by Ashe Barker
“So, Ralf has not been seen?” I wring my hands, desperate for news.
“I cannot say for sure, lass.”
“Is there a funeral planned?” Surely the interment of a murdered earl would be a momentous occasion.
“I have not heard tell of it.”
“So…?”
“Lass, just wait. Be patient. If bad news is coming your way, it will be here soon enough without you going looking for it.”
“But I need to know… Did I kill him? Did I really murder Sir Ralf?” I sink to my knees, trembling. I fear for my own life, that is true but I am wracked with a guilt which almost paralyses me. Even more powerful than my terror at facing the gallows, my remorse gnaws at me, torments and mocks me. I have worshipped Ralf St. John since I was a child. I adored him but I killed my shining hero in a foolish act of blind panic. If I could but have that time again, I would accept whatever treatment he might mete out to me, never lift a hand in my own defence. It is not even as though he meant me harm. I know that. I would have survived, would have probably even enjoyed his lovemaking. Instead, I lashed out in a mindless frenzy. Now he is gone and my life is to be forfeit.
“Lass, there is naught ye can do to change things. What’s done is done. You must just tell his lordship the truth and repent before God. Meet your fate with courage.”
I nod. My jailer is right and he has been kind, after a fashion. If Hugh Belcher is to be my executioner, too, I can at least expect a swift and merciful end.
* * *
“Lass, ‘tis time.” Mr. Belcher leans down to peer into my cell.
“What? What is happening?” I waken, rub my eyes.
“The earl wishes to speak with you. You are to come with me. Now.”
“Now? But, it is late…”
“His lordship has summoned you. Follow me, please.”
I stagger to my feet, dreading what the next minutes and hours might bring, yet curiously elated that the agonising wait is at an end. I stumble along the narrow passageway in Mr. Belcher’s wake. We emerge into the larger chamber, to be met by three guards.
“You will go with them, Linnet.” Mr. Belcher gestures me toward the waiting sentries.
One of the soldiers steps forward. He grabs my wrists and binds them in front of me, then drags me toward the outer door. The other two fall in at our rear.
We emerge into the cool evening air. By the dimming light, I judge it to be dusk, not as late in the evening as I had thought. My windowless existence over the last weeks has left me uncertain of the passage of time. I concentrate on maintaining my footing as we cross the bailey.
I cast my glance around seeking out a gallows but find none. The soldiers march me straight across the cobbles to the entrance to the main keep and through the huge stone portal. A narrow, winding staircase ascends to our right and the guard leading me turns in that direction. We climb in single file to reach the first landing. I am pushed inside a small chamber. The guards say nothing; they just release my hands, back off, and slam the door shut, leaving me alone. There is the metallic scrape of a lock fastening, then silence.
The chamber is lit, though dimly. A torch burns in a sconce above my head, giving off enough illumination to see by. The chamber even sports a small window. Luxurious accommodations indeed, compared to the Egremont dungeons. Apart from a narrow, wooden chair upon which lies a rough linen undershirt, neatly folded, the only other item in the room is a large round tub which is half full of water. I test the temperature and find it to be tepid. A bath? I am intended to cleanse myself prior to seeing the earl?
I can only surmise so and in truth, the prospect of a bath is welcome enough. I have made do with the limited resources made available by Mr. Belcher’s generosity but my clothing is in a sorry state, having been worn continuously for well over a fortnight. I presume the shirt is intended for me.
Would he—they?—wash and dress me, only to send me to face the hangman? In truth, I do not know. Wearily, I remove my tattered, soiled wedding gown and toss it into a corner. I trust I will not be called upon to don it ever again.
The water is clean and sufficiently warm to make washing a pleasurable experience. I even discover a small block of soap and use it to good effect. My hair is the biggest challenge but I manage to rinse most of the accumulated dirt and grease from it and finger-comb my wet tresses. Apart from the shirt I have nothing on which to dry myself. Rather than spend the rest of the night in damp clothing I squeeze as much excess water as I am able from my hair and wait, shivering in the chilly evening air until my body dries naturally. Then I slip the coarse shirt over my head and perch on the chair to await my fate.
I do not have long in which to ponder. I sit, staring at the door, as footsteps echoing up the stairs and the scrape of the lock alert me to the arrival of more soldiers. Just two this time and they instruct me to follow them. My hands are not tied, for which I am grateful.
We continue up the winding steps, the cold stone slabs icy against my bare feet. We ascend two more flights until we reach what I presume to be the earl’s private chambers at the top. The lead guardsman halts at a solid oak door and raps on it hard. A voice from within permits us entry. The soldier opens the door and stands aside. It would seem only I am to go inside.
I draw in a deep breath and step forward.
I am in the lord’s solar, a circular room occupying one corner of a large tower. A solid table dominates the centre, surrounded by several chairs, two of them large and imposing, high backed with stout arms, the rest more modest. The floor is scattered with rugs, brightly coloured, soft underfoot. A fire roars in the huge grate, a solid oak settle to one side of it. I am drawn to that spot, long to sink onto the settle and stretch out my frigid toes. Warmth has been sparse of late.
