A Glimmering Girl (8 page)

Ross’s squire looked for permission to comply. Upon receiving the nod, he was off like a hound after a rabbit, a seventeen-year-old tower of muscle and bone pushing through the revelers covering the ship’s deck.

“You have a quick squire there, Ross,” Sarumen said.

“Braedon’s a good loyal lad,” Ross said. “A mere boy when he left Tintagos in search of glory. I had to save his life one or two times at first, but he’s repaid the favor.”

“Loyalty is worth more than gold,” Sarumen said. “I know I value yours.”

“To loyalty then.” Ross lifted the last of his ale in salute, but the words stuck in his throat.

How loyal a son had he been, going off in search of his own glory? How loyal had he been to his house, such as it was, comprised only of himself and his father? He should have married and left an heir in Tintagos.

It had been a heady time, with no thought that he might not return.

Nearly four years ago, Lord Sarumen had arrived at Tintagos Castle and recruited him to join a crusade to the holy lands. In the open air of the castle keep, and by his own sword, Sarumen had bestowed the knighthood.

All the Tintagos household and the tradesmen of the keep had looked on that day with pride, and Ross had gone down on one knee with his heart full. But when he arose, Sir Ross of Tintagos, his father’s face had been a stoic mask of disappointment.

As if he’d read Ross’s mind, Lord Sarumen now said, “The baron will appreciate the man you’ve become, Ross, a knight noble and true.”

“But can he forgive my leaving without his blessing?”

“If you had a son, you wouldn’t have to ask,” Sarumen said. “I’m sure Lord Tintagos prays daily for your safe return.”

“I don’t regret these past years,” Ross said truthfully. Despite all the pointless violence and death, there had also been growth, self-discovery, and discovery of a greater world he would never have otherwise known. “But now I only wish never to leave Tintagos again.”

Sarumen chuckled. “As I said, Ross, you have matured.”

“My lord, you’ve been a good mentor. And I…” Ross caught himself. He’d been about to thank Sarumen for his guidance and patronage, but it was a quirk of the earl to chafe at being thanked. He disdained mere words of gratitude, rather preferring to see proof of it. Instead Ross said, “And I am in your debt.”

A commotion at the gangway saved Sarumen from having to respond, muffled yelling followed by jeers and mocking laughter. Braedon broke through, carrying the ale.

“What was it, lad?” Ross said. “Did they begrudge you that cask under your arm?”

“It was the monks, Sir Ross,” Braedon said. “They were coming up the gangway, but the man ’o the watch said there was no room and told them to go away. Their head priest begged to give the ship its blessing for the journey, but the watchman turned him off anyway. Said the
White Lady
was the newest and fastest ship on the seas and didn’t need…” Braedon’s cheeks reddened. “Didn’t need God’s permission to go anywhere.

“Blasphemy,” Sarumen barked under his breath.

Unease snaked through Ross’s insides, but he dismissed the feeling as habit, superstition. In truth he agreed with the watchman. God’s blessings and permissions hadn’t saved his fellow crusaders. “The crew would do better to appease Aeolios—if the god of wind can hear them above this noise.”

Braedon crossed himself.

The earl softened. He pretended not to notice Ross’s own blasphemy and turned to Braedon. “Pour one for yourself, squire,”

“Aye, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” The lad hadn’t touched a drop all night, and he quickly downed a tankard of ale. He must have been waiting for a by-your-leave.

Ross stretched his long legs under the table. He let go an involuntary yawn, and the crescent moon low on the horizon caught his eye. How long had it been night? He hadn’t realized how tired he was.

“Braedon, when you’ve finished your ale, go to the
Vengeance
and assure that our belongings are secured aboard. I’ll be there soon.” The
Vengeance
was older and slower than the
White Lady,
but it was to head west on a direct course for Dumnos. Ross was glad to avoid the London court altogether.

