by Meg Cabot
“How dare you?” she raged, spitting mad. “How dare you take what’s mine? I only wore what was most comfortable to hunt and ride in! Why is it that a man may wear what he likes,” she demanded, “but a woman must cover herself from head to toe?”
Truthfully, Hugo had no answer for that…He began to doubt if his plan was, indeed, such a sound one after all. But he dared not back down now.
“Nay. I brought with me from Egypt silks enough to make up a wardrobe for a queen. You may hire a seamstress to create all the bliauts and kirtles that you like, but no more braies.”
“Fie on your silks! What care I for fine clothes? I want only what’s mine. Now, give them to me!”
Hugo, with a final shake of his head, and before he could change his mind, threw the offending garment deep into the fire. Finnula let out a shriek fit to wake the dead. Indeed, many a head turned, expecting no doubt to see a banshee, not the Lady of Stephensgate in the throes of a magnificent temper.
“Oh!” Finnula cried furiously, as her beloved leather braies were enveloped in flames. “Oh, you…you…” Finnula seemed at a loss for an epithet foul enough to suit her purposes. Whirling upon Hugo like a fishwife, she spat, “You…bastard!”
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked angrily away. John de Brissac, who had watched all that had passed between husband and wife with interest, now exhaled gustily.
“My lord,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a braver man than I. Only a rare few have tangled with the Fair Finn and emerged unscathed. The Laroches, for instance…until your return.”
Hugo attempted a chuckle. Although, truly, he did not feel as happy as he’d thought he would, watching the leather trousers burn.
“She is not so fierce as she has led you all to believe,” he said, with a conviction he did not actually believe. “Why, I have seen more ferocious kittens—”
He would have said more, but at that moment, a familiar sound distracted him. He looked up sharply, his reactions instinctive, honed from years of warfare.
He saw the projectile before it struck him, before he heard Sheriff de Brissac’s warning shout. The pointed shaft came streaking out of the flames of the bonfire, and though he threw up an arm to ward it off, the arrow embedded itself into his shoulder with enough force to knock him off his feet.
“My lord!”
Sheriff de Brissac was at his side immediately, along with a half dozen other stunned onlookers. Hugo, on his back in the grass, blinked up at the concerned faces and thought it ironic that after a decade of battles in foreign countries, he should finally be felled in his own sheep meadow. He opened his lips to verbalize this, but John de Brissac made a gesture for him to be silent.
“My lord, do not attempt to speak,” the sheriff urged, lifting Hugo’s head and sliding his own short cape beneath it for use as an impromptu pillow. Calling over his shoulder, John shouted, “You over there. Run and fetch Lady Finnula, at once. And you, get Father Edward, quickly!”
Hugo grinned, though he felt the pain now. It drummed in his temples. “Father Edward, Sheriff?” he quipped. “Surely ’tis not so grave as that…”
“I told you to be still,” the sheriff snapped. “Where is the Lady Finnula?”
“I reckon she isn’t far, Sheriff,” one of his deputies assured him.
“Then get her, for God’s sake.”
“Are you certain you shouldn’t be the one fetching her, sir?” The deputy pointed at the shaft in Hugo’s shoulder, which he found his neck too stiff to turn to look at. “See the colors of the quill.”
Hugo saw the sheriff look…and turn pale.
“What is it, John?” Hugo struggled to rise to his elbows, but anxious hands pushed him down again, and besides, he felt as if all his limbs had turned to stone. “What is it? What about the quill?”
When the sheriff said only, “Someone, anyone, find the herbalist—” Hugo reached up, and grasping de Brissac by the tunic, brought the older man’s head down toward his own.
“Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me, or I swear I’ll rip your heart out.”
“The quill,” John whispered. “’Tis purple and white.”
“So?”
“Lady Finnula’s quill tips are all dyed purple, my lord.”
Hugo, despite his pain, nearly burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious. She would never—You can’t think Finnula—”
“I think nothing of the kind. I beg you, my lord, be still. You are losing blood…”
Hugo knew he was seriously injured, more seriously than he’d ever been before. He’d lost all peripheral vision and could only see what was directly before him, which, unfortunately, was John de Brissac’s face. He was still in possession of his wits, however, and it took only a moment for the reason behind the sheriff’s grim expression to sink in.
