by Rue Allyn
• • •
Talon knocked on the chained door of the anchorage. Would the woman still fear him? Most likely, but he had to talk to her. He had to find the final proof of Larkin’s guilt himself. Some weak part of him wanted her to be innocent and would surely deny any reported evidence against her.
The window shutter opened to reveal the anchoress’s pock-ravaged face. Graying hair curled wildly about her head, and she looked at him with blank eyes. “Did you knock?”
“Yes. I hoped you would speak with me.”
The woman’s smile was beatific. “Certainly, my child. How may I help you?”
She showed no trace of fear. Could this be the same woman? He’d not seen her clearly on his earlier visits. But she’d taken one look at him, screeched incomprehensibly, and fled to pray. Yet how could it be anyone else? Anchoresses were walled in for life, believing that enforced contemplation would lift them to a higher plane of understanding. The closest one could get to God in this world.
“I was told that you make candles for Hawksedge Keep.”
“Yes, I do. But only beeswax candles. Anyone can make tallow candles, but beeswax takes special handling, especially to produce the purity of wax and flame that the earl requires for his chapel.”
“Is the process truly so difficult?”
“Indeed it is.” Whereupon she launched into a detailed account of candle-making so complex it made Talon’s head spin. The variety of conditions, possible ingredients, and implements that she described staggered his imagination.
“Beg pardon, but where do you keep all of this?” Her cell was roomy but simple, as befitted one who had rejected the world, and she could not have stored all those materials within the Spartan walls.
“God provides all that I need through the abbess, and she sends it with the carter.” He swallowed against despair. That Larkin had opportunity to dupe the anchoress into using poison in the candles did not mean it was true.
“Tell me once more how scent and oils are added to the candle yet the color and texture remain flawless.”
She repeated the process. Talon echoed her until he felt he could make such candles himself. “And you are certain you could not possibly mistake one ingredient for another?”
Dame Margery blinked at him. “One does not create the finest candles by making mistakes.”
Well enough. He would take the holy woman’s word that she would know the materials she used in her work. But if Larkin did not provide the itchweed, and the anchoress would have noticed, how did the stuff get into the candles?
“Do you ever make candles at the request of one person?” Perhaps the anchoress did make the poison candles deliberately but was ignorant of their intended purpose.
“Other than for the chapel in the keep, where enough candles are ordered to make the effort worthwhile, no. I make these lights for the abbey. They sell the candles and supply all my needs in return. Taking a commission for one person would benefit the abbey not at all.”
“Not even for someone you know well?”
Dame Margery looked down her nose at him. Which was quite a trick since she was tiny by comparison to his height. “The answer is the same. Now I am late to my prayers; are you finished with your questions?”
“Just one or two more. Do you wrap and seal the candles before they are sent to the earl?”
“Well, the candles are wrapped and sealed before being sent to the keep, but I rarely do that.”
Talon felt any remaining hope of Larkin’s innocence begin to dim. If she had access to the candles before being sealed, she could have substituted the deadly for the pure.
“Who does?”
“I could not tell you. The nuns take them in exchange for the food they leave me.”
“But the carter said she got them from you.”
“Indirectly, I suppose she does. She always stops to thank me and chat with an old woman before going on to the abbey.”
A spark of hope still burned. With the abbey and the anchorage being so close, Larkin might well think of them as one and the same. He would question the nuns and discover if she had been inside the abbey long enough to make the poisoned candles or substitute candles made elsewhere. Larkin got the candles from the abbey, but Mother Clement had sent him here. Why?
“You are welcome, sir.”
“And I do apologize if I startled you the last time we met.”
Her brow wrinkled. “We have not met, my son.”
“Aye, but we have, lady.”
“Come closer. My vision is not as good as it once was.”
Talon approached.
Her eyes widened and her lips rounded. “Na-ay.” She wailed and lifted her hand as if warding off a demon. “You are dead. She told me you would be dead and could taunt me no longer.” The woman whirled in panicked circles until she bumped up against the altar. The small statue of the Virgin toppled from its shelf and broke in two. The anchoress fell on her knees and lifted the pieces to her breast, sobbing. “Holy Mother, forgive me for I have sinned against the Son.” The prayer continued in a confused babble of pleading and confession accompanied by much tearing of hair and thrashing.
