Chapter 2: Greyhounds in the Slips
“I have seen that pallor too often on the battlefield”, said the woman disapprovingly, “She has lost a lot of blood. What did you do?”
The woman had an amiable face, though prone to flustering, and gray eyes that denoted the measured patience of someone who was accustomed to confidences. A few strands of red hair strayed from her linen coif, their color almost an exact match to the rich burgundy hue of her tunic.
Sir William looked at the pale Elizabeth lying on the bed, her hair fanned like amber waves.
“She fainted,” he replied tersely.
The redhead crossed her arms, annoyed.
“Well yes, I can see that. When were you going to tell me?”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“There is everything to tell,” she reproached. “You’ve never bit anyone outside a battle before.”
Sir William loathed the way she forced him to confront his illness. He tolerated it well enough from his chaplain, but to hear it from a woman who studied death so intimately made him feel like one of those rotting corpses she wept upon. She never hid her concern or the reasons behind it. As a friend, she did not want him to damn his soul. As a dedicated surgeon, she took pride in pinpointing the causes and consequences of maladies. Where fools promised him salvation by touching the relics of saints, redheaded Willow always asked about blood, phlegm and bile. She worked fast and she was thorough.
“She fainted twice,” he stated flatly, dodging her last comment.
Willow lowered the ragged blanket that covered the girl’s body and saw that the wounds on her neck had scarred. The marks were clean and showed no sign of scabbing.
“Your bite must act like hemlock juice”, she averred, pensive. “That would explain why men never seem to fight back once you bite them.”
“And here I thought I instilled the fear of God,” lamented William sarcastically.
“As for the second fainting spell, it was probably due to blood loss.”
She paused for a moment and glanced at him sideways.
“Or shock. The heart is a fragile thing, William.”
“So is your neck,” he remarked somberly. “They will hang you for cutting up dead bodies, Red. Or burn you.”
“But you should see man’s heart, Will,” she sighed. “It’s no bigger than your fist.”
“I have seen man’s heart.”
She found nothing to say to that, but remembered what she had wanted to ask him.
“Were you in a fury when you bit her? Like on the battlefields?”
“I’m not sure,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I touched her skin and it burned me.”
“But you don’t feel heat or pain when you change.”
“It burned, Red. I might as well have been bound to a stake.”
Under her watchful eye, Sir William approached the bed, which was little more than a bale straw pallet, and kneeled before it. As he gently caressed Elizabeth’s lower lip with his thumb, the corner of his mouth couldn’t repress the mocking shadow of a smile. Even in her sleep, the girl looked like she was pouting about something. It made him wonder whether she fought wolves like him in her dreams.
“Does it still burn?”
“Like the flames of Hell.”
“Touch my hand. Does my hand burn too?”
He grabbed Willow’s wrist but felt nothing more than numbness. He knew snow and he knew ice, but the warm rays of summer and the scorching crackle of fire were becoming arcane to him. If a man were to forget the feeling of the sun on his face, what humanity could possibly be left of him?
“I don’t understand any of it,” admitted Willow softly.
She watched William run his fingers on the graceful curve of the girl’s neck, where his bite mark marred the creamy skin. Feeling like she was intruding on something infinitely private, the redheaded physician went to the window and opened the shutters. The skies had turned gray and the smell of impending rain saturated the air. Tomorrow, when the English would wake up, bruised and nauseous, she would have to start mending their injuries while ignoring the crimes of the previous day.
“Father Giles has not come back yet,” she commented.
“The old fool thinks a myth can hold some truth,” responded Sir William absent-mindedly, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping form of Elizabeth. “He should be back any day now.”
* * * * *
Father Giles and Father Caleb rode their horses towards the town of Rondeau, which was rumored to have fallen under the English. Having met two days ago in a small village overrun by mercenaries, they had decided that despite God’s omnipotence, it would not serve them to tempt the Devil by traveling alone. Brigandage by the English garrisons, who burned and pillaged everything on their path, had left a void for French bandits to rule the forests.
On their journey, both priests had discovered a shared interest in mythology. Father Giles was impressed by the vast knowledge of Father Caleb, whose discourse vibrated with passionate certitude, the hallmark of youth. They had been able to discuss obscure legends to trump their boredom but the sudden appearance of heavy rain had cut their conversation short. The agreeable trot turned into a mad gallop. As mud flew behind their horses, they saw the lone tower of Rondeau appear before their eyes, and then its stonewalls. The wooden gates had been left wide open, revealing the peasantry’s constructions of daub and wattle.