“Don’t let them,” Hugo said, his fingers tightening on John’s tunic. “Don’t let them take her—”
“Nay, never fear, my lord.” John’s voice was soothing. “I will see to it. She will not be harmed.”
“People will think—”
“I know what they will think. Leave it to me. ’Tis my fault. I was detained by business in town today, and did not have time to go to Leesbury to check on Laroche. I’ll take care of everything. Rest easy, my lord…”
Hugo hardly needed that kind of encouragement. His eyelids had grown so heavy that he could no longer lift them, and he felt as if he was sinking deep into the peat below him.
“Hugo!”
The horrified accents in the voice rendered it almost unrecognizable, but Hugo knew the speaker, nonetheless. The last thing he saw before darkness overcame him was Finnula’s face, white with fear even in the glow of the fire, but beautiful, as beautiful as the first time he had ever looked upon it.
“Hugo! Oh, no!” She sank to her knees at his side, her hands clasping his. “Hugo!”
He tried very hard to tell her something—he knew not what—but his tongue, like his limbs, had turned to lead. And then his eyelids fell closed, and he knew no more.
Chapter Twenty-one
Finnula saw Hugo’s head fall limply to one side, and she let out a wail that seemed to have been wrenched from the depths of her soul.
“Oh, no!” she cried, desperately clinging to her husband’s fingers. “No, Hugo, no!”
“My dear.” Sheriff de Brissac’s hands were heavy on her shoulders. “My dear, there is naught you can do. Leave it to those who can help him—”
Finnula struggled to break free from the sheriff’s restraining grip, and only stopped her fractious twisting when her brother, Robert, broke through the stunned crowd and, his face paling at the sight of Hugo on the ground, took her by the arm. By then the village herbalist had found his way through the throng, and Finnula watched with bated breath as the old man bent over her unconscious husband, examining the wound with a critical eye.
“’Tis deeply embedded.” Old Gregor leaned back and sighed, after a pause that was, to Finnula, dreadful. “But it missed the heart.”
“Will he live?” asked the sheriff softly, because Finnula had buried her face in her brother’s shoulder with a sob.
“Only God can say with any certainty,” was Gregor’s highly unsatisfactory reply. Finnula, in Robert’s arms, began to weep angrily as the herbalist made his patient ready for transport back to the manor house.
“What happened?” she demanded through her tears, her hands balled into fists. “Who can have done this to him?”
“There will be no telling that tonight, my lady,” Sheriff de Brissac said gravely. “What is important now is that he is moved indoors, and given a chance to recover—”
“What is important now is that the person who did this is discovered!” declared someone from the crowd of onlookers that had gathered round the fallen earl. All eyes turned upon the speaker, and he straightened to his full height. Finnula was surprised to see through her tears that it was none other than her husband’s squire, Peter.
> “Aye,” she agreed, her voice shaking with emotion. “Peter speaks rightly. We must find out who did this—”
“I think that is fairly obvious,” Peter interrupted rudely. Finnula, taken aback, said nothing, but she felt her brother’s hands tighten on her shoulders.
“What say you, boy?” Robert demanded, angrily. “You dare—”
“Aye, I dare,” Peter scoffed. “I dare accuse your precious sister of attempting to murder Lord Hugo!”
In a flash, Robert had released Finnula and lunged at the younger man. Only Sheriff de Brissac’s swift actions prevented another murder from being attempted before their very eyes. But even as the sheriff separated the two men, another threw down the gauntlet.
“The boy speaks the truth!”
Finnula gasped. Rosamund’s father, Miles Hillyard, the mayor of Stephensgate, stood in the red glow of the bonfire, his lined face a mask of rage.
“Aye,” Hillyard cried. “The truth! My daughter told me how it was just this afternoon. Two attempts made on His Lordship’s life already today before this one, and Finnula Crais had opportunity both times—”
“This is madness!” Robert declared. The roar from the bonfire was nothing compared to the roar in the miller’s voice. “You know not of what you speak. My sister would no sooner try to kill her husband than—”
“Is that so?” The mayor looked smug. “And what of Lord Geoffrey? Was she not married to the late earl, and did he not die mysteriously on their wedding night?”
