| |
6 The Duke of York
The Duke’s keep was neither small nor quiet. The gates were open and unguarded, and the courtyard milled with various peasantry and men-at-arms. A small boy came to take the horses. The Bishop led them directly into the main hall, where numerous people loitered, coming and going freely and merrily. Suri kept pace three steps behind Joseph and the Bishop, but they were short steps. She gazed about in awe and wonder at the mix of souls gathered here. Some had the dim, lifeless centers of fellow vampires, as the Bishop had termed it, bright only with their passions and emotions. Others had the bright pulsations of life and coursing blood. Some were darker than others, some had stains upon them.
“The audience hall is just ahead,” the Bishop said, guiding them through the throng and looking back to make certain they had not lost Sorieya. Joseph only nodded his response, himself taken aback by pageantry he had not seen since the court of the Lionheart.
Suddenly, a cold wind blew in through the open doors, snuffing all light, and there was a scream from across the room and a few cries of alarm. A moment passed as servants hurried to relight torches. Then there were screams in earnest. More than a few ladies fainted. A man shouted, a cry that filled Suri’s heart with agony to hear. A space near the oak doors that led to the audience chamber cleared. Suri was pressed back against the wall, against other people, both breathing and otherwise, but she saw. Three men stood before the open oak doors. One of them clearly a prince, though he was sober and not extravagant in his dress. His bearing and the gold band on his forehead alone spoke his station. The two flanking him were obviously men of arms, in matching livery, their hands on the hilts of their swords as they placed themselves to protect the prince. At his feet lay a woman, in costly fabric, on her face, a half crushed rose a few inches from her outstretched hand. The man who had shouted knelt over her, his hand covered in her blood and his face twisted by rage and agony.
The man looked up into the Duke’s face and roared, “Why?!”
Behind her, Suri heard someone whisper, “He was told that we do not intermarry with her kind. He was warned.”
She looked more closely at the couple across the room. The man was pale, the flickering of rage and anguish rippling through him like a tidal flow, but he was vampire. The woman had been most certainly mortal.
The man again accused the Duke, demanding a reason. The Duke remained calm, reasonably consoling. “Ben Crofter, I assure you, I had nothing to do with this.”
“Liar! You warned me that this might happen! Why else but that you knew it would?!” he shouted.
Someone bent to examine the body whilst the husband and the Duke argued. Suddenly, a large man, golden haired and broad, grabbed him. He picked the man up by the wrist and held him off the floor easily. Dangling in his hand was a large violet stone on a golden chain. The man sheepishly grinned, chuckling. “It fell off. I didn’t want it to get lost.”
The golden man said nothing. He took the jewel from the man’s grip and threw him aside, tenderly pressed it into the husband’s hand.
Ben only nodded a mute thanks, distracted from his quarrel. It seemed that the bright jewel had hit a cord of intense sorrow in him, leaving him incapable of farther speech.
The Bishop crossed quickly to the fallen woman, began attending to priestly duties and the appeasement of her soul. Joseph followed quickly at his heel, ready to offer whatever assistance might be necessary. Suri suddenly felt lost amid the press, found herself being shuffled farther and farther back as she tried to avoid physical contact. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic, until she spied an alcove and ducked into it, tried to remain unobtrusive and out of the way.
The Bishop completed his rites, looked up. “Will someone please help me carry Lady Locksby to the church?”
Joseph bent immediately to the task, gathering her in his strong arms easily. The golden man moved to help, but a word from the Duke held him back.
“Nay, Agravaine. I have need of you here.” He then raised his voice. “I will have this murderer brought to justice. I will have no blood shed in my hall!” With that, he turned and reentered the audience hall, several men in tow.
The crowd began to disperse, mingling in smaller groups, less tightly packed, to gossip and speculate. Sorieya felt very out of place, keenly aware that her garb marked her clearly as alien here. She kept to the fringes, out of the way, eyes respectfully lowered whenever anyone came too near, and bowed out of their path.
Agravaine heard it first, the faint jingling of eastern bells. He had heard them not an hour ago in the church, now he knew them for what they were. He had not heard their like since Acre and Tyre. The sound was muted, but distinct to his keen ears. He saw her, a flash of white amidst the shadows by the wall. He watched her a long moment, lost and frightened. Whenever anyone drifted too near, she shrank farther away, seemed intent upon melding with the stone walls. Her garb alone marked her an outsider. Though he had seen the style of clothing before, loose and all-concealing, he had never seen a woman wear it in white. That marked her special, even to his untrained eye. Her eyes, constantly downcast, flitted from one place to another, furtive and distressed.
Suri became aware of someone approaching. It was odd the way she felt his presence descending upon her. It was like an aura of calm exuding from him, much like the angel had given off in her dream. So when he stood before her she was not frightened, even when she raised her eyes to what should have been his heart and saw only hard belly. He was dressed simply, a plain under tunic of monk’s linen, dark hose and a white tabard bearing a crusader’s cross. It was the tip of this cross, emblazoned upon the broad, muscular chest that Suri found herself eye to eye with. She dared not look up into his eyes to read his soul, but there was something about him that told her without looking that he was not only vampire, but old as well.
His large hands gestured at eye level, tried to get her to look up at him. She politely shook her head, the coins at her brow jingling softly. She bowed, touched her forehead in deference and moved away, farther against the walls. Agravaine watched her go, confused and frustrated. He had wanted to speak with her, but if she would not look him in the face, it was impossible. He heard his name being called, and, sighing, turned to answer.
Sorieya was wishing fervently she could just melt away long before Joseph returned. She drifted on the fringes, thinking about the dead woman and praying there was something she could do to help, to console the husband or find the killer before someone singled her out to pin the blame on her. The man’s pain was tangible, lay heavy in the air near the site of the crime. She kept out of the way of the scullery who was on hands and knees scrubbing the blood from the tiled floor. She wandered near the corner under one of the torch sconces and turned beside a large Roman amphora to face the scullery’s back. Whoever killed the woman would have been near here, watched from here, and returned here quickly. She was not certain a normal man could have moved so swiftly and returned undetected by his fellows. There was something here, in the corner, a sense of oppression, of evil intent that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She leaned back against the ancient jar, trying to control the flooding emotions.
She looked around her. No one seemed to be paying her any mind. She ducked between the amphora and the corner, appearing to hide behind there. She could see the scene easily enough, and the emotions were stronger here, though they were fading quickly. She did not understand why she could feel the emotions of others like a tangible curtain, smell them as if they had the substance of a well seasoned meal or a meadow of wild grass and flowers. She simply accepted it, and tried to sort it out before the scent faded.
