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  It was her secret, so perfect and so wonderful that she saw no need at all to look at it. Simply knowing it was there was enough.

  It was the memory of that, and the ghost of its fragrance, that kept her breathing in chapel, and let her sing the psalms with the other novices when she might have been gasping and wheezing instead. Even after Sister Cecilia came back, she kept it in her heart, folded as close as the rose in the linen. It was a great comfort.

  On Martinmas eve, the Otherworld was closer than ever. Even the chapel seemed less grey, and Edith thought she saw a glimmer beyond it, like stars through fog. The scent of roses crept out of the box and surrounded Edith’s cot. The folk of air came drifting down to bathe in it.

  She was strangely restless. She endured her lessons with less patience than usual. Those with the novices seemed intolerably dull. Her hour with Sister Gunnhild was simply intolerable.

  The sky was heavy and weeping rain. Recreation today was in the cloister, for those who were minded to brave the damp and the cold. The less hardy stayed inside with lamps and candles and bits of lessons or needlework.

  Edith eluded both. They each thought she was with the other, which suited her very well. She slipped out through the cloister, running through a brief downpour of rain, and slipped and darted and slid and halted in sunlight.

  Warmth surrounded her. The scent of roses was dizzying. She shook mortal rain out of her gown. Where it fell on the grass, it turned to diamond and crystal.

  She laughed, because she could only be here for a little while, but while she was here she was free.

  Her laughter faded. Something was different. The sun was as bright as ever, and the air as warm, but it felt odd underneath.

  The peace of emptiness was gone. Things were moving, stirring. There were powers in this place, stronger and more solid than the folk of air.

  Much stronger. Much more solid. They were taking shape beyond the field of roses: tall people and fair, much fairer than any mortal could be. Even in the sun, they seemed to walk in moonlight and starlight. Their hair was long and shining, their faces white and cold and keen. Their eyes were like bright steel.

  Edith was not afraid of them. She supposed she should be. They knew she was there: they knew everything that happened in their country. But they did not mind. She belonged there, too, in a way.

  They were mounted on things like horses, if horses had fangs and clawed feet. They had swords and bows and heavy spears for hunting boar. Their hounds were as tall as ponies and as white as bone, with ears as red as blood.

  One of the pale riders cast a glace at Edith. There was a mount for her if she would take it. It was more like a horse than some of the others, and its eye was not quite as wild.

  As she reached for the rein, a firm and solid hand held her back. “Not yet,” said Cecilia. She bowed to the pale lord and said to him, “Her time is not yet come.”

  The pale lord frowned slightly, but he bowed, giving way to her will. She bowed back, as a queen would.

  The eerie hunt rode away. Edith stood forgotten. “That wasn’t fair,” she said.

  “That,” said Cecilia, “wasn’t safe. They were hunting the black boar that feeds on mortal flesh and drinks mortal blood. Maybe they were sharing power with you. Maybe they were thinking of a sacrifice. Blood of kings, child: you have plenty of that. It’s a potent magic.”

  “They didn’t want my blood,” Edith said.

  “How do you know they didn’t want your soul?”

  Edith opened her mouth to answer that, but the words would not come. She did not know anything.

  “You will,” Cecilia said with a sudden shift from stern to almost gentle. “Come now. A day will come when you can ride with them. Today you belong in the abbey. Since you walk so well between the worlds, I have a gift for you: a bit of magic. You’ll be warded when you come back. Then you’ll be safe from temptation.”

  “What if I don’t want to be?”

  “When you have the knowledge to judge that,” Cecilia said, “then you’ll be free to do as you please. Now come.”

  There was a power in the words, a twist of magic. Edith had no power in her to disobey.

  She thought about resenting it. But Cecilia had told her she would come back. She would have to be safer, that was all. She could understand that. Safe was good, if one was young and small and in great need of teaching.

  She would grow up. Maybe not fast enough to suit her, but it would happen. That was as sure as the shift from sun to rain, from immortal garden to mortal cloister.

  And when she was grown up—then things would be different. She would be much more powerful and much more wise. She would give the orders then, and lesser people would obey. Someday even, maybe, she would be a queen.

  PART TWO

  JUDGMENT anno domini 1093-1094

  CHAPTER 12

  The wind wuthered across the empty land. There was a raw edge to it. Along the crumbling stretch of the Roman wall, patches of winter’s snow still lingered.

  Most of William’s army had gone ahead to Carlisle. He had paused for a bit of hawking, trying the wings of a new gyrfalcon in this stark and forbidding country. The escort that rode with him was as hardy as he—he would not have kept the pack of them with him if they had not been—and as happily inclined to linger for a day or two, far away from the drudgery of the court.

  He had spent the past year getting Cumbria firm in hand. That was done and well enough. A bit of court in Carlisle, then back to the south for another round of convincing fractious barons that he was, indeed, king.

  There was never any end to that. He had seen it with his father, and every higher lord had to keep his vassals from erupting into revolt. It was the way of the world. A king never got to plant his backside on a throne and just sit. He had to keep fighting for it.

