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"The good stuff just keeps on coming!" Sensual Romance Reviews
“Prepare yourself for an entertaining read with THE WOMAN INSIDE. Ms Dawn exhibits her trademark raw talent in this medieval-set book. Her enthusiasm for spinning a tale not to be forgotten is evident throughout its entirety. THE WOMAN INSIDE is not to be missed!” Amy Cunningham, Romance Reviews Today
"Ms. Dawn has written a gritty, realistic-feeling medieval romance." Sensual Romance Reviews
The Woman Inside
by
Autumn Dawn
(c) copyright June 2003 Autumn Beaudreault
Cover art by Eliza Black (c) copyright June 2003
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Chapter 1
In a land long ago, and far away....
Ceylon stared at the deep red paste in her mortar. Twenty-three years of being ugly was about to change. Twenty-three years of being the ‘horror of Marksheath’ was nearly over.
Eyes on the mirror, Ceylon briskly rubbed the bloodroot paste over the red stain on her left cheek. She’d been born with it, had endured the pity and revulsion of strangers over it, but by all that was holy she would not endure it another day.
Herb lore had fascinated Ceylon since she was a little girl, and she’d spent a great deal of time accumulating knowledge and experimenting on herself. The results of her studies filled several journals that she was combining into a book. Many tomes, both ancient copies and modern translations by other authors, filled several of the shelves in her workplace. Jars of herbs and pots of ointments, pills and tinctures took up the remaining space.
Her jaw tightened as she replaced the tiny pot’s lid. Ugly, reclusive and a spinster, she knew she might have been perilously close to being labeled a witch had she had anyone but the Squire for a father. Even when they fought he was a wall between her and any who would harm her.
Those he knew about, anyway.
She closed her eyes on the memory of old hurts and reassured herself that the paste would work. The small mole she’d tested it on had gotten red, scabbed and fallen off, hadn’t it? Better yet, with a little help from her healing salve it had healed without a scar. The wretched birthmark would go, too.
She stared at herself in the mirror, anticipation making her breath come fast. It was time to discover what hid beneath.
One year later....
“It’s said she can turn the sorriest hag into a beauty to rival Venus.” Seeing that all eyes were on him, the velvet-clad courtier bowed low before her Majesty, Queen Callion of the Nine Kingdoms. Queen Callion inclined her head, a slight frown on her face as she listened. She’d heard such promises before.
Her sisters, the princesses, were far more eager. “Tell us more!” The eldest, and largest, of the three demanded, leaning forward. “Was she truly the ugliest maiden in the land?”
“Worse,” assured the courtier, who had never laid eyes on the woman in question. He hoped it was true, for the anticipated reward for success in this matter would be rich.
The middle sister, as scrawny as her sister was plump, eyed him suspiciously. The lower half of her face was covered in a veil to hide the many warts on her chin. Even exorcism hadn’t been able to cure the stubborn affliction. “You say she cures warts?”
He snapped his be-ringed fingers. “As easy as this.”
“And skin blemishes?” Breathed the youngest, who was covered in terrible pimples.
“Of course! And for a basket of eggs she’ll even cure boils.”
The princesses exhaled as one and turned hopeful eyes to their sister, the Queen.
Her majesty suppressed the urge to sigh. What would it hurt? It was a certainty that she would never be able to arrange marriages for her sisters in their present state.
She caught the courtier’s eye and lifted one imperious finger. “Bring her to me.”
* * * *
Ceylon eyed the caged chicken. The chicken stared back in dismay. It was clear that the relationship was never going to work.
Loath to let down the hopeful peasant woman, she said reluctantly, “I’m afraid that I have plenty of chickens just now....”
The woman’s face fell.
“But if it were to come back in the form of a pie....” Ceylon had eaten one too many chicken pies lately, but surely she could choke down another. Most of the people who came to her for help didn’t have much, but their pride insisted that they pay her however they could. Unfortunately, livestock was the method of choice.
The woman beamed, revealing two missing teeth. “Bless you, lass! I make a chicken pie like no other. This fellow will be ready for you by supper.” She patted the wicker cage.
Ceylon slanted the alarmed bird a wry look, popped her lips and looked away. “Right. Now how can I help you?”
The farmer’s wife planted her bottom on the kitchen bench and bent over, her frowzy head disappearing beneath the table as she did something with her shoes. “It’s me feet.” She freed one and held the large appendage up where Ceylon could see it. “I’ve got fungus.”
Ceylon bit her bottom lip and raised her brows, swallowing a laugh as the woman plopped her foot in Ceylon’s lap and looked at her expectantly. She cradled the ankle in her hand and raised the foot to the light. “All right, then. Let’s see what we can do for you.”
The fungus had eaten into the woman’s toenails and spread all over the foot, but Ceylon had confidence that they could cure it.
“Just remember to soak it in vinegar, keep it dry and use those herbs I gave you,” she instructed the woman as she walked her to the door. A line of six people waited on the firewood rounds she had stacked along the stone walk. Ceylon nodded to them. “Sunset’s coming, so you will be my last patients for the day. Tell whoever comes next to take a marker to be in line tomorrow.” She gestured toward the peg in her wall that held the wooden vouchers that indicated the line up order for the morning. Of course, that was up to her discretion. Often she took someone who was badly injured or very sickly in ahead of everyone else.
Ceylon considered it bad form to let a patient expire while waiting for her services.
She hadn’t set out to become the village healer. Certainly she’d never seen herself birthing babies or dispensing cures for sexual diseases. In her quest for a cure for herself, she had simply gathered all the knowledge she could find, on whatever subject. It had become second nature to share that knowledge with others, and after word got out about the miraculous cure of her face, everyone had wanted to consult with her. Now it was all she could do to keep up with the demand.
Not that I mind terribly, she thought with a smile as she sat down to her solitary dinner later that night. After all, the occasional wealthy customer paid in good coin.
She snorted and cut a flaky bite of pie, careful not to think about who was in it. The rich were a carbuncle on the face of the land. Ceylon didn’t have much use for them, but she wasn’t above taking their money. Compassion dictated that she treat them as she would anyone else, but it burned her that the very women who’d shunned her now came to her seeking beauty treatments. Oh, how satisfying when she had a legitimate reason to send them away, for she had no desire to play the beauty consultant. And if she too often had exactly what they needed? Well, there was the soothing clink of all that money.
Mmm. Nice gravy. She’d have to compliment Mrs. Prawn.
She’d hardly tasted the first bite when a rapping sounded on her chamber door. “Who is it?” she called, already guessing who the visitor might be. She rose to get another plate.
The door swung open and a tall lad of sixteen stuck his head in. A lock of his shaggy black hair, haphazardly tied back in a queue, flopped into one blue eye. Immediately, his gaze fixed on her pie. “Evening, Miss Ceylon.”
Ceylon smirked and slid the plate across the table. The lad had a habit of showing up just at mealtimes, but in truth, she didn’t mind the company. “Have a seat, Raven.”
He didn’t waste breath pretending he was there by coincidence, but sat down and helped himself to a big slab of pie.
Half amused, half sympathetic, Ceylon watched as he wolfed down the pie and then stared longingly at what was left in the pan. She gestured to it with her cup. “Have another.”
Raven, as he was called for his scavenger ways, had been on his own since a falling tree limb had felled his woodcutter father. She’d fallen into the habit of feeding him in the last few months. In return, he helped her out by doing some of the wood-cutting and other chores, freeing her time to spend with her books and patients.
She eyed his ragged tunic and boyish beard, barely suppressing the urge to mother him into cleaning up. He’d resent it, no doubt. Still, someone had to do something about his situation.
“You know, Raven, I’ve been thinking.” She sipped her coffee, forming the words carefully in her mind. “I know you’ve got no interest in herb lore--”
He snorted. “Witch’s business.” At her glare he added hastily, “Not that you’re a witch, but woman’s work is no way for a man to spend his time. Grubbing around in the woods, collecting flowers.” He grimaced. “I can’t be seen doing that.”
Her lips twitched. A man, was it? Well, let the boy have his dignity. “Hm. Be that as it may, there are still plenty of things around here that need doing. If you’re interested I wouldn’t mind hiring you as a permanent hand.”
Raven’s eyes lit up, but he was careful not to seem too eager. The chance at a regular meal in these hard times was too rare. “What did you have in mind?”
Just like a fish on a hook. Ceylon spread her fingers and studied her blunt nails critically. “You’ll need to learn sums and letters. I can’t have an assistant who isn’t good at taking notes and managing transactions.”
A pained look crossed his face. “Sums and letters? I thought you needed someone to do chores.”
“Certainly. But a bright lad such as yourself is capable of so much more. The more skills you have, the better your chances of success in this life. You do want that, don’t you?” she added when he looked reluctant. Raven had once told her of his dream of becoming a knight, an ambitious thing for a lowborn lad. What she offered was nothing like that, but at least it would keep him fed better than the occasional odd job.
