The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  As Elyssa prepared to follow Clare thrust herself between her cousin and the door. "Nay, Lyssa. Do not look upon evil. Be you but humble and quiet, keeping your eyes turned from him, and in seven months you'll hold a babe in your arms."

  Elyssa tried to sidestep her, only to have Clare shift to block her path again. “Move aside,” she command, “and go pack our things. You heard the sheriff. We leave in but two hours.”

  Something flared in Clare’s eyes. “Nay. You cannot risk the babe.”

  Startled at this unexpected barrier, Elyssa frowned then lowered her voice. “I think me there’s nothing to this tale of evil,” she said in a low voice, “but should I be wrong it’s all the better I know what we face, as much for this new babe's sake as for Jocelyn’s. Think, Clare. If Coudray is truly evil, will he not seek to steal my infant from me upon his birth to use in his unnatural rituals? He’ll be in my birthing chamber."

  Clare started in surprise, as if this possibility hadn’t occurred to her. "Then, you cannot go to Crosswell," she blurted out.

  "What choice have I?" Elyssa retorted sharply, unable to resist punishing her cousin for her betrayal. "You have made him my warden by spilling what I would have kept to myself."

  Clare pressed her hand to her mouth. "What have I done?" she murmured from behind her finger. "He'll take the babe and your soul, as well."

  Instantly, Elyssa regretted her small cruelty. It was especially unfair if Coudray was in truth misusing them all, claiming to be what he was not. "What’s done is done, Clare. If there’s anything in this missive, I’ll petition for a new guardian. Until then, at least we’ll be near Jocelyn."

  To her surprise, anger flared in Clare’s eyes. "Go, then," she snapped. "Be a stubborn fool and throw yourself in danger’s path. Take yourself to Crosswell, but don’t think I’ll go with you.”

  “You won't come with me?" Elyssa cried in blank astonishment. Her cousin had never once refused her. “Clare, you cannot leave me. I need you. What if this babe does take me?” She gasped as she spoke of her own death, for with it came the image of her facing that event without anyone she loved at her side.

  Clare lifted her chin. “Why would I want to attend you? So I can watch your headstrong ways destroy you and your children? Nay, I'll not aid you in that, and you cannot force me to your side despite what orders you throw at me.”

  Tears stung at Elyssa’s eyes as Clare’s words tore through her. For shame! What difference was there between her attempts to manipulate her cousin and Gradinton’s arrogant commands?

  Reaching out, she caught Clare’s hand even as Clare tried to avoid her grasp. “I beg your pardon,” Elyssa said and meant it. “You're right. I cannot force you where you don’t wish to go, nor do I wish to. If you cannot bring yourself to come with me, return you to Nalder where you can keep my house against my return or my death."

  Clare ceased resisting. Her face softened. “That tongue of yours," she said with an irritable sigh. "You should learn to hold it when you’re upset,” then added, “as should I. I’m coming with you. How could I not?”

  "I do not deserve your loyalty," Elyssa said with a small smile.

  Clare's mouth lifted in response. "True. Nonetheless you have it. I'll begin packing while you go within and do whatever it is you think you must, even if it means looking at things you shouldn’t. Be warned, I will hear nothing of what lies upon that parchment. Unlike you, I have no desire to confront evil. And I'll hold you responsible if that babe of yours is marked because of what you do."

  Elyssa’s smile grew. "Done," she agreed, then pressed a swift kiss to her cousin’s cheek. "My thanks, Clare."

  Clare gave another irritable sigh, but there was less bile in it this time. As she turned toward the right door and the women's quarters where their belongings were, Elyssa followed Sibyl into the bedchamber.

  As the noblewoman pawed through one of her traveling baskets, seeking her proof, Elyssa stared at the great bed at the center of this windowless room. It had been her grandsire's but was now part of her dowry. Expensive and beautiful, its posts and frame were carved like twining ivy, the thick foliage studded, however improbably, with acorns and hazelnuts. Heavy blue-and-red damask curtains hung from its wooden ceiling, offering privacy and warmth within its draperies. Elyssa's lips twisted into a tiny, bitter smile. Aye, it was part of her dowry, but it wasn’t hers. For the past thirteen years Aymer had owned it. Before that, it had belonged to her first husband. The only time she'd ever used it was when she parted its curtains to do her wifely duty, the last time two months ago.

