Turning Tide [Winifred, The Dresden Files (tv-verse), PG]
Title: Turning Tide
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Winifred, Hrothbert
Prompt: 106. Not only are there as many conflicting truths as there are people to claim them; there are equally multitudinous and conflicting truths within the individual. -- Virgilia Peterson
Word Count: 3,717
Rating: PG
Summary: Plans and machinations are everywhere.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Sorceress. Witch. Harpy. Bandit's Bane. Raven's Wing. Demon.
She was known by many names throughout the Isles and she'd heard them all. Some were far less flattering than others but that was only to be expected. Both sorceress and warrior, she was a fierce protector or a formidable foe, depending on which side of the battle one stood. That she was born a maiden did not stop her from speaking her mind nor fighting for what she believed in. She was a strong woman living in a man's world. That in itself was enough to win her nearly as many enemies as allies.
Winifred pulled her woolen cloak tight, wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the chill of the sea breeze that cut across the cliff like a knife. She sometimes wondered what her mother's shade might say to her if given the chance. Could she see the passage of years from the afterlife? Did she know what her only child had once been and had now become? What she had done? Would it make her proud or cause her to turn away?
The Sorceress tilted her face to the cloudless blue sky and watched the gulls as they wheeled overhead. In the end, did it truly matter? When all was said and done, she was her own woman, self-made and secure in her place in the world. Her talent with Earth and Herb was legendary. There were tales that insisted that she could heal with a Touch or destroy mountains with a Word. They were exaggerations, of course, as were most bards' tales, but even Winifred had to admit that there was a kernel of fact to be had in all. It was true that she had once brought the side of a mountain down to stop a brigand horde from raiding her shire, burying them to a man. That had been a far easier feat than shielding the village from a creeping black pestilence that threatened to steal away innocent lives with agony and pain.
A lesser wizard jealous of her status once said that he had seen her name inscribed in the Book of Wardens as among those that bore watching, should ambition and power corrupt her. That the Council had mistaken confidence in her art for arrogance was both flattering and singularly annoying. In her younger years there might have been a time when she craved such things but not now. Not since that auspicious May Day two years before. It had done more than rock the countryside with astonishing magics and destroyed a fearsome foe; it had changed her -- heart and soul and flesh. He had changed her.
Turning her back to the sea, Winifred retrieved her basket of fresh cuttings and began to pick her way across the rocky ground. Stepping lightly over stone and bramble, she at last set foot on the deer path below the steep slope and started on the long walk home.
The roar of the surf was suddenly overpowered by the thunder of approaching hooves. Winifred paused and glanced over her shoulder, her frown hidden by windblown locks of raven-black hair.
"Hail and well met, Mistress!" called the rider, raising a leather-gloved hand in jovial greeting. "A lovely day for a stroll, if a bit chilly."
"It is that," she agreed, her expression shifting to one better suited for guarded pleasantries. "As to the chill, it is a brisk wind and lively. I can smell the Spring on it."
"Can you really?" said the Lord as he drew up beside her and looked down. "Your nose is better attuned to nature than mine, then. All I can smell is brine and rotting fish." He gave a little chuckle as he patted his stallion's sleek black mane. "And horse flesh."
"There is more kelp than fish on the wind, I think." And if there's anything that smells of rot it's your own soul, she added, but kept that thought to herself.
"Well, you would know, wouldn't you? Plants are your Gift." His intent was to flatter her but somehow the words came out sounding petulant and patronizing, even to his own ears. "Though I can't imagine there's any good use for green slime from the sea."
Because you have no imagination.
Aloud, she replied conversationally, "Then it would surprise you to know that seawrack is one of the most versatile ingredients in my medic basket. It also makes a flavorsome addition to beans and stew. You might ask your cook to try it some time."
"My cook may be talented but the fellow isn't nearly as open-minded as I am about experimenting with new fare." He leaned forward in his saddle, arms crossed upon a knee. "Why not come to the manor and show me yourself what wonders can be had?"
Winifred's expression and tone remained polite but her green eyes glittered with a hint of the disgust that she felt within. It was not the first time he had propositioned her with banality filled with double meaning.
"Why not come to the village instead and celebrate Ostara?" she countered with a smile, knowing that a public feast to celebrate the rebirth of Spring was hardly what the Lord had intended. "Indeed, the Elders would be honored by your presence. It has been some time since you attended a festival with your vassals."
