Boadicea's Legacy Page 10

  “It was Sal’s father’s, and his father’s before him, and so on. She’ll give it to her son. The stew recipe is only passed from word of mouth, one to the next, within the family.” Hilda licked her lips and set the bread bowl back on the table.

  Os rubbed his belly, and Ela’s eyes were drawn downward as he pressed his hand against his flat abdomen. She remembered the hard ridge of muscle playing against her palms as they rode Bartholomew, the solid feel of his shoulders against her cheek when she’d rested her head, the strength he controlled when he rode.

  Her stomach fluttered, and she was no longer hungry.

  Once again, the door slammed open, this time with such force that the walls shook. The jovial atmosphere ended as two men, dressed in black with a red fox’s crest, stomped inside. “We’re looking for strangers.”

  Ela gasped, touching Os’s shoulder. She heeded his signal to be quiet.

  Hilda’s gaze darted between them like a savvy bird’s, and she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I didn’t think to ask if ye were hiding from someone.”

  Os’s expression dared the woman to betray them, though Ela could have told him that she wouldn’t.

  Hilda jerked her head to a darkened door behind the booth. “It leads to an alleyway and the privy.” She cocked her head to the side, her old eyes wise. “And from there ye’ll head west of town to the river—after two days or more, it’ll lead ye to the River Tas. Go north, toward the sea. Good luck to ye both, dearies. Ye’ll need to have fortune smile upon ye, methinks.”

  Ela grasped Hilda’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She dropped coin on the table, then turned to her knight and shoved him toward the back door. “Os, hurry. Before they see us.”

  Os had to get Ela to safety. He’d made a vow to see that no harm would come to her, and he wouldn’t break that pledge—not yet, anyway. But Bartholomew was out front, tied like a horse instead of a trusted steed. More than an animal, a knight’s horse was a companion, a fellow warrior. I’ll come back.

  He nodded curtly at Hilda, not sure what to say to a woman who openly dabbled in magic. Ela was naïve and trusted too quickly. He’d have to talk to her about that before she got them killed.

  How had Thomas de Havel’s men found them so fast? He paused at the back door, pushing Ela out in front of him. He heard one of the men say, “A man and woman. The man has kidnapped the daughter of a lord, and he must be found and brought to justice immediately.”

  What? Os wished he had the time to defend his own name from being slandered, but since he didn’t, he eased out behind Ela, shutting the door with nary a sound.

  Ela looked up at Os, trust in her large green eyes. “So, Thomas is spreading the word that you kidnapped me. ‘Tis a crime you could hang for, me being the daughter of a lord and you but a landless knight.”

  “Aye.” He scratched his chin, eyes narrowed as he concentrated on a solution to the problem. He’d been so worried about shielding Ela, who had no sense to care about her reputation, that he hadn’t given a thought to de Havel gossiping like a serving wench.

  “Ye might get to be a lord someday,” Ela teased, “once I meet the earl and you satisfy the details of your quest. But for now, I am the one of higher station. Should I make any demands upon you, Sir Osbert Edyvean?”

  Exasperated by her lack of concern for the need to hurry, he grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her so close that they were nose to nose. “This is no time to jest. You could be killed—or worse, I could be killed, and then you would be raped and forced to marry the man who is chasing us down like dogs. The man who, we already concurred, will probably murder you within the year, once he has you and your family’s land.”

  He released her shoulders as the blood drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a wraith. “Aye,” she agreed. “Let’s go then, afore they find us.”

  With her back to the building, she edged toward the front. Os hauled her backward. “Where are you going?”

  “We can’t leave Bartholomew.”

  “I’ll come back for him later.”

  “Nay. Let’s just see …” She slipped from his grasp and eased around the corner of the building. She gestured for him to come closer.

  Os peered over her shoulder and saw that Bartholomew was tied up exactly where he’d left him. Two feet of braided leather kept his horse attached to the post in front of the inn. Two men stood on the stairs, guarding the inn’s front door.

