Wings of the Storm by Susan Sizemore

There's nothing left of them but the tales. Sikes's leaves bodies and burned houses right now." He scratched his beard thought-fully while Jane tried to keep her head from spinning right out of its wimple.
    She almost had to bite down on her tongue to keep from demanding every word of Cerdic's father's tales. She was not a historian, she told herself firmly. She was chatelaine of Passfair. She was not going to take notes or write monographs. Robin Hood was not real. And even if he was, who was she going to impress with her well-researched, documented knowledge?
    As she stood on the edge of the wood trying to for-get Dr. Jane Florian's passion for the past, a slight fig-ure stepped from behind an oak's wide trunk, onto the narrow track leading out of the wood. It was an elfin-featured woman with gray-streaked black braids. She was wearing a brown dress and a faded green shawl. She carried a reed basket on one arm.
    Cerdic raised a hand in greeting. His affable face lit with pleasure. "My wife, Switha," he explained. "She can help you choose a woman to serve you at the hall."
    Switha arrived beside them and looked up at Jane with sooty-lidded blue eyes. Jane remembered being told Cerdic's wife was the village midwife and wise-woman.

    "I've heard you have a woman's illness," she said. Like Cerdic, she spoke to Jane in Norman French, but her accent was not as thick. "And about the fall," she went on, reaching up to touch the swollen and discol-ored skin around Jane's eye. "I've herbs for both problems, my lady. You'll be well soon," she said reassuringly.
    "May I return to the fields, my lady?" Cerdic requested, backing a pace from the two women on the edge of the woods.
    Jane's gaze was caught by Switha's. The woman was studying her critically, her head cocked to one side. It was almost as if Switha's intent scrutiny was more for the ills inside her head than for the injuries to her body. Jane barely had enough attention left over to nod dismissal at the reeve. She was too caught up in Switha's stare.
    She didn't know how long she and the little woman stood staring eye to eye, but when she man-aged to blink her good eye and look around, it seemed as if the sun had moved nearer to the horizon.
    "What time is it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
    "The wrong time for you, I think," Switha answered equally softly. The woman shook her head sadly, her braids swinging gently on her breasts.
    A natural empath, the reasonable part of Jane's mind supplied as she gave her head a hard shake her-self. Back home Switha'd be wearing crystals and reading tarot cards and conducting seminars.
    Village wisewomen were supposed to be wise women. It was in the job description. Jane laughed nervously. The sound seemed too loud, spreading out to fill the silent landscape on the edge of the wood.
    "You said something about herbs?" she ques-tioned, her voice still too loud in her own ears. "Actu-ally,"
    she went on, "apparently what I really need is an attendant. I was told you—"
    "I'll send Berthild to you," Switha interjected. She fiddled with a clump of moss in her basket, breaking it up into tiny pieces. Its earthy smell tickled the back of Jane's nose.
    Switha went on, "Berthild's gentle and biddable." Her far-seeing blue eyes took on a glint of amusement as she admitted, "Also my sister. One of the castle guards taught her some of your language while her husband journeyed toLondontown last year. She'll be happy to serve in the castle now her man's gone."
    "I see," Jane said. "Thank you."
    She was prepared to take her leave then, but Switha tugged on her sleeve and pointed into the for-est.
    "As for your other problem, I think I know the way to the cure for it. Come with me." She marched off the way she'd come, down the faint trail among the ancient trees. She didn't bother to see if Jane would follow.
    Intrigued, Jane trailed slowly behind, glad her long walk with Cerdic had helped ease the stiffness from her sore leg. Her skirts and veil