Immortal Warrior (42 page)

The sun broke the horizon and the first rays of light fell across the yard. The men holding Ivo tensed; their fingers bit into his arms. The great barons crowded forward, avidly searching for the first sign of beak or talon.

The moment passed with no pain, and Ivo’s heart began to race with hope. Disappointment filled the barons’ faces. Neville shifted uneasily. The sunlight crept toward Ivo, touched him, made him dizzy with the warmth and brightness.

“You see, Your Grace.” Alaida pushed through the barons to bring Beatrice to Ivo, and the sun traced her cheek and then the babe’s, and it was all he could do to breathe. “There is no eagle except in Neville’s foul imagination. This is the third time he has made trouble here, all because I refused his suit and waited for you to give my hand as was your right.”

“Is that what this is about, fitz Hubert?”

“No, Sire. No. I saw him change. I swear I did. This is some trick. He’s an eagle. An eagle, I tell you.”

“An eagle. God’s wounds, man, I cannot believe I let you waste my time on this. Get him out of here,” snapped William. Oswald and Penda rushed forward to oblige. “In fact, get him out of England. That traitorous brother of mine needs more men to go with him to Jerusalem. With luck the Saracens will rid us of both of them. Sir Neville, you are taking the Cross this very morning. Take him to the chapel so he may make his vow.”

A cheer rose from where the Alnwick men were gathered. The two knights released Ivo and took charge of Neville, dragging him off toward the chapel.

“You’re a fortunate man, de Vassy,” said William, “to have a wife with such faith in you and such a tongue to use on your behalf.”

“I have been grateful for both every day since you chose her for me, Your Grace.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I reward her for it. What would you have, Lady Alaida?”

“You know what I want, Your Grace, from the petitions I have sent you. One each month for the last year?”

“Aye. You pester me worse than the pope. I will send word to Windsor, and if your grandfather and uncle will swear homage and convince me they mean it this time, you may have their freedom.”

Glowing, she dropped in deep courtesy. “Thank you, my liege.”

“Yes. Well.” William turned to go inside. “I’ll want to look at that tower I paid for, de Vassy, after I break my fast.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Geoffrey summoned the Alnwick men to see to the king and his men, and with a sigh, Ivo wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter. Half sobbing, half laughing, Alaida reached up and ruffled his hair. “See? I told you. I told you.”

They stood there a long while, just holding each other, while men and animals moved around them. After a time, Tom cleared his throat. “Look, my lord.”

Above the distant woods, gray smoke billowed into the morning sky. Alaida’s voice caught. “Merewyn’s cottage.”

“Her funeral pyre,” murmured Ivo. “They will think she died in the flames. Never say otherwise.”

“No, my lord,” said Tom, then, “Look. Sir Ari.”

Ari came whipping across the field and through the gate at full gallop, threw himself off Tom’s horse, and ran for Ivo. He skidded to a stop, staring as if he didn’t believe what he saw, his eyes brimming with tears.

“You did it,” he said. “You did it. We can break it.”

“Aye,” said Ivo. “We can.”

“There’s so much . . . The visions. I’m sorry . . .”

“They were Cwen’s doing, my friend. Part of her plan.” Ivo gripped Ari’s shoulders and gave him a hard look, then pulled him close for a quick hug. “The king’s here, and all his men. We’ll have to talk later.”

“By the gods, will we talk!” Ari said in Norse. He switched to French and motioned for Tom to follow, “Come, Squire. I think you know something about my stolen horse.”

Ivo squinted down at Alaida, his eyes still unused to the glory of the sun on her face. “What is that smile about?”

“You and Ari. I’ve never seen you together. ’Twill be strange, having you around all day.”

“Aye. Will you like it?”

“God’s knees, husband, must you ask?” She threw her head back in laughter that was still half-filled with tears, and her headrail slipped to let the sun touch her hair. It blazed with copper fire, brighter even than in Ivo’s imaginings, so bright he had to close his eyes against the incredible beauty of it.

When he dared open them again, her face had gone serious. “Promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

She smiled, that woman’s smile that made him glad he was a man, full of heat and promise. “That the nights will not change.”