"So it has." He offered her a smile that had been known to make lesser women swoon. But Winifred the Raven-haired was no doxie to be charmed and cast off. She was a temptress and vixen whose very visage made his blood boil with desire. "If I were to attend, would you consent to be my liaison for the day?"
"Certainly, my Lord DuMorne. We would be delighted."
His smile faltered. "We?"
"My consort and I," Winifred replied with feigned innocence. "That is what you meant, is it not? It's only proper, after all."
"Erm … yes, of course." The words were bile on his tongue. Indeed, the very thought of him soured the Lord's expression and tarnished his mood. "I will have to check my schedule, of course-"
"Of course."
"-but I will consider it." He gathered up the reins, the fingers within the expensive gloves white with the force of his grip. "Enjoy the rest of your stroll, Mistress."
"A good day to you, my Lord DuMorne." Like a queen dismissing a courtier, Winifred turned from him without so much as a second glance and continued on her way.
But oh, how she seethed inside!
Arrogant pig! Would he never get it through that dense skull of his that she was not some exotic pastry sitting upon a shelf waiting to be bought and savored? She might answer to the Council but she did not answer to him. If he ever overstepped his grounds and laid more than his eyes upon her, she might well be tempted to break the second Law and turn him into something far more attractive. A toad, perhaps, or a beetle.
Her annoyance lent speed to her steps, very nearly turning her leisurely walk into a brisk march. Fortunately, the afternoon was far too beautiful for her to remain angry for very long. Winifred allowed herself to become lost in the day, pausing along the path to add cuttings to her basket or simply to enjoy the sunlight on her face and the wind in her hair. Soon the barren hills and winter fields would be awash with colorful blooms and wild beauty. It was a joyful thought. She did so love this time of the year when everything was fresh and new again.
"You've a happy step to you, Lady," croaked a dry old voice. "More'n when ye left this morn."
Winifred smiled at the familiar old crone seated on a wooden stool in front of her hovel on the outermost edge of the village. She held a spindle of flax twirling, twirling, twirling between gnarled and calloused fingers.
"If there is a new spring to my step, Grandmother, it's because of the beauty of the day."
"I wouldn't know." The Old One squinted at the Sorceress with rheumy eyes nearly blind to sight yet surprisingly clear in their Vision. "There's a storm brewing."
"There isn't a cloud in the sky."
"That's not the storm I'm speaking of and well you know it." She jabbed an ancient finger upward, the yellowed nail as sharp as a talon. "Mark my words. That one's up to no good! You would do well to ware and ward!"
"I do not fear him. He is but one man and I have defeated many."
"He is a wolf in lamb's wool with blood on his claws." The Crone lowered her hand and grasped the spindle and thread once more. "Bah! No one listens any more. No one heeds the Old Ones."
"I hear you, Grandmother," said Winifred as she briefly laid a warm hand over a bony claw. "I am not blind nor am I deaf to your warning. Trust me when I say that it is a storm I have shored myself against. All will be well." She gently squeezed, offering reassurance. "In this I am not alone."
"Humph. Well … he's no prince either," grumped the Crone, refusing to be mollified.
"Nor does he wish to be."
"Arrogant, that one. Too powerful for his tights." She tugged her hand away, fumbling once more for her spinning wool.
"Never you mind his tights," said Winifred with amusement. "You've had your men, Old One, and sons and daughters enough to show for it! It's time you let the rest of us have a chance at the field."
The Crone chuckled, a dry parchment sound. "Can't be blamin' me for trying."
"Never." Winifred bestowed a quick kiss upon the wiry wisps of thin grey hair. "A good afternoon to you, Grandmother."
"And you, Lady." The Crone slowly turned her head to 'watch' with blind, insightful eyes as the sorceress passed.
Winifred continued unchallenged through the little hamlet on the way to her own modest dwelling. It was well past mid-day when most men would be out preparing the fields for the first planting or in their workshops, toiling over crafts and wares to be sold at the coming festival. There had been a time not so long ago when the very sight of her would have caused the villagers to flee from her path, darting into homes and businesses to watch her passage through shutter slats or around door jams.
That had been before the arrival of the brigands who had tried to burn their homes and lay waste to the fields. Tried and failed; thirty fighting men bested and repelled by a single woman with an iron will and a staff carved from oak and ash and thorn.
Oddly enough, it wasn't her wielding of thunderous earth magics in an attempt to protect them that eventually won the hearts and minds of the villagers. Rather, it was her art in the herbs and potions of healing and comfort. When the black pestilence began to steal away lives with its withering sickness, every man, woman, and child learned firsthand that the proud and terrible Sorceress in their midst had a gentle touch and a soothing voice that could ease the sick and coax the dying back to health.