  Anger rose again, this time aimed at herself. Upon her return to Freyne, Aymer had sweetly cajoled, pleading love and vowing changes, then reminded her of her marital debt to him. His touch had reawakened her body's needs, bringing into sharp recall all the pleasure that accompanied joining. Seduced by her own desires, she agreed only to have him suggest on their third night that they add another woman to their joining. Once again, she’d trusted him, only to once again be used.

  As if in reaction to her emotions, the babe within her added its own protest, turning her stomach against the day's stew. Elyssa crossed her arms over her midsection. Ten years of barrenness had made her forget how impossible it was for her to eat during her first months of pregnancy. As she swallowed her meal for the second time this day, she looked toward Sibyl.

  Gradinton's wife now sat on the bed's end, a parchment in hand. The noblewoman smiled at her, but there was more of hatred than pleasure in the expression.

  "Why did I not understand this sooner?" Sibyl asked of herself. "Where men hear nothing, another mother will listen. You are heaven-sent, Lady Freyne, being brave beyond a woman's scope. Be you my sword, destroying the one who has destroyed all I held dear."

  Elyssa shook her head as she held out her hand for the missive. "You'll not name me your champion. I am nothing to you, my lady. If I serve your need for revenge against the sheriff by what I do this day, it will be but happenstance."

  "What care I for why you do it?" Lady Sibyl replied as she stuffed a smudged piece of sheep's skin into Elyssa’s hand. "I care only that it's done. Look upon these words and see the truth."

  The handwriting that filled the page was small and cramped, but owned an intensity that nearly ate through the parchment's thickness. Both sides of this bit were filled to all its edges with tiny words. Elyssa squinted to read.

  My dearest Maman,

  You must aid me. For two years, my terrible lord and husband has been in league with the Devil. This I came to know after I bore him our second child. Where I saw a thriving babe come forth, he said the child was stillborn. When I argued, telling our servants he'd done murder to our child, he said to them I was mad with grief then confined me to our chamber. Whilst thus imprisoned, the Devil's incubi came to torture me with their fingers like claws and their touches burning like hot pokers. When I showed our priest how I was clawed and burned, he did not heed me, saying I had done it to myself. I know now that all Coudray's servants, even our priest, are the Devil's minions.

  When I could bear the attacks no longer, I lied, pretending to believe the babe stillborn. The incubi immediately departed, proving they are under the control of my lord husband. To protect myself, I stole holy water from our chapel to anoint a knife then I set both vial and knife in a hidden place against the incubi's return.

  Last week, before I came to childbed with our third child, I hid my blessed instruments beneath my bolsters. I saw the fine and healthy boy who came forth and begged a private moment during which I anointed my child with the holy liquid. Not but an instant later, my fearsome lord came saying he would take the boy to be baptized. Pretending I suspected nothing; I gaily set my child into his arms.

  When he returned, my lord's eyes glowed with evil rage, and I knew I had thwarted his terrible purpose. But the child in his arms was not my son. Instead, he gave to me a hideous creature, its face bearing a terrible red mark and its limbs, withered. It was the Devil's own son.
I know if I am to regain my true son this being must die.

  Maman, my lord husband uses his spells and incantations to listen to my thoughts and find out what I know. I tremble when he turns his gaze on me, for his eyes pierce my soul. Although I have anointed my bed curtains and keep my knife at my side, his dark minions fill my room, hiding behind the panels that drape my walls. I dare not leave this bed, fearing they'll take me away to hell. But, if I do not soon escape, my lord must kill me.

  There was no finish to the sentence as there was no room left on the parchment for another word to fit.

  Elyssa swallowed, certainty shaken. There wasn't a priest or Churchman in the world who didn't speak out against just these sorts of things. Their descriptions of hell's creatures and those who served the devil were no different than what Sibyl’s Maud had laid upon this sheet.