Something cold struck her bare foot. She turned, looking, and saw the hilt of a jeweled dagger tossed haphazardly behind the amphora’s slightly tapering belly. She bent, picked the weapon up. The moment her bare hand touched the hilt she staggered, her sight obscured and her mind filled with visions of a man, a good man, and a murder. She could almost feel the blood oozing over her body, plunged deep in the hot flesh of the woman’s back. She fell, faint, into the firm arms of a man. Part of her shawl slipped, just enough to cover the still bloody dagger clutched in her hand. She looked up into Joseph’s panicked face and smiled weakly.
He laid her on the floor, partly cradled in his arms. She reached over, before another crowd began to gather and pressed the hilt into his hand. “Hide it,” she whispered. “And take me to the Duke.”
Confused, but knowing better by now than to question, Joseph obeyed and helped her to her feet. Once the dagger was out of her hand, her head cleared quickly, and she followed him to the, now guarded, oak doors. Joseph rounded on one of the sentries. “Tell the Duke that a Templar is here to speak with him.”
The man nodded and disappeared within the chamber. He returned shortly. “You may enter, but be warned, he is not in his most generous of moods, sir knight. State your business quickly and be done.” He stood aside, opening the doors for him. Suri followed obediently.
The chamber was smaller than the outer one, darker and slightly more richly appointed. The Duke sat on a dais at the head of the room, flanked by two large men-at-arms speaking to the golden giant. The Duke gestured and the man bowed, and moved away from the dais. He passed Joseph and the girl on his way out, nodded to them as he went. Joseph looked up at him, a spark of recognition struck him as the face passed.
Before he could react to his realization, he was being gestured to the dais. As he considered it most impolite to keep royalty waiting, he crossed the room. Before the dais, Joseph went to one knee, bowed his head. Beside him, Sorieya bent at the waist, and remained so, staring at the floor.
The Duke’s voice was tired but kind. “What can I do for you, Templar, my lady?”
Joseph cleared his throat. “I am Joseph… Templar, a… one of the blood.” The Duke sat forward. “I have returned from the crusades in Spain. I have been released from my duties for the time being and I am offering my services to you, until such time as I am called back by the church.”
The Duke shifted in his chair. “Lord knows I could use the help.” He looked more closely at Joseph. “You are the knight who helped with the body of Lady Locksby, are you not?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I thank you for your help.”
“It was only my Christian duty.”
“Would you consider another duty for me?”
“As I have said, my Duke. I am at your service for the time being.”
“Very good. My first knight stands waiting outside. There is an investigation that must be conducted and I fear he cannot make inquiries as he has no voice.”
“Forgive me, sire, but… you chose a mute as your first knight?”
“Considering the knight, yes, I did. You met him on the way in.” Joseph bowed his head. “I thought you recognized him. I need you to do what you can to find out who killed Ben’s new wife.”
He nodded. “As you command, sire.”
“Very well, you are dismissed. Take this ring as your token of my authority.” He gestured to one of the guards who took the jewel from him and brought the ring to Joseph.
“Thank you, sire. But before I go, there is something else.”
The Duke sat back. “Oh?” he asked with arched brow. “Has it to do with the young lady who has not moved a breath since you entered?”
“Yes, sire.” He stood, took Suri’s hand and straightened her, led her to the dais steps. “This is Sorieya. She is a Muslim holy woman I rescued in Spain. For private reasons which she will tell you if it is her wish, she is now a slave and my gift to you. She is incapable of lying and has.…” Here Joseph paused, no longer clear as to her abilities. He turned to her, took her hand again and bade her go ahead of him and explain.
She bowed deeply before the Duke, touching her heart and her forehead as she bowed. “I have the ability to look into men’s souls and read what lies there. I also… have discovered that strong emotions and physical connection leaves its impression upon places and objects. All of which God has granted me the vision to read and understand. As long as I remain chaste, I keep my gift.” She held her hand out to Joseph. He looked at her confused for a second, then passed her the dagger. She presented it to the Duke on open palms. “I believe this is yours, dueno?”
The dagger was passed to the Duke who stared at it, dumbfounded, seeing the blood upon it. He looked at her, tried to look her in the eye, but she held them downcast. “Look at me, my lady.”
She straightened, obeyed. “Forgive me, sire, but I am no lady. I am only Suri, your slave if you will accept me. It is my penance and I beg you to respect that.”
He gazed into her tigery eyes, finding a deep respect for her. “As you wish, Suri. Where did you find this?”
“Behind the vase outside the doors to this chamber.” She held out her hands to him. “May I, dueno?”
He frowned a moment, then guessed at what she wanted and held out his hands to her. She stepped forward and took his larger, handsome hands in her soft, delicate ones, looking him dead in the eye. “Answer me honestly, Master, and forgive my impertinence in asking. Did you kill the woman who died tonight.”
He answered without blinking and without a waver in his aura. “No. I had nothing to do with the death of Ben’s wife.”
She released him, bowed deeply. “Thank you, dueno. That is all I needed to know. I will serve you to the best of my God given ability, until my penance is done and God calls me to be free.”
“What is it you have discovered, my dear?”
“That this is indeed your dagger and it was not in your hands tonight. Someone else removed the blade from your quarters this evening, probably before you rose, and with it, killed the woman, hoping to lay the blame upon you.”
“How are you certain?”
“I saw it when I picked it up.”
He sat up, leaning towards her, intent. “Did you see the man’s face? Can you identify him?”
She bowed deeper, “Forgive me, dueno, but I cannot. I know he was there, and that other hands than you and I have touched the blade, no more. He… he must have worn gloves. That is the only explanation. One other thing I have deduced. He has to be a vampire.”
He looked to either side of him, at his guards. “Have you not been told, my dear, that the penalty for revealing our nature before mortals is rather stiff?”
“I have, dueno. But I have not broken that tenant.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and how so?”
She turned to the man on the left of the Duke. “That man is one of the blood. And his companion is mortal, but touched by the blood.” She bowed again. “Have I passed your testing, Master?” Behind her, Joseph smiled proudly.
The Duke laughed. “Aye, that you have, my girl. That you have. Come, stand behind me. I will that you gaze upon all within my presence and whisper to me the truth of their words.” She immediately mounted the steps and took her place beside him. “And, Suri, do not call me Master. There are some that will… take offense to it, myself included. Dueno is fine.” He smiled at her. “I, too, have spent some time in the holy land, and in Iberia.”
“If I may ask one question, dueno?”
“You may ask any question you feel the need to ask. I also wish for you to tell me immediately what you see or sense, even if it means interrupting, just… be discrete.”