In the end, they adopted her. Winifred the Raven-haired might be a sorceress, but she was their sorceress.
"I'm back, Meg," said Winifred as she paused to consider the herb garden that filled her dooryard. It was woefully barren and in need of tilling. Soon, little ones, she silently promised the seedlings sleeping beneath the thawing earth. It was nearly time to coax them from their long winter slumber.
"Mistress!" Meg appeared in the wide open doorway, anxiously wiping her hands on the hem of her apron. "I thought you'd be back sooner."
"It was my intention, but it's such a glorious day that I'm afraid I lost all track of time." Winifred swept into the building, promptly setting her basket on the worktable amidst the myriad bowls and beakers.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Something even better." With a triumphant smile, Winifred held up a misshapen lump covered in soil. "White peony root." She crossed the earthen floor to the hearth where two soot-blackened copper pots hung over a low flame. "It will help improve the circulation and lessen the cramps."
Meg followed close behind, her pale fingers still wringing her apron. "But it's not the same ingredient as the moss you were seeking," she said anxiously. "How do you know it won't change the mixture into something else?"
"Experience." Winifred broke the root in half, exposing the soft white pulp. "Crafting a potion isn't so very different from making a stew. It's just a blend of ingredients, after all. You just need to know how to season to taste."
She dropped a piece of the root into the larger of the two pots. Almost at once the mixture puffed out a pale gray wisp.
"You'll understand better when you've a bit more experience under your girdle." Winifred lifted the wooden stirring paddle from its hook and offered it to Meg. "Stir continuously until the mixture turns the color of fish bone."
"Yes, my Lady."
"Mind that it doesn't scorch," said Winifred as she shrugged out of her cloak and set it upon a peg by the door. "I'd prefer not to spell a new batch."
"I'll take care, my Lady," Meg promised.
The Sorceress offered her an encouraging smile. "I know that you will," she said before returning to her basket to sort the day's harvest.
The heavy wooden trestle table took up most of the main room, surrounded on all sides by the trappings of her craft. A variety of hand-hammered metal pots and cauldrons of varying size hung within easy reach from hooks anchored in the roof beams. The walls bore shelves filled with ceramic beakers, small bowls and vessels filled with neatly ordered ingredients for her spell craft. The fragrance of herbs hanging to dry mingled with the aroma of the potions brewing on the hearth, hinting at sunlit summer days.
At the hearth, Meg stirred the contents of the cauldron with a single-minded intent. Winifred paused to watch her with a thoughtful expression. The young woman no longer cringed at every sound or shied away from the slightest shadow. It had taken months of gentle coaxing and reassurance to convince her that she was not at fault for the attack that had stolen her maidenhood. It would take longer still for her to recover her self-worth but Winifred could assure her that the men who had violated her would never do so again. The Sorceress had personally seen to that. She could not transgress the Laws of Magic, no matter how worthy the men were of death, but she could ensure that they no longer possessed the equipment needed to ravage another woman or sire children.
Smiling to herself, Winifred began to tie her cuttings into bundles. She found the simple, ordered, gentle life as a village herb witch infinitely more satisfying than the battle, blood and storm that was her birthright. Let the Council content themselves with politics and the machinations of power. All she wanted was peace.
A soft footstep was her only warning in the moment before two strong arms suddenly caught her about the waist from behind. A sharp tug and she was dragged back a step against a hard, lean chest.
A voice in her ear, imperious and cold, demanded, "What trouble are you brewing, witch?"
"You have a nose," she replied curtly, head held high. "Use it."
Warm breath caressed the arch of her neck, sending a delicious heat through her blood. "I smell rosemary and tansy," said the voice, "And peony root."
"Your sense of smell has not deceived you. Now what of your powers of deduction? Or have they taken flight along with your manners?"
"A poultice." Then, before she could reply, "No! A physic? Something to ease the stomach."
Winifred tilted her head back and looked up into the violet-blue of her captor's eyes. "Well guessed, my Lord. But not quite right. Would you care to try again?"
"A second chance?" The eyes smiled even if his countenance did not. "That is so very unlike you."
"You've captured me, have you not? I must answer fair so that you will set me free."
"I think not." The arms about her waist shifted their grasp, lifting higher so that they rested comfortably beneath her full breasts and snuggled her closer against him. "I have won you and I shall keep you, ever."