“Aye.”
“Besides, you may get a chance to practice some of those fighting skills you’ve picked up from brawling with the village lads.” Her hands tightened on her cup. This really was too much to ask of a boy, even one so large for his age, but the situation was becoming tense. “I’m having a hard time keeping Lord Tennyson’s sons from bothering me lately. It might make it easier if I had a lad hanging around when I went shopping and such.”
Grim as a judge, Raven stabbed his last piece of pie and stuffed it in his mouth. “Eville doesn’t dare touch you with the entire town looking on. He’d be stoned.”
“Yes, but it’s when the town isn’t looking on that I worry.” Eville had come by one night with his drunken brothers, banging on her door and shouting something about needing her services. Lucky thing for her that she’d been consulting with the rector and his wife at the time about the rector’s gout.
She would have been very unpopular with Lord Tennyson if she’d been forced to put a crossbow bolt through his heir.
Ceylon eyed the lanky Raven somewhat doubtfully. If it came down to a confrontation of arms, Raven could only do so much. Even if he could use the knife at his waist he wouldn’t dare attack a lord’s son with it.
What she truly needed was a man. A hot blooded, bad tempered brute of a man who was putty with women and all fire and brimstone with others. Preferably a eunuch or a warrior priest with a peerless sword arm and no interest at all in seducing a woman.
A monk. She needed a monk.
* * * *
Uric of Shardsvale was no monk, but he was in a foul temper.
“You don’t have to do this, Uric.”
Uric tracked a red bird’s progress across the dreary sky. It flew directly over the distant castle they were fast approaching. “Yes, I do.” The tramp of iron shod hooves and the jingle of their escort’s gear was the only sound. All the residents of that place had taken shelter from the coming storm.
His friend Roland scanned the prosperous fields and cottages at either side of the road as if seeking inspiration. Light glinted off the inlaid silver in his black leather eye patch. A slight scar nicked the smile groove beside his mouth and his straight black hair whipped in his face as he raised his battle roughened voice to carry over the wind. “She might be ugly. A veritable troll.” His accent made him roll the t and r.
“Then I won’t choose her.”
Roland’s squinted at the blond warrior dubiously. “Why do I have my doubts? You’re running out of options.”
Uric stared straight between his stallion’s ears and said nothing. A decorated war veteran of eleven years, at twenty-seven he’d fought in more battles than he could count. As reward for his service, the queen had granted him a rich tract of land with a fine castle. The only requirement, she’d cheerfully told the determined bachelor, was that he marry and produce an heir. That fact that she had three unwed sisters who would each love to be his bride might have influenced the stipulation.
With faces that could crack an egg, there was good reason that they remained unwed. Certainly Uric was in no hurry to take any of them to wife.
“Perhaps you should forget the lady Annette and marry the queen’s witch instead,” Roland joked. “She’s said to be a comely wench, and since the queen commanded you to fetch her while you’re out here, it will give you plenty of time to test her paces.”
Uric turned his face away and spat dust from his mouth. “She’d have to be a legend to deal with my mother.” If she really were a witch it might even be a good thing. A witch might possibly be the only creature that could stand up to Maude.
His ogress of a mother was the reason he’d been forced to travel nearly every road in the land, through sleet, storm and fog in search of a bride. He’d found dozens willing, had brought home five at last count, only to have them run squealing back to their fathers in mortal terror of his mother. At this point, even a witch for a wife was beginning to sound appealing.
But was it too much to ask, he thought to himself wistfully, that the woman he wed have some beauty? The woman he’d previously brought home had not, but then he’d been in search of a sweet temper and a pure spirit to counteract his mother. Having failed at that, was it too much to ask to find a woman who at least had all her teeth?
It would all have been easier if he’d stayed a farmer’s son, he thought bitterly. Elevation to the mistress of Wormhurst, a post his mother had appropriated for herself after he was awarded the lands and title of baron, had only deepened her vanity and need to control. Nor was she in any hurry to give up her position to any wife of Uric’s, for the woman he married would have complete control over all areas of his household.
His only choice was to marry a woman strong enough to stand up to Maude, yet with heart enough not to become a dictator herself. As his stallion’s quick stride ate up the distance between him and the castle, Uric had to ask himself, did such a woman exist?
* * * *
“If you want to get a husband, you’ve got to learn to flirt.”
Ceylon rolled her head over to favor her friend Calisto with an amused stare. “I don’t flirt.” The deep window seat she reclined in had an excellent view of the courtyard, which she watched with idle curiosity. The day was grim, the wind chill. Those who had to be about on errands walked quickly, their heads bent against the brisk fall winds.
Unperturbed by Ceylon’s negative attitude, Calisto raised her brows. “You don’t flirt, you dance like a drunken farmer and you own more leathers than dresses. But....” She raised an authoritative finger. “I’ve yet to see you fail at anything when you put your mind to it.”
Ceylon snorted softly and rested her wrist against her drawn up knee. “Yes, I’m quite the woman, aren’t I?” she drawled. A small smile of self-mockery curved her lips. “So pure, so radiant....” she quoted some of her more determined suitors, the same men who hadn’t looked twice at her before her face healed. Amazing how well they saw her now.
“Purity,” she said, “is overrated.”
Calisto jabbed her needle forcefully into the birthday dress she was sewing for Ceylon and yelped. “Blasted bother.” She shook her hand and grimaced. “I should have commissioned you some more arrows or something. Something less painful.”
“Something more likely to be used,” Ceylon agreed helpfully.
“You’ll wear it or eat it.” Calisto tossed aside the green velvet and considered her dark clad friend, a determined set to her mouth. “You need to be nicer to them.”
Here it comes. Ceylon widened her eyes in mock attentiveness, even though she’d heard this particular speech before. Never seen without her red hair flawlessly arranged and never known to move faster than a lady-like walk, surrounded by admiring suitors, Calisto was determined to mold Ceylon into a woman more like herself. “I really should, shouldn’t I?”
Calisto ignored the sarcasm in her tone and stood to put away her sewing things. She avoided looking at Ceylon. “For your own good, not theirs.”
Ceylon stiffened. So Calisto had decided to heal the healer, had she? Well, all luck to her. “And flirting is to my good because...?”
The seamstress sighed. “At least you’ll be responding to them in a favorable manner. This coldness of yours--”
Annoyed now, Ceylon sat up and dropped both feet to the floor. “And how is it my fault that men see better than they think? If they wish to be stupid around me I see no reason to encourage them.” Ever since her face had healed and men had seen what had been hiding underneath, their attitudes toward her had drastically changed. Men who had barely noticed her suddenly watched her with hungry eyes. A few of the boys—now men—that had grown up taunting her had reversed their tune and now attempted to pay her court. Old men, youths barely old enough to leave their mamas; all of them followed her with their eyes whenever she showed her face. Raven was practically the only one who didn’t drool at the sight of her, but then he was vocal about his preference for buxom blondes.
Some of those men had been more than cruel. Eville had actually held her down and rubbed dung into her face when they were both children. Dung face, he’d called her. That’s the kind of men who wanted her now.
A familiar constriction banded her chest. She was the same person behind the now flawless skin. The same changing green eyes and facial structure. Her smile was as white, when it showed, and hadn’t her dark hair always been as shiny and mink soft? It was her face they wanted now, not the woman she’d always been. If she were scarred tomorrow they’d want nothing to do with her.
Their hypocrisy sickened her.
Unwilling to voice words she’d said many times before, Ceylon dismissed the entire subject with one comment. “At least they no longer stare because I’m ugly.” There was comfort in that.
Ceylon looked out the solar window at the gray day beyond. A red bird flew by as she watched; a bright flash of color against the rain-swollen clouds. Would that she could fly away, too.
Instead, she got to strip and try on the dress her friend had made.
“I’m not sure about this.” Ceylon tugged at the square bodice of her new green gown. Air danced across far too much of her exposed bosom. No matter how nice she looked with the gold embroidered belt about her slim hips or how well the cut showed off her figure, it just didn’t feel natural. “It needs more cloth, I think.” A lot more. If Eville ever saw her in this she could kiss her virtue good-bye.
“It needs nothing,” Calisto contradicted her with a grin as she pulled her from the stool. “Let me help you off with that. We don’t want to disturb the hem pins.”
Ceylon threw on a loose peasant top and carelessly knotted the matching skirt at her waist as she waited for her clothes to be finished. The loose shirt was far too big and kept sagging from her shoulder, but it wouldn’t be long before she’d have her clothes back.
Calisto had snatched away the leathers she’d arrived in the minute she’d changed, determined that she would walk out of here looking like a lady. In light of Calisto’s excitement, Ceylon allowed her to think she was in charge. Let her have her moment, Ceylon though wryly. She’d waited long enough.
Besides, she had concerns of her own.
