Part 22 (1/2)

”And your hair is all ascatter.”

”The sigil is too heavy to hold.”

”Not bone. Here, take my cloak.”

”But your protection?”

”Cloak, or no, if there is a lost soul about, it will find me. Tuck back your hair into the hood. You should have twisted it into plaits.”

'I don't know how.” Catching Ulrich's bestartled gape, she merely shrugged. ”Lady's maid.”

And though Ulrich muttered something like ”spoiled fairy princess,” she ignored him.

”One must be ever alert for thieves, brigands or worse-your fellow countrymen,” he instructed. ”You are far too pretty not to draw attention.” He clicked a sound to Fancy and they were off.

Pretty? The compliment lit a sizzle in Gossamyr's breast. He thought her pretty? Proved almost as favorable as exotic.

They were allowed entrance through the gates at the Porte St. Jacques with little more than a question of their intentions. Come to visit relatives was Ulrich's cool reply. His sister was to cook for his ailing uncle. (Much better than the excuse of luna-touched, Gossamyr thought.) And not a moment too soon, for the sun had fallen behind the horizon and the pale scythe moon was beginning to glow in the gray sky. Heavy chains were laced across the iron-studded pine gate, keeping out all until morn.

Leading Fancy away from the gate and toward a tavern that bustled with shouts and feminine calls, Ulrich made to hand the staff over to Gossamyr, but she pa.s.sed him by.

”There be a postern gate to pa.s.s through before the Sorbonne,” he said.

”How many gates?”

”Just the next one. It may already be closed for the night. I wager there are no rooms between here and there,”he called ahead, sensing she did not care. He had decided Gossamyr would curl up and sleep at the base of a tree should it be necessary. She was a woman of the earth, forged of the land. He wondered how she would fare in the big city of Paris. She did carry no sword or dagger. Though this big stick served her well, and those spinny things did lodge quite neatly into a man's skull.

So he had revealed himself complete to the half faery. She had not condemned, nor had she commiserated. Yet they had stood there holding hands. A simple act swollen with promise.

Did she fancy him as he had begun to fancy her?

Had he no fealty to Lydia? The bruise on his cheek yet ached. He could not fault his wife's fears. Had he loved Lydia? Or was it as he'd explained to Gossamyr-the first time he'd witnessed Lydia's indifference to Rhiana his love had only grown for the child. So much he'd given to love a woman who no longer appealed to him. Lydia's refusal to see the joy and innocence of her own child had troubled him. He did not know her suffering, but indeed, it had cooled his ardor for her.

And now he had found another who stirred his desires. He was old enough to be Gossamyr's sire. Or should be. He still felt a man of six and twenty. The Dance had not aged his body or his mind. Should not his desires remain young?

Or did he simply replace his innate need for the feminine with whatever was to hand? He had never denied himself the simple pleasures, nor his love for sparkly things. Pity, the rogue faery did no longer twinkle.

”Be you hungry?” she called as she tripped ahead along the cobblestones. ”I could consume an entire rabbit, and the ears to boot. Do hobble the horse, Ulrich.”

”Do hobble the horse, Ulrich,” he mimicked at her retreating back. Attractive, yet bossy. She sauntered off in search of said rabbit. ”What am I, a servant?”

Ulrich quickly hobbled Fancy to a hitching post and rushed after the half faery into the smoky ill-lit darkness of a rousing tavern. The place was round in shape and filled to the curves with all sorts of men, wench and even a child or two. He choked at the haze of humanity and soot clouding the air. But it did smell delicious- lamb, no mistaking.

Rubbing his palms together in hopes of some fine belly-timber, he picked out a flash of pale hair. Faery hair.

A lone woman in rumpled undergarment parted the crowd to lift a tankard of ale would startle more than a few, yet Gossamyr mastered the room within minutes. Shouts settled to grunts and soon the entire tavern stood around the rumpled and uncoiffed visitor.

Feeling the air verily harden about him, Ulrich sensed this was not a good silence. He also knew Gossamyr had as little clue she was the item of interest as she had known what she was doing earlier when she'd stroked her fingers through his hair. Pity she had the instincts of a faery, swift and deadly, but mute to human intention.

Looking about, Ulrich noted he was relatively ignored. All eyes were on Gossamyr, pale strands of her hair hanging messily over her shoulders. So pretty. So...naive.

