by K. C. Julius
For the sake of the realm, my lord, you must tell me who else knew of this union.
Only her… she was the only one I told.
Had it been Selka to whom Urlion referred? Was it not then logical to assume she had cast the memory spell? Again, the question of why remained to be answered. What purpose of hers did it serve to keep this ill-fated marriage undisclosed? Particularly when Morgan thought he knew what Selka wanted from him.
“You would have me seek this child. Why now?”
The sorceress leaned closer, her dark eyes fathomless.
“To redress a wrong,” she whispered, “that should have been put to rights long ago.”
Chapter 8
Whit
The travelers left the batteau in Thraven, then traveled on horseback the rest of the way to the Fitz-Poles’ ancestral home. The sun was just setting when they arrived at Bodiaer, and in the golden light the castle appeared to float on the moat, its towers reflecting black on the moss-green water. Whit might have taken more time to admire the elegant structure had he not been distracted by a youth scampering along its moat with a young woman, her skirts tucked up, in hot pursuit. Both of them were flushed and laughing.
When the boy saw the riders, he faltered, and the woman was fast upon him.
“You’re it!” she cried, tagging him. Her smile faded as she followed his gaze. Then she said something to the lad and bolted across the bridge leading to the gatehouse.
The boy remained on the drawbridge, his rigid stance conveying wariness. When Whit raised his hand in greeting, the boy turned and ran for the gate as well. Several men-at-arms replaced him on the bridge, their hands on their sword hilts.
Whit glanced at Fynn. There were tears standing in his eyes. The lad was likely thinking of his mother, and that he himself might have grown up here had she not been taken by the Helgrins.
Beside him, Grinner gave a low hiss through his dark teeth. “Not much o’ a welcome fer the young master.”
“Steady there,” Whit cautioned. “They have no idea who we are. We’ll ensure no harm befalls Fynn.”
As agreed beforehand, Wren took the lead, for if his face wasn’t known to the Bodiaer men, his name would be. “I’m Sir Wren of Elthing in Cardenstowe,” he called out. “My grandmother, Lady Helewysa, hailed from Heversney. We’ve come to pay a visit to Lady Guin.”
Whit remembered then that Lord Grenville had long been ill, and that it was the lady of the manor whom they must convince to receive them.
One of the guards cupped his hands around his mouth. “And who’s that with you?”
“Friends,” Whit replied heartily, “bearing good tidings.” This was yet to be proven true, but his answer seemed to be acceptable, for after a brief consultation, the guards waved them forward.
Whit had decided to introduce himself as Sir Olin of Cardenstowe, just in case Vetch had already sent men this far south to make inquiries about him. Fynn and Grinner, posing as pages, would draw scant attention, as long as the å Livåri kept his hood up to hide his blue tattoo. But on such a mild spring day, the hood must have raised suspicions, for one of the guards, a heavy man with a wispy beard, furrowed his brow when Grinner urged his mount through the gate. It was clear the guard was having second thoughts about admitting them, but before he could voice a concern, the boy they’d seen earlier reappeared.
“I told you not to let them in until I returned, Wat,” he said to the guard. The lad looked to be around the same age as Fynn, and his manner suggested he was a family member.
Wren swung calmly down from his horse, and Whit and their “squires” followed suit. “Wren of Elthing,” the knight said, holding out his hand. “My grandmother’s people came from Heversney. You must be the grandnephew.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy shook Wren’s hand. “Kelton Trevor.” He glanced uncertainly at Whit.
“Lady Guin isn’t expecting us,” Wren continued pleasantly, “but I’m certain she’ll be pleased to see us, once she learns the reason for our visit.”
The boy gave a stiff nod, then sent Wat ahead to inform his great-aunt that guests had arrived.
“Who was that with you, out by the moat?” Fynn asked.
Kelton was clearly surprised at being addressed so bluntly by a squire, but his good manners prevailed. “Who—who do you mean?”
“The woman who was chasing you. Who is she?”
The sound of approaching footsteps heralded Wat’s return. “Her ladyship said to show them into the hall, master.”