He leaned toward Sarumen and lowered his voice. “Why did you not sail with the king, my lord? Surely he wanted you by his side.”

“I’m traveling with the
White Lady.
” It was amazing how Sarumen could roll duty and disdain off his tongue together. “I fear for Aethelos’s safety. Fitstevos is a reckless buffoon. He was given this command only as a favor to his father.”

“Do you think it wise, my lord?” Ross said. “I fear for
your
safety with this drunken crew.”

“I promised the king I’d watch over his only legitimate son,” Sarumen said. “The young man is so pampered he seems destined to be food for the fire, but he
is
our future monarch. My safety is nothing compared to his. With no sure heir, the kingdom would descend into anarchy.”

It sounded impossible. All Ross’s life there had been a Norman king on the throne. “Who would be king then? Would there even be a king of all England?”

“There will always be a king of England. All England.”

And Dumnos will always long to be free of him.

“But I appreciate your concern.” Sarumen gave Ross a wry look that would nearly do for a smile. “We may not see each other for a time. You should know I’ve petitioned Henry to raise you up. Make you duke of Dunhevos or baron of Bodmin or some such.”

“My lord, I hardly think—”

“I’ll hear none of that,” Sarumen said. “This isn’t charity, Ross. You proved capable and true where it mattered. Henry needs men like you among his lords. Men with wits as well as blades to keep Dumnos within the realm and champion the true faith.”

“If you would honor me, then honor my father,” Ross said. “Elevate him.”

“A wise answer,” Sarumen said. “You’ll make a good lord yet, Sir Ross of Tintagos.”

Ross wanted that. He wanted to be a good lord, when the time came, but in his own home, his own family’s lands. Not in Bodmin or Dunhevos. He wanted nothing to do with politics and intrigues. He planned to reconcile with his father, marry a girl he liked, and raise a passel of fat sheep and scrapping children. If he never saw Sarumen again—or London, for that matter, or any king or king’s son—he’d call it good.

“Hold, there! What are you doing above deck?” The officer of the watch on the
Vengeance
sounded pleased to have stumbled upon someone to bother. “No passengers—oh.”

“I’m just taking the air,” Ross said.

The early morning light was faint, but the watchman’s discomfort showed, his surly nod resentfully given. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord.”

“Yes, my—yes, sir.”

“Don’t be concerned about me,” Ross said. “I’ll stay out of the way.”

There was no sleeping below where the stench of crew and cargo was no respecter of walls. Ocean breezes made the deck a much pleasanter place. Ross leaned against the rail and drew the cold salt air into his lungs. The stars were going out, and the distant shore was a black silhouette against the morning sky.

They were barely underway, less than half an hour out from Barfleur and still close to the Normandum coast, but he was going home at last. His heart was heavy with longing—longing to see his father, his country, even to see Rozenwyn.

Now, here on the deck of the
Vengeance
, away from Sarumen and all Norman schemes, he could admit some things to himself. His eyes were dead tired of the holy land’s dry landscapes. His soul was starved for the green hills of his own country, Dumnos, land of mist and rain.

He was sick of war, sick of fighting, sick of death. Lord Sarumen appeared satisfied with their crusade, but to Ross’s mind it had been a disaster. So many men lost to senseless killing. So many more to disease or putrefaction. So much loss. Evil done in the name of good. Ross was thirty years old, and he felt ninety.

He’d lost his faith. He had no real religion. He’d certainly lost his innocence.

The holy land itself was a lie—not the monolithic bastion of depravity told of in song and saga. The East boasted intellectual curiosity and amazing beauty, if a different beauty than that of the West. Mystical art and practical inventions—like the one he carried in his cloak’s pocket.

Not long now, Rozenwyn
.

Ross could no longer see clearly the young woman he’d left behind. She had brown hair and hazel eyes. She was short. He’d known her but three years, from the time her father came to Tintagos Castle to serve his father. Ross hadn’t thought to have Rozenwyn’s picture made, and after years of other faces, hers was no longer available to his memory.

