A Sorceress of His Own

Excerpt

England, 1198

As still as though he were an extension of the ramparts themselves, Dillon stared out over the slumbering keep. The same fog that partially veiled it stroked his skin with ghostly fingers and leant an eerie echo to the sounds of the guards who walked the walls.

She was there . . . behind him. He had not heard her approach, but could feel her presence as surely as he could the damp, chilly breeze.

“What brings you to these battlements on this dreary night, Seer?” he asked without turning around.

“Your troubled spirit called to me,” she responded simply, her voice no more than a whisper. He could remember a time in his youth when her voice had been stronger; but age had gradually weakened it, first cracking it, then ultimately reducing it to this faint relic of its former self. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

He did not speak for many moments. His spirit was indeed troubled. He felt . . . tired. So very tired. And old. As old as some believed the crone hidden in darkness behind him was.

None knew her true age. The more superstitious of his people, those who crossed themselves whenever she passed them by, believed she possessed the powers of immortality and could claim centuries to her past. Others placed her age nigh that of the elders, who all swore she had served the Westcott lords for as long as the oldest among them had walked the earth. All Dillon knew with any certainty was that she had seen at least two-score and ten years, for she had advised his father before him.

He recalled with a faint smile his intense curiosity as a boy regarding her appearance. She had stood straighter then, had seemed taller, grandiose to a precocious child who would not see his final height of a few inches above six feet for many years. A floor-length black robe with long sleeves that fell beneath her fingertips and a cowl that shielded every feature and defied even the strongest gust of wind had been and still remained her constant companion. As Dillon understood it, none had ever looked upon her unmasked. Not even his grandfather, beside whom the elders insisted she had first stood.

“Our king has granted me another keep,” he said finally.

“A fitting reward for one of his most loyal subjects.”

“Think you he has forgotten I fought in opposition to him at Le Mans?”

“He would not hold that against you. You were defending your king. I believe he regrets now being a . . . less-than-dutiful son to Henry.”

“Spoken most diplomatically, Wise One,” he murmured, amused by her reference to Richard’s hostile rebellions.

“And you have since proved your loyalty to King Richard many times over. You took an arrow for him at Acre. You helped put an end to Prince John’s insurrection. ’Tis proper for him to offer his most fearsome knight a prize or two.”

The laughter that rumbled forth from him carried a hint of the despair that had been weighing him down of late.

“What amuses you, my lord?” she inquired.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. As usual, she stood in shadows, her robe hiding what little might have been revealed by a rogue ray of moonlight. “Take my hand, Wise One,” he commanded, extending it toward her, “and tell me what you see.”

Obediently, she reached out and clasped his hand with one of hers. For one brief instant, he caught a glimpse of age-spotted, yellow-tinged skin stretched across blue veins and thin fingers before the sleeve of her robe glided forward to hide both their hands from his view. It was the most he had seen of her in the seven years she had been advising him.

The warmth of that hand, as old and frail as it was, surprised him, distracting him for a moment.

“Well?” he prodded. “How fearsome is the man who stands before you? Look closely. What do you see? What do I feel?”

“A great . . . lassitude, my lord.”

“Aye.”

“You are dissatisfied with your existence. You have grown weary of battle, of killing.”

He looked down at the obscured inner bailey and sighed deeply. “Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to erase the cursed stench of blood and death from my nostrils, the images of it from my memory.” The wind picked up, swirling the night mist into mystical shapes and patterns from dreams. “What else do you see?”

“You know I cannot read your thoughts, my lord.”

“Nay, but emotions and desires are clear to you, Seer. Interpret mine as you will.”

“Very well.”

Focusing intently on that which he wished her to see, he felt his hand heat where she touched it as she delved deeper with her peculiar gift.

“Your greatest wish is for peace.”

“Aye.”

“And . . .” She seemed to stall, mayhap mistrusting the information her gift was relaying.

“Continue.”

“A wife, my lord.”