  She held the parchment away from her by thumb and forefinger, just in case the evil it described might seep into her skin. Mary save her, Clare was right; she should never have looked. Her free hand came to cup protectively at her abdomen, as if her touch could shield the child within her. But, even as heart and soul quaked, her mind insisted there was something amiss here.

  "Is that proof enough for you, my lady?" Righteous certainty, the same certainty Elyssa had owned a moment ago, filled Sibyl's question.

  "Well, for certain what your daughter describes is an abomination," Elyssa managed in a muted voice, "but I must wonder why Lord Gradinton did nothing when he saw this."

  Sibyl's face drooped. "What cares he that evil walks the earth's face? When his time isn’t spent trying to free himself from our marriage, he curses Maud for producing only a girl child and our sons for dying without heirs."

  Elyssa laid the skin on the edge of the bed, wanting nothing more to do with it. "What of your priest? What did he say when you showed him this?"

  "That coward?" Sibyl's voice broke with pain. "He fears my lord more than the Devil. He tries to blame my Maud for this, saying she was always strange and that she made this tale to hurt her husband. When he did nothing, I dared send word of Lord Coudray's evil to his superior. For months, there was no word, so I wrote again. The clerk who wrote back said my charges were no more than the babbling of a grief-stricken mother. I think they refuse to challenge Lord Coudray because he is closely linked to Bishop William of Hereford. I say this bishop, so highly placed in court and Church, shields a favorite."

  Elyssa's soul ceased to quake as she listened. Lady Sibyl was wrong. If the Church knew and did nothing, it could only be because there was no truth behind the charges. There was no greater joy to a Churchman than rooting out Devil worshipers and heretics. At this moment, she'd lay every coin she owned to wager FitzHenry was not among the ranks of evil.

  She paused in her thoughts. So, if Lord Coudray wasn’t evil, what reason had he for allowing Lady Gradinton's charges to stand unchallenged? None, save he sought to excite fear in those around him.

  But, what did he gain from her fright? For certain, a pregnant woman would want to keep her distance from the Devil to protect her child, and Coudray had heard Clare reveal her babe’s existence. That left only one question: why did he need her to keep her distance from him? Whatever his reason it was important enough that he allowed others to believe he was the Devil’s servant rather than expose it.

  A smile touched Elyssa's mouth. Here was the tool she needed to protect Jocelyn from what the sheriff would demand of him. The sooner she knew what Coudray's secret was, the more swiftly she owned him.

  "Say you will stand beside me to accuse him," Lady Sibyl said, her eyes taking that unholy light once more.

  "Nay," Elyssa said with a brusque shake of her head, "as awful as this tale is, it’s not enough else others would have already accused him. You know that."

  Sibyl's mouth twisted in angry disappointment. "How can you refuse me after you've read these words?"

  "Now, do not go screaming that I have done you wrong, when I promised you nothing," Elyssa retorted in irritation.

  "Coward! You are no different than the rest, too afraid to take action." Sibyl snatched the parchment off the end of the bed, then pressed it to her breast and rocked slightly. Tears again filled her eyes. "They're dead, and no one will help me punish the one at fault."

  There was a tap on the door. "Aye?" Elyssa called out.

  The door opened only little. "Are you finished?" Clare asked. "We are ready to pack Lady Gradinton's belongings."

  "Aye, come,” Elyssa replied, feeling grateful that she'd seen the missive. She’d rather freely give her soul to Satan than to quake in groundless terror before a foul but all-too-mortal man.

  As Clare led in a half-dozen female servants, Elyssa stepped back, her gaze again on her bed. She reached out to touch a post in longing. Three weeks ago, she'd planned to celebrate her widowhood by scrubbing away all trace of the men who had used both it and her. It galled her to leave it here for yet another man to use.

  Her stomach chose that moment to twist again. Elyssa clenched her teeth against the urge to disgorge her previous meal. Although the wave of sickness passed, it left her shaken and weak.

  "Not again," Clare said, then laid her arm around her cousin's shoulders. She hurried her from the bedchamber to the now-empty women's quarters, then urged Elyssa to sit down on her cot then put a basin in her lap. "See the price you pay for the day's upset? I cannot believe you're serious about riding to Crosswell. Not only will bouncing atop a horse make you ill, it's dangerous for the babe. Moreover, you hate horses."