Ceylon doubted she had the personality to carry off the makeover Calisto had given her. In the past, because of her marked face, she’d faded into invisibility whenever men in the room caught sight of Calisto; hardly surprising, for she was a true beauty. Nor did she hold it against her friend—it wasn’t as if she could help it.
Besides, now she had the opposite problem. She didn’t want Eville or his brothers drooling over her. If she’d had her way she would have gladly skipped the dinner Lady Tennyson was giving, but she’d been practically commanded to appear. Ever since she’d cured her daughter’s vicious pimples, Lady Tennyson had practically fawned over Ceylon, spreading the word of her daughter’s cure far and wide. Now she was intent on securing Ceylon’s exclusive services as her private beauty consultant. Leery of being trapped in the castle on a daily basis with Lady Tennyson’s leering sons, Ceylon had been quietly fighting her fate. Only her position as an important healer had kept her safe so far, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist without invoking her ladyship’s disfavor.
Oblivious to Ceylon’s thoughts, Calisto gave her a brilliant smile. “You look wonderful. Now if you just manage to keep your backside away from Eville’s pinching hands, you’ll do beautifully.”
“My confidence has leapt to new heights, thank you, Cali,” Ceylon said in her driest tone. “Expecting rough waters, are we?”
About to respond, Calisto shrieked in outrage instead and darted to her feet, for she’d just caught sight of her white monkey dragging one of Ceylon’s favorite boots out of the bedroom. “Lancet! Stop!”
Caught up in his favorite game and thrilled to have an audience, Lancet flashed her a wicked grin and darted through the door flap, screeching all the way.
“Rotten beggar!” Furious, for last time it had taken a week for her to find her purloined boot, and only then in a sorry condition deep in the stables, Ceylon hiked her borrowed skirts and dashed after him.
* * * *
Uric looked up to see a wild apparition dashing down the wooden stairs leading to the upper room of a house built against the bailey wall. Shouting threats at the white animal she chased, it seemed all she could do to keep her clothes from falling off. Her roar of outrage sounded across the bailey as the monkey leap from the stairs and into the nearest espaliered pear.
“Bloody cheat!” she yelled as she dashed down the stairs after it, completely oblivious to dozen or so mounted strangers watching her with fascination. “Come back with my boot!”
The monkey noticed the riders before she did and froze in indecision—a tactical error. With a whoop of triumph, the girl swooped down on him—her mistake. For as she snatched away her boot, her skirt, only lightly tied, chose that moment to surrender to gravity. In the confusion of the moment she neglected to drop the boot, and as she sank to the ground in an attempt to keep the skirt around her hips, her shirt slipped to dangerous new lows.
Only then, when she was down on her knees and in danger of an involuntary disrobing, did she notice the hooves of Uric’s stallion.
Utterly fascinated, Uric watched as her brilliant green eyes tracked up Behemoth’s long black legs, past the hair-feathered fetlocks, skipped up Uric’s leg and finally settled on his face.
Her lips parted. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to drink him in, so thirsty was her expression. Never had he seen such heated desire in the eyes of a woman.
A beautiful, hopefully available young woman. With all her teeth. He flashed her his best smile.
Instead of smiling back, she stiffened, and an expression of dread and most likely mortification crossed her face as she looked down. Her hand tightened on her clothes. Hot color stained her fair skin as her brows lowered. “I could use some assistance,” she informed him sternly.
He couldn’t prevent a grin of amusement. There she was, dressed like a peasant—a half naked one at that—sitting in the dust at his feet, and she ordered him around like a queen. Chuckles surrounded him as he swung down from his mount. “Anything for you, fair maid.”
And she was fair, he noted as he bent to gather her into his arms. More than fair with those snapping green eyes and pretty pink lips.
“Put me down!” she hissed as he hefted her easily, her panicked gaze swinging to his men even as she gripped his leather armor. “I can walk.”
“True, but I doubt you can remain dressed,” he countered, a wide smile on his face as he glimpsed the tops of her breasts. Pink color stained there, too. Like the blush of the rarest pink pearl. “But if that’s what you wish....” He pretended to lower her.
“No!” She clung to him, no doubt knowing that the act of setting her down would expose more than her pretty bare feet to view. “I-I....” She glanced toward the stairs she’d descended in such a rush. “I need to go up there.”
Satisfied that he’d made his point, Uric mounted the steps with her. “What is your name, sweet?”
Her brows drew together forbiddingly at the endearment. “Healer Ceylon,” she informed him, her mouth set in a firm line.
Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth. Better and better.
She was embarrassed, and prickly with it; he could understand that. The idea that she could be quite different under other circumstances teased him. A smiling, laughing Ceylon would be something to look forward to.
Uric looked her over, already planning their first night. Fire she had, and it was a fire he’d like to test the heat of. When was the last time he’d felt such an instant attraction to a woman?
“And what does your man call you?” he inquired, intensely curious. Pray God she had no such thing.
She looked away and locked her jaw. When she spoke her tone was low and even. “I have none.” And then she snapped, “And I like it that way!”
“Pity,” he murmured as he pushed aside the door flap and set her on her feet. Temporarily blinded by the dimness inside, he could only guess that her gasp signaled the loss of some of her clothing. The image brought a wide smile to his face. “Until later, sweet Ceylon.”
* * * *
“You left me with him on purpose!”
Calisto smiled smugly. “Of course, I did.” She sighed dramatically as she pressed a hand to her breast. “Have you ever seen a face like that in your life?”
“I was almost naked!” Ceylon nearly shouted, using temper to mask the reason for her flushed skin. Her heart was still beating far too fast, and no wonder. The moment she’d lain eyes on the man she thought it might stop. With close cropped curls of gold fleece and eyes the blue of deepest flame, of course the man had been handsome. Too handsome. Likely he knew it.
“He seemed to like it.” Calisto broke into peals of laughter at Ceylon’s expression of shock.
“Be still! It isn’t funny.”
Calisto collapsed against the wall and leered. “I couldn’t quite see ... was that a diamond winking in his ear?”
Ceylon crossed her arms and looked out the window, determined to ignore her. She knew exactly what Calisto was up to.
Sly now, Calisto added, “And such broad shoulders! He carried you up here—wearing full armor, mind you—and wasn’t even winded.”
“I’m not that big.”
“Nor is he quite as tall as some knights, but that should be more comfortable for you when he kisses you.”
“What!” Ceylon’s body steamed at the very idea. The man had been the embodiment of her every midnight fantasy. Only masking her reaction with temper had saved her from drooling on the poor soul. “Don’t be foolish, Calisto. He’s a knight; probably has an exalted opinion of himself and a bad case of the pox. If he comes to me at all it will likely be for a cure.”
Calisto choked.
“Don’t laugh. You’d be surprised how many handsome men stick their wicket everywhere and then come to me for a cure when it starts itching.”
Calisto’s eyes bugged. “Like who?”
Ceylon crossed her arms and looked smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Just do me a favor and consult me before you choose a husband, would you? It might save you a great deal of grief.”
Poxed or not, Ceylon’s knight was in the great hall that evening as Ceylon made her way to the table. He stood by the fire, outlined by its flames. There was nothing warlike about the blue tunic and pants he wore, but with a man like that it didn’t matter. His very stance told you who he was.
Lady Tennyson’s daughter Annette stood at his side, a trifle too close. Her breathy laughter carried all the way across the hall.
Eville was there, too.
“Healer Ceylon.” Lady Tennyson greeted her warmly enough, though she looked a little less than pleased by Ceylon’s improved appearance. Perhaps because her daughter was still unattached and flirting madly with her handsome guest? “Your dress is very lovely, my dear.”
“A birthday gift from Calisto the Seamstress.” Ceylon leaned slightly forward and confided, “She feared I might wear my boots to the table if she didn’t prevent it.”
“She might have been right.” Eville appeared at his mother’s side, a drink in hand. Judging by his red eyes, it was not his first. Clad all in scarlet, his favorite color, he looked Ceylon over boldly and with even less restraint than usual. The expression leached all the beauty out of a face that had none to spare. “I wonder how the queen will take our little Ceylon?”
Ceylon frowned at him, uncertain what the queen had to do with her.
“Oh, so you haven’t heard?” Eville’s crooked teeth flashed in a nasty smile. “Baron Uric here has stopped here on his quest to find a noble bride. The queen told him to fetch you to her while he’s at it.” The smile became a sneer as he visually raked her up and down. “Seems the queen is in need of a witch to brew her sisters beauty potions.” His gaze on the approaching Uric, he continued in mock dismay, “What a pity that the queen’s command is law. I was looking forward to retaining your exclusive, personal services, sweet Ceylon.”
The ladies gasped. Lady Annette’s hand flew to her mouth as she began to titter.
Ceylon felt the blood drain out of her face. Shock at the queen’s command was bad enough. She was not a beauty consultant, blast it! What was with these spoiled women? Even now Lady Tennyson said nothing to chide her son for his outrageous insult. Even worse, by the chilling of their expressions, the strangers—she now noticed that there were two, Uric and another man she vaguely remembered from that afternoon—didn’t know whether to believe his insinuation or not.
