Untamed (7 page)

“Tell me everything you know about the pin,” Meg demanded.

“'Tis little enough.”

“'Tis better than nothing,” retorted Meg.

Gwyn smiled slightly. The smile faded as she spoke.

“The Glendruid Wolf was worn by our headmen back to the dawn of memory. As long as it was worn, peace reigned and we prospered.”

“What happened?”

“A brother's envy. A woman seduced. A love betrayed.”

Grimly Meg smiled. “The story has a familiar sound to it.”

“Glendruids are but human. The headman was slain from ambush. The pin was taken from his cloak.”

Meg waited.

Gwyn said nothing more.

“What happened then?” Meg asked.

“From that day forth, strife reigned. And from that day forth Glendruid women conceived few babes, for there was little of pleasure in their lives; and without pleasure, no Glendruid female will quicken with a man's seed.”

“Didn't our people look for the talisman if it meant that much to them?”

The old woman shrugged. “They searched. They found only their own greed. The pin was never seen again. 'Tis said it is hidden within one of the ancient mounds between here and the mountain, guarded by the ghost of the adulteress.”

Meg had an odd sense that there was more to the
story. Yet even as she started to ask, she looked into the old Glendruid's eyes and knew that no more would be said.

“I wish that I had the pin in my hand right now,” Meg said finally.

“Don't wish that.”

“Why?”

“Whether you gave the talisman now to Dominic le Sabre or Duncan of Maxwell, blood would run through Blackthorne's meadows rather than clear water.”

Meg made a low sound of distress. “I fear you're right. My poor people. When the land is at war, nobles might win or lose, but the simple folk always lose.”

“Aye,” Gwyn whispered. “Always.”

“Why can't men see that the land needs healing rather than more hurting?” Meg demanded.

“They aren't Glendruid to understand the ways of water and growing things. They know only the ways of fire.”

“John's plan will be the ruin of Blackthorne Keep and its people,” Meg said. “If we sow blood instead of seed this spring, the survivors will live only long enough to die of famine in the next winter.”

“Aye. If King Henry doesn't kill them first. If John follows his plan, the king and his great barons won't leave one stone standing upon another in all of Blackthorne.”

Meg closed her eyes. She had only until tomorrow to find a way to save the land and the people she loved more than she loved anything in her life.

“What will you do, Meg?”

She stared at Gwyn, wondering if the old woman had somehow seen into her mind.

“Will you warn the Norman lord?” Gwyn asked.

“To what purpose? It would be kinder—and
quicker—to slay Duncan with poison. I cannot bear to see him hanged. Or worse. No. I cannot.”

Meg's mouth thinned as she continued. “In any case, Duncan's death would change nothing. The Reevers would slaughter the Normans in reprisal and Blackthorne would be lost.”

Gwyn nodded. “You are your mother's daughter, Margaret. Shrewd and kind at once. What will you do? Flee into the forest and the haunted place?”

“How did you know?”

“It was what your mother did. But it won't help you. Duncan is as shrewd as you.”

“What do you mean?” Meg asked.

“He has stationed one of his men at the gatehouse. You are a prisoner, and the keep is your jail.”

D
OMINIC LOOKED UP AS HIS
brother strode into the high keep room where the squire Jameson was helping Dominic dress. At the moment, all he wore was a cape for warmth and water from his recent bout with a razor. His hair was neatly cut to lie close to his head underneath a helmet and his beard was gone. The effect was to make him more formidable, rather than less. Without the softening effect of the beard, there was nothing to mute the angular lines of his cheekbones or the stark, inverted V of his black eyebrows.

“Are the preparations complete?” Dominic asked as he dried his face.

“The chapel is ready,” Simon said, “your knights wait to stand with you in front of God and the Saxon rabble, and the men-at-arms are looking forward to the wassail and wenches.”

“What of the bride?” Dominic asked. “Has anyone seen her?”

“Not in the flesh. Her handmaiden is everywhere, running about like a chicken with its head cut off, shrilling at the laundress for a garment still damp or at the seamstress for a poorly sewn hem or at the tanner for shoes too harsh for noble feet.”

Dominic grunted and rubbed the drying cloth over his powerful body.

“It sounds like I won't have to go and drag Lady Margaret from her rooms,” he said.

“I hope the lady dresses grandly,” Simon said after a few moments.

“No matter. 'Tis not her clothes I'll be marrying.”

“Yes, but the bride is supposed to be the best-dressed of all the maids at the wedding, is she not?”

Dominic raised one black eyebrow at his brother in silent demand.

“Marie is wearing the scarlet silk you gave her,” continued Simon slyly, “and around her forehead is the golden circlet with its fine rubies that was your present after Jerusalem fell.”

“If Lady Margaret wishes such baubles to wear, she will have to be more civil to her husband,” Dominic said under his breath. He threw the drying cloth with emphasis onto the table. “A great deal more civil!”

Simon snickered. “Perhaps you should send her to Marie for instruction.”

Dominic ignored his brother in favor of Jameson.

“No,” he told the squire, “I'll need heavier undergarments than that. Dress me for battle.”