One man. One man with hair the exact hue of summer corn stands at one of three windows, his back to me as he peruses something far below in the courtyard. Is it Piers or Ralf? I cannot tell until he turns. Or speaks to me. For several long moments, he does neither.
At last he straightens and swivels his head around to look at me over his shoulder.
Piers. It is Sir Piers and his visage is set. His features are firm, stern, unforgiving.
The implication is obvious and no longer escapable. Ralf is not here.
“Oh, oh, dear lord, I am sorry.” I whisper the words, not certain if they are meant for Sir Piers or an even higher authority. It is of no matter, the end will be the same. I have sinned and I am here to be judged.
One perfect eyebrow lifts as Piers turns to face me fully. He regards me in silence, taking in my unprepossessing appearance. At least I am clean and for that I should thank him since it must have been he who ordered that I be allowed to bathe. I open my mouth to utter the words but none come forth.
“So, we meet again, my bloodthirsty little countess. I trust your accommodations have served to impress upon you the seriousness of your situation here.”
I bow my head. “Yes, sir. But I thank you for the bath and the clean clothing.”
“Though they have their place, I am not prepared to subject myself to filth and squalor. You have had adequate food?”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat. Then, unable to contain the question uppermost in my mind for a moment longer, “Please, tell me of Ralf. Does my husband live?”
He frowns, as though slightly surprised by the question. “Your husband, madam? Ah, yes, I do understand your concern. The earl’s fate is inextricably bound up with your own, is it not?”
“That is not the sole reason. I am so sorry. I wish I could undo what is done. I never meant him harm, I swear it.”
“Do you? Do you indeed, my lady?” He pauses. “You will recall my promise to you.”
“I… I am not sure, my lord…”
“I told you, if my brother dies, you will hang.”
The harsh face of the new earl betrays no mercy, not a shred of compassion. I should expect none. The brothers were devoted a
nd without doubt, Piers will demand my death in retribution for taking the life of his beloved sibling. As he should. I can conjure no words in my own defence.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur. “I understand and I am deeply sorry for the harm I caused by my foolish actions. I desire only that you forgive me and I wish that my husband, too, could absolve me of the guilt I now feel.”
“He might. I believe I already mentioned to you that he is a tender-hearted soul and in my opinion far too easily swayed by a maiden’s pretty tears. Whilst we are alike in many ways, my brother and I, you will find I am not of such a merciful persuasion.”
“I am not pleading for mercy, my lord. I know what is to happen and I accept your justice.”
“Well, that is something, I suppose. You may be thankful though, as I am, that it is not my justice you are to receive this day. It is his.” He tilts his chin up in the direction of the far end of the chamber to a spot to the rear of where I stand.
Slowly, not daring to hope, to believe, I turn.
My knees melt, and I start to crumple to the Oriental rug beneath my feet. Ralf steps forward from his position leaning against the wall of the chamber but he is slow. It is Piers’ arms which encircle me from behind and prevent me from falling to the floor.
“My lord? My husband,” I whisper, “…you live.”
“Aye, he does. Not that this felicitous state of affairs is in any way due to any lack of effort on your part, madam. You may thank our excellent surgeon for your husband’s recovery and the mercy of almighty God for your own deliverance.” Piers lifts me in his arms and takes two strides across the room to deposit me on the large, ornately carved settle before the fire. Despite the hostile words and the anger emanating from the men before me, warmth starts immediately to seep into my being. There is a roaring fire beside me but it is not only that.
Ralf is not dead. I did not kill him. He lives. He lives!
I am sobbing with relief, with the lifting of the burden of grief, uncertainty, and guilt I have borne for weeks and hardly dared give voice to. Perhaps the knowledge I am not, after all, to end this night dangling from a noose has something to do with it. Mostly though, I weep tears of absolute joy that the man I have adored since childhood has not died at my hands.
“Such an emotional reunion. You should be touched, brother.” Piers’ tone is scathing.
Ralf’s voice is only a little less icy. “Indeed. It is to be regretted that my lady wife could not find such devotion within her before she planted a dagger between my ribs but perhaps she will be more accommodating in the future.”
“I would advise against such boundless optimism, my brother.”
“Ah, but as you always see fit to point out, I am a trusting soul. She will accept punishment for her misdemeanours, and we will move on. Is that not so, my lady?”
Ralf approaches the settle and sits beside me. Incredibly, he lays an arm across my shoulders and pulls me in toward his body. “Weep if you must, Eleanor and murmur your pretty apologies, too. When you are quite collected once more, you will accept the whipping you deserve for damn near doing me to death. Or maybe you won’t accept it but that makes no difference.”
Despite my raw emotions and confusion, some sense of what is being said manages to penetrate. My husband is talking of whipping me but he also talks of the future and of moving on. Is there really a way forward? Will being punished make this whole tragic mess all right again?
Is it really so simple?
Maybe it is and I want it to be so. Just moments ago, I yearned for the opportunity to seek Ralf’s forgiveness for the wrong I did him but that appeared a hopeless dream. He was gone, lost to me, or so I thought. Now it seems I am to have my chance after all.