She looked at the blond knight and a mental gong sounded. Uric! She went rigid, all of her silly fantasies of him instantly burned to ashes. Uric the Berserker? The man who was rumored to have traveled a thousand days in search of a bride to please his beastly mother? The mother that was said to have shaved one maiden bald when she refused to clean her chamber? That Uric?
She wanted to hide. How could she have been so stupid? Of course he would be looking for a bride, a woman far above Ceylon’s station. Some blue-blooded lady with more hair than brains. The most he would ever offer a woman like Ceylon was the position of mistress, a station she would rather die than have.
Into the brittle moment of silence, Ceylon heard herself say with detached calm, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Sir Eville. I’m quite certain that another healer will have the herbs to cure your particular affliction. Have the sores burst yet?”
Eville puffed up and turned red. Before he could say a word Sir Uric stepped forward, effectively blocking Eville’s path of retaliation. “Healer Ceylon.” He gave her a slight bow, his eyes never leaving hers. The appreciation that had been there earlier had been replaced by cool readiness. Ceylon had the feeling that half his attention was on his back, in case Eville should attack. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
Ceylon’s jaw locked. She could just imagine what Eville had been telling him. By now he probably thought her the biggest slut ever birthed. “Have you?”
Instead of elaborating he continued as if by rote, “The queen is very eager to make your acquaintance. She promises to make the journey worth your while.”
“Winter is coming, my lord,” she said icily, her anger at Eville coming out in her tone. “And I despise being cold. Even the gift of an entire castle would not entice me outdoors in such weather.”
His eyes narrowed. “You would refuse the queen’s command?”
Ceylon looked away, sorely tempted, knowing she had no choice. It was several tense moments before she could unlock her jaw enough to say, “No.”
The single, tight word broke some of the tension in hall. “Shall we?” Lady Tennyson said with a weak smile. “It seems that dinner is ready.”
Since Lord Tennyson was away at the moment, Eville took his place at the head of the table, leaving Ceylon seated between his two brothers.
Uric was stuck between Lady Tennyson and her coquettish daughter.
“Tell me about life at court, my lord.” Annette placed her hand lightly on his arm and stared deep into his eyes. “I want to know all about it.”
Beautiful, Uric thought, already regretting his journey here. Another one of them. He was growing tired of women who could think of nothing but wearing silks and jewels and being presented to the queen. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself first?” he asked with a hopeful smile. It was the right question, for she immediately launched into a discussion of herself, freeing him to subtly watch the healer.
Eville had filled his ears with a great many things about her, most of them centering on her prowess in bed and general bitchiness when she didn’t get her way. Although Uric had his doubts that the obnoxious stripling had ever touched her, he couldn’t help but wonder. It wasn’t an uncommon arrangement, and both times he’d seen her she had been in foul mood. What did he know about the girl, anyway?
Pity, he thought as he watched her over the rim of his goblet. She was a pretty thing, and there was a straightness to her spine he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Suddenly Ceylon’s eyes widened. Clearly outraged, she shot a swift look downward. Her hand disappeared beneath the table and her shoulder jerked. The young man next to her—Boyd, Uric thought—smirked over her head to the brother on her opposite side.
Uric’s eyes narrowed as Ceylon stabbed a piece of chicken and chewed viciously. He had a good idea of the brother’s game and didn’t like it. No matter what she had or hadn’t done with their brother, the girl clearly didn’t enjoy being pawed.
Ceylon stiffened again, and this time her fork disappeared underneath the table. The fat man on her other side, Amherst, gave a sudden squawk.
“Are you all right, Amherst?” his mother called.
He gave her a tight smile. “Perfectly. Just had a piece of chicken go down wrong.” As soon as his mother looked away he gave Ceylon a killing glare.
All was quiet for a moment until Ceylon’s eyes skewed around to fix the weasel-faced Boyd with a poisonous scowl.
“Quite the weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Boyd asked innocently.
Ceylon gave him a fierce smile and dumped her wine in his lap.
He howled and jumped up, his chair falling to the floor behind him. “Witch!”
Uric didn’t wait for Boyd to draw back his fist. He was up and over the table with Ceylon thrust behind him before it could fall. Roland was at his side bare moments later. “Hold, Boyd! She’s under the queen’s protection.”
Boyd kicked aside his chair. “I don’t care if God himself has sainted her! I’ll have her hide!” he charged.
He found himself with his arm twisted around his back and Uric’s knife at his throat. “Then maybe you’ll care about this?” Uric asked as he calmly pressed the razors edge into Boyd’s neck. A bright bead of red slowly trickled from the slight cut.
Nobody moved.
Uric waited a moment more, then released him. What he really wanted to do was finish what he’d started, but no man deserved to die just for being obnoxious.
Boyd stepped back, rubbing his throat. His expression was mutinous, but he didn’t dare attack Uric again.
Uric gave Lady Tennyson a slight nod, ignoring her offspring. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady. Dinner was excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just escort my charge back to her house before she causes any more trouble.” He turned and took the healer’s arm in a firm grasp, not surprised to find her stiff and unresponsive. It didn’t slow him down as he half-dragged her from the hall.
“I can walk,” she told him coldly the minute they were out of the banquet hall.
“Then do so.” He released her, ignoring her as best he could while making certain she kept up. In that she gave him no trouble. She seemed as eager to leave that place as he was.
“What’s wrong?” A scrawny youth with wild black hair and a scruffy beard jumped up from a bench in the entryway as they approached. He handed Ceylon a cloak and eyed the tall warriors beside her with suspicion. “Do you need assistance, Ceylon?”
“Not from you, pup,” Roland said, barely giving him a glance as he opened one of the massive double doors.
Ceylon ignored him and gave the suspicious boy a tight smile. “Thank you for waiting, Raven. Of course I’d like you to walk back with me.”
Roland blocked Raven from following her. “No, Crow, she wouldn’t.”
Ceylon stopped and gave Uric a frosty look. “Are you forbidding me to bring my servants with me now?”
Uric considered the scruffy lad. If this ragged urchin was her servant than she didn’t pay very well. “He’s yours then? Very well. Let him come, Roland.”
Raven eyed the intimidating Roland like a young wolf as he moved to Ceylon’s side. Instead of moving, Roland stood his ground, forcing the young man to walk around him as he turned his head to keep Raven in his sights.
“And Calisto wants to know why I never married,” Ceylon muttered as she extracted her gloves from the pocket of her cloak.
“Let me help you with that.” Raven hurried to take the cloak from her and settled it around her shoulders.
Surprised, she blinked at him until she remembered that it was the sort of thing a servant would do for his mistress. “Er, thank you.” She caught Uric looking at her oddly and averted her eyes, hurrying out into the storm. Soonest braved, soonest over.
Few people walked the dark streets in the chill. Occasionally a bundled person would hurry by the wattle and daub houses, only to disappear behind a door with a slam at the soonest opportunity. Frozen mud made for an uneven walking surface, and the tiny frozen puddles that had collected in the prints crunched under her shoes, wetting her feet. “I knew I should have worn my boots,” she muttered.
“Wear them tomorrow,” Uric suggested. “You’ll be traveling by coach, but it pays to dress warm.”
“Coach?” Raven said suspiciously.
Ceylon waved a silencing hand at him. “I need at least two days to settle my affairs here. If I’m not going to be back until spring I need to find a caretaker for my house and pack my things. Day after tomorrow is the best I can do.”
“Fine.” Uric stopped at her door. “In the meantime, I’ll have some of my men keep an eye on your house. I didn’t like the look on Boyd’s face tonight.”
About to protest, Ceylon shut her mouth. The man had a valid point. “Fine. Raven, there’s a plum tart in the house if you’re hungry. Just take the whole thing home. Widow Godfrey made me two of them.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Ceylon waited until Raven found the pie and came back outside. The candle Raven had lit illuminated her unsmiling face as she nodded to the men. “Goodnight.” She shut her door, leaving them out in the cold.
So much for hospitality.
Chapter 2
Uric walked away from the healer’s house shaking his head. “That has to be one of the strangest woman I’ve ever met. She dresses like a lady, yet talks about wearing boots. Her servant wears rags, yet she feeds him like a king. Eville swears she’s his mistress--”
“Yet she defends her honor with dinnerware,” Roland finished. They’d reached the stables, and he strode inside, ordering the boy who watched over their horses to dispatch two of their men to him at once. He watched the boy leave, then crossed his arms and leaned against a post. “Eville might be lying.”
“He’s the kind.” Uric propped on boot on a bench. “Maybe we should do some sleuthing before we leave. I’d like to know what kind of woman I’m traveling with.”
Roland’s grin was sly. “You want her to be a virtuous maiden.”