Father Giles knew that most of the knights would be at the tavern, sharing tales of feat and keeping their armors from rusting in the downpour. Under his soaked brown hood, he gestured to Father Caleb as they halted their horses behind a large house with branches and leaves hanging over the door. Carrying their leather bags with them, the priests entered the raucous establishment where metal clanging and uproars of laughter greeted them. A joyful fire illuminated the hearth and the warm breath of barley permeated the oak walls. Giles recognized the Earl, sitting in a corner with his trusted vassals.
“I knew you were looking for a friend but I did not realize it was the Earl you were talking about,” said Caleb.
“I am looking for one of his knights.”
When he finally saw the pale blonde hair, Father Giles approached the royal table, with Father Caleb in tow.
“Ah! Father Giles!” exclaimed the Earl in good humor. “Our esteemed weaponry master! But we haven’t seen you in weeks! What did Will do with you?”
Sir William rose to his feet and grinned with masculine loftiness.
“I have sent my chaplain to fetch me some vellum, your grace. I wish to write down the story of our campaign against the French.”
“You do well, my boy. You do well!” approved the Earl.
“You grace,” interrupted Father Giles, “I would like to introduce you to my traveling companion, Father Caleb. He has entertained me with many jousting stories from France.”
Just as Giles had hoped for, the Earl’s ears perked up and the knights started clamoring loudly, demanding to know if the celebrated Rostand de Gascon was as unbeatable as the rumors had portrayed him to be. Sir Riley, being himself a name to be reckoned with in tournaments, enthusiastically welcomed Father Caleb.
“You must tell us, Father. They say he will be defending Pontmercy, the town we will be attacking next!”
Satisfied that none of the knights would be following them, a serious Sir William abruptly grabbed Father Giles by the sleeve and led him to the back of the room, where they descended into a cellar occupied by an archer and his giggling woman.
“Get the Hell out of here,” ordered Sir William, irritated.
The lovers did not waste time straightening their clothes and quickly escaped the knight’s ire. Father Giles could still hear the noises above, but knew that no one would hear what he had to tell his lord.
“Will, I have found… found a book, written by a priest. I could not save him, but he claimed to have written down all the knowledge that was passed down to him by his order.”
“What order?”
“I can’t be sure… the priest said he was a Watcher,” answered Giles nervously.
The knight looked at Giles’ hands, whose knuckles were turning white from gripping the leather bag so tightly. The chaplain was always very secretive when it came to his knowledge of religious sects, but his extreme demeanor warned William that something extraordinary must have occurred.
“Templars?”
“Definitely not,” posited Father Giles, “Besides, most of them are dead now. Maybe Cathars.”
“The book, Father.”
“Ah! The book is stunning: it is half-bestiary, half historical accounts… but the historical accounts are, well, half-historical. However, it does explain how Sir Guillaume was killed. Or I suppose it would be a theory of how he was killed...”
William was growing impatient with Giles’ meanderings.
“Fine. How?”
“It doesn’t appear to make much sense. The book proclaims Sir Guillaume was transpierced by Ascalon.”
“The lance of St. George?” frowned William, perplexed.
“Yes, though not by St. George himself, clearly. But someone did wield Ascalon and killed Sir Guillaume. The man ought to have been well-known… but I could not find his name.”
Sir William understood what Giles dared not say explicitly: such a man would have been celebrated as a hero, remembered through countless epic poems and yet, his identity had been carefully erased from the past. A slow anger ate at William’s heart; he also understood that his own death would be that of a prized beast and not of a man who had strived to overcome his condition. History belonged to the Rileys of this world, he thought bitterly.
Father Giles mumbled.
“This passage… here, it implies that the lance brings salvation to whomever seeks it… or, huh, death... It’s all very confusing...”
“Where is the lance now?”
“I’m not sure… The book mentions Ascalon being hidden in the light of the sun standing still.”
“Hidden in the light of the sun standing still… ‘the sun standing still’ is a solstice… The solstice is next week,” murmured William.
“The priest told me to go to the Abbey of Pontmercy to seek the light,” added Giles, “I don’t know what the light is, but we need to go there soon.”
“What about that second book in your bag, Father? Anything in there?”
“I only brought it for Willow. It contains illustrations of plants I’ve never seen before and of women performing strange… rituals. I thought she might find it interesting.”
William nodded his assent. She was certainly Giles’ equal when it came to her fascination with pagan lore; he only wished she would be more careful about it.