He pulled her close, silently promising the gods that he would honor them forever for this woman they had brought to save him. “On that, my lady wife, you have my vow.”

And he kissed her.

Brand stayed nearby, living in the woods as both man and bear to watch over the lord of Alnwick and his lady, until his friends’ passing. Then, armed with the knowledge of how to break the curse, he rode forth in search of his men and of the
fylgjur
that Cwen had hidden away, taking with him the raven who was his faithful friend, into the cold of winter.

 

A hawk screamed overhead, and Ari looked up from his parchment. “Pillocks.”

It was growing late. He blew softly across the ink to dry it as he read through the words he’d just traced. He nodded in satisfaction until he read the final word, when his gut clenched.

He hated winter, when the sun stayed in the sky so briefly and the nights dragged out. Winter left him so little time in each of these days of forever.

When the ink dried, he closed the book and fastened the straps. He broke the quill in two and let the breeze take it. The remaining ink, he simply spilled onto the ground. There was no point in saving either. He would simply make more the next time he could spare the time to write. Oak galls came cheaply in the forests of this cursed land, and quills . . . well, there were always quills.

Working quickly now, he checked the horses to make certain they were secure for Brand, then stripped out of his clothes, wrapped them around the book, and tied the bundle behind his saddle. With only moments left, he stepped to the edge of the ravine, where the final rays of the sun were strongest. He stood there, his bare skin absorbing the thin warmth, his heart pounding faster and faster as the pain hit, his arms growing lighter, stronger, longer.

How he loved the sun. It was the last thought that flashed through his mind before he stepped into the air and soared off over the trees, a raven, black as the night into which he flew.

HISTORICAL NOTES

Alnwick Castle (pronounced AH-nik) still stands, serving as the ancestral home of the Dukes of Northumberland. Its large, flat bailey is known from the Harry Potter movies as the place where Hogwarts students learn to fly their brooms. The old well still sits in the courtyard of the keep, and the standing stone still perches on the high ground northwest of the castle—though without visible carvings.

Ivo de Vassy (or de Vesci) was a real man, a Norman lord who was given Alnwick and its lady—possibly named Alda—by King William II after the previous owner was captured in the 1095 uprising. Little is known about Ivo, other than that he built the first castle at Alnwick, had a daughter named Beatrice, and died sometime around 1133. His descendants through Beatrice held Alnwick for some two hundred years, and his greatgrandson, Eustace de Vesci, was a Magna Carta surety baron. The de Vesci name still survives in England today.

For all that, no one is quite certain where Ivo came from. Despite much hopeful supposition posted on Internet genealogy sites, historians currently believe that he is
not
the same Ivo de Vesci who rode with the Conqueror.

But then again, historians don’t know about Cwen.

For more history and a chance to win a reproduction
fylgja
amulet similar to Ivo’s, visit:
www.lisahendrix.com
.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My deep gratitude goes to the devoted webmasters of the many Internet sites I consulted in the writing of
Immortal Warrior
. Their dedication, coding skills, and love of the arcane made my midnight searches for that one crucial fact I needed to complete a scene both possible and fruitful. In particular, I would like to thank the Viking Answer Lady, the Jomsborg Vikings Hird web-site, the reenactors and historians of the Society for Creative Anachronism (US) and Regia Anglorum (UK), and most especially Fordham University’s Internet Medieval Sourcebook, where I found the model for the marriage contract, as translated from a 984 A.D. Burgundian document by Dr. Paul Hyams of Cornell University.

And although the Google Books project generates much controversy in publishing circles, its archiving of out-of-print, out-of-copyright books made it possible for me to discover
The History of the Borough, Castle, and Barony of Alnwick
by George Tate (1866, digitized 2007), which I never would have been able to obtain through my local library.

In addition, the usual culprits made this books possible: my husband and children; my good friend and brainstorming pal, Sheila Roberts; my wonderful agent, Helen Breitwieser; and my insightful ( and correct!) editor, Kate Seaver. My thanks and love to each of you.

Finally, a special shout-out goes to my critique partner and no-punches-pulled male viewpoint checker, the extraordinary and slightly off-center R. Scott Shanks, Jr. Praise and contracts be heaped upon you.

 

Lisa Hendrix