  William grinned into the teeth of the wind. Kingship had turned out to suit him well. Once he was crowned, somewhat to his surprise, the Otherworld had let him be. Even his sister Cecilia had refrained from troubling him with what she perceived to be his less public duties.

  Lanfranc had been less circumspect, but he had died soon enough. He had been in his tomb for four years now. William had never quite got round to filling his archbishopric, which was a constant vexation to the bishops, not to mention the Pope; but it was restful in its way not to have that particular gadfly buzzing incessantly in his ear.

  There were other gadflies, to be sure, and plenty of troubles to occupy his mind and body, but taking all in all, he was quite satisfied to be king. And today, by God’s blessing, he was free to do as he pleased.

  They were riding down the line of the wall, on and beside the remains of the road that the legions had built. This was haunted country, full of the memories of old Rome. William had seen them marching as he rode, a shadow and a glimmer, and heard the distant tramping of booted feet.

  He was not afraid of the dead. The vigor of life was in his body, and his blood ran hot and strong. Half the men he rode with had warmed his bed at one time or another—all but the one who rode closest, whom he had never quite pushed to it.

  Robin FitzHaimo had made himself indispensable for many more reasons than that he happened to be part of the magical world. He was also notably gifted in the arts and skills of the world William preferred to live in. He had proved to be a good and loyal servant, a brave fighting man, and a surprisingly adept courtier.

  A king had to be most careful of his friendship. But William considered Robin a friend. He had ambition—he was a lord’s son, after all—but it did not blind him to either honor or loyalty.

  He was also a splendid rider and a skilled huntsman. Today he rode neck and neck with William at whatever pace the king chose, laughing the more, the faster and harder they went.

  They reined in as the sun touched the horizon, halting just below one of the castles that marked each mile of the wall. This one was more nearly intact than most: it still had a bit of roof, and the second story had not yet fall
en in. Hunters and shepherds must use it as William planned to do; there were marks of fire within, and spoor of sheep and horses.

  They had brought wood to burn, and gathered such of it as was to be had in this treeless country. By the fall of dusk, they had a rather pleasant camp made, with a fire burning and bread baking and a variety of wildfowl roasting on spits.

  It was a rare, cloudless evening, with a distinct touch of frost now that the sun had gone down. William felt the cold away from the fire, but it was more invigorating than not. He wrapped himself closer in his mantle and wandered out of the milecastle into the chill twilight.

  The legions were marching on the road below. Their faces were clearer in the gloom, the light of torches gleaming on their armor. Their cloaks were the color of blood.

  One or two looked up and saw William standing by the castle. Their eyes glittered, but none of them spoke. He bowed to them. They turned eyes front and marched onward into the gathering dark.

  The odor of roasting fowl made his mouth water. The men were laughing and singing, and Walter the jester was regaling them with wicked stories. Some of the squires were drunk already, and the wine had barely begun to go round.

  William was hungry and thirsty. But he lingered in the cold, while the stars came out in their legions. The moon was new tonight, a thin curve, sinking already toward the horizon.

  He was aware of the figure that stood watching him for a long while before it moved. If it was waiting for him to acknowledge it, it could wait until Judgment Day.

  Even the dead had less patience than William had when he chose. The dark shape glided forward. Light of stars and campfire never quite touched it, but William’s eyes needed neither to recognize the face. “Well, old man,” he said. “Getting round to haunting me at last?”

  The shade that had been Lanfranc sighed with the sound of wind in empty places. “There would be no need for that if you had got round to filling my place.”

  “Is that what you came for?” William shook his head. “I’d have thought you’d know better.”

  “I do know better,” Lanfranc said. “Greater powers than I will take care of that.”

  “Then it’s a social call, is it?” William wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and leaned against the wall. The dead had the unfortunate habit of draining heat from the air wherever they were—and there had been none here to begin with. He could feel his breath turning to ice in his beard.

  “I came to warn you,” said Lanfranc, “and to offer hope, if you will take it. You’ve eluded the gods’ justice for rather longer than you should. You’ve escaped your duty and played at being king. Like a child you’ve been heedless, and happy in it. That is about to end.”

  William thrust himself erect. The flash of temper warmed him remarkably. “Playing? Heedless? I’ve been fighting wars, herding barons, fending off my brothers, seeing to it that the kingdom gets richer rather than poorer while I’m king of it, and you dare to call me—”

  “You know what I am speaking of,” Lanfranc said, almost too soft to hear, but it cut William off. “The Old Things are struggling. With but three Guardians left, the strength of Britain is at a dangerous ebb. You must take up the reins of the other kingdom. You must be king in all respects.”

  “Why?” William demanded. “The Druids are dead and gone. If magic is fading, isn’t that the way of the world? This is a new age—a new kingdom. We bow to God and His Son, not the old forgotten gods.”

  Lanfranc sighed, a long exhalation of chill wind. “Do you think that God did not make Britain as well as the rest of the world? Or that magic was not of His making?”

  “The Church—” William began.

  “The Church is a mortal institution,” said the shade that in life had been the Archbishop of Canterbury, “and subject to the failings of mortal understanding.”