Noticing William’s concern, Father Giles tried to smile reassuringly. The three of them had sidestepped the moving line of heresy so often that it was a miracle to still be alive. Unbridled knowledge had the power to anger the Church, but by virtue of being a priest as well as the chaplain of an Aurelius, Giles could research anything to his heart’s content. Having William as a lord also permitted Willow to further her science, though her midnight dissection of dead bodies still had to be kept a secret. To Father Giles, however, the knight would always remain the boy whose mind was more attuned to poetry than to war. William never expressed regrets but Giles knew how much he missed the tranquil contemplation of his young life at Oxford.
“I’ll take you to Red,” said William after a moment, “I had to leave her side to announce my marriage to the Earl.”
As the knight made his way upstairs to rejoin the chaotic sea of drunkenness and hilarity, a flabbergasted Giles followed him precipitously. In their hurry to leave the tavern, they did not notice that Father Caleb had already disappeared.
* * * * *
Objects were flying across the room as the prim and proper Lady Elizabeth hurled things at the closed door with all her might. If the cauldron hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it also. As it was, only wooden bowls and wool cloths flung at the door, their inability to break denying comfort to the young woman’s fury. She longed for the satisfying detonation of a crossbow.
“I cannot believe I offered myself to an Aurelius!” she cried for the umpteenth time, imagining his body transpierced with arrows.
When she had woken up, a woman named Willow Rose had been by her side. Having gently extracted a promise from Elizabeth to not leave the house, the redhead had gone to fetch some fresh clothes. Thus bound by her word, the blonde girl sat petulantly on the bed, cussing like the lowliest serf. Feeling rather sheepish after having uttered a spectacular profanity, she hid her face in her hands and let out a muffled whine.
“What will Xander think of me?”
After a decade of seeking vengeance, Alexander was certainly not going to forgive his sister for sharing the enemy’s bed so she could carry their heirs. Elizabeth did not see how she could possibly tell her brother what she had done.
“But it isn’t done yet, is it?” she thought with a glimmer of hope.
The union could still be delayed long enough for her to gain the information she sought before escaping Aurelius, and Xander would never need to find out. This delay would be easy enough to create, she assumed, since Sir William didn’t seem eager to spend time with her in close quarters. Slightly offended and yet thankful for the opportunity it provided, her alert mind moved on to the second portion of her problem, which entailed much more serious difficulties. Where would she find parchment without arousing the suspicions of Sir William and how was she going to send messages to Pontmercy, where Xander had taken refuge? It took days for the English themselves to scout the areas before taking a decision. Once she uncovered their strategies, how would she send the information fast enough? And what if the English switched strategies mid-course, or at the last moment? Would she then be throwing the French into harm’s way?
“I need allies… Many allies,” she murmured to herself.
Elizabeth shivered, cold and hungry. No food had touched her lips since last night and the extreme emotions that had assailed her all day exerted their toll. When was Willow Rose coming back? Was she to spend the night in this place alone? Just as she was giving up all hope of receiving benevolence, the door opened and a man wearing a wet cloak walked towards her with urgency. As she stood up, preparing to defend herself, he thrust a leather object in her hands. His small movement revealed the black and white robe he wore underneath his cloak, the colors of a Dominican priest.
“I must give you this before she comes back.”
“Who are you?” asked Elizabeth, taken aback by the tall man with fiery eyes.
She looked at what her hands held and recognized a glove that Xander used for falconry. The gold embroidery and the precious stones had visibly been removed to give the glove a more sober appearance. Inside it, Elizabeth found a small bird made of red cloth.
“He asks that you do not attempt to contact him until you reach Pontmercy. Only then will he send the gosshawk to you.”
“Is he in good health? Is he with the Duke?” she pressed him.
“He is well, though he will not be when the news of your marriage reaches him,” scolded the priest severely. “Aurelius is a heretic.”
“Father, you must help me find a way to delay the ceremony!”
Father Caleb stared down at the golden-haired girl, whose large green eyes reminded him of Eve’s sin. This child’s soul had to be saved. Her beauty was an affront to God and needed to be walled inside a convent, where she would learn that suffering was the only prayer worthy of the Lord.
“You will ask for a confessor. Aurelius will suggest Father Giles but find a reason to turn him down. I will arrange the rest. Beware of the snake, my child, for he will seduce you and cause your damnation.”