Talon backed away. Dame Margery’s reaction was a complete mystery. He knew of nothing that could prompt such behavior. Who had told the woman he was dead, whoever he might be? The earl was the only dead person in Talon’s knowledge. Yes, some physical resemblance existed between his father and him, but surely age would have made them different enough not to be mistaken for one another. Now Talon had more questions to ask, but as long as the anchoress reacted thus, he would never discover if she knew anything about the earl’s death.
He mounted his horse and rode away. He let the steed wander, not caring where he went. ’Twas the third time he’d inspired fear in the holy woman. Was she mad, or did she act like this with all who sought her blessings? If the chance existed that she was somehow involved in the earl’s death, how was that possible? More importantly, why? She was locked away from the world and could not leave her anchorage until a physical death claimed her, but where the will existed, a way could be found.
The horse ambled to a halt. Talon found himself staring at the door to the abbey. If anyone could fill in the gaps in the anchoress’s information, it would be Mother Clement. He dismounted and knocked.
Minutes passed before the window in the gate opened in silent invitation to speak his piece.
“I need to see Mother Clement. ’Tis most urgent.”
The window slammed shut.
Was he being refused?
He heard clanging followed by a great groan as the gate swung inward. He tied his horse’s reins to a ring in the outer wall, then entered the abbey.
Inside, a nun waited for him. “This way, sir.” She set off toward an area behind the main buildings.
Beyond the main abbey stood a number of smaller buildings. A path wound between the structures and out into a low-walled garden and orchard. He followed the nun to where Mother Clement knelt, digging among the herbs.
“Within this garden, all must labor in the Lord’s name.” She handed him a hoe. “Break up the soil around these plants that I may talk with you.”
Mother Clement wore a broad straw hat that shielded her face from the sun and his sight. ’Twas disconcerting to speak to a hat. He shrugged and set to work.
“How may I help you, my son?” The words floated up to him.
“I’ve been to see the anchoress.” He struck the earth with the hoe.
“Ah.”
Ah? What kind of comment was that? “’Tis the third time she’s seen me, and her fearful reaction troubles me.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that it would.”
“Then she treats all her visitors with fear?”
The hat tilted, and a pair of solemn gray eyes studied him. “Nay, none but you.”
“Why?”
“Who can say why God keeps her from seeing you for who you are.”
Talon studied her in turn.
He felt they had talked this way before, in this very garden. Just as he’d felt that strange but familiar comfort when he first approached the anchorage. Yet he could not place where or how he might have met either holy woman. The sensation disturbed him so greatly that he asked, “Have we met somewhere other than here and Hawking Sedge?”
“Indeed, last night we met at the keep.”
“No, before that.”
She smiled. “I’ve not ventured more than a league from this place since before you were born.”
Frustrated, he tried another tack. “Is the anchoress mad?”
“If she is, ’tis a blessed madness.”
Talon frowned and thrust his hoe into the earth. “You speak riddles. How may madness be blessed? Why can’t the anchoress see me for who I am?”
Mother Clement bent to her work once more. “God’s works are mysterious, my son. But think on this. The woman became an anchoress when she lost her child. We feared for her sanity then, and all agreed that the contemplative life would best heal her soul.”
“I am sorry for her loss.”
“’Twas years ago.”
Talon paused, uncertain how to best word his next request. “I must talk more with her. She can clear up some questions surrounding the earl’s death.”
“I don’t know if she’ll speak with you again today.”
“I hoped that you might accompany me.”
“Why?”
“I thought that your presence might calm her. Also, if she becomes agitated, you might be able to explain what I want and help her restore herself to order.”
Mother Clement turned stone-gray eyes on him once more.
Talon pulled his hoe through the dirt. Sweat trickled down his neck.
“Aye,” the abbess finally said. “I will come with you.”
Bells rang in the distance.
“But after prayers,” she continued. She put her shovel down and rose to her feet. Without a word, she turned her back and marched down the path toward the abbey chapel.
He stared after her. The bells had rung sext. She would be at her prayers for some time. He finished hoeing the row of plants he’d started working on, then picked up both hoe and shovel. He deposited the tools in a cart that sat next to the garden wall and followed the path around the abbey buildings to the door in the main gate. He let himself out, checked on his horse, and sat in the shade of a nearby oak to wait.
• • •
Larkin paced the length of the solar. Worried about her fate and so furious with Talon, she hadn’t slept or eaten.