He wondered at the surprise manifested in that statement. With her powers, she saw him more clearly than anyone he knew. Even his younger brother, Robert, with whom he shared almost all of his secrets, did not know him as this one did.

Granted, on those rare instances when she touched him, ’twas usually with the intent to heal, that gift having been given her also. But this desire for a wife . . . It had been lingering in his heart and mind for some time now, growing stronger alongside his discontent. Surely his soothsayer had become aware of it before now.

“You sound surprised.”

“’Tis true I did not know you wished to wed,” she admitted slowly. “But that in itself does not surprise me. ’Tis merely your reasons for doing so . . .”

He chuckled mockingly and tightened his grip on her fingers. “So, tell me, Seer, why the land’s most formidable warrior, save our illustrious lionhearted ruler, desires a bride.”

Shielded by her dark robe, Alyssa hesitated, uncertain of his mood. She had never seen him quite like this. “’Tis not for the customary reasons, my lord.”

His large, rough, battle-scarred hand gripped hers with an almost desperate need for contact. Or mayhap reassurance. One would think that after seven years of serving him, such a simple touch would no longer speed her pulse or make her breath catch. Yet, as always, she had to struggle to keep her hand from trembling within his grasp, to restrict her voice to the steady whisper she had worked so hard to perfect.

Dillon turned his face away from her, as if to hide his despondency from her view, though he must know she felt it as strongly as he did when they touched. High forehead. Straight nose, despite the numerous battles he had fought. Strong jaw now clenched in an effort to control his emotions.

It was a handsome face, marred only by two small scars: one that divided his left eyebrow and a second on the right side of his chin. Those he had acquired before she had come into his service when his father died just after Dillon turned a score and three. She had let nothing mar him since.

Though still a young man, the hair at his temples was almost entirely silver. The rest of his thick wavy locks were only sparsely peppered with gray. The curls that teased his collar were still as dark a brown as the day he had come into the world. So dark they were nearly black.

How often had she wished she could reach up and touch his hair, discover if it was as soft as it appeared?

“You do not seek a woman to bear you heirs or increase your fortune as most do,” she continued.

“Do I not?”

“Nay, my lord.”

“What then?”

Energy strummed through her as she sifted through his emotions. She had come to know him well over the years. Better than most. Mayhap that was why her gift always seemed to stretch a bit further with him, allowed her to see more.

“You seek a tender smile and a warm embrace, awaiting you on the steps of the donjon each time you return from venturing forth on the king’s business or on your own.”

His eyes squinted slightly, deepening the faint lines the sun had placed at their corners. “What else?”

“You want a loving presence to sit with you by the fire of an evening, to read to you . . . converse with you . . . teach you how to laugh again, to find joy in life. Someone in whom you can confide. Someone . . .” She frowned slightly. “Someone who will be as gentle with you as you wish to be with her.”

The hand in her grasp gradually relaxed, as though her revelation of his deepest fantasy soothed him.

Regret that she could not fulfill that fantasy left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Alyssa’s mother had warned her that she would one day come to loathe these robes and the silence they required. But she had been young when she had donned them and accepted the many responsibilities of Westcott’s wisewoman -- a mere ten and four -- and had seen no further than the opportunity to be close to the compassionate, yet courageous (and, aye, comely) Lord Dillon.

“You wish your bride to come to you innocent,” she forced herself to continue. “Pure, but without fear. You dream of spending many long nights making love with her . . .” Heat suffused her cheeks. “And many more falling asleep with her cradling you close to her, chasing off the grisly nightmares that always plague your sleep.”

Silence engulfed them when she finished. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, seemingly reluctant to sever the contact.

“I ask again,” he said softly, his lips turning down at their corners. “How fearsome is the warrior who stands before you?”

“No less fearsome than he was ere I saw him.”

He shook his head. “How they all would laugh if they knew the truth.”

“And what truth might that be, my lord?”