"And so you shall," she assured him, her smile gentling as she searched his familiar countenance with her gaze. She knew every wrinkle, every blemish, every inch of him. She'd seen the use of powerful magics bleach his hair from the brown of willow bark to the white of mid-winter snow. His eyes changed color with his moods, sharply intelligent and missing little that transpired around him.
Breathing deeply, Winifred caught the scent of him - the familiar hint of rosewood and musk and combined magics.
"It is a potion to ease the morning sickness," she relented.
The blue eyes widened slightly. After a swift glance toward the maid at the hearth, he lowered his voice and asked anxiously, "Are you--?"
"No, my heart," she said quietly, a touch of regret in emerald eyes. "It is for another." Winifred turned within the circle of his arms. "But our day will come." Nearly as tall as he, still she pushed herself up onto her toes to lightly brush his lips with her own. "And you have yet to guess the contents of the second pot," she murmured against them.
"A poor change of subject, madam," he accused but dutifully closed his eyes and drew in the scent of the room. "Rosemary, thyme, something earthy … mushrooms? … and … honey? What manner of spell is this?"
"No spell, my Lord, except one to appease your stomach. It is a stew of wild hare and pigeon." Winifred laughed at his perplexed expression. "Dinner."
"Mistress?"
Sorcerer and Sorceress turned as one toward the meek, hesitant little sound. Meg's hands once more fisted the hem of her apron. "The potion has turned."
"Thank you, Meg. I'll dispense it."
"I can do it, Mistress. I don't mind."
"Thank you, no," said Winifred with a smile. "You've been a great help. Go now and have your rest. I'll see you on the morrow."
"Yes, my Lady." The maid dropped a stiff courtesy, her nervous gaze darting to the tall, pale wizard by Winifred's side. "Good eve," she added and hurried from the dwelling, skirting around the couple like a skittish colt.
Hrothbert sighed at her passage. "She still fears men."
"Can you blame her?"
"No, of course not." He reached out and ran his long fingers through her thick, silken tresses. "She may never overcome it, no matter your efforts."
"I know. But I'm determined to do what I can to help her." Winifred lay her head against his breast. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady, familiar beat of his heart, its rhythm in perfect harmony with her own. "DuMorne approached me again today," she said at last. "When he was certain you were not about."
The arms around her stiffened although their embrace remained gentle and warm. "He still covets you."
"He cannot have me, nor will he ever. I am no trophy to be bartered or won. I am yours and yours alone. For me there is no other." There was worry and a touch of fear in her clear green eyes as she lifted her gaze to his once more. "He envies your power as well as my love."
"Let him. I am no threat to DuMorne or his Council. I have done nothing he can accuse me of." Hrothbert leaned forward and lightly kissed her upturned face. "Fear not for me, beloved. All we are guilty of is love and passion. All will be well."
Winifred nodded, wishing with all of her heart to believe his words and share his confidence. There was nothing in this world that she desired more than to live happily at peace with this man, the other half of her soul.
"Now then," he said lightly in an attempt to dispel her fears, "Tell me who within the village has happy news."
~ ~ ~
The Steward strode past the Wardens standing guard on either side of the chamber door as if they were little more than graven images.
"My Lord DuMorne," he said, offering a respectful bow to the man seated alone at table in the vast feasting hall. "You have a visitor."
"I am at dinner and not to be disturbed," growled the Merlin as he reached for his goblet of hammered gold.
"It is a matter of some urgency that requires your immediate attention."
"They can bloody well wait."
Unphased by his Lord's foul temper, the Steward turned toward the chamber door and motioned to the shadows beyond. A small figure wrapped in a dark cloak hurried forward, slippered feet slapping on the flagstone floor.
Shaking slightly, delicate hands reached up to throw back the cloak's hood. Meg instantly cast her gaze to the flagstone floor, not daring to meet the Lordship's eyes. She had heard that terrible things happened to those that dared try.
"My Lord, if the seeds you have sown are to bear fruit, you must act swiftly."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"The witch is with child."
DuMorne's fingers suddenly seized around his goblet, sloshing wine as red as blood over the bright rim. "His?"
"She consorts with no other."
"You are certain?" he demanded.
Meg nodded. "She brewed the potion to stop the morning sickness this very day."
A storm cloud of anger darkened the Merlin's visage. A union of such power would threaten his plans and ruin all that he'd worked for!
DuMorne abruptly stood. "Summon the Blackstaff," he told the Steward. "Tell him that the time has come to prune the weeds."