  “We have to leave him.” Os ignored the ache in his chest, but he had to do the honorable thing and save Ela before Bartholomew.

  “Close your eyes and say a prayer, Sir Os. One, two, three—”

  He felt the weight of her arm as she pointed her hand forward. What was she doing? Then she was tugging on his sleeve and gesturing for him to follow her across the road. Looking ahead, Os saw another alleyway they could hide in.

  Nodding curtly, he admired her stealth as she waited for the two men to look away before she darted, bent over, across the street. He hoped he could do as well, with as little noise. He didn’t have to, because she threw a rock down the opposite end of the street, which caused both men to leave their post and investigate.

  Os joined her on the other side, not sure what to say.

  “Call for Bartholomew,” she urged. “Be quick, before they come back.”

  “He’s tied, that isn’t fair.”

  She shook her head. “Trust me. Call for him.”

  Os narrowed his eyes and gave a light whistle. Bartholomew’s head picked up, and the horse immediately walked toward the sound he’d heard. Os whistled again, and Bartholomew broke into a trot.

  The stallion came around the entrance to the alley, and Os lost no more time in wondering what had just happened. Magic or miracle, judging from the sound of shouts inside the inn, it was time to disappear. Tossing Ela up first, Os mounted behind her and away they went.

  “West, Hilda said,” Ela reminded him.

  Her hair flew back, and he was slightly disconcerted to see Henry staring at him from the nest of tangles at her nape. Was Henry truly her familiar? Had Ela been so sarcastic when talking about her skills because she’d hoped to disguise the truth?

  What the hell had just happened?

  He’d been watching the men, and the next thing he knew, she’d pointed her finger toward his horse. Had she severed the braided tie with the magic from her fingertips? He shuddered, wondering how he could ever reconcile such power with his Christian faith.

  “Stop thinking so hard,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “We shall make a bargain—if you save us from being captured and killed, I will tell you how I did it.”

  As the sound of hooves pounded behind them, Os had no choice but to agree. Logic would do better than magic to see them away from this place.

  “Done,” he said, focusing totally on finding the river and escape.

  Chapter

  Eight

  What kind of directions are those, anyway? Follow the river until it leads to River Tas.” Os snorted, anger and frustration evident in the way he hacked at the brush with his sword, clearing a path for her and the horse.

  She’d heard her father bluster often enough that she knew not to answer his question. He’d feel better once he tired his sword arm.

  “I know the River Tas. ‘Tis wide and bustling at the south end of Norfolk, nothing like this puny, pissing excuse for a stream.”

  Henry sat on her shoulder, calmly surveying the world from his perch. Ela walked behind Bartholomew, careful not to make a wrong step so she did not end up sinking to her ankles in squishy mud. They’d been lucky to lose de Havel’s men before finding the river, so if fortune was smiling as Hilda wished, then she and Os would be clear to Norwich before Thomas caught up with them again.

  She knew now that Thomas wouldn’t let her go.

  He must have been so sure of his prize—her, and her father’s land—that he hadn’t thought to value her until she’d flown the coo
p. Now he wanted her for revenge. She curled Henry’s tail around her finger. Mayhap his mother had forced the issue?

  Shaking her head, Ela didn’t waste time on speculation, not when she needed to find a way from the predicament she was in now.

  Mud aside, she wondered if Os had realized they’d be spending another night alone under the stars, with only God as their witness. Her lips still burned from the kiss they’d shared last eve, and while the honorable Os might feel riddled with guilt, she did not.

  In fact, she wouldn’t mind further exploring the feelings he created.

  She smiled, then sighed. No doubt he’d come up with many more reasons for them to be separate, the biggest obstacle being his belief that she was a witch. His devotion toward the church was another.

  Her grandmother had been a healer, a descendent of Boadicea, and a devout believer in God and the Holy Light. Mayhap there would be a way to make Osbert see that there was more than one rigid path to the Lord.

