy of about ten, with a round face and masses of brown curls, straddling a horse someone had probably told him he'd grow into. He was looking about him with a combination of curiosity and eagerness. His gaze kept returning expectantly to Sir Stephan. She guessed Sir Stephan was bringing home some noble's son to train as his squire. The other new arrival sat his horse with long-limbed ease. His yellow hair was cut unfashionably short. A sky-blue, hooded tunic covered a powerful form. A well-worn broadsword sheath hung across his saddlebow, and one arm supported a round, crested shield. The device on the shield was of a mailed hand grasping a gold ball. Their eyes met, and he gave Jane a pleasant smile. She quickly focused her attention on Sir Stephan.

Stephan's dark eyes took in the guards and the tensely waiting DeCorte. He got down from the stal-lion.

"What news?" he asked, towering over his guard sergeant.

Jane tucked her hands in her sleeve, grasping her elbows tightly, as DeCorte explained about the fair and the outlaw attack.

The young man's fine, pale skin flushed with anger as the story unfolded. "Such pickings were bound to draw the brigands out," Stephan pointed out. "Why only five guards on patrol?"

DeCorte ran a hand through his short gray hair. "Three of my men were hunting poachers who've been taking deer in the forest. I didn't want to leave the castle defenses short of men."

"Quite right," Stephan acknowledged with a short

nod. "What about Sturry? And where was the Welsh Wolf and his men?"

"The patrol from Reculver was delayed by a mes-senger," DeCorte explained. He went on to add a part of the story new to Jane. "Sir Daffyd returned after chasing the outlaws until nightfall. He had news of Sturry's men. They were waylaid at Stourford. Riders set on them at the river crossing. They drove the attackers off, but turned back to Sturry Castle with their wounded. The riders wore no device, but Sir Daffyd assumes they were from Lilydrake."

"A diversion while the outlaws attacked the town?"

"Just so, my lord."

Stephan rubbed his long jaw, which was stubbled with a day's growth of dark beard. His wide mouth was set in a hard line. "With Hugh getting a share of the spoils? I should have killed the man the last time we met."

DeCorte nodded. "The castle," he went on, "was never in danger. It was Lady Sibelle who first noticed the outlaws. She was just going down to the fair, but ran back with word of the attack. Ran like the wind despite having hurt her foot earlier in the day," DeCorte added for emphasis.

Stephan looked at the guard sergeant in astonish-ment. "Lady Sibelle? My Lady Sibelle?"

"Yes, my lord. It was the lass who got the archers up to the walls as soon as we knew there was trouble. And she was up on the walls with us," he went on, praising the girl enthusiastically. "She's turning into a fine archer. And fierce in protection of her lord's lands," he concluded, throwing a quick, conspiratori-al glance Jane's way.

She was grateful for the sergeant's fervent praise of the lady. Stephan clearly didn't know what to make of DeCorte's words. Instead he turned to her. "I'm glad to see you well."