King Henry's coat of arms, bearing the Tudor rose, was displayed on more than a few tabards. Englishmen.

”Not bone.”

Now, to grab the girl and run, or figure a way out? Ulrich scanned the room, his eyes falling on the beams overhead.

Warm ale served in a dirty cup. Oh, but this was splendid. Refres.h.i.+ng after their evening lingering outside the gates to Paris, her nerves heightened for fear of the unknown mortal forces that savored a dangerous match more deadly than a herd of bogies. Behind her, meat sizzled on a spit, and her mouth watered to test such fare for it smelled delicious. Not rabbit, but her hollow belly would not protest.

Drawing away the pewter tankard from her lips, Gossamyr looked up to the circle of dark and weary eyes. The room had silenced and all looked upon her. What? Was she dribbling?

”Sister.” A man a full head taller than she stepped forth from the line of gawkers, his meaty hands at his hips where she a.s.sessed a dagger on one side, and at the other, a leather-wrapped mace. ”We don't often see a woman of your calling in our humble inn. And drinking so heartily.”

Gossamyr peered into the tankard of p.i.s.s-warm dregs. Did not nuns consume ale? Surely mead was hard to come by in this mortal realm.

A thick scar gashed her inquirer's cheek. A gouge of flesh had long been removed from the curve of his right ear. Both wounds looked recent, for remnants of dried blood crusted his flesh. Straight black hair cut in a bowl shape exposed pale skin where the sun had not touched. The arms on his tabard were dirty and streaked with brown blood. A rose decorated the sinister half of his coat of arms.

Do not travel the sinister curve! Always Mince had preached against Gossamyr traveling the sinister to the Spiral marketplace. And the one time she had taken it? Carriage door flying open, and her body springing free, she'd almost fallen to her death.

Feeling a prinkle of discomfort ride her spine-an imminent fall?- Gossamyr straightened her shoulders. Thick trails of her hair clumped upon her shoulders; the cloak hood had slipped from her head. Not bone. Ulrich had fastened her staff to Fancy's flank. Outside. So eager had she been to quench her thirst, she'd merely strolled right in, blind to defense. Disenchantment had softened her prowess.

Not bone at all.

Now the glint of all manner of weapon, from sword to dagger to the ugly mace and even a deadly curved scimitar, appeared from sheath and in hand. s.h.i.+nn would remand her for her half wits. Were these the bloodthirsty Armagnacs or the English?

”Bit of hard times come to you, Sister?” Her tormentor lifted her loose hair with the tip of his grease-s.h.i.+ned dagger.

”Er...G.o.d grant you a good eve,” she said, and bowing shortly, backed up. Only to discover the half curve of men's faces was, in reality, a circle that surrounded her. Torchlight flickered in admonis.h.i.+ng licks. She scanned the crowd, finding no gentility in the dark, greedy eyes, only a hard curiosity. Mayhap even l.u.s.t. A foul look that had not a morsel of love in the glinting pupils. ”Er, may your G.o.d look upon you with faith?”

The tickle of a sword tip lifting her gown at her ankle alerted.

But not to action. She could yet leave this establishment as peacefully as she had entered. Her peripheral view took in the whispers of two wenches who sat upon a nearby rough-hewn wood table, their heads pressed together in shared whispers and their bosoms exposed in jiggling display.

”The lady wears no shoes,” a man behind her commented.

”Indeed, hard times.” The man with the mace tilted his head in question. ”Doesn't seem right, a nun all alone, without protection.”

Gripping the wood cross dangling about her neck, Gossamyr thought to seek out Ulrich, but did not. Unnecessary to endanger him. If he were lost in the crowd then more the better. Someone had to guard the alicorn.

”I can protect myself, monsieur. Now, if you please, I will be leaving.”

She turned, ultra-aware the man with the mace stepped closer behind her. Before her loomed yet another wall of man. A scar cleaved his cheek into a crater and his right eye was but a white marble.

Danger. How she did enjoy the prinkle it rippled up her spine. But she would not smile, no, that would only provoke.

”Step aside,” she said firmly.

”The woman demands Sir John Ca.s.son, lieutenant of His Highness's royal army, step aside?”

Giggles from the women sprinkled over the silence like mischievously spread faery dust.