  As stubborn as he was, she knew she would have a hard road ahead of her if she thought to change his mind—before he tied her ankles with stones and tossed her in the water to see if she floated.

  Common sense said she’d sink—and die innocent. If she floated, she’d be put to death as a witch, hardly fair, in her opinion. God help the woman who knew how to hold her breath and untie a knot.

  Os let out a very ungodly oath as a branch smacked him in the forehead. “Christ’s blood, now I’m bleeding.”

  “Really?” Ela skipped past Bartholomew and pulled Os’s hand away from his forehead. Blood pooled and dripped from the gash that was directly in the center of his worry-furrowed brow.

  She smiled and rubbed her hands together.

  “Why are you smiling? This hurts, damn it.”

  His eyes darkened with unnamed emotion as she blew on her fingertips.

  “Give me a moment, sir, and the pain will be gone.” She closed her eyes, concentrating on the healing power flowing through her veins, just as it had done for each female healer descended from Boadicea. She would miss this part of herself most once she ended the curse that took her free will.

  She reached forward, gently touching the edges of the wound, imagining the gash growing smaller and smaller as it healed itself. The warmth was pleasant, and Os groaned softly—appreciatively—and she sensed that the pain was gone.

  Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her—studying her. She tried to joke but couldn’t find anything witty to say. “Better?” Her voice came out as a husky whisper.

  “Aye.” He blinked, and she stepped back from his troubled expression. Os brought his hand to his forehead and felt for a wound that was no longer there. His hand came away covered in dried blood—the only reminder that there had ever been an injury. “God save me. That isn’t natural. This is the gift you claim is blessed by our Lord and Savior? ‘Tis magic!”

  But he didn’t move away—this time he stayed. To fight? For her? Warmth pooled in her lower belly.

  Ela swallowed under his searching gaze. She held her hands out. “Feel them. They are warm. The healing comes from within me—my heart. I am not evil, Osbert Edyvean. I grow tired of trying to convince you that it’s true. I’ve been baptized, as have my sisters, my mother, and my entire family. We go to church, and Father Harold has been with us since Father Jonas died of old age. My healing is a blessing.” Her voice rose as she passionately defended herself from his accusation.

  “Oh? Then why were you calling for an ancient goddess to take this blessing from you? Calling down evil spirits to do your will—you know it’s wrong.”

  She deflated beneath his scorn. “Because, sir knight, I would have the right to choose for myself.”

  “Women don’t have the intelligence to choose—’tis why they need husbands.”

  Ela shoved Os back, and he stumbled into a tree. “You are just as much of an idiot as Thomas de Havel. At least he makes no pretense of what he is. His evil is plain to see. Yours is hidden in shadows.” She wished she could see his aura—he had to have one! Everybody did.

  “You are calling me evil?” His brows rose in disbelief. “You pointed your finger at my horse’s tie, and it severed into two pieces! Did you use your ‘healing’ finger?”

  Ela raised her hands in the air and shook her fists. “Idiot. I told you that I was a champion knife thrower. I used my dagger to sever the leather braid. I have skills, Os, skills.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why? Is it easier to think me a witch than a woman able to handle her own fate? Hmm?” She felt her temper grow, and her cheeks flushed with heat. “I don’t need you, and that confuses you.”

  “You need me. You’d be dead without me.”

  “I had already freed myself by the time you came along … remember that?”

  His lips were pursed, and his hair was gold and dark in the late afternoon shadows. He was a dark knight bent on making her life miserable. “Show me your dagger.”

  “The one I don’t have anymore? You should be a court jester, you are so funny.”

  “Nobody could have thrown that dagger, severed the leather, and not made a sound. I heard nothing drop, my lady witch, and that means that it wasn’t there.” He crossed his arms over his chest, giving stubborn a new look.

  “The dagger landed in the flower basket by the stairs. I saw it.”

  His jaw clenched. “Impossible.”

  She crossed her arms too. She was no slouch when it came to being stubborn. She was a Montehue, after all.