“Yes, my lord. Anything. I just want you to forgive me. Then perhaps I can forgive myself.”
“We shall see. Thirty strokes with the switch on your bare bottom and thighs should be sufficient to create the required degree of penitence I expect.”
Thirty? Thirty strokes. Oh, dear Lord!
Ralf continues. “Piers will administer the punishment as I find myself still somewhat fragile and unable to do proper justice to your needs.”
“Piers? But I…” I raise my head to gaze from one to the other. Ralf is seated beside me, his body close enough to mine that I can feel the thick bandaging around his chest. His expression is more one of resigned regret than anger but I detect no softening of his resolve. Piers remains standing, several feet away. His muscular arms are folded, his features inscrutable. He does not appear angry any longer but neither should I expect any solace there. He will deliver a sound thrashing, in grim retribution for my attack on the brother who is so dear to him.
So be it. I am ready.
“It is to be here? Now?”
Piers nods.
“Not… in public?” I still retain the powerful image of the whipping I witnessed as a child, out in the bailey, the entire population of the castle and Egremont village looking on, cheering as justice was served.
It is Ralf who answers. “As far as our household is concerned, you are my wife, the countess of Egremont. It is sufficient humiliation that you have spent the first weeks of your life here in our dungeons. I see no reason to undermine your position further.”
“Thank you, my lord. But…” I hesitate, though only for a few moments. “I am not your countess. I cannot be since I am not Lady Eleanor. I know you do not believe that but ‘tis true and I cannot allow you to think otherwise.”
Ralf scratches his chin in thought. “Ah, yes, as to that… it would appear that you have succeeded in convincing Hugh Belcher of your story.”
“Yes, he believes me. He has spoken to you then?”
My husband nods. “He has provided daily reports to us on your welfare, including the details of your conversations.”
I had never considered that possibility. “He did not say. I thought…”
Piers is the one to respond to that. “Hugh had his instructions, direct from me. He is a loyal and diligent servant to Egremont as well as a fair and humane jailer. That is why I placed you in his keeping and it is why he did not allow you to know we were monitoring your captivity.”
“I believed I would be imprisoned, forgotten, until someone realised I was still alive and took the trouble to hang me.” I hang my head, the despair of the recent weeks starting to take its toll.
Ralf gets to his feet and crosses the room to stand beside his brother. “Your physical punishment now will be severe, as you deserve but true contrition will come as much from the uncertainty you have borne and your emotional response to it. I trust you will be in no hurry to repeat the experience?”
I have no doubt at all on that score. I must just pray Piers is swift in his delivery of justice and that I can survive the ordeal reasonably intact. At this moment, I am far from convinced of either.
Chapter Six
“Do you recall that night on the Welsh Marches? It would be three, maybe four years ago. We were camped out just west of Gloucester with Henry Marwood, preparing to subdue the Marcher barons on behalf of the crown. Yet again.” Piers utters the question slowly, as though giving some consideration to his words.
“Aye, I recall the occasion well enough. Henry was in his cups as I remember it. We were not convinced his powers of recovery would permit him to see the battlefield in the morning, let alone give a decent account of himself upon it.”
“That is the very evening I have in mind. Do you recall much of his conversation that night?”
“Some. He was very drunk but I remember he spoke of his lands and estates and of his new bride, the lovely Eleanor.” Ralf casts a wry grin in my direction. “He was most enamoured of you, my dear.”
I have no opportunity to respond, though in truth, I have nothing left to say on the matter.
It would seem Piers does. “Aye, he was. Perfectly besotted in fact. He waxed quite lyrical as I recall, sharing details of a particularl
y intimate nature as the ale flowed and the evening grew late.”
Ralf is frowning, clearly trying to remember just what was said that night that was of any significance. Piers does not prompt him. After a few moments, my husband’s expression clears.
“The birthmark!”
“Indeed,” agrees his brother. “If Henry described it accurately and I see no reason to suppose otherwise, a most unique birthmark, too—one which would identify the bearer and leave no room for doubt, I would say.”
“How is it we did not remember this before?”
“‘Tis simple enough. We did not believe the wench and we saw no reason to seek further corroboration of her tale one way or the other. We should have.” Piers looks to me. “If your story is true and you are indeed lady’s maid to Eleanor of Wellesworth, you will know the mark of which we speak. It is on her person, in a location not likely to be known to any but her closest servants and her husband. Are you aware of such a birthmark?”
I nod. I know exactly what they are referring to. Lady Eleanor has a horseshoe-shaped mark below her right breast, almost hidden under the lower curve there. It is pinkish in colour, almost half an inch in length.
“Would you describe the mark, please?” This from Ralf.
I do so, at their request pointing to the exact spot on my own body where the identifying birthmark is to be found.
“Do you have such a mark on your body?” asks Piers.
“No, sir.”
He turns to face his brother, an enquiring grin across his features. “Ralf, I do not suppose you reached the stage where you might have…?”
My husband shakes his head. “Nay. My bride’s rather extreme response to my attempt at lovemaking rather curtailed matters before I reached that point.”
