Lady Of Lyonsbridge

The look exchanged between Thomas and his lieutenant left no one in doubt that the insult was brotherly.

Alyce hesitated, uncertain. “Well, then. Perhaps we should try a fortune or two.”

Thomas had risen to his feet beside her. “Aye. Let’s see if we’re destined to have luckier futures than the little hares we’ve just devoured.”

It was nearly half an hour before things were made ready. Servants cleared away the trenchers as some of the men wandered off to refill their flagons of ale, while others sought privacy to relieve themselves of the drink they’d already consumed.

Finally the two master chairs were carried down and placed next to the big fireplace. Old Maeve was ushered into one, while the other remained empty.

Alyce gave a little clap of excitement and asked, “Who shall be first?”

There was a moment of silence, as none of the knights appeared eager to volunteer. Then old Maeve spoke, her voice crackly like the rustle of dry leaves. “’Tis your ladyship’s future I’ve come to tell. I saw it that night in the fire.” She lifted a bony finger and pointed to Thomas. “The night he came to me.”

Alyce suppressed a sudden shiver. She’d thought the fortune-telling would be amusing for the visiting knights, but she’d forgotten that occasionally Maeve’s prophecies told of ill fortune as well as good. And the old woman did have the gift. Everyone at Sherborne knew that.

“Aye, the lady Alyce,” Kenton exclaimed, and several of the rest of the men chorused their agreement.

Thomas looked at her, questioning. “Are you willing, milady? Or are you afraid of what your seer might foretell?”

Alyce was afraid, for some unknown reason. But she was not about to let Thomas Havilland know that. Stiffening her shoulders, she marched over to the chair opposite Maeve and sat down.

“How are you tonight, Maeve?” she asked.

The old woman blinked slowly, as if trying to focus her eyes. “The wolves howl at the moon.”

Alyce sighed. Calling old Maeve to the castle had probably not been a good idea. “There are no wolves, Maeve. Perhaps you hear the castle dogs fighting over the scraps.”

“’Tis a blood moon,” Maeve continued, without appearing to have heard Alyce’s words. “It tells of treachery and perhaps even death.” She closed her eyes. “Aye, death.”

Alyce straightened in her chair as a second shiver made its way the entire length of her back. With a nervous laugh, she looked up at Thomas, whose expression had grown sober. “’Tis the fortune-teller’s business to be dramatic.”

The music from the end of the hall had ceased as more visitors crowded around the fireplace to hear the exchange between the witch and the mistress of the castle. But Maeve appeared to have fallen asleep.

Alyce leaned over and touched her knee. “Maeve!”

The fortune-teller’s eyes opened and focused on Alyce again. “Don’t worry, lass. ’Tis not your death I see. ’Tis a man. He’s bathed in the blood of the moon.”

Kenton, standing at Thomas’s side, crossed himself and went down on one knee beside Maeve. “Is it one of us, good mistress? Can you tell us if ’tis one of the knights who’ve come to visit this place?”

She turned her head and squinted at him. “’Tis the lady of Sherborne’s fortune I saw in the fire that night. The blood moon rises for her.”

Alyce had grown pale. Thomas took a step over to her chair and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s a grim game you favor at Sherborne, Lady Alyce. Can’t you direct your woman to conjure up some pleasanter predictions?”

Several of the crowd nodded in agreement. Still on his knee, Kenton prompted, “Can you tell us of good fortune, mistress? Of love and children and—”

Maeve interrupted. “There can be no love for the lady Alyce until the blood moon claims its victim.”

Kenton frowned and turned to Alyce. “Do you know what she means, milady? Is this a local legend—this blood moon?”

“’Tis but an old woman’s ramblings,” Thomas said, his hand still on Alyce’s shoulder.

Alyce had heard no such legend, and agreed with Thomas that the idea sounded fanciful. She would rather hear from Maeve about something more real to her and more imminent. “Maeve, what more did you see in my future? Can you tell me—will I soon be married against my will?”

Maeve’s eyes had once again grown unfocused. “Aye. Within a twelvemonth you will be betrothed to the king’s choice.”

Alyce stiffened. It was the fate she’d been anticipating for this past year, but hearing Maeve confirm it was painful.

“Is it her husband, then?” Kenton asked. “Is he the one of the treachery and death?”

But Maeve seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. “The wolves will howl,” she said slowly. “The wolves will howl as the blood moon claims its victim.”

By now nearly everyone in the room had grown sober at the old woman’s eerie tone and grisly words. Maeve was rocking back and forth in her seat and had begun to mutter in some kind of language that no one could understand.

Fredrick, Alfred’s grandson, made his way through the crowd. “She’s gone into one of her spells, milady,” he told Alyce, with a little bow of respect. “She’s like to be that way for several hours. I should take her back to the village.”