She bowed. “Thank you, Dueno. It is a great honor which you do a humble slave. Will I be allowed to keep with my customs?”
“So long as they do not interfere with your service to me.” She bowed and faded behind him.
“Shall I have her things brought in, sire?” asked the waiting Templar.
“Yes. I will instruct a servant where to put them. Meanwhile, Joseph, I have set for you a task. Please attend to it.”
“Yes, sire.” Joseph bowed and rose, turned to leave.
The oak doors opened from within and Agravaine turned his attention from the lady trying to maintain it, to the young Templar crossing, sheepishly, to him. He and the lady turned to await the dark haired young man, Agravaine with his arms crossed over his barrel chest.
Joseph approached him, fully aware of what he had unwittingly said about the man but moments ago and shamed by the thought. He held his hand out to the large knight, held in awe in spite of what he knew. The man’s physical presence was daunting, and Joseph was not used to being intimidated by any man. Not only had he heard stories about this man at Acre, but he had the fortune to have witnessed, albeit from a distance, the man’s work. He tried not to flinch when the man took his hand in an iron grip.
“I am Joseph. You must be Sir Agravaine.”
The giant shook his head, mouthed “Just Agravaine.” What little was emitted from his throat was half growl, half grunt.
So, Joseph thought, the rumors that the Saracens had taken the giant’s throat were true. Though how he had survived was no longer a mystery. “I also served with King Richard in the Holy Land,” he offered inanely. “We never met, but… I’ve seen you about the camp. Knowing what I do now explains a lot.”
Agravaine withdrew his hand, shrugged. The lady fluttered a fan in front of her face, smiling as Agravaine drew Joseph’s attention to her. She stepped up immediately, offering her hand to Joseph. “I am Lady Tremaine,” she all but purred.
She was a deceptive woman, Lady Tremaine, cold and beautiful. She was the Duke’s cousin, and friendly to a fault, ingratiating almost. Her pale hair was faintly red in the right light, and drawn back beneath her nearly invisible head veil in a flattering cascade of curls. Her eyes were a seductive green, and half lidded at the moment as she focused them on Joseph. Relieved at having the lady distracted from him, Agravaine bowed and made a discrete exit.
“So tell me, Sir Templar,” she began, taking Joseph’s arm and began to lead him off to a cozy nook, “just who was that poor little woman dressed like a leper that you took in to see my Darling cousin?”
Joseph allowed her to lead him off to a bench just out of the way, sat her down gallantly, briefly explained. “She is a not a leper, my lady. She is a Muslim nun, a woman gifted with ability to see things that were and that are not yet.”
“Oh, I see. A soothsayer,” she purred, fanning herself thoughtfully.
“Aye, my lady. Now, if you will kindly forgive me. I have been asked to have her things brought in.”
“She is staying?”
Joseph sighed as he straightened. “Aye, my lady. She belongs to your cousin now.”
She considered the information carefully, contemplated him. “You… you do not seem… happy about these arrangements.”
“Nay. But I have no choice but to deal with the matter.” With that, Joseph bowed and took his leave of her. She watched him go, still deep in thought.
Suri stepped to the side of the chair, bowed deeply, “If I may allowed…” she paused deliberately, indicating she wished to say something else.
He reached out, tilted her chin up to look at him. His hand was soft and tender, young and not much accustomed to the sword. He hesitated suddenly, drawing back. “I … am permitted to touch you, am I not?”
“Of course, noble one. I belong to you. Only those to whom you grant that privilege may do so. The rules of conduct for a woman of honor and the rules of conduct for a lowly slave girl vastly differ. I am yours to command.”
“Good. Then my first command is that you look me at least, in the eye when we speak.” He held up his hand to stifle any protest. “I know it is not considered polite or proper by your people, but it frustrates me. And I like your eyes. I have never seen anything like them.” He shook his head slightly when his mind began to drift as he gazed into the flashing dark and gold depths. “And you are free to ask or tell me anything you consider important enough to voice. I value your thoughts and opinion.”
She smiled beneath her veil. “You are a very rare man, oh royal one, who values the thoughts of a woman who is not his mother.”
He shrugged. “Since my… ascension to the blood, I have learned to value individuals with regards to their personal merits, and not just by their sex or nationality. I have known some fairly devious women. Besides, I have been told you are holy woman, and you can see things I cannot. How can I claim to be a wise man and not value that?”
She bowed again. He thought a moment, watching her bow. “Let me see your face.”
She straightened, reached up, lowering the hood and scarves covering her midnight hair, and took down the veil. He breathed deeply, out of habit rather than need, caught a faint whiff of an exotic fragrance about her.
“Would you prefer that I stop wearing it, dueno?”
“Maybe…” he began, returning to his senses, “maybe you’d better keep it on. Less temptation on the part of my soldiers and frequent guests.”
She rose, she rearranged herself, and took her place once more behind his chair to await his will. He looked back. “You had a question, Suri?”
She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I have forgotten it.”
The Duke laughed.
The guards let Agravaine pass without question and he paused just inside the doors for a brief second to allow his eyes to adjust before striding easily across the flagstone floor. It was then that he saw her, standing almost regally behind and a little to the side of the straight-backed chair from which the Duke held his court. It was a place of trust and honor, an advisor’s position. The change in her manner was visible. No longer was she the lost and frightened wisp he had tried to speak with earlier, now she was confident of her place, though still respectful. She bowed slightly as he approached, her tigery eyes downcast only for a second before they met his and seemed to peer beyond them into his soul.
It was the tall knight again, the one who cast an angel’s aura. His face was bearded, his skin tan for one of the blood, his hair a shower of gold about his shoulders. His eyes were the cold blue of glacier ice, but there was a hidden warmth behind them, held in check deep below the surface. Were it not for the Maltese cross upon his cote, she could have easily taken him for a Viking warrior, straight from the histories she remembered. His humble manner as he bowed before the Duke almost seemed ridiculously out of place. She read of him what was necessary and respectfully lowered her eyes.
When he straightened, she had looked down again, a habit he was beginning to remember was customary for her people, but only served to fuel his frustration. He handed forth a rolled piece of paper and stepped back, waited for the Duke to speak.
He unrolled and read the paper, which Suri could see was in a meticulous hand, though the words were incomprehensible. After a moment, he rolled it back up and sighed. “You win, sirrah. You win. Though I hate to admit it, you are right.”
The giant seemed to visibly relax, touched his heart with his open palm and swept it outward as he bowed.
The Duke called for a servant, and turned to Suri. “I… My first Knight here, does not really think it wise for me to see anyone else this evening, in light of events. So I will not be requiring your services just now. I will have someone take you to the quarters you will occupy and let you get yourself settled. Get aquainted with the general outlay of the keep, that way you can take quick refuge if dawn comes upon you too quickly. Later I will have you brought to my chambers and we can discuss the matter further.”
