Knight's Rebellion. Suzanne Barclay
could have lived to see what use I made of the things she took such pains to drum into my head.”
Her mother smiled. “She loved every moment you two spent together. Teaching you all she knew about healing and herb craft gave her a reason to live long past what any of us expected. What of the tenth? You’ve worked on it the longest.”
“It was the hardest to write.” Alys shifted the book to the top of the pile, but didn’t open it. Her gloved hands clenched tight on the slender volume. “It’s about magic. About the healing touch of freaks like me.”
“You are not a freak!” Arianna cried, lifting a hand toward her daughter’s cheek.
Instinctively Alys leaned back. “Is it normal to shy away, even from the caress of a loved one?” she asked angrily.
“Nay, but that doesn’t make you…Oh, Alys.” Arianna bit her lip, tears welling. “I did not know it pained you so.” Her brimming gaze darted to the gloves covering Alys’s hands.
Alys ached with the need to fling herself into the soft haven of her mother’s arms, but that sweet sanctuary had been denied her from her thirteenth year, when the change had come upon her. Though her heavy clothes blocked most of the sensations, a stray touch on her bare face or neck would bring misery.
“I am sorry I said anything, Mama, for truly it does not bother me.” Most of the time. “I am used to being…separate. It helps me with my work.” Yet it cut her off from so much of life. And caused her parents untold anguish. “I am grateful for my skills, especially when I can help someone.”
“As you did your papa. If not for your gift, you never would have been able to set his leg properly.”
Alys shuddered as she recalled that awful day when her father’s squire had come racing back from what should have been a routine ride with one of the young warhorses her father had been training. “Lord Gareth’s mount bolted and they both fell into a ravine,” the lad had shouted. A rescue party had been quickly mobilized. They’d arrived to find the beloved lord of Ransford laying at the bottom of the gulch, sprawled like a broken toy.
“Your gift is heaven-sent, I know,” her mother said. “But setting the bone was even more agonizing for you than it was for Gareth.” Again her eyes strayed to Alys’s hands.
“’Tis all right, Mama,” Alys said gently. Inside the thin gloves, her hands ached with remembered torment. “It is hurtful to touch someone who is sore wounded, as Papa was, but if not for my skill, I’d not have been able to align the bones perfectly so he could walk again.” She shook her head. “Better a few hours of pain then to see Papa a…” Cripple. She swallowed the word.
“You are so brave and uncomplaining, it humbles me.”
“I am not brave. If I were, I’d be out using my gift to help others instead of hiding away writing books.”
“But your books are a help, and the healing hurts you,” said her loving mama.
“That is beside the point.”
“Not to your papa and me.”
The pealing of the tower bell intruded before Alys could protest that her gift should be shared, no matter the pain or risk to herself.
“It is time for supper.” Arianna stood and shook the metal filings from her skirts, her expression troubled. “I know going to Newstead is important to you. Let me see if I can find a way.”
Alys leapt up, forcibly reminding herself not to hug her mother. “Perhaps when Papa sees the books he’ll understand. He prides himself on being a man of logic and learning.”
“So I reminded him when his leg kept him confined to bed and he raged like a caged bear. Gareth has yet to forgive me for threatening to tie him to the bed. For his own good. He did that once to your uncle Alex, when he was being stupid.” Their mood lightened as she recounted the incident. By the time they’d descended the two sets of stairs, they were smiling and laughing.
“You two are in a good mood,” her father remarked, limping from the shadows into a circle of torchlight at the foot of the stairs. Despite his sixty years, he was an active, vigorous man, his ruggedly handsome face tanned from hours outdoors working with the warhorses he raised. Pain flickered in his midnight-brown eyes, and he still leaned heavily on a cane, but his steps were surer every day.
Needing to make some kind of a connection with him, Alys risked touching his arm. Through the rich velvet of his tunic, she felt iron-hard muscles and a surge of love so strong it nearly made her weep. Drawing back, she asked, “How are you?”
“Up and about, thanks be to your sacrifice.”
“I was glad to do it, Papa.”
“Still, it was not easy,” he muttered. When they reached the great hall, he added, “I hope you do not mind a guest for dinner. The guard brought word that a Lord Ranulf de Crecy has come, begging entrance. He has a petition for me to hear.”
“Business?” Arianna grimaced. “Oh, Gareth, you are not yet healed and cannot ride off to settle some squabble.”
“The man wants a hearing. Which I am bound to give him.” As a justice of the king’s chancery court, the Earl of Winchester was often called upon to render judgment and mediate disputes between nobles.
Alys trailed unhappily after them as they slowly made their way across the rush-strewn floor to the high table. She’d not be able to propose her own plans to her father until he was done with this Lord Ranulf. Fuming inwardly, she took the seat beside her mother and propped her chin on her hands.
Sunlight slanted in through the high windows of the long, stately room, the shimmering rays bent into a dozen colors by the costly leaded glass. Bands of light fell on the brilliant tapestries depicting the triumphs of generations of Sommervilles. There had been many in the years since the first Lord Sommerville helped William of Normandy conquer England. Aye, her family had a proud heritage. The Sommerville men, and women, knew their minds and followed their hearts.
The bustle of activity in the hall caught her attention. A pair of brawny men in Sommerville livery were setting up extra trestle tables, while the maids scurried about placing manchet bread trenchers and cups at each place. Her father’s pages dodged through the throng with pitchers of wine and new ale. Ordinary as these tasks were, an air. of suppressed excitement hung on the air, along with smoke from the hearth and the scent of baking bread.
Oriel rushed up, her face flushed, her brown braids flying. She was the daughter of Ransford’s former housekeeper, Grizel, and had recently taken over her mother’s duties. “Do not fret, Lady Arianna, we’ve food aplenty for your noble guests.”
“I am not the least worried,” the countess replied. Which was probably the truth. Busy with her family and her smithing, Arianna paid little attention to domestic matters.
Alys looked over and caught her father smiling fondly at his wife. Ah, if only I might find someone like Papa. Someone who accepted me for what I am, she thought.
A commotion in the hall intruded. Ransford’s portly steward advanced down the aisle between the tables. In Edgar’s wake trailed a nobleman and a trio of roughlooking soldiers.
“Edgar’s joints must be paining him again, for his steps are halting. I shall give him some of that bryony salve to apply to his knees,” Alys whispered. “It may ease the stiffness.”
Her mother nodded. “That tall man must be Lord Ranulf. Is he not a most handsome man?”
That he was, tall and blond, with the regal bearing of one of her Papa’s warhorses. His close-fitting sapphire-blue cote-hardie emphasized the width of his shoulders and the fairness of his skin. If the quantity of jewels embroidering his tunic seemed a bit ostentatious, Alys was willing to overlook it, for he so resembled a statue come to life. The image of male perfection was marred somewhat by the stranger’s dark scowl and haughty glare.
When they reached the foot