Isabella reached out one shaking hand, her fingers snaking around Cecily’s wrist. ‘I am so sorry, Cecily,’ she whispered. ‘I was a stupid, foolish girl. I should never have...’ Her hand drifted up to her pale forehead before she dropped it again. ‘I should never have fallen in love...’ Her voice faded away, and her eyelashes fluttered down.
‘No! No...wake up!’ Cecily shook her sister’s shoulder, her fingers rough. ‘Talk to me!’ Grimacing, Isabella opened her eyes. ‘Good girl.’ Cecily smoothed the back of her hand over Isabella’s heated cheek. ‘Now listen to me. You have done nothing wrong. You were going to marry Guillame.’
A single tear rolled down Isabella’s cheek. ‘Yes, I was. But I should not have lain with him before we were lawfully married. And now...now he’s dead and will never see his child.’
But at least our mother is happy, thought Cecily. The baby is the key to us staying here, at the castle. The baby, if it is a boy, will secure our future.
She jerked her gaze towards Isabella. ‘You mustn’t think like that, Isabella. The child will always be a reminder of the love you had with Guillame.’
The door slammed back on its hinges. Marion stood in the doorway, panting, her gaunt features flushed with colour. ‘I cannot find that foolish Martha anywhere. I think she must have gone to the village to see her family!’ She strode forward, arms stretched out towards Cecily, fingers kneading frantically at the air. ‘Only Martha knows where the midwife lives and I cannot run as fast as you. You must go...and now!’ She cast an anxious look towards Isabella, lying, pale as wax, against the pillow. ‘It’s so early, there’s no one about yet. If you see anyone, just hide until they have gone! Make sure you aren’t seen!’ Bundling a cloak into Cecily’s arms, she shoved her towards the door. ‘We cannot deal with this...this bleeding alone! You have to run, Cecily, run as fast as you can and fetch the midwife. Greta’s the only one who knows the truth. I have bought her silence; she will not betray us.’
Seizing the cloak, Cecily swept it around her narrow shoulders, her fingers fumbling to do up the vertical row of tiny wooden buttons. Her mother pushed her from the chamber and out into the darkness of the stairwell. With one hand against the gritty stone wall of the spiral staircase, Cecily stepped lightly down as quickly as she dared, slipping out quietly into the cobbled bailey.
To her relief, the courtyard was deserted.
Rain slapped across her face, cold needles against her fire-warmed cheeks. The howling wind snared the hem of her cloak, snapping the fabric out behind her. Cecily shivered, gripping her cloak closely about her as she hurried across the bailey. In her haste to help her sister, she had forgotten to change her slippers for sturdier footwear; as she headed towards the main gate she might as well have been wearing no shoes at all. The supple kid leather gave her no protection against the lumpy cobbles of the yard, nor the puddle after puddle through which she sloshed. No wonder no one was about yet. The weather was horrendous.
Large iron bolts secured the main wooden gates, but cut into the high, iron-riveted planks was a much smaller, narrower door which was easy to open. Darting her gaze around the bailey, she twisted the wrought-iron handle and stepped outside. Doubt slipped away, replaced with a new-found purpose and energy; her sister was in danger and she must fetch help. That was all that mattered at this moment. The rippling gathers of her cloak covered her belly enough to maintain her deception.
Wind snared the generous hem of her gown, whipping the voluminous fabric around her stocking-covered legs. Down below, in the river valley, the tree tops swung about, branches clashing. Leaves tossed in the air as she crossed the bridge over the moat and hurried down the hillside, fast-paced, nimble, through the treacherous mud.
In this horrible weather, the safest route to the village was by way of a stony, well-marked track. But following the high, tree-lined bank around the pasture would take too long. A quicker way was to cut through the woods and cross the river by the stepping stones. Cecily bit her lip. The river would be higher now, because of the rain, but would it be impassable? Probably not. She could wade across. Her feet were wet already; it was only a matter of time before she was completely soaked.
She hurried towards the woods, long grass clinging to her hem. A line of mud crept steadily up her gown, soiling the silk. Cecily didn’t notice; all she cared about now was finding help for Isabella. By the time she had reached the woodland, she was running, lungs burning with exertion. The trees swung violently in the wind, branches clacking menacingly together, the last leaves shaken down by the storm whirling down before her. Branches cracked and fell, but she kept her head low, praying none would land on her. This track would lead her to the stepping stones and she followed it, feet sinking into the thick golden leaves, confident of her path.
* * *
Lachlan thumped his pillow one more time, driving his fist deep into the feather-filled sack, then rolled the whole thing into a tight little ball, to try and change the angle of his head when he lay flat again. He stretched out on his front, then twisted on to his side. No better. Irritated, he sat up, his strong fingers kneading the sore skin around his wound, the puckered line of stitches. Sleep evaded him. His whole body, his nerves and muscles, fizzed with energy. He was fed up of lying around in Simon’s manor house, the enforced recuperation like chains holding him against a wall. He wanted to be up and out, fit enough to ride long distances, to go back to Scotland. To fight for what was rightfully his.
He threw back the bed furs, limped over to the window and peered out through the gaps in the shutters. The wind howled, an eerie noise whipping across the wooden slats. The rain coursed down, continuous horizontal lines. Over to the east, the first glimmers of a grey dawn lightened the dull horizon. He was missing the battles, the fighting, that was it. That was the cause of all this restlessness. Bereaved and lonely, beset with guilt, it was his uncle who had suggested that he become a knight and he had thrown himself into the profession with a desperate need. He had fully believed that throwing himself into the furore of battles for lords and kings would have been enough. Enough to drown out the memories of the past and make them fade away.