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Winifred, Hrothbert
Prompt: 106. Not only are there as many conflicting truths as there are people to claim them; there are equally multitudinous and conflicting truths within the individual. -- Virgilia Peterson
Word Count: 3,717
Rating: PG
Summary: Plans and machinations are everywhere.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Sorceress. Witch. Harpy. Bandit's Bane. Raven's Wing. Demon.
She was known by many names throughout the Isles and she'd heard them all. Some were far less flattering than others but that was only to be expected. Both sorceress and warrior, she was a fierce protector or a formidable foe, depending on which side of the battle one stood. That she was born a maiden did not stop her from speaking her mind nor fighting for what she believed in. She was a strong woman living in a man's world. That in itself was enough to win her nearly as many enemies as allies.
Winifred pulled her woolen cloak tight, wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the chill of the sea breeze that cut across the cliff like a knife. She sometimes wondered what her mother's shade might say to her if given the chance. Could she see the passage of years from the afterlife? Did she know what her only child had once been and had now become? What she had done? Would it make her proud or cause her to turn away?
The Sorceress tilted her face to the cloudless blue sky and watched the gulls as they wheeled overhead. In the end, did it truly matter? When all was said and done, she was her own woman, self-made and secure in her place in the world. Her talent with Earth and Herb was legendary. There were tales that insisted that she could heal with a Touch or destroy mountains with a Word. They were exaggerations, of course, as were most bards' tales, but even Winifred had to admit that there was a kernel of fact to be had in all. It was true that she had once brought the side of a mountain down to stop a brigand horde from raiding her shire, burying them to a man. That had been a far easier feat than shielding the village from a creeping black pestilence that threatened to steal away innocent lives with agony and pain.
A lesser wizard jealous of her status once said that he had seen her name inscribed in the Book of Wardens as among those that bore watching, should ambition and power corrupt her. That the Council had mistaken confidence in her art for arrogance was both flattering and singularly annoying. In her younger years there might have been a time when she craved such things but not now. Not since that auspicious May Day two years before. It had done more than rock the countryside with astonishing magics and destroyed a fearsome foe; it had changed her -- heart and soul and flesh. He had changed her.
Turning her back to the sea, Winifred retrieved her basket of fresh cuttings and began to pick her way across the rocky ground. Stepping lightly over stone and bramble, she at last set foot on the deer path below the steep slope and started on the long walk home.
The roar of the surf was suddenly overpowered by the thunder of approaching hooves. Winifred paused and glanced over her shoulder, her frown hidden by windblown locks of raven-black hair.
"Hail and well met, Mistress!" called the rider, raising a leather-gloved hand in jovial greeting. "A lovely day for a stroll, if a bit chilly."
"It is that," she agreed, her expression shifting to one better suited for guarded pleasantries. "As to the chill, it is a brisk wind and lively. I can smell the Spring on it."
"Can you really?" said the Lord as he drew up beside her and looked down. "Your nose is better attuned to nature than mine, then. All I can smell is brine and rotting fish." He gave a little chuckle as he patted his stallion's sleek black mane. "And horse flesh."
"There is more kelp than fish on the wind, I think." And if there's anything that smells of rot it's your own soul, she added, but kept that thought to herself.
"Well, you would know, wouldn't you? Plants are your Gift." His intent was to flatter her but somehow the words came out sounding petulant and patronizing, even to his own ears. "Though I can't imagine there's any good use for green slime from the sea."
Because you have no imagination.
Aloud, she replied conversationally, "Then it would surprise you to know that seawrack is one of the most versatile ingredients in my medic basket. It also makes a flavorsome addition to beans and stew. You might ask your cook to try it some time."
"My cook may be talented but the fellow isn't nearly as open-minded as I am about experimenting with new fare." He leaned forward in his saddle, arms crossed upon a knee. "Why not come to the manor and show me yourself what wonders can be had?"
Winifred's expression and tone remained polite but her green eyes glittered with a hint of the disgust that she felt within. It was not the first time he had propositioned her with banality filled with double meaning.
"Why not come to the village instead and celebrate Ostara?" she countered with a smile, knowing that a public feast to celebrate the rebirth of Spring was hardly what the Lord had intended. "Indeed, the Elders would be honored by your presence. It has been some time since you attended a festival with your vassals."
"So it has." He offered her a smile that had been known to make lesser women swoon. But Winifred the Raven-haired was no doxie to be charmed and cast off. She was a temptress and vixen whose very visage made his blood boil with desire. "If I were to attend, would you consent to be my liaison for the day?"