Uric spread his fingers, palm up. “What’s the alternative? That she gives it away for the occasional coin? I’ll spend the entire journey fighting to keep her from impregnating herself before she’s presented to the queen.”
“Hm.” Roland stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew a coin, walking it through his fingers. “My gold says she’s never gone near Eville’s bed. How about yours?”
“Only oafs bet on a lady’s virtue.”
“Speaking of which, if we’re leaving in two days I guess that means that we’ll not be having a wedding first?”
Uric frowned at him.
“The fair Annette? The woman you came to see? Were you planning to offer for her before we leave, or was this another wasted trip?”
Uric looked aside as two of their soldiers entered the stables. “We had to come for the witch, anyway.” He sent his men to go guard the healer’s house.
Roland’s eyes narrowed on the back of Uric’s head. He was getting bloody tired of tramping around the countryside just so Uric could reject bride after bride. Uric swore it didn’t matter, but Roland thought Uric was holding out for love.
Who could blame him? He certainly wouldn’t care for a woman who worshipped his looks, title and money and cared nothing for his heart. Still, at this rate both of them would be bent and gray before Uric’s choosy heart decided on a match.
Very well, Roland decided. It was time he took a more active hand in this romance business. He’d be home by spring, toasting his feet by his fire and drinking ale even if he had to sink to playing matchmaker to do it.
Cupid was about to shoot straight for Uric’s heart, even if he had to stab him in the back to do it.
* * * *
“Healer Ceylon? Are you daft?” The sooty blacksmith wrinkled his brow and spat on the ground. The heat from the forge warmed all but the drafty floor of his work shed. Little bits of daylight shown around the door. “That girl wouldn’t cozy up to Eville if he offered her the castle itself. Never could stand him, what with their history.”
Roland polished an apple on his doublet and Uric tried not to look too interested. “What history?”
The blacksmith looked both ways, then crooked his finger.
They obligingly leaned forward.
“It’s rumored he’s her half-brother, and a cruel one at that. Used to delight in tormenting her. Even held her down once and smeared dung in her face.”
Roland and Uric exchanged glances.
Anticipating their next question, the blacksmith went on, “No one knows if the squire or Lord Tennyson fathered her, but the entire village knew that Ceylon’s mother was bedding his lordship. Wasn’t even subtle about it. Used to flaunt the gifts he gave her, right under the squire’s nose. There were those who called the squire a coward for doing nothing about it, but never to his face. No one dared, ‘cause he was a mean fighter. But he loved little Ceylon, kept her happy with books after her mother died.”
“Does Eville know who Ceylon might be?” Uric was sickened by the thought.
The blacksmith abruptly turned away and picked up his hammer. “If he knows, he don’t care.” The grim set to his face announced his feelings on that.
Much enlightened, and very disturbed, the men left his shed.
“It seems you’ll be doing the woman a favor by taking her out of here.” Roland squinted at the gloomy sky. “Can’t imagine why she hasn’t left already.”
“Her friends are here. It’s not that easy for a woman alone to give up everything she knows to go to a strange place.”
Roland smiled. “Ah, but she’s not alone anymore, is she?”
Uric sent him a sharp glance. “Don’t be matchmaking, Roland. I don’t need your help.”
“Who said I was planning to help you?” Roland raised his brows and swaggered away.
As the meaning behind his words sank in, Uric hurried to catch up. “Wait a minute! Since when do you want her?”
Roland batted playfully at an awning. “What do you care? I won’t get her pregnant.”
Uric’s brows snapped together. Something ugly stirred in his chest. “That’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“A woman like that will demand marriage.”
“So? With a little taming I think she’ll make a fine wife. Cuddly, too,” Roland added as an afterthought.
“I didn’t see her fawning over you last night,” Uric snapped.
“I wasn’t at my best. I’ll have to put forth greater effort.” Roland surveyed the merchant’s shops. “I wonder what sort of gift she might fancy?” He started to veer toward a jeweler’s sign.
Uric grabbed his arm and corrected his course. “Don’t be an ass! If you start bringing her gifts already she’ll think you’re trying to buy her favors.” On second thought maybe he shouldn’t have warned him. A quick rejection would get the idea out of Roland’s head.
Roland eyed him. “You’re probably right,” he said slowly. “I suppose we should see about supplying our journey.”
All the tension drained out of Uric. Maybe Roland was coming to his senses after all. He clapped him on the back. Hard. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said in an hour.”
Roland just smiled.
* * * *
Now that she was actually moving, Ceylon had overcome the initial resistance and was efficiently settling her affairs. The rector’s daughter, a spinster of long standing, had agreed to watch over the house. Actually, she was delighted.
“You can’t imagine how glad I am to spend some time away from my mother and father,” she confided to Ceylon as she helped her pack her books. “And don’t worry about your patrons; you know I’ve always had a penchant for physics. With that copy of your book and what I know about herbs I think we’ll get on just fine.”
Ceylon sent her a grateful smile as she sorted out a few packets of essential herbs and medicines for her travel kit. “Thank you, Ermine. I’m very grateful that you could help on such short notice. It really eases my mind.”
Ermine flipped her hand, dismissive. “Don’t you worry about a thing. We’re all so proud of you! Why, it’s not everyone who gets a summons from the queen herself.”
Ceylon gave her a weak smile. Yes, lucky her. Instead of staying inside her cozy cottage like everyone else, she got to ride straight into the teeth of winter with a berserker and his barbarian friend. O joyous day.
She was still in the middle of packing when visitors knocked on the door.
“I just heard,” gasped the balding carpenter. Apparently the news had so alarmed him that he’d come at a run. “No one can believe it, least of all me.” Her took her hand looked imploringly into her eyes. “Surely you weren’t planning on leaving without giving me an answer to my marriage proposal?”
She glanced helplessly to the side, but of course no one was there to lend a hand. Uric’s guards, stationed at either side of the door, listened with unabashed interest.
“I’m not sure this is the time,” she began, but stopped in frustration when her swain sighed mournfully. Obviously her attempts to let him down easy hadn’t gotten through. Very well then. Time for bluntness. “Oleander, I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“But--”
“I’m truly sorry.” Loath to prolong the spectacle any longer, Ceylon shut the door in his face. She hadn’t gotten two steps from the panel when another knock sounded. With a groan, she turned back.
The tailor’s wife, Natty, had brought her new woolen socks. “I know you must be frightfully busy, but I just couldn’t forget all you did for our little Timmy,” she said as she pressed the parcel into Ceylon’s hands. God bless you, miss.”
The door had barely closed behind her when another caller showed up at the door. This time it was a villager with a feverish baby, and there was no question of not helping.
Temporarily giving up all ideas of packing, Ceylon prepared herself for a very long day.
By ten after two o’clock Ceylon simply had to get out the house. One more caller would be one too many. Tossing a cloak over her shoulders and pulling on her warmest gloves, she sneaked out the back way for a brisk walk.
A light snow was falling. Flakes the size of bonbons fell along the shingled roofs and rough-hewn sills, gilding the world with a dusting of finest sugar. Only the constant traffic in the streets prevented the snow from concealing the frozen mud; where every foot had fallen a brown track had been left behind.
She hadn’t gone far when the sound of trumpets announced the return of Lord Tennyson and his company. Ceylon cleared the street with the others and stood at the side of the street while his party rode through.
“He’s back from another pilgrimage,” she heard one man say.
Another man hawked and spat. “Aye. He’s become quite the holy man, our lord.”
Ceylon snorted softly. Yes, their lord had become quite the spiritual wayfarer after Ceylon’s mother had died. Guilt could do that to a man.
She cast her eyes downward as she always did and waited for Tennyson to ride by.
This time his gelding’s dappled legs moved into view and stopped.
“Ceylon,” Lord Tennyson said quietly. He waited until she was forced to look at him.
Ceylon dragged in a sharp breath, every muscle rigid with rebellion. It had been a year since she had seen his long, light brown hair and neat trimmed, pointed beard. At least twelve months since she had been forced to acknowledge the strawberry-sized red mark at his crown, just revealed by the receding hairline. Sick heat flashed in her cheeks and roiled in her stomach. A year wasn’t nearly long enough.
“My lord,” she managed through her rusted jaw.
Green eyes such as neither of her parents had possessed studied her solemnly. “I’ve heard the queen has sent for you.”
Ceylon jerked her head in a short nod.
His hands worked on the reins. “I’m pleased she has acknowledged your skill. You’re certain to bring Marksheath honor in her service.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Ceylon looked through him.
He hesitated a moment more, then nodded. He spurred his horse and his party moved on.
Slightly ill and miserably aware of the staring crowd, Ceylon pulled her hood closer about her face and hurried home.
Her head ached.
Nor did it feel any better the next day after wrestling with the sheets all night. It didn’t help matters that Raven was determined to follow her to Queenstown.
“I’m your bodyguard,” he insisted, tossing his feed sack full of belongings on the table. Dawn had not yet come and the room was still lit by the fire and oil lamp. “You need me.”