All those battles and yet the memories continued to grip him, the vivid images rampaging through his head as if it were yesterday. The terror of the past stalked his dreams, prowled through his daylight hours until he had reached a point where he could no longer bear them. He believed now that the only way to rid himself of them was to return to Scotland and confront his enemies. If it wasn’t for this dammed leg wound, he would be there by now.
His clothes lay in an untidy heap on an oak coffer at the foot of the bed. He had worn his shirt to sleep in and now pulled on the rest of his clothes: linen drawers, woollen braies and a sleeved surcoat that fell to mid-thigh. Lachlan picked up his sword; the semi-precious stones glinting in the hilt, then placed it back on the coffer. He was only going for a walk; he had no need of a weapon. Flinging his cloak around his broad shoulders and sticking his feet into leather boots, he left the chamber.
Hitching his right leg slightly as he walked, he strode across the inner bailey, the wind driving hard against him. He breathed in the swirling, volatile air, loving the energy, the power of the breeze that drove away the thick, stultifying feeling in his brain. Simon’s home, as befitted the inheritance of a younger son, was a large manor house, a fortified building with ramparts around the roof where guards could be positioned in case of any threat. The house lay a couple of miles to the east of Simon’s childhood home of Okeforde, the castle that he was so desperate to regain, separated by a woodland.
Raindrops spattered against his cheeks as Lachlan walked into the woods. Beneath the whirling tree canopy, the air was quieter, the wind filtered, slowed by the ancient trees. The muscles in his leg were sore, but bearable; the pain was not becoming worse with walking. For the first time in a sennight, he could feel his strength returning, the familiar power of his body. The sky ha
d lightened significantly in the time he had been walking; he could now discern the individual tree trunks, the criss-cross of branches against the pale grey backdrop of the sky above and the wooded landscape, sloping down in soft folds from the castle to the river in full spate after a night of rain. In front of him, the raging white froth was visible through the trees.
A movement caught his eye. A ghost, flitting through the woods up ahead? Nay, it was a girl, petite and slim, dressed in a dark green gown, barely discernible through the mass of trees. She moved with purpose, strides swift and determined, moving along the path at an impressive pace, despite her diminutive figure. Where was she going, at this early hour? The river, by the looks of it. Intrigued, curious as to her direction, Lachlan watched her progress from a distance, propping his shoulder against a tree trunk. His injured leg burned and throbbed.
* * *
At last, Cecily broke out from the churning shadows of the trees and on to the bank of the river that flowed down the valley towards the village.
And stopped.
The river that she knew so well, the river that wove around tumbled sets of huge moss-covered stones, that flowed gently through calm pools before picking up the pace once more, had changed beyond all recognition. Now, a great surging current of white water spewed and frothed upwards over barely visible stones, a gigantic torrent surging down the hillside with a terrible force.
Nausea washed over her, sickness coupled with panic. Her mind scrabbled for solutions, but found none. She had no wish to turn back, to retrace her steps and go the long way round. She thought of the blood on the mattress, her sister’s screams, her own feeble attempts to staunch the bleeding. No. She must cross this river. She would do it. Otherwise Isabella would die and it would all be her fault. Again.
Cecily scanned the heaving rush of water, searching for the stepping stones beneath the sliding green flow, the huge plates of flattened rock that normally provided an easy route to the other side. There was no rope or wooden rail to guide her, but she knew where they should be and, yes, if she looked carefully, she could just spot them through the sluicing water, those great flat surfaces, her route to the village and to the midwife beyond. Her sister’s salvation.
Cecily picked up a sturdy branch that would support her. Then she sat down on the wet bank and slid her feet into the water. Warning voices clamoured in her head; she shoved them back, resolute. Determined. The river gripped her calves, the water cold, pummelling her skin. Her gown and cloak floated up to the surface, swirling impossibly around her. Biting her lip, she dug the branch firmly out into the raging flow and lurched forward. Despite the icy water around her legs, sweat trickled down from her armpits, but her foot had found the first large flat stepping stone. Thank God. She took another step forward, using the same method, then another. The agitation in her belly, the fluttering nerves, settled a little. She had found the crossing beneath the water.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
The man’s voice seared through her. Shocked, her head whipped around to the source of the sound, her toes curling beneath the surging current, teetering. Scrabbling for balance, she wavered.
A man stood on the bank. A man she had never seen before, a stranger. Her heart plummeted. Burly-framed; huge. Through the slanting net of rain, his hair was startling: bright red-gold like the kernel of a flame. A dark blue surcoat stretched across his chest, emphasising his shoulders, bulky, muscular curves. Clad in calf-length leather boots and buff-coloured braies, his legs were long, planted astride in the long, wet grass.
He tipped his head to one side, his piercing gaze narrowing upon her, curious, incisive. Fierce. And although he stood some distance away, Cecily realised immediately what kind of character he was. A man who would never stop asking questions. A man who would not be fobbed off with lies and half-truths. A man she had no wish to meet.
‘Stay there!’ he called out. ‘I will help you!’ He stepped forward. Towards her.
‘No!’ Cecily yelled above the roar of the water. ‘Go back! I don’t need your help!’ Christ in Heaven, what was this man doing, wandering about so early in the morning? She could not be recognised, not by anyone, not even a stranger. She needed to reach the other side, to set some distance between them, quickly. She took a hurried, unplanned step forward.
Into the deep, churning water.
Copyright © 2020 by Meriel Fuller
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ISBN-13: 9781488065989
A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell
Copyright © 2020 by Joanna Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell Page 25