"Certainly, my Lord DuMorne. We would be delighted."
His smile faltered. "We?"
"My consort and I," Winifred replied with feigned innocence. "That is what you meant, is it not? It's only proper, after all."
"Erm … yes, of course." The words were bile on his tongue. Indeed, the very thought of him soured the Lord's expression and tarnished his mood. "I will have to check my schedule, of course-"
"Of course."
"-but I will consider it." He gathered up the reins, the fingers within the expensive gloves white with the force of his grip. "Enjoy the rest of your stroll, Mistress."
"A good day to you, my Lord DuMorne." Like a queen dismissing a courtier, Winifred turned from him without so much as a second glance and continued on her way.
But oh, how she seethed inside!
Arrogant pig! Would he never get it through that dense skull of his that she was not some exotic pastry sitting upon a shelf waiting to be bought and savored? She might answer to the Council but she did not answer to him. If he ever overstepped his grounds and laid more than his eyes upon her, she might well be tempted to break the second Law and turn him into something far more attractive. A toad, perhaps, or a beetle.
Her annoyance lent speed to her steps, very nearly turning her leisurely walk into a brisk march. Fortunately, the afternoon was far too beautiful for her to remain angry for very long. Winifred allowed herself to become lost in the day, pausing along the path to add cuttings to her basket or simply to enjoy the sunlight on her face and the wind in her hair. Soon the barren hills and winter fields would be awash with colorful blooms and wild beauty. It was a joyful thought. She did so love this time of the year when everything was fresh and new again.
"You've a happy step to you, Lady," croaked a dry old voice. "More'n when ye left this morn."
Winifred smiled at the familiar old crone seated on a wooden stool in front of her hovel on the outermost edge of the village. She held a spindle of flax twirling, twirling, twirling between gnarled and calloused fingers.
"If there is a new spring to my step, Grandmother, it's because of the beauty of the day."
"I wouldn't know." The Old One squinted at the Sorceress with rheumy eyes nearly blind to sight yet surprisingly clear in their Vision. "There's a storm brewing."
"There isn't a cloud in the sky."
"That's not the storm I'm speaking of and well you know it." She jabbed an ancient finger upward, the yellowed nail as sharp as a talon. "Mark my words. That one's up to no good! You would do well to ware and ward!"
"I do not fear him. He is but one man and I have defeated many."
"He is a wolf in lamb's wool with blood on his claws." The Crone lowered her hand and grasped the spindle and thread once more. "Bah! No one listens any more. No one heeds the Old Ones."
"I hear you, Grandmother," said Winifred as she briefly laid a warm hand over a bony claw. "I am not blind nor am I deaf to your warning. Trust me when I say that it is a storm I have shored myself against. All will be well." She gently squeezed, offering reassurance. "In this I am not alone."
"Humph. Well … he's no prince either," grumped the Crone, refusing to be mollified.
"Nor does he wish to be."
"Arrogant, that one. Too powerful for his tights." She tugged her hand away, fumbling once more for her spinning wool.
"Never you mind his tights," said Winifred with amusement. "You've had your men, Old One, and sons and daughters enough to show for it! It's time you let the rest of us have a chance at the field."
The Crone chuckled, a dry parchment sound. "Can't be blamin' me for trying."
"Never." Winifred bestowed a quick kiss upon the wiry wisps of thin grey hair. "A good afternoon to you, Grandmother."
"And you, Lady." The Crone slowly turned her head to 'watch' with blind, insightful eyes as the sorceress passed.
Winifred continued unchallenged through the little hamlet on the way to her own modest dwelling. It was well past mid-day when most men would be out preparing the fields for the first planting or in their workshops, toiling over crafts and wares to be sold at the coming festival. There had been a time not so long ago when the very sight of her would have caused the villagers to flee from her path, darting into homes and businesses to watch her passage through shutter slats or around door jams.
That had been before the arrival of the brigands who had tried to burn their homes and lay waste to the fields. Tried and failed; thirty fighting men bested and repelled by a single woman with an iron will and a staff carved from oak and ash and thorn.
Oddly enough, it wasn't her wielding of thunderous earth magics in an attempt to protect them that eventually won the hearts and minds of the villagers. Rather, it was her art in the herbs and potions of healing and comfort. When the black pestilence began to steal away lives with its withering sickness, every man, woman, and child learned firsthand that the proud and terrible Sorceress in their midst had a gentle touch and a soothing voice that could ease the sick and coax the dying back to health.