She bowed deeply, “As you desire, dueno.
The summoned servant emerged from the shadows, paused just out of range. He called the servant forth and issued his orders, telling the maid where to escort his new seer. The maid bowed and softly asked Suri to follow her.
Agravaine watched the girl as she left, the tinkling of hidden bells on her person seeping into his brain to awaken strange thoughts and memories. There was something so familiar about her, the way she moved, sounded, smelled, yet he knew that it was impossible. He found it baffling, and so, turned his attentions to protecting his Duke.
Suri was taken by a rather indirect route to a small room on the second floor. She was told that this way, while longer than the more direct route, was safer for the women servants, as the other path led past the barracks. “Sometimes, when they drink, they forget themselves,” she said quietly.
She took Suri into the room and lit a small rushlight. “It ain’t much, but it backs the kitchen chimney, so you won’t miss a fire.”
The room was close, having no windows, but Suri guessed it was for her own protection. The staleness of air here could be overlooked by one with no real need to breathe. The girl left quietly as Suri set about making the room comfortable. The chamber was barely six feet square, and warmth came from the far wall, presumably from the kitchen chimney, as the girl had said. She shook out the thin pallet, inspecting it for vermin. It never ceased to amaze her the filth that the English, indeed, most Europeans, were content to live in. It seemed that they were willing to sacrifice their health for a paranoid sense of security. Either that, or they had no clue that filth bred disease. She decided that it was just as well she was already dead, if she was to live under these conditions.
She was standing in the middle of the room trying to determine which way was East when the door opened again and a brawny soldier entered with her chest. She stepped out of his way, pointed where she would like it placed. The girl returned with a tray upon which was a pitcher, a cup, and a chunk of bread and disappeared before Suri could thank her. As the man set the chest on the floor and pushed it against the wall, she went over to the small table and looked into the pitcher. She sighed, moved away from the table and its single stool.
The man watched her drift to the chest, looked back at the pitcher thirstily. “If’n you ain’t in’trested in the wine, do you mind if’n I have some? Haulin’ that chest o’ yours from the stable weren’t no light work.”
“Please,” she said, gesturing for him to help himself. “Take it. I am forbidden to drink wine.”
He shrugged, filled the cup. “Your loss.” He drank deeply, draining it in short order and pouring a second.
Suri gave her chest a quick once over, to make certain everything was there and intact. She turned to the soldier. “How would I go about acquiring a basin of water?”
He shrugged, “Down in the kitchen I suppose.” He stared down into the cup, frowning.
“Is there something wrong, Seńor?” She watched the color in his face darken.
“Nothing I guess.” He set the cup down and left the room, closing the door behind him. Suri noticed that there was a latch on the inside of the door. It did not strike her as a strong deterrent should someone decide to force their way into the room, but it was better, she supposed, than nothing at all. She fingered the stones edging her lapidary box, thinking. She had never before considered locking her doors, never had a need for it, and now… now it might be very necessary.
She sighed, laying out her prayer rug and, facing east, bowed to her “mid-day” prayers. She was interrupted by a scream outside her door. She ran to the door, throwing it open, only to find her path obstructed by the body of a soldier lying face down not two steps from her. A few feet away stood a lady who looked very close to fainting. Moving more quickly than she ever thought herself capable, Suri leapt over the body and caught the woman before she could fall. Other soldiers arrived, and Suri pointed to the body.
She gasped as they turned him over, pronouncing him dead. It was the man who had brought her chest and drank her wine. As the woman came to, she looked down at Suri, gave a cry of fright and disgust and pulled out of her grasp, spouting off in Norman French words Suri was certain were insults. She kept her peace, bowed formally to the woman and moved to the side of the men examining the body.
“Any sign of injury?” she asked softly.
They shook their heads. She sighed, retreated into her room. She picked up the tray with the wine vessel and the cup, the bread untouched and returned to the hall. She turned to one of the guards. “Please, take me to the Duke. It is imperative that I see him immediately.”
Two men began removing the dead man. One of them looked at her with a sneer. “What makes you think the Duke’ll see you just because you say so?”
Suri bowed to him. “Forgive my forwardness, honorable Seńor, but if you have doubts, by all means, comfort yourself by asking him. Tell him that his Moorish slave girl has something to tell him.”
The man looked hard at her. One of the other guards nudged him. “You might as well, Sergeant. He has to be told about the death anyway. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
The man nodded and left. As the remaining man was watching her keenly, the thoughts obvious in his head, Suri turned her back to the wall and knelt. She set the tray neatly in front of her and folded her hands demurely in her lap as she waited, perfectly still. The lady, still hovering nearby, jumped, screeching again as something sped along the edge of the wall in the shadows, just inches from her full skirts. Suri looked up, saw a cat chasing a large rat, and pounce. The lady insisted on leaving, claiming a sudden need for air and demanded an escort. Suri ignored her as the lady was led off, getting up in one silent, fluid motion, not a coin or a bell jingling on her person.
She walked slowly up to the cat, holding the rat firmly in her orange paws, delighting in watching it squirm. The cat looked up at her as Suri approached and bent, blinked at her. She reached out and freed the rat from the cat’s paws, much to the cat’s displeasure. The tabby flicked her tail and stalked off, sniffing out other prey. Suri held the rat carefully and tightly, ignoring its feeble attempts to bite her. She looked around a moment, then went back into her small room.
From the open doorway, the soldier watched her kneel before the open chest. She opened her lapidary box and placed the rat into it and closed the lid quickly, latching it. There was just enough room for the beast to shift itself, hopelessly mixing her tiles together. This she carried to the tray on the floor, shifted the objects on the tray and set it carefully where it would balance the weight.
The first guard returned, slightly out of breath. Apparently he had run the whole way. He bowed to Suri, spoke almost formally. “His Excellency said you were to be brought immediately, Holy Lady.”
Beneath her veil, she smiled. It had been masterfully executed. The words, no doubt placed in his mouth by the Duke, had been calculated to remove any thought from their superstitious minds of using the master’s property for their own pleasures. She picked up the tray and stood, fell into place three paces behind him.
She was taken to a different part of the keep. Here the halls were well lit and lined with cross shaped arrow slits that permitted only sliver glimpses of star-lined sky and the chill of the winter night to permeate the corridor. There were many guards here, a few stationed at doors, others patrolling up and down the hallways. Her escort stopped before one of these guarded doors and opened it for her, closing it behind her.