Her heart swelling with gratitude, Elizabeth watched the priest leave the room and scrambled to find a place to hide the indisputable proof of her betrayal. But the house was incredibly bare and her temper had left no object unturned. Noticing a long leather strap lying on the floor, she used it to wrap the soft glove tightly around her inner thigh. Her panicked state made her fingers slip as she clumsily tried to keep the glove in place. By the time she pulled her kirtle down, the door opened once more and Willow Rose stepped over the threshold with a gleeful smile, carrying a wooden hutch.
“It’s not raining anymore!”
“Oh,” simply said Elizabeth, indifferent.
Willow carefully set the hutch down and lifted the lid. She pulled out a linen chemise as well as a loaf of maslin bread.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have white bread,” declared Willow, who was still rifling through the walnut chest, “we nearly ran out of food and this was the best we got for this evening. But it’ll be better tomorrow, when the men go out to nearby towns. You’ll get milk and cheese and meat. It’s just that they’re all pretty drunk right now.”
Without care or concern for manners, a starving Elizabeth seized the bread and took a big bite out of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she tasted something so heavenly. To her addled senses, the rough and grainy texture of rye was as sweet and soft as the whitest ambrosia. But Willow wasn’t quite done yet with her pleasant surprises as she pulled out a houppelande whose color equaled the purest emerald. A dye so intense would have cost a fortune, Elizabeth surmised. How many families did the Aurelius clan dispossess to augment their riches? Gingerly, she touched the beautiful ivy-leaf pattern of the fabric. She had seen men wear houppelandes before but she hadn’t seen one made for a woman yet.
“You can wear it for the ceremony tomorrow”, said Willow, “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Tomorrow?” replied a stunned Elizabeth, “But I can’t!"
“You don’t want to get married anymore?” asked Willow, concerned.
“Oh no, that’s not… that’s not what I meant”, reassured Elizabeth, in her most gentle voice.
Willow sighed with relief.
Elizabeth had wanted to make the redhead her confidante but Willow’s devotion already seemed aligned. And yet, she didn’t appear to be the kind of person who would have been part of a despot’s retinue. This hasty judgment quickly convinced Elizabeth of the necessity for her to mind her expressions of displeasure from now on. If she wanted to gain access to the Earl often, she had to earn Sir William’s trust by showing gratitude towards him and towards the people who served him. She didn’t think she could ever learn to fawn like a maiden at a jousting match, but she could pretend to be content. This little predicament would have been far easier to bear had he not been an Aurelius, she concluded. Perhaps befriending Willow could take the sting out of living a lie for a while. And it would be nice to not feel so lonely.
“Are you going to be my servant girl?”
Willow blushed with embarrassment.
“Actually, I am Sir William’s surgeon,” she corrected awkwardly, “I came here because he asked me to look at your wounds. But I figured you could use new clothes… and food… Do you want me to still look at your marks? I’m afraid there’s not much I can do… “
“I have never met a woman surgeon before.”
“Well, there are many of us out there” assured Willow with a hint of sadness, “Just as many as the men and just as good. It’s just lately… Lately, they don’t let us study by their side as much as they used to. Soon, they’ll have us do nothing more than nurse and deliver babies, you just wait and see.”
“But you can save lives, right?” inquired Elizabeth admiringly.
“I can save lives,” acquiesced Willow with a smile, “English and French.”
The lightness of her affirmation could not disguise her grave wisdom. Pensive, Elizabeth caressed the green fabric that was still covering her lap and closed her eyes. The door must have been left ajar because she heard women screaming. The fate she had avoided hadn’t been spared for the peasants’ wives and daughters. What kind of justice was war? And what kind of justice was vengeance if she were to kill the man who had rescued her from a brutal deflowering? She thought of Xander, because thinking of him always made her angry enough to hate the English. Though she did not share his hatred, it steadied her resolve. She was going to make Aurelius love her and she was going to betray him.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I called this chapter "Greyhounds in the Slips" because it's like my "1,2, 3, GO" chapter (dogs before a race, right?). I'm setting the story up and after that, it will go pretty much all Spuffy. I tend to be a stickler for plot and a slow writer (plus I'm really busy), so this is what happens LOL> But I will probably post the 3rd chapter this week.
Chapter End Notes:
Thank you for the reviews! It warms my heart! They are so positive that now I am afraid to go downhill. I am an absolute neurotic! I've taken up fanfiction to practice writing in English. For those of you who were wondering, my first language is a dialect spoken by 50,000 people (but I'm not telling which one because mystery makes me sound cool), my second language is French and then English :-) Rusty Spanish is my fourth...