In the end, they adopted her. Winifred the Raven-haired might be a sorceress, but she was their sorceress.
"I'm back, Meg," said Winifred as she paused to consider the herb garden that filled her dooryard. It was woefully barren and in need of tilling. Soon, little ones, she silently promised the seedlings sleeping beneath the thawing earth. It was nearly time to coax them from their long winter slumber.
"Mistress!" Meg appeared in the wide open doorway, anxiously wiping her hands on the hem of her apron. "I thought you'd be back sooner."
"It was my intention, but it's such a glorious day that I'm afraid I lost all track of time." Winifred swept into the building, promptly setting her basket on the worktable amidst the myriad bowls and beakers.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Something even better." With a triumphant smile, Winifred held up a misshapen lump covered in soil. "White peony root." She crossed the earthen floor to the hearth where two soot-blackened copper pots hung over a low flame. "It will help improve the circulation and lessen the cramps."
Meg followed close behind, her pale fingers still wringing her apron. "But it's not the same ingredient as the moss you were seeking," she said anxiously. "How do you know it won't change the mixture into something else?"
"Experience." Winifred broke the root in half, exposing the soft white pulp. "Crafting a potion isn't so very different from making a stew. It's just a blend of ingredients, after all. You just need to know how to season to taste."
She dropped a piece of the root into the larger of the two pots. Almost at once the mixture puffed out a pale gray wisp.
"You'll understand better when you've a bit more experience under your girdle." Winifred lifted the wooden stirring paddle from its hook and offered it to Meg. "Stir continuously until the mixture turns the color of fish bone."
"Yes, my Lady."
"Mind that it doesn't scorch," said Winifred as she shrugged out of her cloak and set it upon a peg by the door. "I'd prefer not to spell a new batch."
"I'll take care, my Lady," Meg promised.
The Sorceress offered her an encouraging smile. "I know that you will," she said before returning to her basket to sort the day's harvest.
The heavy wooden trestle table took up most of the main room, surrounded on all sides by the trappings of her craft. A variety of hand-hammered metal pots and cauldrons of varying size hung within easy reach from hooks anchored in the roof beams. The walls bore shelves filled with ceramic beakers, small bowls and vessels filled with neatly ordered ingredients for her spell craft. The fragrance of herbs hanging to dry mingled with the aroma of the potions brewing on the hearth, hinting at sunlit summer days.
At the hearth, Meg stirred the contents of the cauldron with a single-minded intent. Winifred paused to watch her with a thoughtful expression. The young woman no longer cringed at every sound or shied away from the slightest shadow. It had taken months of gentle coaxing and reassurance to convince her that she was not at fault for the attack that had stolen her maidenhood. It would take longer still for her to recover her self-worth but Winifred could assure her that the men who had violated her would never do so again. The Sorceress had personally seen to that. She could not transgress the Laws of Magic, no matter how worthy the men were of death, but she could ensure that they no longer possessed the equipment needed to ravage another woman or sire children.
Smiling to herself, Winifred began to tie her cuttings into bundles. She found the simple, ordered, gentle life as a village herb witch infinitely more satisfying than the battle, blood and storm that was her birthright. Let the Council content themselves with politics and the machinations of power. All she wanted was peace.
A soft footstep was her only warning in the moment before two strong arms suddenly caught her about the waist from behind. A sharp tug and she was dragged back a step against a hard, lean chest.
A voice in her ear, imperious and cold, demanded, "What trouble are you brewing, witch?"
"You have a nose," she replied curtly, head held high. "Use it."
Warm breath caressed the arch of her neck, sending a delicious heat through her blood. "I smell rosemary and tansy," said the voice, "And peony root."
"Your sense of smell has not deceived you. Now what of your powers of deduction? Or have they taken flight along with your manners?"
"A poultice." Then, before she could reply, "No! A physic? Something to ease the stomach."
Winifred tilted her head back and looked up into the violet-blue of her captor's eyes. "Well guessed, my Lord. But not quite right. Would you care to try again?"
"A second chance?" The eyes smiled even if his countenance did not. "That is so very unlike you."
"You've captured me, have you not? I must answer fair so that you will set me free."
"I think not." The arms about her waist shifted their grasp, lifting higher so that they rested comfortably beneath her full breasts and snuggled her closer against him. "I have won you and I shall keep you, ever."
