“And you know these things? Who are you?” His fingers itched for his sword, but this man offered no threat that William could see. The rest of these people gave no indication of danger. He could also see Brienne speaking with that young woman across the clearing, and she seemed at ease.
“I am the chief priest for the old gods. I have trained most of these”—he gestured to the small group standing around the tents and in the clearing—“in the ways of prophecy and scrying. We are here to help you to carry out the task set for us.”
“And what task would that be?” he asked.
He wanted to leave. He fought the urge to turn his back on this man and the lunacy he spouted, but something in the man’s face and voice made him listen. He wanted to return to the time and place where he knew himself and before he had embarked on this task for the king.
“To claim your blood rights and keep the evil one away.” With that, William shook his head, refusing to accept this.
“I carry out the orders of my king. I answer to none but him.” The words rang hollow, but he clung to them. Having made his point and his allegiance clear, William turned to walk away. He would return Brienne to the village and set his men to prepare for his meeting with Lord Hugh. On the morn, he would seek out the king’s counselor and discover the truth of the man’s loyalty and plans. This lunacy, these weird and inexplicable events, would cease as soon as he returned to the king and received his grant of lands. By then this would all seem like a nightmarish dream.
“Sir William,” Marcus said before he even took a step away. “There are several different bloodlines, descended from the ancient ones. Each one carries their power in their blood and is marked by it.”
Facing the man, he noticed the sleeve of Marcus’s tunic had dropped away from his wrist. There on his arm was a raised red area just like the one William had. He could not take his eyes from it. He reached for Marcus’s arm and pulled him closer.
“The mark of my bloodline,” he said. “We are priests. We stand for humanity before all the gods.”
Simple words, but William could not comprehend it. The area on Marcus looked like a stick figure of a man while William’s . . . He lifted his own arm to take another glance at it, but dropped it instead, not willing to reveal that he carried one, and shook his head. He wanted no parts of talk of heresy or deviltry. He wanted only to fulfill the king’s request and get his lands.
“You are a warblood,” Marcus explained. “Your marking is in honor of Sucellus and his abilities as a warrior. A sword mayhap? Or a battle-ax or hammer?” William could not stop himself from clutching the place on his arm where the skin bore exactly that. How did this man know? Before he could argue, Marcus spoke again.
“We have been raised with knowledge of the old gods and their ways, but you have not. You are a practiced warrior with the experience and knowledge that we lack. We need you, Sir William, as our leader. Someone to organize us and lead us in the coming battles.”
“Do you know how mad you sound, with this talk of gods and the rest? ’Tis blasphemy or treason, or both!” he whispered harshly to the man who made such outrageous claims. “I am no leader in whatever your endeavor is. I serve only the king. I see to his orders now.” He ignored the recent things that had happened to him and turned to leave, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on his judgment. He could not let this get in his way.
“William,” Marcus warned just before he stepped back. “Tell her nothing you do not want Lord Hugh to know.”
William narrowed his gaze, studying the man. So Brienne was linked to Lord Hugh? He’d seen the fear in all the villagers’ eyes and knew they feared their lord. Nay, they lived in terror of him. He’d thought this young woman would be no different.
“Roger. Gautier.”
He walked over and held out his hand to Brienne to help her up. In spite of his recent rude behavior, she accepted it without hesitating and nodded to the woman sitting with her. They’d gone only a few paces back into the middle of the tents when the soft voice called out to him.
“Sir William?”
“She is called Aislinn,” Brienne said as he stopped and faced the young woman.
Aislinn’s green eyes grew bright as she approached, her long red hair worn in one long braid that swayed from side to side as she walked. A pale white light outlined her body. Her voice, when she spoke this time, seemed to come from farther away.
“Your father is in grave danger, William. Only by completing your part in this quest can you hope to save him.”
“My father? Aislinn, my father is happily ensconced in his lands, drinking fine wine and eating heartily. He is in danger only if my mother discovers his newest leman.” He laughed, or tried to, but her voice deepened and echoed, and her face changed into someone much older right before him.
“Your father will die, Warblood. ’Tis time to accept your destiny. Come to us. Come with us.”
She held out her arm, and he watched as the crescent moon–shaped mark reddened and burned, as his did. He resisted clamping his hand down on it, but William noticed Brienne’s hand move to her own arm. Did she have a mark as well? What was this?
“We must leave,” Brienne whispered to him, sliding her hand into his. “I pray you, now.”
He nodded to his men and they departed, walking to the hilltop and down, crossing the stream and reaching the main path to the village. When they did, Roger and Gautier continued on, leaving them alone.
“Go,” he said softly. “I will wait until you are down the path before leaving.” He wondered if her mind was as full of thoughts and doubts as his was now.
Brienne began to walk away, but she turned and came back to his side.
“Do you think your father is in danger?” she asked. In that moment, he realized that Aislinn had not been referring to his mother’s husband but to his real father—the king. A cold, icy finger ran down his spine, and he fought against shivering.
“Any man might be in danger, Brienne. I have not been home in many months, but the last letter I received spoke of no dangers.” He could not acknowledge the father who had never named him son.