Kelton turned on his heel and preceded them up a wide staircase, then through a set of arched doors into a handsome hall, its dark paneling burnished by the golden light of the dying day. He crossed the room to stand beside the chair of an old man; it seemed Lord Grenville was well enough to receive them after all. Lady Guin sat facing his lordship, two hands of cards on the table between them. The only other person in the room was a grey-haired serving woman. She was seated by the window, her needles clicking over a basket of yarn on her lap.
Fortunately, Lady Guin, a petite woman with blue eyes and snow-white hair, remembered Wren, and offered him her hand with evident pleasure before turning her bright gaze on Whit. Lord Grenville, his back bent with age, barely glanced at any of them, and he received Wren’s polite salute with poorly veiled disinterest.
“We were in the middle of a set,” the old man said querulously.
“Never mind, my lord.” Lady Guin’s voice was soothing, if slightly raised. “We can play another time. Sir Wren has been long away in the midlands, and now he’s been so good as to pay us a visit upon his return to Langmerdor.” She inclined her head toward Wren’s companions with a smile. “May we have the pleasure…?”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” Wren glanced at Whit, clearly uncomfortable with the lie he was about to tell his gracious hostess.
Whit decided not to make him. “I’m Lord Whit of Cardenstowe, my lady.” He stepped forward and bent to kiss Lady Guin’s hand, then executed a courtly bow in Lord Grenville’s direction before flicking his gaze toward Fynn and Grinner. “As for these two, I think you’ll need to hear me out before they’re properly introduced.”
Wren shot him a look of alarm at this sudden deviation from their plans, and Lady Guin’s smile faltered. She turned toward the grey-haired woman. “Sarra?”
The woman set aside her basket and rose at once. “M’lady?”
“I believe his lordship is overtired.” Lady Guin smiled at her husband. “You’d like a little rest before supper, Grenville, wouldn’t you?”
Lord Grenville grunted, but got docilely to his feet. “Where’s Georgie? I want Georgie to read to me.”
“Of course, my lord,” Sarra said brightly, guiding the old man toward the door. “I’ll fetch her after we’ve got you settled in your solar.”
When they’d left the hall, Lady Guin’s expression lost some of its strain. “You must forgive us our lapse in manners, my lords. It’s just that Lord Grenville has only recently left the sickroom after years of lassitude. Any change to his daily routine is upsetting to him. Pray, good gentlemen—be seated.”
As the four took their places around the small table, Grinner’s hood slipped off. Lady Guin gave a little gasp. Her good breeding prevented her from remarking on the å Livåri in her drawing room, but Kelton’s jaw dropped.
The lady then turned her gaze on Fynn, and grew suddenly very still. “Kelton,” she said slowly, not taking her eyes off the youngest of her visitors, “please ask Georgie to join us. You can read to your uncle in her place.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone, aunt.”
“Nonsense. I’m in the best of company. Now do as I ask, please.”
As soon as the boy was gone, Lady Guin stretched out a trembling hand and gently lifted Fynn’s chin, her eyes drinking in his face. “Can it be?”
Whit looked from one to the other in amazement. Was it possible she knew who Fynn was? Excepting those present, only the High King, Vetch, and the two bumbling witnesses the Lord Commander had sent with Whit to Toldarin were aware of the lad’s existence. Fynn bore a striking resemblance to his father, which Whit had taken to mean he’d inherited little of his looks from his mother. Yet from the way Lady Guin was staring at him…
“My lady?” Kelton’s laughing pursuer stood framed in the doorway. She was not laughing now, and her raven hair was braided and her skirts in order. “Kelton said I was to hurry—” Her blue eyes scanned the room’s occupants, and when her gaze fell on Fynn, she sank to her knees.
Wren leapt forward to steady her, but Fynn beat him to it and helped her to her feet.
“My lady!” said the young woman, her face alight with joy. “He’s come! Fynn, your grandson—he’s come home to us!”