"And so you shall," she assured him, her smile gentling as she searched his familiar countenance with her gaze. She knew every wrinkle, every blemish, every inch of him. She'd seen the use of powerful magics bleach his hair from the brown of willow bark to the white of mid-winter snow. His eyes changed color with his moods, sharply intelligent and missing little that transpired around him.
Breathing deeply, Winifred caught the scent of him - the familiar hint of rosewood and musk and combined magics.
"It is a potion to ease the morning sickness," she relented.
The blue eyes widened slightly. After a swift glance toward the maid at the hearth, he lowered his voice and asked anxiously, "Are you--?"
"No, my heart," she said quietly, a touch of regret in emerald eyes. "It is for another." Winifred turned within the circle of his arms. "But our day will come." Nearly as tall as he, still she pushed herself up onto her toes to lightly brush his lips with her own. "And you have yet to guess the contents of the second pot," she murmured against them.
"A poor change of subject, madam," he accused but dutifully closed his eyes and drew in the scent of the room. "Rosemary, thyme, something earthy … mushrooms? … and … honey? What manner of spell is this?"
"No spell, my Lord, except one to appease your stomach. It is a stew of wild hare and pigeon." Winifred laughed at his perplexed expression. "Dinner."
"Mistress?"
Sorcerer and Sorceress turned as one toward the meek, hesitant little sound. Meg's hands once more fisted the hem of her apron. "The potion has turned."
"Thank you, Meg. I'll dispense it."
"I can do it, Mistress. I don't mind."
"Thank you, no," said Winifred with a smile. "You've been a great help. Go now and have your rest. I'll see you on the morrow."
"Yes, my Lady." The maid dropped a stiff courtesy, her nervous gaze darting to the tall, pale wizard by Winifred's side. "Good eve," she added and hurried from the dwelling, skirting around the couple like a skittish colt.
Hrothbert sighed at her passage. "She still fears men."
"Can you blame her?"
"No, of course not." He reached out and ran his long fingers through her thick, silken tresses. "She may never overcome it, no matter your efforts."
"I know. But I'm determined to do what I can to help her." Winifred lay her head against his breast. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady, familiar beat of his heart, its rhythm in perfect harmony with her own. "DuMorne approached me again today," she said at last. "When he was certain you were not about."
The arms around her stiffened although their embrace remained gentle and warm. "He still covets you."
"He cannot have me, nor will he ever. I am no trophy to be bartered or won. I am yours and yours alone. For me there is no other." There was worry and a touch of fear in her clear green eyes as she lifted her gaze to his once more. "He envies your power as well as my love."
"Let him. I am no threat to DuMorne or his Council. I have done nothing he can accuse me of." Hrothbert leaned forward and lightly kissed her upturned face. "Fear not for me, beloved. All we are guilty of is love and passion. All will be well."
Winifred nodded, wishing with all of her heart to believe his words and share his confidence. There was nothing in this world that she desired more than to live happily at peace with this man, the other half of her soul.
"Now then," he said lightly in an attempt to dispel her fears, "Tell me who within the village has happy news."
~ ~ ~
The Steward strode past the Wardens standing guard on either side of the chamber door as if they were little more than graven images.
"My Lord DuMorne," he said, offering a respectful bow to the man seated alone at table in the vast feasting hall. "You have a visitor."
"I am at dinner and not to be disturbed," growled the Merlin as he reached for his goblet of hammered gold.
"It is a matter of some urgency that requires your immediate attention."
"They can bloody well wait."
Unphased by his Lord's foul temper, the Steward turned toward the chamber door and motioned to the shadows beyond. A small figure wrapped in a dark cloak hurried forward, slippered feet slapping on the flagstone floor.
Shaking slightly, delicate hands reached up to throw back the cloak's hood. Meg instantly cast her gaze to the flagstone floor, not daring to meet the Lordship's eyes. She had heard that terrible things happened to those that dared try.
"My Lord, if the seeds you have sown are to bear fruit, you must act swiftly."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"The witch is with child."
DuMorne's fingers suddenly seized around his goblet, sloshing wine as red as blood over the bright rim. "His?"
"She consorts with no other."
"You are certain?" he demanded.
Meg nodded. "She brewed the potion to stop the morning sickness this very day."
A storm cloud of anger darkened the Merlin's visage. A union of such power would threaten his plans and ruin all that he'd worked for!
DuMorne abruptly stood. "Summon the Blackstaff," he told the Steward. "Tell him that the time has come to prune the weeds."