  “Which is a long-winded way of saying it’s a pack of fools.” William spat just past the shade’s shoulder. “I’ll grant you that. But I’m not turning wizard for you or any man, living or dead.”

  “You won’t do it for a man,” Lanfranc said.

  “Nor a woman, either,” said William. “No one will force it on me. I am what I am. This is the kingship I’m fit to take.”

  “Maybe so,” said Lanfranc, “but the gods care little for fitness and less for human desire. If you go on as you are, this land will die. You’ll rule a wasteland, wracked with sickness and famine.”

  “Plagues and bad crops are in God’s hand,” William said. “We can pray they won’t come on us, but they always do. They’re our lot in this world.”

  “Not like this,” Lanfranc said, each word distinct. “God will judge, my lord king. Have a care that you’re not found wanting.”

  William opened his mouth to answer that, but a sudden wind had caught the shade and scattered it, turning it to mist and starlight.

  Robin was standing in the doorway, wreathed in light and warmth. William reached for him with a hunger beyond words.

  Somewhat to his surprise, Robin let him. He was taller than William but lighter built, supple and strong, steel blade to William’s sturdy war-axe. After the cold breath of the dead, his living warmth was bliss.

  William was not thinking at all. He had forgotten cold, fear, even anger. All that was here was a deep kiss that tasted of wine, and strong arms clasping him, and eagerness at least the match of his.

  They slid together down the wall, unmindful of cold air or rough stone or half-frozen earth. Ghosts and spirits fluttered like moths toward the heat that radiated from them. Robin was like a hearthfire, a blaze of pure magic.

  This kind of magic, William could stomach—oh, easily. It had some use and purpose. There was a spell on him, he knew perfectly well. It asked nothing of him but this hour in this place. What happened before did not matter. What happened after was in the lap of the gods.

  Maybe Robin set out to take William by storm. William knew, none better, how to turn a battle to his own advantage. It was a fair fight, and a fair victory, too—on both sides.

  When they rode out in the morning, William had forgotten the apparition and its warnings. He only remembered what had come of it. He made no effort to hide the grin that kept breaking out, though he was careful not to aim it too obviously at Robin.

  They all knew. It would have been impossible not to, in those close quarters. But there was a courtesy among William’s familiars, an honor of silence. Just as old lovers learned not to play at jealousy with new ones, they all knew better than to draw attention to any particular alliance.

  There was a peculiar pleasure in circumspection, even out here in the wild. By evening they would be in Carlisle, in court where subtlety was an art and discretion a necessity.

  William caught himself anticipating it with pleasure. Tonight there would be a warm bed under a roof, and a whole night to continue what they had begun on the old Roman paving under the stars.

  Very far down in the depths of his memory, apprehension hovered. He took no notice of it. He had had a bad dream, that was all. Robin had roused him from it, and in more ways than one.

  “This is a dangerous game.”

  Robin lifted his head from the king’s breast. William was deep asleep. The fire had died; the room was cold. Robin drew the coverlet up over his bare shoulders.

  Even good English wool was poor defense against the breath of the dead. He looked up into Lanfranc’s shadowy face. “No more dangerous than yours,” he said, “my lord.”

  The late archbishop sat on a stool beside the royal bed. He still moved like the stiff old man he had been before he died, as if he could not bring himself to lose the habit. “This heedlessness has gone on long enough. Why do you encourage it?”

  William stirred and murmured. Robin slipped out of bed, reaching for the nearest covering, which was the king’s great cloak of crimson wool lined with vair. The touch of it on naked skin was cold, but it warmed quickly. He laid a Word on the king, which deepened his sleep, and stood over t
he shade on its stool. “Surely, my lord, you noticed while you were alive that this man takes very poorly to compulsion. Preach him a sermon and you will most certainly lose him. Whereas subtlety—”

  “Seduction is subtle?”

  Robin flushed. “That . . . simply happened. I wanted him to forget his anger at your preaching. It wasn’t supposed to—”

  “Was it not?”

  “No,” said Robin, biting off the word.

  “For six years,” said Lanfranc, “you kept your distance. You watched him dally with every pretty fool between Scotland and Provence. You maintained a most Christian and admirable restraint. And now that it is nearly too late, now that there is no hope for this kingdom unless he wakes to the truth, you give way intemperately to the body’s passion. Have you forgotten what you are? And what you are meant to do?”

  Robin’s back was stiff. “I have not forgotten.”

  “He may not forgive you,” the archbishop said, “if he comes to believe that you seduced his body in order to seduce his spirit.”

  “Will you tell him?” Robin demanded. He was too furious, almost, to speak.

  Lanfranc sighed. The ferocity had gone out of him, if not out of Robin. “You know I will not. But if he has an objection to sermons, what do you suppose he will think of seduction as a weapon?”

  “I’ll take the chance,” said Robin, “if it saves both him and the kingdom.”

  “Even if you lose him?”

  “Even so,” Robin said steadily.

  “I’ll pray for you,” Lanfranc said. He was already fading, melting into the grey light of dawn.

  Robin sank down where the shade had been sitting. With its passing the air was noticeably warmer, but Robin had begun to shudder. Even for one of his arts and powers, it was no easy thing to converse with the dead.