Whit knew then this woman had to be Teca, who had endured a life of thralldom in Helgrinia to remain with Georgiana Fitz-Pole. Dressed in fine silk, she looked nothing like a slave now. And from the way she kept hold of Fynn’s hand, and reached up to tenderly brush his hair from his brow, it was easy to believe that she’d known the lad since his birth.
Lady Guin moved toward Fynn, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Blessed be the Elementa… I prayed for this day, but never truly believed it would come to pass. Would you… would you permit me to embrace you, grandson?”
Fynn’s eyes were damp as well. “I’ve never had a grandmother before. It seems we have a lot of things to catch up on.” He stepped eagerly into her arms.
Whit could only imagine what Lady Guin must be feeling, holding the son of the daughter she’d lost a decade before. Georgiana would have been only a few years older than Fynn was now when she disappeared. Whit thought of his own mother, who must be wondering why he hadn’t returned to Cardenstowe after all this time. He resolved to get word to her as soon as it was safe to do so.
After a long embrace, Fynn turned to Teca. “How did you escape Vetch?”
The young woman’s expression darkened. “I survived only due to Lord Belnoth’s intervention after Lord Vetch struck me down.”
“Belnoth?” Whit asked, his alarm making him forget his intention not to leap in with his own questions. Boarsgrath, Lord Belnoth’s domain, was the second-largest fief in Nelvorboth. “Don’t tell me one of the Nelvor clan knows of your whereabouts!”
“Lord Belnoth saved my life, sir. After I fell unconscious at the port, his lordship overheard Lord Vetch gave his henchman instructions to ‘see to me.’ Once the Lord Commander rode off, Lord Belnoth intervened. He had little trouble convincing the fellow to surrender me, then forget having done so. It seems the man owed fealty to Boarsgrath. Of course, I only learned all of this once I’d regained consciousness.”
She saw the unasked question in Whit’s eyes. “You needn’t fear Lord Belnoth did me harm, my lord. Not all Nelvorbothians are cut from the same cloth. When I told him I had a son who was likely in Vetch’s custody, he was more than willing to try to find him.”
She turned to Fynn. “Lord Belnoth saw you carted away as soon as we disembarked, you see. So once he got me safely away, he rode to Vetch’s estate at Densley and confronted him. Vetch couldn’t deny you existed, so he tried to put Lord Belnoth off by saying you were a thief awaiting the crown’s justice. The Lord Commander refused to reveal where you were being held. Lord Belnoth spent the better part of a year making inquiries about you, until Vetch told him you’d escaped from custody. After that, we suspected…”
The words caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “Once I was well enough to travel, Lord Belnoth himself escorted me here to Bodiaer.”
Fynn cast an uncertain glance at his grandmother. “Who did you tell Lord Belnoth you were?”
Teca’s cheeks flushed.
“I know who she is,” Lady Guin said, a shadow of sorrow clouding her eyes, “and I understand why she had to pose as our Georgiana in order to return to Thraven. Kelton knows as well.”
Teca’s appearance must have been painful for the old lady, considering the tidings she brought with her. The story of Georgiana’s life after she’d disappeared… and the news of her death.
Still, Lady Guin maintained her poise. “After Teca told me how she’d sacrificed her own freedom to follow our daughter to Helgrinia, and then, years later, brought Fynn safely back to Drinnglennin, I brought her to Lord Grenville’s bedside so that he could hear her amazing tale as well.” She took up Teca’s hand in her own. “Grenville took one look at her, and cried out with joy. You see, he thought she was Georgiana, our darling girl, restored to us, and he wanted so much to believe it… Teca was too kind to correct him. Afterward, we decided—didn’t we, dear?—that she would carry on the masquerade around him.” Lady Guin placed her palms together in supplication. “I hope you will forgive us, Fynn, but I couldn’t bear to take this happiness away from your grandfather.”
Teca took up Fynn’s hand. “I would never try to take your mother’s place.”
“Of course not,” he said quietly. “You needn’t worry. I won’t shatter Lord Grenville’s illusion.”
“Thank you.” Lady Guin’s eyes glistened. “Thank you very much.”