  “And what about how you call that damn weasel of yours to you?”

  “It would be very similar, in fact quite the same, to how you call that damn horse of yours. Begging your pardon, Bartholomew.”

  The air between them crackled and grew heavy. Os lifted his head, observing the sky. “Storm clouds. Did you call them?”

  Ela dropped her arms to her sides and rolled her eyes. “Oh aye. And next I’ll snap my fingers and wish for a heavy iron pot. To hit you over the head with.”

  “We’ll need to find shelter. Or get drenched.”

  “Is this where I am supposed to be impressed by your male intelligence?” Ela shook out her veil and wrapped it over her head and around her shoulders—keeping Henry tucked in and dry.

  “I’ll thank you to stop prattling whilst I find us somewhere safe from the storm.”

  Furious, Ela didn’t bother replying, but gathered lush, foliage-heavy branches as they walked. The muddy path by the river soon grew even muddier and they were forced away from the water’s marshy edge.

  Inland was dryer, but there was no coverage on the rolling fields. Not even a haystack was in sight.

  A boom of thunder made her jump.

  “Why are you dragging a tree behind you?”

  “These, sir knight, are branches. We might need them to keep us dry.”

  “There will be something soon. If you drop those branches, we can ride Bartholomew now that we are in the open.”

  “You’ve been so busy destroying the path by the river that you didn’t notice Bartholomew has picked up a stone. A slight limp, but putting weight on it will only make it worse.”

  He stopped, turned, and pointed his finger at her. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “When would I have done that? There was no place to stop and fix it. You think I want to see the horse in pain? If you even think that the answer to that is yes, then I will give you a wart on the end of your nose.” She smacked his finger down and glared.

  “Is it any wonder that people think you a witch when you talk like that?”

  “You are the only one to think so—and you are the only one I talk to like that because I know how much it bothers you.” Ela fought down the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him.

  “No wonder you aren’t married.”

  Oh! “And you’ve been entangled in wedded bliss how many times? Oh, that’s right. You are a penniless but godly knight who goes around saving damsels in dist
ress whether they need your help or not.”

  “You were glad to see me yesterday.”

  “I don’t remember.” Thunder crashed, and Bartholomew neighed. The scent of oncoming rain urged her to scan the horizon for anything that they could use as shelter.

  “Can you run?” His brow quirked.

  “Faster than you,” she answered, lifting her gown and dashing through the field. An old earth mound rose ahead of them, and they crested the top. Black clouds drizzled rain from overhead, and they slid down the opposite damp slope. They climbed halfway to the other side of the ditch to where a single skinny sycamore tree made its stand.

  With no words, they set to work using the tree, his cloak, her veil, and the heavily foliaged branches to make a small but cozy enclosure. Bartholomew’s bulk as he leaned against the tree trunk helped keep the wind from coming inside.

  As they hunkered down and watched the rain drop like a waterfall, Ela started to giggle. “If we’d stayed by the river, we’d be drowned by now.”

  “We might drown anyway, if this valley fills up to where the ledge is.”

  She became very aware of his body heat as their arms touched in the tight space. Ela’s blood warmed, and she had to force herself to think of something besides his muscles beneath her palms. “Nothing like an adventure, eh? You must be full of stories. Tell me what it is like to be in the midst of a battle.” Maybe blood and gore would keep her from recalling his mouth against hers.

  “Battle stories? I don’t think it is appropriate—” “If you say ‘for the fairer sex,’ I might toss you into the rain. Haven’t you learned yet that I can take care of myself?” She pointed to the branches that made the skeleton of their tent.

  He looked down, his mouth twitching. “You may just be the exception to the rule.” Os pushed back the edge of the cloak and poked his head out, getting a splash of water in his eye. “I think we’ll be safe enough for now.”

  Ela sensed rather than saw his body relax. At least he didn’t feel the need to be on guard around her—which meant that he couldn’t really be afraid of her. The thought brought comfort to her bruised pride.