Holiday Defenders. Debby Giusti

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      Chapter One

      The woman who lay upon the cushions of the gently swaying litter was asleep. Beside her, a slumbering maid snored softly into the still air as if even in sleep she could not stand to be silent. Outside, the steady clatter of horses’ hooves, the occasional deep drone of a man’s voice, the clang of armaments jostling as their bearers traveled over rough terrain all blended together and filled the air with a busy, hushed din that was somehow soothing. It was this and the rocking motion that had lulled the lovely young woman after three days and nights of anxiety-filled wakefulness.

      Her eyes flew open and she sat up.

      The dream had come again.

      Glancing about, she blinked until sleep released its hold and she recognized where she was. A sigh that was more resignation than relief stole some of her tension as she lay back again and placed a limp wrist over her forehead to push the wisps of golden curls away.

      As horrid as her sleep had been, the world unchanged upon waking was no better. They were set to end this day at Gastonbury, the fortress home of her cousin’s husband.

      Gastonbury. She shivered. She had heard tell of Lucien de Montregnier, a dark and fearsome lord who had conquered the lands in a sweeping campaign of vengeance and taken her cousin, Alayna of Avenford, to wife. The thought of such a man, mingled with her other fears, set her to nibbling on her fingernail.

      In truth, it was not so much Gastonbury, or even its fierce lord, that sparked her dread as what lay after the visit to her kinswoman. Berendsfore Manor. Sir Robert, and her one, greatest fear.

      Which brought to mind her dream. Or was it a memory? She never really knew for certain, and the wondering preoccupied her to madness.

      It had begun, as it so often did, with the deceptively mild realization that she was in her bed at Hallscroft, her home since she was a child. In the dream, she was but a girl of ten and two. She could detect the soft smell of rain and wood fires that wafted in through the window. A band of moonlight fell across the pale carpet of rushes. It was so real, she often wondered upon waking how it was that each sensation had felt so vibrant, each perception clear and acute.

      When the woman entered, she was only a shadow, but her scent was familiar and beloved. Soft contentment drifted over her at the woman’s presence. The faint touch of fingertips at her brow, then along her cheek, felt like cool silk.

      “Beautiful Rosamund,” the woman whispered, and Rosamund reveled in her mother’s love.

      Then she spoke again and the words that came across the years, borne upon the wings of memory and given breath in the netherworld of sleep, were just beyond Rosamund’s comprehension. She saw her mother’s lips move, heard sounds come forth, but could not understand.

      Her mother stood and turned, her profile jarring. The protrusion of her belly was evident now, with the moonlight behind her. Her slender, delicate mother thus encumbered had been strange and somehow disturbing to Rosamund, as though she had known at the advent of her mother’s pregnancy that the visible advances in the woman’s condition would bring them both closer to loss.

      Going to the window, her mother had spread her arms. She set herself adrift on the air. She was flying. The world fell away, and Rosamund knew this was no beautiful soaring of the falcon. Her mother’s hair, so like Rosamund’s own, floated and she smiled, turning her face away from the tormented visage of her little daughter and into the death before her.

      Rosamund screamed, but no sound came forth. No tears came though she wanted to weep. She reached for her mother but her limbs refused to obey her will.

      She always awakened with a bilious sob caught in her throat.

      The wretched dream came often these days to haunt her with its truths and lies, fed by the terror of her own fearful destiny.

      She was hot. Sweat glistened on her brow and made her hands clammy. The draperies of the litter were drawn against the dust of the road, blocking out the cool breezes that heralded the waning of summer. The air was so thick in the dim interior of the horse-drawn conveyance, she could scarcely breathe. She smoothed the pale blue material of her surcoat absently.

      “Up ahead,” someone outside called, and the litter slowed.

      “What? Who? Have we arrived?” Hilde inquired, opening her eyes. “Is this Gastonbury?” The maid stretched out her toes, extending her chubby legs in front of her. “I am starving. No doubt your cousin shall have a great repast for your reception.” She all but clapped her hands together and rubbed.

      “How can you think of eating?” Rosamund’s irritability went unnoticed. Of course, no one would heed if she were screaming like a madwoman and tearing at her hair.

      “Oh!” Hilde cried as they lurched forward. Branches ruffled the curtains on either side of them, poking through the slits as if sticking their heads in for a brief greeting.

      “It must be a narrow part of the road, or a pass,” Rosamund explained. She hid her growing tension.

      The litter drew to a stop.

      “What is it?” Hilde wondered, pulling back a corner of the draperies.

      Rosamund peered over her shoulder. “Nothing out there. Only trees, Hilde, as we have seen every day.”

      Then a dark realization came over her. The sounds. The men talking, the movement of the horses—they had ceased altogether.

      “Mayhap we have come upon some barrier,” Rosamund suggested brightly to fight the threat that seemed to pulse in the very air. “An unforged stream, possibly. Or a bridge toll to be paid.”

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