Suri found herself in the Duke’s private chambers, a room well suited to a younger prince. The appointments were rich, but not extravagant, and very comfortable. The bed took up almost an entire wall and was heavily curtained. The Duke himself was lounging in a fur covered chair before the fire, sipping thoughtfully from a goblet. Suri’s nose instantly told her what was in that cup. She crossed the room to where he sat, her feet making no sound on the thick rugs, though the bells at her ankle and hips announced her softly.
The Duke smiled into the fire as she knelt before him, setting the tray in front of her and touching her forehead to the carpet. “Now I know why your people tend to place such lovely ornaments upon your slaves. They can never sneak up on you.”
“Dueno,” she said, her forehead still pressed to the carpet, her palms flat on either side of her face. “I have important revelations.”
He sighed, drained his chalice and set it aside, looking down at what she had brought. “Suri, there was no need to bring me refreshment, I have.…” He stopped, listened. The sound came again, barely heard over the crackling of the fire, but loud enough to his keen vampire ears. “What is in the box?”
She sat back on her heels, looked him in the eye. What he saw there sent a chill down his back. “My lapidary… and a rat.”
“Lapidary?” She gestured to the cover of the box, which glinted like jewels in the firelight. “Oh. And the rat?”
Her hand trembled as she picked up the pitcher, poured some of the wine into the cup. She then tore off a small bit of the bread and set it aside on the tray. Only then did she open the box lid, quickly grabbing the creature before it could escape. Holding it firm in one hand, she picked up the piece of bread with her other, dipping it into the wine and offering it to the squirming animal. It sniffed a moment, then began to lap at the wine-soaked bread, then eating it with relish. The Duke watched thoughtful and curious as she dipped and fed the rodent another piece. She then set the creature on the floor between her hands and let it go.
It started to move away, sniffed the air and drifted back to the bread on the tray. Before it reached it, the rat began to twitch, seemed to choke, like a cat on its own fur. Then it fell over, dead. Suri looked up at the Duke and waited patiently.
He bent down, picked up the wine and sniffed deeply, took an experimental sip. He swished it across his tongue for a moment before spitting it out into the fire. The flames leapt for a moment, then settled back down as he refilled his chalice from a bottle on the table beside him. He drank deeply, trying to cleanse his mouth.
“Poison,” he said. “This is, I take it, what killed the soldier tonight?” She nodded solemnly. “How came you by it, and to know it the cause?” he asked, leaning back in his chair to stare into the fire as he listened.
“It was given to me tonight. A maid brought it with the bread to my chamber as the man brought my chest. When I disdained it, being forbidden to drink wine even if my present state negates the need for such things, the guard drank it.” She shook her head slowly, lowering it. “He did not make it but a few feet past the door. A lady coming along the corridor found him and screamed. When it was discovered there were no marks upon him, I knew what to suspect.”
“What I don’t understand, is why would someone have sent you food of this kind?” he frowned.
“Someone who did not know my condition and who feels threatened by my presence.”
“But who would be threatened by a slave?” he muttered, turned to stare into her eyes. The firelight danced across their gold surface, light and dark at once, hypnotic.
“Someone who has something they do not wish to be discovered.”
His own deep brown eyes widened. “Can you read the pitcher? Find out who put the poison in?”
She shook her head, bowed again, “Forgive me, noble master, but I cannot. The object is a common one, used by many. The maid touched it, the guard touched it. Too many hands confuse the vision. The maid, I know, at least, did not do it. Else I would have known beforehand, when I checked its contents. As for who put the poison in, one does not have to touch the vessel to do that.”
He sank back in his chair, hit the arm of it with his fist in frustration. Suri lowered her head, staring demurely down at her hands to wait. Suddenly he shouted for the guards, muttering under his breath as he did so. “Not in my own house!” he growled.
The guards burst through the door, armed and ready for battle, looked around for the trouble, saw only Sorieya kneeling at his feet and snapped to attention. “Send someone at once for my first knight!”
“Yes, sire!” They closed the door quietly behind them, leaving as quickly as they had come.
He stared down at her, furious, though not with her. “What I do not understand is why do they frame me? Why not just kill me and be done with it, if I am in someone’s way?”
“Perhaps they are relying on your system of justice and law to deal with the matter they do not feel strong enough to accomplish. I would speculate that a mortal would assume you mortal enough to poison or assassinate in a normal manner. But one of the blood would know you to be too strong to be that easily removed, and thus seek other avenues.”
“You think this a machination of one of the blood? Of our own kind?”
“I see no other way. Though at the moment, I could be very wrong.”
He nodded, went to take another sip from his goblet and stared at it with a frown, as if suddenly realizing his manners. “Have you fed this evening?”
She lowered her eyes. “No, dueno. Joseph and I had no time or opportunity. We have had only a single buck between us in the last three days.”
“A buck?” he repeated, curling his lip. “Few of us would be satisfied with animal blood.”
She shrugged. “When one has few options, one takes what God sends. I had not had the opportunity to ask you how you wished me to… attend to those needs.”
He refilled his cup, handed it to her. “Here. I have a cellar full.”
She bowed, thanking him as she took the chalice in both hands, bringing it up beneath her veil.
“I have it collected after executions and bottled. Discretely, of course. The Bishop makes certain the blood of the dead is sent to me after the preparations are done.”
She stopped, the cup to her lips, drew it back. “This… this is criminal blood?”
He shrugged, “Most of it.”
She handed it back to him, her head bowed. “Forgive me, noble dueno, though you are more generous than a lowly slave deserves, I cannot, for your own safety, accept.”
He took the goblet back, drinking himself. “Curious choice of words from a new-born.”
“I… I lose control. I… fed from an evil man once. I attacked Joseph, or so he said. I… became like the monster what we are is portrayed to be. I need innocent blood, or at least indifferent.”
He mulled the thought over. “I think… I may have a few that would qualify. I have them marked in my own codes, those that are criminal and those that are not. I, myself, prefer the flavor of the guilty.”
There was a brief knock on the door and then it opened, and the tall Nordic knight strode in alone, the hilt of a very long sword appearing just over his right shoulder.
“Agravaine, my most loyal,” exclaimed the Duke. “Come in, please. Take a cup with me.”
Agravaine nodded, and crossed the room in just a few strides. He had seen the girl upon entering the room, kneeling at the Duke’s feet. It had been a very different vision of her than in the audience chamber. Yet another facet of this foreign creature with jewels for eyes. He accepted the chalice offered to him, drank. Looking down at the floor, he noticed the pitcher and the cup and the uneaten bread, and the dead rat in the midst of it all. He frowned, inclined his head towards the rat as he turned to the Duke, questioning.