Loath to contradict him, she bit her tongue and tried to think of a way to reason with him. “It’s cold. You have no horse, so you’ll have to ride in the carriage. It’s bound to be boring--”
“Hardly,” he was quick to assure her. “You’re going to visit the queen! You’ll be traveling with real knights.” He said no more, but his gaze desperately held hers.
Ceylon shut her eyes. Of course. The knights. Raven’s dream. “You can come,” she said, massaging the bridge of her nose.
Jubilant, Raven swept her up in a crushing hug. “You’ll never regret it, Ceylon!” He gave her a fierce grin.
“Yes, yes.” She disentangled herself, feeling to see that nothing was broken. “Just try to remember that when your feet are numb and your nose has frozen off.” She wasn’t nearly as enthused with him as he was with her. To her mind he was just one more responsibility, for she’d worry about him the whole way. How was she supposed to look after a boy that was old enough to begin shaving when she’d never been a mother? She eyed him, looking for clues, and found them in his bedraggled appearance. “Well, come on then.” She headed up the stairs. “I’ve got some old things of my father’s in the attic. Bound to be small on you, but they’re in good condition and I can modify some of them on the way.”
Small was an understatement. Ceylon hadn’t realized how tall Raven was until she saw his wrists sticking out of her father’s coat a good three inches. She stared at the high water pants in equal dismay. Those barely went past his calves. “I can do something about the shirts, but we’ll simply have to buy more pants.” And boots, she added silently. The shoes he had on had cracked and were close to falling apart.
He shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t buy them just yet.”
She waved a hand. “Call it an advance on your wages, but we’d better hurry if we’re going to buy you anything. It’s almost dawn, and they’re sure to be annoyed at the delay.”
Sure enough, Uric was already at her door, about to knock when she opened it. A carriage and his men waited behind him. He smiled. “Glad to see you’re ready.”
“Not quite.” Ceylon tipped her head at Raven. “My servant will be coming with us, and I need a few minutes to buy him some warmer clothes. It was a last minute decision,” she added when he scowled.
Uric looked heavenward in irritation. “Make it quick, then. We have some hard riding to do.” He looked at two of his men. “Get her bags and put them in the coach.”
Ceylon gave him a grateful bow of her head and strode off, glad that she wore long underwear under her pants. Today was no day to be fashion conscious.
“Wouldn’t you like to ride?” he called after her, leading his horse.
“I’ll be riding all day,” she threw over her shoulder. “Besides, it’s only a few doors down.”
Lights were on in the shoemaker’s house, though doubtless he wasn’t expecting business so early. “Boots, you say?” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles to peer at Raven’s feet. “For him?”
“If you have them. We’re rather in a hurry.” Ceylon pushed her way through the door, pulling off her gloves as she went. “I’ll pay in coin, of course.”
But when it came time to pay Uric handed the old man a coin. He looked at Ceylon, whose hand was still in her pocket. “The queen is paying your expenses now.”
He was just as fast to pay the tailor, who fortunately had a few things made up and ready to sell. This time Uric bade Ceylon to wait in the coach to save time. Bare moments later he sent the beaming Raven out with an armful of clothes. Nodding to the coachman, Uric mounted his own horse and they headed out.
“What’s all this?” Ceylon asked in surprise as Raven staggered into the coach with an armload of clothes. Amazed at his generosity, and a little alarmed—surely the queen hadn’t meant for him to be that generous—she watched Raven spread his loot out on the floor.
Raven grinned and held up a garment. “I know! I couldn’t believe--” he noticed what it was he held and flushed. Seconds later the smallclothes disappeared behind his back.
Ceylon looked down, grinning.
More subdued, Raven held up a fine linen shirt. “Look at this! He got me three! And a doublet, and a tunic, hose, pants....” He showed her each item in turn with the enthusiasm of a small child. “He barely even looked, just checked for fit and tossed it on the pile. Didn’t even blink when he heard the price, either.” There was awe in his voice.
“I think he bought the entire shop.”
Ceylon let out a breath and bit her lip. Raven was too occupied with his new clothes to notice.
She stroked the furs that covered the coach seat, taking in the rough texture of black bear. There were more and softer fur covers folded on the floor, as well as a blue and yellow velvet quilt. Orange and red brocade cushions, complete with gold cording, sat on each side of the seats. An unlit lantern hung from the ceiling, and hot bricks warmed her feet. A basket of edibles had even been placed inside, ready for her pleasure.
All this for a mere healer?
Her unease only increased when spied the neatly wrapped package under Raven’s seat. It was done up in brown paper and tied with a string. The large tag had her name on it.
Raven helped her drag it out. “What is it?”
Ceylon gulped as the paper fell away. It was a blue velvet cloak lined with fur.
Really worried now, she laid the cloak aside and opened the window. The first thing she saw was Roland. “Er, Sir Roland?”
“Yes, mistress Ceylon?”
“Have you seen the princesses?”
He frowned. “Yes.”
“And are they....” There was no way to put it delicately. “Just how ugly are they?”
His brows rose.
She sent a wild look inside the carriage, alarmed anew by the richness of her surroundings. “I can’t do miracles, you know.”
Roland stared at her for a moment with the strangest expression, then threw back his head and laughed.
Uric dropped back to see what was so funny. In spite of the chill, his head was bare, and he barely seemed to notice the wind ruffling his fine curls. “Is there a problem?”
Ceylon bit her lip and glanced behind her again. “Is all of this on loan then?” The idea relieved her. “That is, I know the coach is, and of course everything in it, but the cloak and Raven’s clothes ... will we have to return them?”
Uric exchanged a glance with Roland, his eyes twinkling. “I doubt the queen will want to wear Raven’s clothes.”
Ceylon flushed. “You know what I mean!”
He shrugged, still in good humor. “What is one cloak and few clothes? Of course you may keep them.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek and ducked back inside. It worried her that she knew as little about the job at hand as she had before. Still, how ugly could the women be? Even worse, what would the queen do to her if she failed to make them more attractive? Callion was said to have an even temper, but she had also placed more than one charlatan in the stocks for daring to try his arts on her sisters.
She stuck her head back out, interrupting Uric and Roland’s conversation. “I want you to witness that I never claimed to be able to help the princesses,” she said forcefully. “I’ve never made any claims at all.” When they stared at her with twin expressions of incredulity, she added, “It might keep me out of the stocks if you would remind the queen of this if I fail.”
Uric looked nonplused. “She’ll hardly send you to the stocks, Ceylon.”
She swallowed hard. “Just in case, pray remember.”
Roland squinted and scratched the side of his head when she ducked away again. “Do you think she’s been sipping away at one too many of her own potions?”
Uric only shook his head, equally mystified. Who knew what went on in the mind of a woman?
They stopped to rest the horses at noon. Ceylon had been dozing in the carriage, but was quick to take advantage of the stop for a jaunt into the woods. On her way back she noticed Raven returning from a similar errand and decided that she may as well use the time to begin breaking in her new “servant”. It only took a moment to retrieve her crossbow from the coach.
She selected a tree and moved a little away from the others. “Raven, come here!” She handed him a woven coil target the size of saucer. “Hang this on that tree, would you?”
Raven frowned at the huge oak just on the edge of their clearing. “All right.”
When he returned she handed him the crossbow. “You once said you wanted to learn how to use these. Now’s a good time to teach you.”
Faint color came into his cheeks as he darted a glance at their escort, who were watching them with idle interest. “I know how to use one,” he informed her a touch scornfully.
Her brow rose at his tone. The boy had better watch it or she’d let him walk to Queenstown. “Show me.” As expected, her frosty stare took some of the starch out of him.
Lips compressed, he fired at the target. And had to jog out to retrieve the red-flagged quarrel. He returned it sheepishly.
Ceylon accepted it and the weapon sent a quarrel into the target’s heart. She raised her brows in cool expectation. “Now will you pay attention?”
Raven scowled and darted a glance toward men. “I can’t let a woman teach me such things.”
That annoyed her. She’d just about had enough of fragile male pride for the morning. “Then don’t tell anyone,” she retorted. “Besides, no one will care as long as you can shoot the eye out of a lizard. Get on with it.” She handed him the bow and gestured for him to walk closer to the target.
“Who taught you to shoot?” Uric handed her a mug of hot soup and sipped his own as they watched Raven run after his quarrel.
She accepted the mug with a nod of thanks and curled her chilly fingers around it, inhaling the savory steam. “My father felt a woman of my size would be hopeless with a heavy sword, so he trained me to use a crossbow and hunt. He didn’t want me to starve if anything ever happened to him.” She was silent a moment. “He knew I would never marry.”
“Why not?”
Ceylon frowned at him from the corner of her eye. “My face, of course.”
“It looks well enough to me.”
“Now. Get your arm up, Raven. Use the sights—don’t just guess at your target.”