The squire looked surprised. “Sire?”

“The hauberk,” Dominic said impatiently.

Jameson looked shocked. “For your
marriage
?”

The look on Dominic's face sent a surge of red up the squire's smooth cheeks. Hurriedly the boy retrieved his lord's soft leather undergarments from the wardrobe. Next came the chausses, whose metal bands would protect Dominic's shins from blows during a battle.

A curt movement of Dominic's head refused the chausses. Relieved, Jameson went to the wardrobe
for the chain mail tunic. The garment was slit in front and back for riding and quite heavy. With every movement, the metal rings on the hauberk sang quietly of battle and death.

“God's teeth,” Simon muttered as he watched Dominic's squire fasten the flexible metal tunic into place. “I've never known a bridegroom to go to his wedding wearing a hauberk.”

“Perhaps I'll start a new fashion.”

“Or bury an old one?” his brother asked silkily.

Dominic's smile was like a drawn sword. “See that you follow my fashion, brother.”

“Will you wear it to the bedchamber?”

“When you handle a brancher,” Dominic said dryly, “caution saves many regrets.”

Simon laughed aloud at Dominic's comparison of his future bride to a young, recently captured falcon that had never known man's touch.

“She is hardly a fledgling snatched fresh from the branch,” Simon said. “She has barely a handful of years less than you.”

“True. What you forget is that we fly females rather than tiercels in the hunt because the female is not only larger than the male falcon, she is far more fierce.”

Dominic settled his hauberk into place with a muscular shrug that spoke of a decade's experience at war. The heavy hood lay on his shoulders in gleaming, sliding folds of chain mail.

“Sven has heard nothing to suggest that Lady Margaret is so redoubtable,” Simon pointed out. “Rather the opposite. The vassals love her greatly for her kindness.”

“Falcons are always kind to their own.”

“Your helm, sire,” the boy said neutrally.

“I think not,” Dominic said. “The hauberk's hood will have to serve.”

The squire set aside the bleak metal helm with visible relief.

“Will John be attending the ceremony?” Simon asked.

“I heard something about a pallet being readied in the church,” Dominic said indifferently.

“Your sword, sire,” Jameson said, holding out the heavy sword with both hands.

The squire's expression plainly stated that he hoped his lord would refuse the weapon as he had the helm and chausses.

Jameson was to be disappointed. Dominic buckled the sword in place with a few swift movements. Its grim weight at his left side was as familiar to him as darkness was to the night.

“My mantle,” he said.

Within moments Jameson appeared at Dominic's side with a richly embroidered damask mantle. Gemstones and pearls winked and shimmered within the elaborate weave, suggesting laughter buried in the luxurious folds. It was a mantle fit for a sultan. Indeed, it had been a sultan's gift to the knight who had prevented his men from defiling the sultan's five wives after the palace had fallen.

“Not that one,” Dominic said. “The black one. It lies more easily over chain mail and sword.”

With a sigh, Jameson traded the fine cape for the heavy black wool. In its own almost secret way, the cape was just as costly, for it had a deep border of sable from a forest a thousand miles distant.

Dominic swirled the cape into place with a deft motion. Wool and fur settled luxuriantly around his body, concealing all but the occasional glint of chain mail and the gleaming length of Dominic's heavy sword. Jameson fastened the cape in place with the simple iron pin Dominic wore into battle.

Watching, Simon shook his head in a combination of amusement and rue. Even naked, Dominic was a formidable man; dressed as he was now, he was a blunt warning to the people of the realm that a new lord had come.

A lord who meant to be obeyed.

“You'll have the maiden fainting with fear at the sight of you,” Simon said.

“That would be a refreshing change,” Dominic muttered.

But he didn't say it loudly enough to be overheard. He had told no one about his brush with the lady of the keep dressed as a cotter's child. The ease with which she had fooled him still rankled his pride.

Bells pealed from the church across the meadow, telling the people of Blackthorne Keep that it was time to gather for the nuptials. Before the last bell was rung, Dominic had walked from his rooms and was mounting a horse in the bailey.

The bride was not nearly so eager for the wedding to begin.

“Eadith, do quit hovering like a sparrow hawk questing for a meal,” Meg said.

Despite the words, Meg's voice was gentle. For once she enjoyed the handmaiden's chatter and constant motion; it kept Meg's mind from what lay ahead.

Duncan, be as clever as you are brave. See what must be. Accept it
.

Forgive me
.

“You heard the bells,” Eadith said. “'Tis time. Hurry, mistress.”

Meg glanced at her mother's water clock. The hammered silver bowl with its ebony support and catch basin had been handed down from mother to daughter for years without name or number. With the bowl had come the knowledge of how to use it in
marking off the proper time for medicines to steep.

It seemed to Meg but a moment ago that she had filled the keeper to its utmost, water brimming and shining like primeval moonlight in the sunless room. Yet less than a finger's width of water remained in the upper bowl.

“Not quite,” Meg said. “There is more water, see?”

“You and your Glendruid ways,” Eadith said, shaking her head. “I will mark the passage of the sun with the church's bells.”