The Duke swallowed, set his cup down. “This is Suri, an Islamic holy woman, enslaved and brought to me from Spain. It is very important that she is taken care of. If she is not in my presence, she is to be in yours.”
Agravaine looked over at the Duke, stunned by the order, not certain if he had heard correctly. He gestured, trying to clarify. He wants me to play bodyguard to a Muslim? He thought.
The Duke sighed, nodding. He understood that it might be a difficult thing to ask of a former crusader, but he figured that of all his knights this one was most up to the task, and most able to overcome what for most knights was a lifelong prejudice. “This woman could mean the difference between finding this murderer and bringing him to justice, and my being framed for it.”
Agravaine’s expression changed again. He was not aware of the woman’s eyes returning to his face, studying him. He pointed, questioningly at the Duke, drew a square in the air, and looked around as if looking for someone.
The Duke thought a moment, trying to decipher his meaning. This was always the most frustrating aspect of dealing with his first knight. Suddenly, from his feet, Suri spoke in low tones. “He wants to know who would frame you… and why? He does not seem to understand.”
The Duke looked down at her, astonished. “You understand him? This hand speech?”
Agravaine, too, raised a brow.
She shrugged with her hands, “It is simple enough to understand his body language; his hands, to read his lips, though that is more difficult, as English is not known enough to me.”
“You are proving your usefulness in the most surprising ways.” He leaned back against the arm of the chair, carefully assessing her as she bowed.
“I exist to serve, dueno.”
“So you do.” He turned back to his over-protective knight. “Suri here found my dagger behind my Roman Amphora tonight. When she touched it, she had… I guess a vision is the best way to put it. She saw the knife being used to kill Ben’s wife, but she also knew that I had not been the one to kill her.”
Agravaine assessed the girl carefully, then signed to her. She shook her head, the coins at her brow tinkling softly. “I am sorry, noble giant, but that was not clear. I can see and feel the deed being done, but I cannot see the one who killed. I asked my master,” she said, gesturing to the Duke, “directly, if he had killed her, or had to do with the killing. I read his soul to speak true, when he told me he had not.”
“Oh, yes, she can read your soul, too,” the Duke added with a grin.
And smell strong emotions, she added to herself, becoming aware of something from the giant. She could not place it, it being somewhere between distaste, anger, and what she could only read as reluctant attraction.
He pointed down at the rat. The Duke followed his hand. “Oh, that. That is evidence that someone tried to kill her tonight, to keep the truth unknown. That is the reason she is staying with you.” He held up his hand as Agravaine began a low growl in protest. His voice grew stern, his anger showing. “Someone foolishly tried to poison her, here, in my own house! When they discover she cannot be killed by mortal means, in light of her… special abilities, they might cry her for a witch, which, I might add, will only make things worse and call to light some things we’d rather not see daylight. Or, if, as she suggests, my enemy is immortal, when they discover she is of the blood, she will simply be dispatched as she sleeps.”
Agravaine gestured about the room.
“He wishes to know why I cannot sleep here, as this is no doubt the most protected room in the house.”
The Duke sighed. “Because…” he growled himself. “Agravaine, someone slipped into my chambers just this evening, before I woke, I might add, and stole my dagger! That’s why. If they can do that, then they most certainly can gain access to my chambers at will, no matter what precautions are taken. This girl is invaluable to me. And I know that no one will harm her while she is in your care.”
Agravaine felt a hot flush strike him as he remembered a time, nearly a century ago, when someone who had said that had been wrong. He swallowed, forced himself to remain in the present. He gestured, trying to speak as well, which only served to accentuate his insistence.
“He says he should be here with you, protecting you. If someone is out to get at you….”
The Duke shook his head. “If I was a direct target, do you think they would have bothered to kill Ben’s wife just to frame me?” He paused to let it sink in. “Nay, my loyal friend. I do not think I will be attacked directly. Take her with you, let her be your voice if you have to make inquiries. But remember, as of now, she is your primary responsibility. See that she is fed, if you have to feed her from your own veins.” He started to protest, to remind the Duke what that would mean. “Once will not be a problem, Agravaine. Before you leave this evening, take her things down to the church with you. She is a holy woman, I do not think her being there will cause any problems, or that she will be uncomfortable with it.”
The Duke dismissed both of them with a wave of his hand and drifted deep into thought as he turned back to the fire.
Agravaine looked down at the slight girl, wrapped from head to foot in soft white cloth. She closed and picked up a box studded with mosaic stones that sat beside her before rocking to her feet with a jingle. “Oh, and Agravaine,” the Duke added, not looking up. “Only you or I am allowed to touch her. And those she touches to read.”
Agravaine nodded gravely, bowed, then turned on his heel and left the room. His ears told him she was just a few steps behind him. He was struck with a sudden sense of déjŕ vu, and shivered, certain that he would spend centuries with that sound just steps behind him.
7 Agravaine
Agravaine led her through a side door at the back of the church. He carried her chest as if it were light-weight, hefted on his shoulder. She studied her surroundings very carefully as she followed him in the dimness. The chamber seemed to be a storage room of some sort, filled with dusty relics and long unused bits of church property. Occasionally she touched things without meaning to, and flashes of insight came from them, of previous owners, of their uses, sometimes of the monks who placed them here and forgot about them.
He led her to a door in the far wall, little used by living hands, and opened it, descended a staircase. At the bottom was another door, which he opened and gestured for her to precede him into the darkness. She obeyed, stepping just to the left after entering, so that he would not run into her in the complete black. She could tell the room was large as English chambers went, not quite the great hall at Halifax, but larger than any private chamber she had yet seen, the Duke’s apartments included. There was a close chill here, and the scent of old death and dusty bones. There came the heavy sound of her chest being set down gently, and the spark of flint striking steel. A moment later and the sudden light, dim though it was, nearly blinded her. The torch fluttered, showed Agravaine bending to pick up her chest again before leading her to the end of the long room. The light revealed them to be in a crypt, ten or twelve feet across and riddled with rectangular alcoves, three stacked, in which rested bones and armour, and a few less than completely decayed.
Agravaine stopped at the end of the chamber, shoved aside a small section of the wall which led into an older section of the crypt. Within the smaller room was a large stone sarcophagus carved in relief with the image of a knight in full crusader’s armament. Here he set her chest down, placing it in a corner and lit a torch in a rack on the wall. He signed for her to make herself comfortable, and left.
Suri looked around the room. There seemed to be no other occupants here other than the nine foot sarcophagus. The room was not very big, with just enough room to house three other sarcophagi of the same size and space to move between. And it was clean. Outside there had been a layer of dust and cobwebs over everything, a blanket of time and decay. Here the floors were swept clean.