The following hours passed in a blur. Lord Grenville reappeared, and Fynn was introduced to him as Whit’s squire, since Lady Guin thought the sudden appearance of a grandson following that of his “daughter” might be too much of a shock for the old man to take in just yet. Still, Grenville took a shine to the lad, and before long he’d invited him to try his hand at a round of cards, while Grinner looked on with keen interest.
Afterward, his lordship challenged Grinner to a game, and Teca took Fynn out to see the gardens. They were gone for quite a while, and when they reappeared, both were very quiet.
By the time they sat for supper, Whit was so tired he could barely finish the delicate fish broth set before him. Lady Guin must have observed this, for she graciously suggested an early night. Teca went with Sarra to see Lord Grenville to bed, and the others headed off as well, all except Wren, who chose to linger after the board was cleared in order to hear the local gossip from their hostess.
Those making for bed followed a servant up the wide staircase to their chambers, Whit only listening with half an ear to Grinner’s awed comments on the castle’s décor. Fynn was silent; Whit imagined his mind was full with the day’s homecoming, which must have been both strange and bittersweet.
There were still so many questions to be answered. The most pressing of these, at least as far as Whit was concerned, was what Teca knew about Fynn’s father, and what she had told Lady Guin. The truth about Fynn’s parentage couldn’t be allowed to travel beyond the castle walls, not until it was confirmed and they had a plan as to how to proceed.
When he was alone inside his chamber, he tugged off his shirt. A scratch sounded on his door, and thinking it was the servant, he bid him enter.
The door swung open to reveal Teca, a book clasped in her hands.
Flushing, Whit snatched up his tunic and pulled it back over his head.
“I’m sorry—”
They both spoke at the same time, then Teca smiled. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you like this, my lord, but it can’t wait until morning. May I?”
Whit nodded, and she moved into the room.
“Before I explain why I’m here, I’d like to say a proper thank-you. Fynn told me about how you rescued him—more than once—and have since put yourself at grave risk to get him safely home. I want you to know how very grateful I am. How grateful we all are.”
Whit acknowledged this pretty speech with a small nod, but his disconcertment grew when Teca continued to meet his gaze in silence, as if weighing something in her mind. After a long moment, she held out the slim book.
“I’ve decided you should be the one to have this
.”
Whit raised his brows, but accepted her offering.
“It’s Jana’s… Georgiana’s diary. I’m staying in her old room, the one I shared with her on many nights when we were children, and I found it jammed under the loose board in the floor where we used to store shells and stones we’d collected on the beach.” A sad smile curled her lips. “We pretended they were precious jewels for her dowry.”
Whit felt his heart quicken.
“I haven’t told anyone else about the diary,” Teca assured him, “because… well, I’m hoping only we—you and I—need ever know what’s written there… unless it’s absolutely necessary to share it.”
She hastened to explain. “You have to understand, Lord Whit… she was sixteen when she wrote the last entries, the ones about Urlion, right before she fled Bodiaer. I trust that everything she recorded is true, but it’s also deeply colored by her anger and disappointment. You see, Jana was a complete romantic. From the time I first met her, she longed for the kind of perfect love of which troubadours sing. She wasn’t prepared for the realities of marriage to a man of such strong… will and appetites as Urlion Konigur.”
A shadow crossed Teca’s face, and she looked down at her clenched hands. “Despite the bitterness and disappointment that drove her to flee Drinnglennin, I can’t believe she would wish Fynn’s perception of his father to be that of the cruel beast portrayed in those pages. The older and wiser Jana that I knew in Helgrinia—the one who found the lover she’d always wished for in Aetheor Yarl—wouldn’t want her son to learn of the loathing she’d felt for his true father. A boy needs a father he can look up to. Fynn is already deeply mourning the loss of the only father he’s ever known. I would not have a monster replace him.”
Whit realized she was waiting for him to say something. “I see,” was all he could manage.
It seemed to be enough for Teca. “I’ll leave it to you to decide what’s best, after you’ve read the diary. Good night, my lord. ” Then with a small curtsey, she let herself out.