“Aye,” cried a shrill voice, and Finnula’s sister Patricia, followed closely by Christina and Mellana, pushed her way through the crowd until she stood before her sister’s accusers. “That he did. But not because our Finn killed him!”
“No one ever proved Lord Geoffrey was murdered,” Robert stormed.
“No one ever proved Lord Geoffrey died of…of….” Mellana blinked up at Robert for help. “What is it called?”
“Unnatural causes. And that was a different matter entirely! What possible motive could Finnula have for killing Lord Hugo? Look at her, you old fool. Anyone can see she loves him.”
Whether Miles Hillyard did not appreciate being called an old fool by his future son-in-law, or whether he was simply fed up with having his declarations second-guessed, he paid no more heed to Robert Crais and his sisters than one might to a nest of sparrows.
“Sheriff de Brissac,” the mayor said loudly, “I demand that you arrest that girl on suspicion of having attempted murder—”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, quickly followed by a number of shouts of indignation and protest. Finnula, however, was oblivious to it all. Her hands pressed to her mouth, her gaze never left her husband’s supine body. If he dies, she thought. If Hugo dies…
Matthew Fairchild shoved his way to Robert’s side and shouted, “See here! You can’t arrest the Lady Finn! Any simpleton can tell that arrow wasn’t shot by her—”
“Oh, any simpleton could tell that, could he?” Miles Hillyard looked decidedly testy by now. He was a wealthy man, and one who did not take kindly to criticism. “Kindly inform me how, then, since I must be a simpleton.”
“Gladly.” Matthew gestured to Lord Hugo’s body as it was being loaded onto one of the litters that had transported the ale from the manor house. “Had the Lady Finn wanted him gone, she’d have hardly used an arrow from her own quill. ’Twould be clear evidence of her guilt!”
Peter, sidling up to Hillyard’s shoulder, laughed shortly. “That’s precisely what she’d want you to think—”
“Finnula is the gentlest creature I’ve ever known,” Patricia declared staunchly. “She’d no sooner injure a man than cut off her own arm—”
“Gentle!” Peter scoffed. “I’ll show you gentle! She caught me in a tree snare. I barely escaped with my own life!”
“You know very well that was only because she was trying to capture Lord Hugo,” Mellana chastised him, shaking a finger. “She couldn’t very well tie him up with you about—”
“Mellana,” Patricia said sharply. “You aren’t helping.”
“And she never would have done such a thing,” Mellana insisted, ignoring the warning tone in Patricia’s voice, “if I hadn’t asked her to. Finnula’s the most loving, loyal sister anyone ever had.”
“Loving!” Peter shook his head incredulously. “Was it lovingly, then, that I heard her abuse His Lordship with the most vile language directly before he was shot? She called him a bastard!”
The crowd murmured at the truth of this. Everyone had heard Finnula’s strident cursing, though none had known the cause of the outburst. Finnula made no move to defend herself. She was not even aware of what was going on around her. If Hugo dies, was all she could think. If Hugo dies…
“I can prove that it wasn’t Finnula that shot that arrow,” Mellana insisted staunchly.
Sheriff de Brissac, who’d been watching the proceedings with unmasked anxiety, nodded encouragingly. “Go on, then.”
“If Finn had really wanted her husband dead,” the blond girl said, with careful emphasis, “she wouldn’t have missed.”
The mayor let out an exasperated snort. “Are ye blind, madam? She didn’t miss! She hit him!”
Patricia, seeing Mellana’s meaning at last, cried, “But she missed his heart. Don’t you see? Finnula’s the best shot in Shropshire. She wouldn’t have missed such an easy target, at such close range—”
“Bah!” Hillyard threw his hands into the air. “This is madness! Sheriff de Brissac, will you arrest that girl, or will I have to do it myself?”