She chose an out of the way corner to lay out her prayer rug. She would ask the direction of east when her guardian returned. She did not take her things out of the chest, having no idea how long she would be here, or any other place to keep them. She knelt in a corner and, taking out the box she kept her few ornaments in, she began to remove them one by one.
When Agravaine returned, she was sitting with one knee bent, unfastening a silver rope of tiny bells from her bared ankle. He turned away, not wishing to gaze upon even her delicate, naked foot. He laid out a narrow pallet he had found in the storage room against one wall close against the sarcophagus, but not where he would step upon her climbing out of it. He half watched her as she tucked her foot back beneath her and laid the anklet within the small box beside her with meticulous care. He set his torch in the other sconce and made the chamber secure with a large slab of marble that he laid against the door. Again, she laid her jewelry neatly in her little box, removing her bracelets one by one. Finally, she removed her heavy outer shawl and took a black and gold scarf rimmed with tiny gold disks from her head. This she folded and laid inside the large chest. Without removing her veil, she removed a long silver chain and put it away, closing the jewel box and setting it within the chest.
Agravaine had to admit to himself, she was neat to a fault. He remembered then that he had been ordered to feed her. When she had set her jewel box within the larger chest, he knelt beside her, facing her, and offered out his bared arm. She looked down at the tanned limb, thickly corded with bands of muscles, smooth and hard, and the tender underside of his wrist. She frowned slightly, looked up at him, uncertain. He nodded for her to take what she needed, but still she hesitated. Frustrated, he signed to her that he had no cup, and asked again for her to take what she needed.
She looked back at his pro-offered arm. There was no doubt in her mind that the blood was pure, there would be no mindless frenzy such as there had been with the robber, but still, she found it hard to put that fear out of her mind. And even if there was, she had no doubts that this man could prevent her from hurting herself or him. Hesitant, she removed her veil, aware that he turned his face from her as she did so, and took his arm in hand. Slowly, the roots of her eyeteeth aching in a way she found disturbing, she brought her lips to his flesh, finding a vein near the side where she could hold more easily, and sank new-sprung fangs into him.
He steeled himself the instant he felt her breath on his arm, wondered how long it would take her to forget that rather mortal and unnecessary habit. He flinched at the touch of her small, sharp teeth. The pain was small, nothing against the insurmountable wall that was his endurance for such things as wounds and pain. It was something else that caused him to flinch, something deeper that stemmed from the woman herself, from within his soul. A moment passed and she was drawing away. He looked down at her, watched her daintily wipe a stray droplet from her lips and into her small, beautiful mouth. There was no way she could have taken enough. It had taken him most of his century to be able to survive more than a day on what little she had taken. The Duke had said to feed her, and so he would feed her well. Lord knew he had plenty to spare.
He gestured for her to take more, but she shook her head politely. “No, thank you, Seńor. I have what I need.”
Again he insisted, and again she politely deferred. As she started to move away, he growled, reached out with his will and exerted its power over the blood she had already taken. Suri felt an odd feeling wash over her, a compulsion, something else bending her will and forcing her back to the fountain. She yielded easily, and this time, she drank her fill.
As her teeth sank once again into the soft flesh of his underwrist, he felt something surge within him. It was pure, as irresistible as a sirocco wind and as forceful. It was pain and pleasure, guilt and redemption hopelessly intermingled in one tidal pool. It was like all the loves of the world, great and tragic, had flooded through him consumed and purified, Lancelot, Guinevere and Arthur; Tristan and Isolde; David and Bathsheba; Adam and Eve. He remembered an angel’s promise a century ago, of a companion to walk his road, but surely this could not be the companion. She was of Islam, and she belonged to another. She could not be his. This feeling had to be wrong. …but how could it be?
The taste was different than that of her last meals, stronger, sweeter, more pure. It was rich and potent, savory. She could find no mortal comparison to the flavor. There was something different here as well, something reaching into her deepest recesses and taking hold. She did not revolt against it. Whatever it was, it was pure, almost holy and ultimately, she had no desire to resist.
Sated, she drew away. She felt somewhat woozy from the influx of emotions that had poured into her with the heat of the blood, nourishing her as much as the life-giving fluid itself. She looked up at her guardian, saw the expression upon his face, his eyes closed. The look was half pain, half ecstasy. Feeling responsible, she turned, and, on impulse, placed a light, chaste kiss upon the tiny wounds.
He felt a touch at his arm which drew him back to the present. He opened his eyes and saw her replacing her veil. He drew his arm away, still feeling the strange, feather-light kiss she had placed there. There was a touch of sadness in her golden eyes as she turned, which he misread. He realized suddenly what he had done to her, forcing her to drink more than she had initially desired. He touched her arm gently, calling her to look at him that he could communicate his apology.
She watched him a moment, staring deep into his eyes. He seemed to be apologizing. “For what?” she asked. He mouthed the words, did his best to make his hands convey his thoughts. “For forcing me to take more?” He nodded. She smiled, reached out to lay a consoling hand on his arm. “You were given the care of me. You told me to do something and I wrongly refused. You were well within your rights to do what you did. Though how you did it is a mystery to me.”
He shook his head, signing.
She sighed. “I am a slave, Hospitaler. You were within.…” She stopped as he pulled violently away, lowered her head immediately. “Forgive me if I have unwittingly given offense, Sir Knight.”
He growled, expressing his frustration in the only way he could. She looked up at him. “What?” she asked softly. She watched him carefully, then reached out again, touched hand to his bared arm. She was rewarded with a clearer idea of what was bothering him. “It is that I am a slave that disturbs you?”
He looked back at her, trying to read her tiger’s eyes and wished that he had her gift of understanding. He nodded.
She smiled, half-laughed. “Why? Half of England is populated by serfs, which are no more than slaves.”
He shook his head again, softer this time. He pointed to her.
“Me? That I am a slave? What does that matter?” He thought a moment, then tapped the cross on his chest. “Christian? Holy?” He nodded. “Is it that I am a holy woman and a slave that you cannot reconcile?” He sighed, nodding. She thought a moment, trying to explain. “My duties have changed, that is all. I serve God by serving this man. It is not difficult to reconcile the two, so long as my master respects and allows me to maintain that status.”
He shook his head. Obviously that was not the question he had asked. He mouthed the word, “Why?”
“Why am I a slave?” He nodded. That was simple enough to answer. “Penance.”