“That one of England’s most ruthless killers -- a man who inspires terror in all, leaves blood and destruction in his wake wherever he travels and is rumored to devour small children for supper -- desires only peace and a wife who will be little more than a nursemaid to him.”

“A nursemaid to your children mayhap. A companion to you. There is no shame in loving, my lord.”

He turned to her, his handsome face curious. “Know you of love, then?”

Aye, ever since she was a child and had witnessed -- always from a distance -- his kindness toward her grandmother, his defense of her when others repudiated her. “I have not attained this age without knowing it, my lord.“

“I confess I do not know precisely what age you have attained, Seer.”

“You are not alone in your ignorance.”

He grinned at her evasion, as she had known he would. “Fear not. I will not press you.”

“How very wise of you,” she replied, eliciting a sharp laugh.

“Why should I,” he continued teasingly, “when your age does not rouse nearly as much curiosity as your appearance?”

“I have long considered curiosity to be a bothersome, unhealthy emotion, my lord.”

“Then why do you take such pleasure in generating it in great abundance amongst my people?” he countered.

She allowed her laughter to emerge as a raspy chuckle. “Mayhap you are the true seer here, my lord, for you know me too well.”

Dillon stared at her, still smiling faintly, wishing she spoke the truth. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder. ‘Twould be so easy to reach out, drag back the cowl that covered it and finally discover what he had spent far too much time pondering. But he would not do that. He would never violate her trust in such a way. Not when she treated his own with such care.

“Why think you you will never find the wife you long for?”

His stomach clenched. “Because she does not exist.”

“You do not believe there is a woman in all of England capable of the tenderness and devotion you desire?”

“I believe there are many such women.”

“Then--”

“But each and every one of them cringes at my approach. When I come to bed at night, I want my wife to tremble with passion, not terror.”

“All women do not fear you,” she stated plainly. When he raised a brow, her cowl tilted to one side. “Think you I do not know all that occurs in your domain?”

A warm flush crept up his neck when he realized she referred to the women who occasionally satisfied his needs. “Do not think that because they sought me out and shared my bed those women were not just as frightened as the others.”

“If they were truly frightened, they would not have approached you.”

Frowning, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You cannot have lived so many years and remained that naive.” When she remained damningly silent, his tone mellowed. “Or have you?” ’Twas something he had never considered before, her innocence or lack thereof. As many years as she had lived and as much of the world as she had seen . . . he had simply assumed that at some point . . .

Well, he had once even found himself wondering if she and his father had not been lovers for a time.

“Very well,” he said when no rejoinder followed. “The women who have offered themselves to me did so because fear excites them. They did not come to me for lovemaking. They came seeking domination.”

“And who better to dominate than one with your reputation,” she finished for him.

“Aye.” Dillon struggled with anger and embarrassment. He had never divulged that particular secret before, not even to Robert, who constantly bedeviled him about his long, self-imposed bouts of celibacy. A woman had not sought him out with affection since before he’d left on his first campaign.

When the wisewoman stepped up beside him -- close, but not touching -- he did not look at her. He could not.

“’Tis true, I know little of such things,” she admitted.

And he knew how much that admission cost her. In their years of dealing with each other, she had revealed very little of herself to him, yet did so now as an act of contrition for pushing him to discuss what he obviously did not wish to.

“In this instance, I fear we share the same complaint, my lord,” she added sadly.

“What complaint is that?” Dillon found himself holding his breath, unsure how to proceed since she had never offered up personal information to him before.

“Very few bother to look beyond our reputations to the individuals they conceal. If you recall, I inspire as much, if not more, fear in those who encounter me than you do.”

He realized the truth of her words as soon as she spoke them.

“I see the people cross themselves when I pass, see mothers tug their children closer to them for protection, hear the men hurl accusations of witchcraft and link my name with Lucifer’s. I have even had a stone or two thrown my way.”

His head snapped around in furious disbelief. “Who dared to--”

“Do not exert yourself on my behalf. ’Twas long ago and the culprits have since been repaid for their actions tenfold.”