John de Brissac inhaled deeply, his gaze meeting Finnula’s. She lowered the hands she’d pressed to her mouth. The flames from the bonfire were not so high now, but in their orange glow, she could still see the body of her husband, as it was carried toward the house. All of her attention was focused on the slow rise and fall of that immense breadth of chest. If Hugo dies…If Hugo dies…
She, too, would die. And not because she’d be hanged if found guilty of his murder.
“I must go with him,” she murmured, starting forward, but the sheriff flung out a hasty arm, barring her path.
“Nay, Finnula,” he said, in a surprisingly soft voice for so large a man. “Let Gregor tend to him. There is naught you can do—”
Finnula shook her head, completely dazed with anxiety for her husband. “No, no. You don’t understand. I must go with him. I am his wife.”
“You cannot go, Finnula.” Sheriff de Brissac reached for the cloak he’d laid beneath Lord Hugo’s head and, shaking it out, laid it now over Finnula’s shoulders. She seemed quite unconscious of the gesture, and stood staring after the departing litter.
“I must go,” she repeated, but when she took a step toward the manor house, Peter leaped at her, his face twisted with malice.
“Stay where you are, murderess!” he cried. “Sheriff, you cannot let this woman out of your sight! She will run away and hide in the woods, for she knows them better than anyone—”
Startled, Finnula backed away from the squire, until she felt Sheriff de Brissac’s hands on her shoulders. Then she froze, staring with wide eyes at her accusers. The roaring in her ears was not the sound of the flames behind her, but seemed to come from inside her own head, as she recalled, only too vividly, a scene not unlike this one, which had occurred almost exactly a year before.
“Lady Finnula is not going anywhere, boy,” boomed Sheriff de Brissac. She stood so close to him that she felt the vibrating rumble of his voice against her back. “Not thanks to your impudence—”
“Impudence!” The lord mayor took umbrage at the sheriff’s tone. “John, there is no impudence in the case. The girl’s never been quite right in the head, anyone here can tell you that. What kind of woman dresses in such a scandalous manner? What kind of woman spends her days poaching instead of sewing?”
“You’ve eaten game poached by my sister often enough, Lord Mayor,” Patricia reminded him with a sneer.
&nbs
p; Robert strode forward, his fists clenched impotently. “This is madness,” he cried. “I will not allow it. Someone here shot Lord Hugo, but ’twas not my sister! Now, will none of you do anything to find the true assassin?”
“There is no need to look further than this,” Mayor Hillyard said shortly. “The wench is obviously guilty. We ought to have seen her hanged a year ago, when she poisoned Lord Geoffrey—”
The crowd murmured at this.
“There is no obviousness about it!” Robert declared. “Did anyone here see my sister draw a bow this night? Is there anyone who can positively identify my sister as the one who shot Lord Hugo?”
The crowd was silent, all except for Peter, the squire. He stepped forward with a challenge of his own. “Can any man here say they saw anyone draw a bow this night?”
Robert was not finished, however. “My sister wears no quiver, nor has any bow been found. Who is to say where the arrow that felled Lord Hugo came from? The doors in Stephensgate Manor are not locked. Anyone could have crept inside and taken one of my sister’s shafts—”
“Anyone, yes,” Peter agreed. “But who better than Lady Finnula herself?”
“This arguing is pointless,” declared Mayor Hillyard. He pointed at Finnula, who stood with her hands at her sides, her face turned toward the manor house. “To the stockade with her! The girl must stand trial. If Lord Hugo dies, she will be charged with murder. If he lives, with attempting to commit murder. For either crime, she will hang—”
Sheriff de Brissac stepped forward at that, moving his bulk so that it blocked the mayor’s view of Finnula. “That,” he rumbled menacingly, “will be quite enough, Lord Mayor. I shall remove Her Ladyship to my own home—”
“To your home?” The mayor laughed shortly and without humor. “For what purpose? She must be locked in the village jailhouse, like any criminal—”
“She is the wife of the Earl of Stephensgate,” Sheriff de Brissac reminded the mayor. “The jailhouse is no place for a lady.”
“No place for women who murder their own husbands?” Mayor Hillyard had gone red in the face with impatience. “Sheriff, you disappoint me. You, too, have fallen under the witch’s spell! Finnula Crais is a menace, a harpy who preys upon—”