He cocked his head, startled by the answer. She laughed softly, and he decided in that instant that he liked that sound very much. “What? Is it so hard to believe that a Muslim has the concept of crime and punishment?” He shook his head, apologetic. “We have full acceptance of earthly punishment for earthly crimes. Why should I balk at earthly penalties for earthly sins?” She smiled at his look. “And yes, I have not answered your question.”
He shook his head, holding up a hand, trying to tell her she did not have to say. Apologizing for prying.
“I understand,” she said softly, laying her hand, once again on his arm. “Let us suffice it to say that the transgression was serious enough to jeopardize my acceptance to Paradise and be content with that.”
He nodded, looked down at where her soft hand lay on his arm. He shivered, unaccustomed to the touch of a woman. She removed the hand, sensing his discomfort. She looked down at her hands, shyly. “May I make a request of you?” she asked softly.
He grunted an affirmative, readjusting the sleeve of his tunic to cover his bare arm.
“Is there a place, or a way, that I might obtain bathing water? I need to wash before prayer.”
He nodded, gestured for her to gather a change of clothing and accompany him. She looked up, bright eyes flashing in delight. “A bath? Not just a ritual wash?”
He nodded, smiling at her almost child-like delight. She went to her chest to gather a few things. She waited patiently, almost eagerly as he moved the stone sarcophagus farther away from the wall to allow him room to open a recessed door. There was a rough carved stair leading down into the darkness. He took a torch with him to lead the way, not that he needed it, but for the girl to guide her steps on the unfamiliar path.
The stair was a short one, ending in a narrow little corridor that appeared as though one wall had tipped over onto another in a much larger corridor. This place was older than the church, certainly not part of it, and probably older than the Christian religion as a whole. Agravaine had discovered this place when he returned from Richard’s crusade and had been ensconced in the smaller crypt above. The steps he had made himself out of the rubble of an apparent cave-in. He turned left in the corridor, taking her down to a small door that needed a little urging to open.
When the door swung wide, Suri felt an abrupt shift in the temperature. Agravaine ducked into the narrow opening and stepped out of her way. The light steam and the aroma of minerals brought forth a memory from her childhood of the Turkish baths her father used to keep. She entered the room and gazed about in awe and delight.
“Bismillah!” she breathed.
It was half destroyed, filled in almost entirely on one side with rubble and debris. There was a dressing bench off to one side, obviously repaired, and very Roman in design. The walls were frescoed in faded blue, with what she deciphered as sea scenes, both above and below water. Little of the design was truly clear, things that were roughly fish, and a few of what were possibly people swimming. At the end of the small chamber, in what had no doubt once been the center of the room, was a square hole in the floor, lined with blue tiling and filled with steaming water. Suri knelt at its edge, dipped her hand into the hot, mineral rich water. There was a mild current to it, and a hole in the bottom of the pool, near the landslide of broken stone that filled probably half the bath. Suri deduced that it was fed by a hot spring, and prevented from overflow by that hole. She rose. “How ever did you find this place?” she asked softly.
He shrugged, made a few gestures. “Just exploring?” she asked. He nodded. “Old Roman bath, it looks like.”
He nodded again, indicated possibly a private house. He had found other things down here to support that theory, but he had no way of telling her that. Instead, he indicated to her that he would be waiting outside for her and, leaving the light, left.
She stared at the closed door for almost a full minute, trying to convince herself whether or not she saw the blush of sudden shyness on his cheek or if she had imagined it. She shrugged and turned to the bench, setting her things upon it and began to undress.
Slipping into the steaming water was the single most delicious thing she had encountered since leaving Lisbon. At her small shrine, she had indulged herself in a full bath at least twice a month, though she washed several times a day. She had learned long ago that most Europeans thought full immersion in water to be unhealthy, and baths a perverse indulgence. She never truly understood that. How could being clean be a sin, or anything but healthy? Standing in the press outside the Duke’s audience hall, she had been glad that breathing was, for her, a luxury. She sank under the water, letting her hair fan out about her body. The heat suffused her flesh, making her blood warm again.
Agravaine sat outside, leaning his broad back against the straight wall and stared up at the crooked one in the darkness. Beyond the door, he could hear the occasional splash, and could only imagine her delight. Or was he imagining it? No, he had to be. She had taken of his blood, not he of hers. But still…. He had seen her face for the moment when he had commanded her to take more. She was breath-taking. The Duke was wise in permitting her to continue her custom of the veil. He knew some of the mortal soldiery to be less than… proper with women they found attractive, and this woman had the kind of face mortal men killed for. It seemed almost a shame that she had been cloistered away most of her life.
He stopped a moment. She had not told him that. So how had he known? His mind began to drift to what had happened to him as she had fed, tried to make sense of it. Was she or wasn’t she? How could she be and yet how could she not? Incomplete questions that had no mortal answer.
Suddenly she was there, framed in the open doorway, looking down at him. Though her face was in shadow, backed by the light, he could still see her eyes glinting down at him. He rose and she stepped back, took the torch from the wall and handed it to him. Her skin gleamed in the flickering light and her hair hung wet and loose down her back. He noticed in her hands, with her used clothing, was a large chipped jar.
She saw the look he gave the water jug and smiled. “It is for washing for prayers. So that coming all this way is not inconvenient. I found it amongst the debris and cleaned it.” He nodded, taking the torch and leading her silently back upstairs.
Agravaine noticed something odd in the air, a fragrance that was not there before, not as strongly. It was a scent he vaguely remembered from the East, in Syria and in Jerusalem where he had grown up. Lotus oil. It pervaded his senses completely, soft and sweet. He half wondered if it had been intentional as he closed the door on the stairwell, but she made no moves towards him. Indeed, she hardly seemed to notice him as she put her things away in their place and set the jar in a corner where it could not be tipped over. He stood there, unaware that he was watching her numbly when she turned and walked up to him. He steeled himself, ready for anger should she try to seduce him as had half of the other unmarried women of the Duke’s court, His Grace’s widowed cousin at the top of that list. She threw him completely off balance when she bowed, and politely asked if he would leave, that she might have some privacy for her prayers.
Numbly he nodded, signed to her that she would be safe here, but that he was going to go and feed for himself. She nodded and crossed to a small rug she had laid out in a corner.
She turned suddenly, remembering. “East?” she asked. He pointed.
Forcing himself to move, he removed the stone slab blocking the door and slipped out. But even the cold, decaying air of the crypt could not dispel that fragrance from his mind. He left the church grounds and prowled the dark streets, looking for some hapless thief stupid enough to be caught, sincerely hoping there would be resistance.
|
|
All
rights are reserved for the work 'The Regent of Souls p4' by Sandra Leigh Wagner under
Elfwoods all rights reserved copyright policy
License
Main Category: 
Previous...