Uric fingered his ragged ear. The tip had been sheared off in battle. “I know how you feel. I often think that this is the reason I have such a hard time finding a bride.”
“Don’t be silly, “ she snapped. What a stupid comparison. “Who would notice it?”
His lips turned into a sly smile.
Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re doing. But my face was ten times more marked than yours will ever be. They called me--” her mouth snapped shut as she realized what she’d been about to say.
“Dung face?” he asked softly.
She flinched.
“They were fools.” He placed his crooked finger under her chin and gently lifted. “I wouldn’t have let my friends treat a girl so poorly.”
She pulled her face away. “Come, Raven. It’s time to go.”
Ceylon spent the rest of the day playing at travel chess with Raven. The board was specially made with pieces that fit over pegs on the board to prevent jostling. Raven was terrible, but he was learning.
The windows were too fogged up to see out, but occasionally Ceylon rubbed the glass with her fist and peered out at the white world. Mostly there were trees shrouded in ice. Occasionally they passed a snow covered field, but there were far more trees in this stretch of road than anything else. Even the undisturbed snow on the underbrush showed how little this route was used by man.
Then there were the ruts. Ceylon winced as another one jolted her bones. By the time they entered a village of log houses and pulled into the yard of the town’s only inn, Ceylon was more than eager to get out. She looked askance at the faded paint on the wooden sign. “The Quaking Robin?”
A boy of eleven or twelve ran up to them with a slightly older girl at his heals. “Yes, miss! Named for honor of our grandmother. Da says a minute with that old blabbermouth and you’d be quaking like a robin.” He leaned closer confidentially. “Ma’s got her tongue.”
His sister slapped his shoulder, jostling the gap-tooth grin from his face. “Hold yours, John-Wesley! You know better than to bother the guests with stupid chatter.”
Her plain, pimpled face smiled up at Ceylon, an unusual occurrence. She really was a tiny thing. “Welcome, miss! Are you to stay the night? Just tell me how many and I’ll run straight away to prepare the rooms.”
Ceylon glanced at Roland, who had appeared by her side, for direction.
He smiled at her. “Go on inside and warm up. I’ll handle this.”
She nodded and mounted the steps, admiring the spruce burrow logs that held up the porch roof. It was the first time she’d ever seen a log dwelling, much less one of this size. It even had two wings. The window looking in on the common room was glass, but the others were only oiled paper.
Clean wooden planks thumped under their feet as Ceylon and Raven filed in the door, making certain to wipe their feet on the rush mat. That is, Ceylon remembered and made certain to prompt Raven. The orderly atmosphere of the place rather demanded it. In spite of the antlers and hunting trophies hung about the walls, the place held the definite stamp of womanly care. Candles and arrangements of dried flowers graced the mantel and even the tables. Wreaths decorated the walls and bouquets of dried herbs as well as neat rows of braided onions and chilies hung from the rafters. And from the mouthwatering aromas coming from the fireside the innkeeper’s wife certainly knew how to use them.
“This is quite a place,” Ceylon told the stocky woman who was tending the fire. “I’ve never seen houses built of log before.”
“Nor will you.” The homely woman punctuated her comments with significant jabs of her long wooden spoon. “We make real houses here, not those straw and mud things they make over the border.” She plunked the spoon back in the pot and eyed Ceylon with frank curiosity. “And where are you from, miss?”
Ceylon grimaced a bit. “From over the border.”
The lady patted her shoulder. “Well, don’t you fret about it, miss. Kate will feed you right and proper just the same.”
“Er, thank you.” Ceylon allowed herself to be pressed down on a bench as Kate fetched a mug and dipped it into one kettle.
“Spiced cider? I make the best in town. I’ve also bread from the morning’s baking, a kettle full of barley soup, simmered chicken and a lovely roast, nice and juicy.” She winked at Ceylon. “I’ve been expecting your party back this way, though I worried some about the roads.”
In seconds the cider and a mugs soup were set before her and Raven. Without being asked the girl from the inn yard also appeared with a tray holding two golden crusted loaves and a pair of fat pies. She deposited them on the table and then hurried off. Moments later she reappeared with a stack of plates, mugs and cutlery. The mugs she took to the tap and filled to the brim with frothy ale, returning just as Uric and Roland strolled in.
Uric smiled at the proprietress. “Fast service as always, I see, Mistress Kate.”
Roland raised his nose, took a deep breath and sighed with satisfaction. “And tasty cooking, no less.” He winked at Kate. “For a penny I’d run off with you.”
Kate waved her spoon at him. “Now none of that, you rogue. Sit down and eat your supper, and none of your teasing.”
Roland affected a glum air as he took the bench across from Ceylon. “She doesn’t respect me at all, love. What should we do with her?”
Ceylon shook her head at him and raised her mug. “Why ask me? You’re the ‘rogue’ here.”
He gave her a rakish smile. “So nice of you to notice.”
“Pay him no mind,” Uric advised between bites. “He’s just angling for a warm bed so he doesn’t have to share a room with Raven.”
“With Raven?” Ceylon looked between the scowling Raven and annoyed Roland. It didn’t seem like a good arrangement.
Uric grinned over his mug. “There were only two rooms with big beds left and one with bunks. I won the coin toss.”
Roland looked downright mean at that bit of news. To keep the peace, Ceylon offered, “Since they’re bunks, I could give him my room and share the one with--”
“No!” Raven recoiled in horror. “You’re a girl!”
“Out of the question,” Roland announced sternly.
“You’ll stay where you are.” Uric’s stare brooked no refusal.
Ceylon drew back, surprised at their vehemence. “I was only--”
Mistress Kate clucked her tongue as she refilled mugs. “Where were you raised, miss? Surely you know better than that.” When angry color rose in Ceylon’s cheeks, she added more kindly, “Your men are just protecting your reputation, love. Anyone can see it. No need to get nettled.” She sniffed at Uric. “Though if you ask me, my lord, you’ll do better to hire a respectable companion for her if you want to do the job proper. It’s not fitting--”
Ceylon rose, so insulted she nearly choked on it. How dare they assume that they had to watch her at all times lest she straddle the first man she saw! And then to suggest that she needed a full time keeper ... “I do not need a companion! I’m perfectly able to see to my own honor, madam.”
Uric watched her stalk off, completely baffled and a little angry. What did she have to be annoyed about?
Kate clucked her tongue. “That one’s been too long without a guiding hand, I think. Too used to doing what she pleases, and never mind the gossip.” She shook a finger at Uric. “You’ll not let her go on and get herself in trouble, will you? She seems a nice girl, if a bit green.”
“Don’t worry, Mistress Kate. I promised the queen I’d deliver her in good condition. She’s in good hands.” His dark gaze went to the stairwell. And if she doesn’t watch herself these hands may flip her over my knee and deliver the spanking her father never gave her.
* * * *
“Mmm....”
Ceylon’s eyes opened.
“Oh ... yes,” someone moaned in a breathy whisper.
Ceylon’s eyes rolled upward, crossing in the dark as she tried to see the wall behind her without having to disturb her warm covers. The sounds were coming from there.
“Oh, yes! Do it! Just like that.”
Jaw locked, Ceylon tried to bury her head under her pillow, but the sounds just got louder from what she hazily thought was Uric’s room.
The wall began to vibrate as the bedstead on the other side rocked.
That’s it! Ceylon tossed the pillow off and sat bolt upright. What Uric did was his business, but not when it disturbed her sleep.
She pounded on the wall with her fist. “Shut up back there!”
There was a short pause, a giggle, then a man called, “You can join us if you like.” More snickers and a feminine squeal. The pounding began again.
Thoroughly irked, Ceylon tossed off her covers and pulled a robe over her head. She was already wearing socks, but tucked a woolen pair into her pocket, unwilling to wait while she put them on. It didn’t sound like they were going to stop anytime soon, and the noise was only getting worse. Making certain to slam her door on the way out, she trotted down the short hall and negotiated the stairs by the faint glow coming from the common room.
Uric was there, nursing a drink. One blond brow rose when he saw her, and he stood politely. “They started about ten minutes ago,” he said sardonically. “I’m surprised you slept this long. My room’s on the other side of them.”
Ceylon sat down, rolling her eyes as her head sank onto her folded arms. “Blasted inconsiderate of them. Surely the deed can be accomplished with less noise.” She yawned.
Unseen, a dimple popped into Uric’s cheek. He couldn’t resist the chance to tease her. “You wouldn’t know?”
She raised her head and glared at him under her lashes. “You’re as bad as he is, inviting me to join them.”
That remark made him scowl, but only for a moment. “Trust me, Ceylon-sweet, if I invited you to my bed, neither one of us would have energy left for anyone else.” He winked. “It’s probably Roland, seducing a widow so he wouldn’t have to share a room with Raven.” He doubted it, for Roland would never be so rude, but if it put him in the healer’s bad graces for few hours it was well done. “Likely he’s drunk and won’t remember come morning.”