As though to emphasize the handmaiden's words, the bells pealed again. Meg bowed her head and touched the silver cross that lay between her bare breasts.

“M'lady?”

Eadith waited for Meg's attention. The handmaiden's arms were overflowing with the unusual silver garment that Old Gwyn had brought out the day the king had decreed that Lady Margaret of Blackthorne would marry Dominic le Sabre. The dress wasn't new. Lady Anna had been married in it, and Anna's mother as well. Like the water remaining within the silver Glendruid bowl, the cloth shimmered subtly, as though infused with ancient moonlight.

Meg looked at the dress and remembered what Gwyn had said:
May you give birth to a son
.

Now Meg wondered if the wedding dress, like the clock, had been passed down from mother to daughter through all the years, and if each daughter had donned it hoping that she would be the one to give birth to a Glendruid son.

Dearest God, grant us peace
.

“Lady Margaret, we really must hurry.”

Reluctantly Meg turned from watching the measured dripping of water from silver bowl to ebony basin.

“The priest is always slow,” she said absently. “He dresses more carefully than any bride.”

“More carefully than you, 'tis certain!”

“Dominic le Sabre is marrying Blackthorne Keep, not me. He would marry me if I arrived wearing sackcloth and ashes.”

“Even so, you must look finer than that Norman whore.”

Meg tore her mind away from the remorseless glide of water from silver to black, drops sliding into darkness as surely as Blackthorne Keep into war.

“What?” she asked.

“La Marie,” Eadith muttered, giving the woman the nickname she had earned from the servants who were constantly attending her needs. “The men can't look away from her, whether they be Norman swine or Saxon nobles.”

“If the men are like crows, captivated by all that flashes brightly, then let them go to the leman's well.”

“They are dogs, not crows,” Eadith said bitterly. “A red-lipped smile, a wink, perfumed breath, a leg shown and then hidden as she climbs a stair…they follow her like dogs after a bitch in heat. And Duncan is at the head of the pack.”

“If he sickens from her much-used well,” Meg said calmly, “I have a tonic that will put him right once more.”

Eadith said nothing.

When Meg saw the unhappiness in her handmaiden's face, she realized how deeply Eadith had counted on attracting Duncan's eye.

“'Tis for the best,” Meg said, touching her handmaiden's arm. “Your father was a thane. So was your husband. You deserve better in life than to be Duncan's leman.”

The sour curve of Eadith's lips said she disagreed. With quick, strong hands she shook out the silver cloth.

“Were it not for Duncan's ambition, I would have been his
wife
,” Eadith said bitterly. “But he was ever longing for land and I have neither wealth nor land to give him. So I will be a poor man's wife. Pah. Better to be a rich man's leman!”

“Better to be an untamed falcon, free of men and wealth alike.”

“Easy for you to say,” Eadith retorted. “In yonder church stands a knight whose wealth in gems and gold is thrice your weight when you stand fully dressed. Before the bells ring the end of day, you will be one of the richest wives in all of England.”

“'Tis the first kind word I've heard leave your lips about Dominic le Sabre.”

“If one must be a Norman swine, then one should at least be a rich Norman swine. Then the priests will be well paid for the lies they will intone over Dominic le Sabre's corpse. May it be an early grave and as deep as Hell itself.”

The hate in Eadith's voice made Meg flinch. Eadith had never forgiven the Normans who had slain her husband, father, brothers, and uncles, and taken their estates.

Into the uncomfortable silence came the slow dripping of water. The sound made gooseflesh rise on Meg's arms. She found herself holding her breath, counting, wanting to stem the relentless drops.

Silence came.

The silver bowl was dry.

“Quickly,” Meg said, holding out her arms. “Let us get it done with.”

Within moments Meg was wearing folds of cloth that fooled the eye like moonlight on a river. Eadith pulled laces at the back, making the fabric snug
against Meg's body. As light as mist, the garment clung and swirled in silver stirrings that outlined the supple feminine form beneath.

When Eadith was finished, Meg turned a full circle. The cloth lifted and then flowed into place as though made for her rather than for her mother before her.

“Are you certain you won't wear the brooch Lord Dominic sent you?” Eadith asked.

“Before her marriage, a Glendruid girl wears only silver. After it, she wears only gold. I will wear the brooch soon enough.”

If I live
.

“Foolishness,” Eadith muttered. “You will look a drab creature next to the Norman whore.”

Eadith held out a very long, intricately made chain of silver and clear crystal. Like the clock, the chain had been passed down through generations. No wider than Meg's smallest finger, almost as flexible as water itself, the chain circled her waist, crossed behind at her hips, and returned to her front in a shining girdle.

The ends of the chain reached to the hem like silent, slender waterfalls. And like water, the crystals in the chain transformed light into elusive flashes of color, fragments of rainbows caught and held for an instant of time.

Meg lifted hands naked of rings and pulled the combs from the hair piled on her head. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, over her breasts, falling to her hips and beyond. Against the ethereal silver of the dress, her hair burned with all the passions she had never felt.