  "Do not lecture, Clare. For Jocelyn's sake, I must hurry,” Elyssa said, clutching her arms tight over her stomach. The wave of sickness again began to rise, building slowly to its inevitable peak. She glanced down at the cot and thought of the uncomfortable months to be spent in some corner of Crosswell's keep. "Clare, do you think I should take my bed with us?"

  "Why not? Even if there's no room for you to use it, I'd not leave so fine a piece out of my control, were it mine. Surely, Crosswell has storage sheds."

  "Aye, that was my thought as well." She carefully kept her eyes averted from the basin as she continued. "Do you suppose Sir Reginald might disassemble it and send it on to us at Crosswell? I know he'd not do it for me, but he might if you asked him." It was a broad hint for Clare to go. Elyssa hated spilling her stomach before a witness. It was humiliating.

  "He might." Again, her cousin blushed, but made no move to leave. "Aye, I should see him with regard to our mounts as well."

  Elyssa gritted her teeth against her stomach's demand. "Why cannot babes be hatched like chicks? Go, Clare. Leave me to my misery.”

  "As if I haven’t seen you do this every day for the past two weeks,” Clare retorted, then held up a hand to forestall Elyssa’s argument. “I’ll go if you promise to rest until it’s time to depart. You'll need all your strength for our journey.”

  "I vow," Elyssa breathed, feeling green. The moment the door closed after her cousin, Elyssa gave herself over to her babe's control.

  Gone was the morn’s mildness. The wind now howled across a weeping sky, turning spattering starts of drizzle into stinging needles of rain. It battered at Reginald as he stepped from the tower's upper chamber onto the wooden landing that topped the stairs. Shutting the door behind him, he turned the bulky key in its slot. Iron scraped as the door's heavy latch shifted, letting the thick bar drop into place. Once retracted, the key rattled along the iron circle that was its ring.

  This lock along with Freyne's long years of peace had turned what was once a last refuge into a treasury. The upper chamber's corner now housed two chests that contained what little wealth in cloth and coin Aymer had owned, along with copies of all the contracts ever signed and sealed by Freyne's lords. One of those chests played host to Reginald’s book.

  Over the years, this leather-bound collection of parchments had become more than a place in which to note expenditures and income. It now contained the yields produced by different types of seeds and the
cycle of field rotations. There were even notes to himself on his many attempts to strengthen the left gate tower, which seemed to be sinking.

  Tucking this precious volume securely beneath his arm and cloak, Reginald turned to make his descent. As always, the view of his beloved home stopped him, trapping him in appreciation. Although he knew many found this place drab and uninviting, he saw nothing but beauty and security.

  For a manor house, Freyne was well protected. When his Norman progenitor captured this place over a century ago he’d made use of an ancient mound for his defense. Flattening the hill's top, he raised a tiny keep tower in its center then ringed the crest with a wooden palisade. To make assault more difficult, he'd dug a trench around its foot, creating a dry moat, and built a drawbridge to make for easy crossing. Only for that generation did his ancestors live atop this mound. Reginald’s grandsire had found the keep far too cramped and uncomfortable, and had descended from the hilltop to claim a spacious new bailey around which he raised another wall, this one built of stone and as thick as two men were tall. Once again, men labored to build a dry moat, but here it fronted an impressive gatehouse and required a drawbridge as a proper crossing.

  Reginald let his gaze move from the hall, barns, and gardens of the bailey to Freyne's holdings. They stretched along a small plain, the fertile expanse trapped between rolling hills and the tangled wildness of the king's forest. The land here had long worn the regular outlines of fields and orchards, tofts and crofts, civilization's growth turning it into nothing less than a giant chessboard. Hundreds of thatch-capped, whitewashed cottages were pawns to a bishop, as represented by the large, stone church, complete with its own squat tower.

  If farming yet remained the community's mainstay, occasional placards now hung over cottage doors, offering shoemaking and tailoring, dying and fulling. This change was a source of great pride to Reginald, for it had happened at his hand. Unlike his sire, he recognized that a bushel of barley was always the same, but a one-penny fee could be raised to two.