She’d wanted to marry, and he’d resisted because he didn’t love her. But she had the right to want marriage. She was a knight’s daughter and deserved the same respect as any lady—though she’d given him her virtue.

Still, it seemed unchivalrous to hold that against her.

He had told himself that his father would disapprove the match, that the baron would want a noble-born lady to bear his grandchildren. In truth, Lord Tintagos was more likely to object to the lack of love in the match than the lack of rank. Ross smiled at the thought. His father was an eccentric man.

That’s partly why Ross had gone with Sarumen, to put a great deal of space between himself and his eccentric father. Well, that had been achieved. And now he wanted to find his way back to the bond between father and son. He’d wanted his father to respect him, to appreciate him. Instead, he’d come to respect and appreciate his father.

But with or without Lord Tintagos’s blessing, if Rozenwyn still wanted him Ross would marry her. He still didn’t love her—not with the grand, passionate love his parents had had and that he’d always expected to find. But he had missed her good humor and her kindness. He had discovered while away from her that he liked her.

It seemed no small thing that a man should like his wife.

“Good morning, sir,” said his ever-cheerful squire.

“Braedon.” Ross turned away from the rail. “You couldn’t stand the smell either?”

“It’s bad down there.” The lad smiled shyly and ran a hand through his unruly brown curls. “Look, sir, the captain’s asked me a favor.”

“Is that so?”

“To plead with you to come away from the rail and go below.”

“Like hell. What, too afraid to ask me himself?”

“Aye, I believe so. He says it’s for your safety. He says the gale is getting worse, and—great gods!” Braedon stared past Ross, his face drained of color. “Sir, is that… it’s the
White Lady
!”

Ross spun around. “Great gods indeed.”

He shook his head. His eyes didn’t want to see what they saw: the fantastic
White Lady
, fastest ship on the seven seas, no expense spared, lodged on an eruption of black rock a quarter mile from shore.

Ross pulled out the device hidden in his cloak’s inner pocket. He was bringing home linens from Normandum, silks from Andalusia, and caskets of oil made from the fruit of a tree, but men would covet most the treasure he now held. The scoping glass brought distant objects close to the eye, as if they could be touched. He liked to keep the glass out of sight, but this need was too great.

The ship on the rock listed precariously. The drunken revelers of a few hours ago had gathered on deck, many stumbling and sliding into the waters.

“What do you see, sir?” Braedon said.

“Crewmen climbing up into the rigging. Nobles staggering about, falling into the sea, still drunk. One, two—I see three boats with survivors, one well away.” The boat farthest away from the
White Lady
carried but two men. “Damn them both for leaving so many—wait.” Ross recognized the men: Lord Sarumen and William Aethelos, the prince.

Thank God.

Sarumen had been right to get away fast. The two lifeboats still close to the ship weren’t going to make it. One capsized, pulled over by desperate souls in the water. It quickly filled and sank. In one movement, the crazed people changed direction and swam for the other boat.

“Tell Captain Raymond we need to turn about,” Ross said.

“There’s nothing we can do, Sir Ross.” The captain was already there, behind Ross. “The gale is too strong. I won’t lead the
Vengeance
to the same fate.”

This wind was strong but no gale. The captain was afraid of the rocks. “You won’t have to get near the
White Lady
to save the prince.” Ross dropped his arm. “Aethelos was on that ship, do you understand? The king’s only legitimate son.” 

“And I’m sorry for him, but there’s nothing to be done for it.”

“Did you hear me, man?” Ross said. “The king’s only legitimate son! If Aethelos dies, there’s no settled heir. The world will go to war over the crown.” Sun and moon, he was sick of war. “There’s no risk to the
Vengeance
. Aethelos and Lord Sarumen have made it off the
White Lady
. All you have to do is pick up their boat.”

“You can’t know it’s them. They’re too far away.”