He found his anger slow to ebb. “Did you . . .?”

She sighed. “Alas, nay, though the blame was placed with me.”

“There have been other crimes perpetrated against you, have there not? Crimes you never mentioned to me?”

Her hood swung from side to side. “Only declarations of intent, my lord. The very reputation you despise has been my staunch defender these last seven years. Knowing the trust you place in me, none would dare incur your wrath by following through on their threats.”

At least it had done someone some good, he thought morosely, wondering at the same time if he should not call his people together and make his displeasure known over their harsh treatment of the woman at his side. The same woman who had healed many of them with her own hands, sometimes bringing them or their children back from the brink of death.

“Why does King Richard’s gift not please you?” she asked, guiding the subject back to their conversation’s origins.

“Because I must lay siege to the keep in order to claim it. ‘Twould seem its previous owner is not ready to relinquish his hold on it.”

“Yet another battle for you to fight.”

“Aye.”

“There is more.”

He sighed. “’Tis Pinehurst I’ve been given.”

“Lord Camden’s holding?” Camden was son to Dillon’s nearest neighbor, the Earl of Westmoreland, whom Dillon had admired, loved and respected ever since he was in swaddling clothes. “He has finally done it, then.”

“What?”

“Beggared his estate through his own greed. His father worried that he would do as much and should not be surprised by this turn of events.”

“I suppose not.”

“No doubt Camden compounded the problem by insulting the king. He has always acted rashly and with little thought.”

“’Tis the way of it. His support of John during Richard’s imprisonment was only the beginning, ‘twould seem.”

“When do you depart?”

“On the morrow.”

“Perchance you could employ the same tactics you used to take Brimshire, thus eliminating the necessity of fighting.”

He smiled. Brimshire had also closed its gates to him and had been well prepared for a long siege. Cold, tired and irritable, he had been ready to tear down the walls with his bare hands if necessary and have done with it once and for all when a small, black-robed figure had suddenly materialized at his side, hardly visible in the void beyond the camp’s firelight.

“Rest easy, my lord,” she had sedately ordained. “Brimshire shall be yours by sunrise.”

And it had been. The wisewoman had vanished from his sight without another word. Hours later, as the sun painted the land around them with a rosy dawn, the portcullis had raised, the drawbridge had lowered and she had boldly emerged from the barbican, bidding him to enter.

“Plan to steal in and lace their food with another of your tasty sleeping potions, do you?” he asked, delighted by her inference that it had been his plan all along.

“You need only ask and I shall do as you command.”

He shook his head. “I dislike your taking such risks. Were you discovered . . .”

“They expect treachery to come in the form of brawny soldiers, not” -- and he could actually hear her smile -- “from a frail, old woman.”

Dillon paced away from her. It had worked well the last time. She had succeeded in drugging nearly every soldier within the gates. Those who had retained their faculties had surrendered as soon as they saw him riding inside, his men directly behind him. No violence. No unnecessary deaths. Yet, unease trickled down his spine.

“Nay.” He returned to her side. “I like it not. Mix your potion, if you will, Wise One, but I shall find another to smuggle it inside.”

She straightened. “A premonition, my lord?”

“You know I do not share your gifts.“ He dragged an impatient hand through his hair. “I merely sense . . . danger.”

“To me? Or to yourself?”

“Naught so clear as that. I ask that you remain here, however, where I may be assured of your safety.”

“And what assurances will I have of your safety, my lord? I should be by your side should you have need of my services.”

He could not help but be pleased by her concern. Whilst others thought him invincible, she worried for his safety as his mother might have had she lived. “I will send for you, Healer, do I need you.”

She nodded reluctantly. “And I shall fly to you on the wings of your swiftest mount, my lord, the moment your messenger arrives.”

His lips stretched in a grin others scarcely ever saw. “So long as you do not truly give the steed wings or the servants will flee in terror ere we return.”

Another raspy chuckle was her answer.

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