There came a put-upon sigh. She put her head back in her arms.
He let her rest a moment before he said, “Ceylon?”
“Why are you calling me that?”
He ignored her question. “I’m sorry if you were offended earlier. None of us think you have light morals.”
She groaned and propped her head on one hand. “I know. Ignore me. I just get moody now and then.” Her sleepy gaze moved over his face with languid interest. “So were you born beautiful or were you one of those lanky youths with spots on his face and puppy scruff?”
A crack of laughter caught him by surprise. “What?
Eyes half-closed, she stifled a jaw popping yawn. “You heard.”
His snort ruffled the surface of his beer. “You’re something when you’re half-asleep, Ceylon-sweet.”
A soft snore was her only comment.
* * * *
“What?” Roland demanded over breakfast. “You’ve been glaring at me since you came down.”
Uric hid his grin behind his mug as Ceylon, as he thought of her, flicked a bit of lint from her sleeve. She didn’t look the worse the wear for being carried upstairs last night and tucked in bed.
The memory made his smile grow. She’d snuggled down in his arms like a kitten, without waking, and made a soft protest in the back of her throat when he withdrew the warmth of his arms.
It was a wonder he hadn’t joined her. He’d been tempted.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your activities quieter in the future. Some of us might be trying to sleep.” She stabbed a sausage link, held his gaze, and deliberately sliced it.
Roland flinched. “What activities? The only thing I did last night was sleep.”
Unconvinced, she measured the bewilderment in his expression and then considered Uric. Without taking her gaze from him, she asked, “So you weren’t banging the wall with the widow next door?”
Roland choked, and Uric snorted beer out his nose.
“What widow?” Raven demanded as Uric alternated between laughter and coughing. “I wish he had! The man snores like a team of colicky horses.”
That earned him a glare from Roland. “Watch yourself, cub.”
Before Raven could provoke him further, Ceylon demanded, “Then who--” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the couple walking down the stairs. The others turned to see what she was looking at. The entire table froze in disbelief. Could that be the lusty pair?
The wizened, short man with an enormous beak came just to his woman’s gargantuan bosom. He wore farmer brown, and the top of his scalp hadn’t seen hair in a very long time. He leered up at the woman, exposing the gaping holes that once held teeth, and squeezed her bottom.
Madam Twin Peaks squealed and smacked coyly at his hand. Her thin lashes batted as she rolled her substantial shoulder his way, and her smile lifted the large, hairy mole at the corner of her mouth. Her left eye twitched.
Roland drew back as they brushed by on their way to the door.
The fat lady winked at him.
Raven coughed. Uric snorted. Moments latter the entire table had erupted in hearty laughter, all of it directed at Roland.
Even Roland had to grin. “I’ll never be that desperate for a bed.”
It was easy for Ceylon to forget her concerns while laughing with her escort, but once on the road again they came back in force.
“Describe the princesses to me,” she asked Uric when they stopped. “What exactly is wrong with them?”
He ticked the problems off on his gloved fingers. “Too fat. Warted. Spots the size of boils.” He grimaced. “Two of them are as bony as their sister is large. You won’t have an easy time of it.”
There was silence as she pondered his words. “Yet the queen expects her sisters to become beautiful. That’s why she sent for me.”
Uric kicked at the fire. “I doubt she expects anything. They’ve had dozens of ‘experts’ up to the castle, and none of them have helped. It’s probably the princess’ pleading that made her send for you.”
Ceylon’s shoulders slumped. “Yet she sent for me, and I’ve no desire to be lumped in with the rest of the failures. I can cure the skin afflictions, and if the princesses will work with me, I can do something with their bodies, but I can’t make a woman beautiful who isn’t.”
“If you can do all of that, the queen won’t care. She’ll reward you handsomely simply for taking away the warts. She’s very fair,” he encouraged when Ceylon merely scowled. “She knows you made no claims.”
Ceylon climbed into the carriage, sending him a dark look just before he shut the door. “I despise doing things half-way.”
Raven slouched against the cushions, staring at the fogged windows. “I hate riding in this box. A man rides a horse.”
Since there was no reason to point out that neither of them could afford such a thing, Ceylon said lightly, “Perhaps I will buy one with the queen’s reward.”
That lightened the cloud on his face, and he was quiet for some time, likely dreaming of a war-horse.
A patch of skin on her face itched, and Ceylon scratched it, still pondering her problems. The dry air was causing her skin to flake and redden, but a bit of her heavy face cream would soothe it. The only difficulty was that she then had to use powder to keep her skin from shining like a beacon, and it tended to leach all of the color out of her face. Short of applying cosmetics like the ladies of her acquaintance there was no remedy for it, and she had never learned to use them....
She drew in a quick breath. Cosmetics! That was the other half of the formula. True, she’d seen them overdone, but surely there were woman skilled in the subtle use of them. Such a woman could accomplish what she could not, if she could just find her.
Ceylon started searching that very evening, in an unpromising little hamlet called Two Dog town.
It didn’t begin well.
“Would you know if there is a woman here who is skilled in the use of cosmetics?” she asked the scrawny innkeeper.
The man screwed up his dirty face and spit on the sawdust floor. “Only whores use face-paint,” he said, and went about his business, leaving her scowling at his back.
“Why?” Uric wanted to know. “You don’t need any.”
A little embarrassed by his compliment, she glued her eyes on her tankard to avoid looking at him. She shouldn’t have. The thing was filthy. An unidentified crusty food remnant fell off the rim and into the ale when she flicked a nail over it. “No, but the princesses might. Does the queen use cosmetics?”
“All of the woman at court do, but it would take more than face paint to hide bumpy skin.” He lifted his flagon and inspected it critically. “Not that it hasn’t been tried. Innkeeper!” He caught the crabby man by his shirttail and dragged him back when he would have walked by.
Uric’s eyes narrowed. “I paid good coin for this, and expect clean mugs. Have your boy wash them, and don’t try to pawn your watered ale on us again.”
The innkeeper shrank back and gestured for his ragged serving lad to collect the mugs.
Uric signaled Raven with a tilt of his head to follow the boy and supervise.
The innkeeper puffed up, but an ice blue stare from Uric deflated much of his steam. His complaint came out a whine. “I’m not used to serving such fine guests, my lord. That lot don’t care what they get so long as there’s a lot of it.” He nodded to the filthy group of patrons crowded into the rest of the tavern. Sure enough, they were stuffing their faces without sign of complaint.
“They have their standards. I have mine.”
His cold tone sent the innkeeper bowing and backing away. “Yes, my lord.”
Ceylon couldn’t help her shiver of fascination. This was a side of Uric she hadn’t seen. He didn’t even have to raise his voice to make someone quiver. Was a man born with that kind of authority, or was it something one learned?
He noticed her sideways glance. “What?”
“Is that sort of thing handed out with the title or is it something all generals do?”
“I’m not a general.” Amusement and a darker irony lurked in his tone.
“Admiral, then.” She smiled, enjoying her teasing.
“I hate to disappoint you, lass, but I’ve never been to sea.” A smile lurked at in his eyes as he leaned back and accepted a new mug of ale from the innkeeper’s boy. He slipped the lad a coin, which quickly disappeared.
A new expression, sensual and frankly appreciative, came into his eyes as his gaze traveled over her. “Though at the moment I’m wishing I were a pirate.”
Fire lit her insides and flooded her cheeks, and Ceylon blessed the smoky, murky light as she looked away, pretending great interest in the loud laughter at the next table. He’d fooled her with his impersonal gallantry these last days, this queen’s warrior. She should have known better, should have expected something more fiery lurked beneath. Wasn’t he the queen’s champion? Her leashed berserker? Men grew quiet at his name, and woman shivered. He was a legend. Who was she to tease him as if they were equals?
Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to quail before him like a spineless serf.
Since Raven had just returned, she tried to use him to lighten the conversation that was rapidly growing deeper than she could handle. “I’m not worried. The ever gallant Raven will protect me.”
Her comment fell like lead into an invisible pool. Raven’s look told her he didn’t enjoy being put on the spot.
Uric’s said she was a fool is she thought a boy could stop him if chose to have her.
Their food’s arrival saved her. Determined to avoid anymore verbal games, she bent her head and pretended great interest her dark, heavy bread.
The sour rye didn’t hold nearly as much interest for Uric as the woman choking it down. What a funny, arousing combination of daring and maidenly reserve. She’d pricked his annoyance with her nervous reaction to his taking authority over the innkeeper—so like the many maidens he’d brought home—and he’d baited her in retaliation. It had been a delightful surprise when she’d rose to the occasion before bolting down her proverbial hole. With a little training she could be a delightful sparring partner.
Among other things.
“Bread not to your taste?” Roland inquired of Uric in his native language. “Or do you crave something sweeter?”
Uric’s mouth curved wickedly. “Honey,” he murmured in the same lilting tongue.
Roland smiled.
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