Talon believed her a liar and a murderess. He’d taken the fragile trust they shared and ground it beneath his righteous boot heel. He deserved nothing from her, but she needed him for as long as it took to find the marriage box. That alone would keep her captive to his distrust.
She stopped by the window and stood looking out at the bailey and the village beyond. The courtyard and the lane through the town lay deserted, as soulless as on those nights when she’d crept about the keep in search of the proof she was Lady Rosham. Everyone must be at midday meals. Would she be fed? If someone entered, could she find the means to escape?
She hurried to the door. The guards on the other side spoke of wanting their meal. Then she heard the footsteps of more than one man fading away. She looked about the chamber. Irons for stirring the fire lay next to the braiser. She dragged the stool from next to the bed into place beside the door. Then she took a fire iron and climbed up on the stool. She would have one chance and one chance only.
Soon the footsteps returned, but only those of one man. A key rattled in the door. Larkin raised the fire iron above her and brought the metal rod down upon the head of the man who stepped into the room.
His body slumped, and the tray he carried crashed to the floor.
“Oh dear.” Was she now a murderess in truth?
Cleve lay crumpled just inside the doorway. Larkin hopped off the stool to see that he still breathed, then tugged at his feet and legs to clear the doorway. She found his key ring, stepped through to the hall, and locked the door behind her. Pray heaven one of the other keys unlocked the new door Talon had installed within the secret passage.
She added a prayer that no one would see her from below, then scurried across the top of the main stair to the entrance of the secret passage. She worked the mechanism, grabbed a torch from a nearby sconce, and entered. Not until she closed the entrance and descended the steps toward the outer cave did she dare to stop. She took great gulping breaths of air and became aware that she was trembling. ’Twas the remnants of fear. Thank the Madonna she hadn’t spent time thinking about her actions before carrying them out or she never would have been able to hit Cleve.
The torch flickered in the stuffy air of the closed tunnel. She could not count on Cleve remaining undiscovered for very long. Talon could return at any moment, and he would know where she’d gone. She walked as quickly down the rough passage as the dim light would allow. She passed three openings where various small caves intersected the hewn stone. She’d never had the opportunity to explore them as she wished; she could not pause to do so now. She had to leave, but only so she could someday return and finish the task of finding the marriage box.
The scatter of stones along the floor sounded behind her. Had someone followed so soon? She sped onward. Once outside, she could hide among the rocks or in one of the other caves, as long as the tide did not rise too high.
She looked to where the tunnel rose then bent before plunging to the sea. Before the new door was installed, light from the shore would be visible around that bend. She would have to try the keys in the dark, for once she let go of the torch, it would go out quickly.
She turned the corner, set the torch on the floor, and, in rapid succession, tried one key after another. The torch flame was lasting longer than she’d expected. She had only two keys left. Then there were none.
Nay. She could not come this far and meet with failure. Though she knew better, she began to try each key again. The flame began to die. She did not want to be left here in the dark, forced to stumble her way back to her prison. If she must return, she would walk, head high and able to see where she stepped.
She reached for the torch at the same time that light pooled around her. Talon stood before her, with four guards at his back.
• • •
From within the window embrasure, she watched him dismiss the guards. He stalked to the chair near the braiser and sat, slapping his gloves against his thigh.
He pierced her with a glare. “You hurt Cleve.”
Larkin swallowed. “I am sorry for that.”
He grunted and jerked his head away, as if he could not stand the sight of her.
“Why did you run?”
He knew precisely why she fled, but she would play his game for now. “Why should I wait here for you to hang me?”
“And you think I would hang you because ...?”
How stupid did he think she was? “You have to ask? To listen to you and Father Timoras, no one but myself could have murdered the earl.”
“That is not true.”
She wished he would leave her alone. “Then why did you imprison me here?”
He hesitated. “For your safety.”
“Bah. ’Tis not what you said at the time. You did it because you thought me guilty of murder and that someone would wreak vengeance for the earl’s death by killing me.”
“If you will recall, I also said that two previous attempts on your life placed you in the greatest danger.” He shot out of the chair and advanced on her. “But I do think you capable of taking a just vengeance on a heartless man. Just as I know you capable of lies, deceit, and trickery in pursuit of your name and your home.”
Larkin backed away.
Talon pursued.
“You ... you are right.” She sidled around the bed, aiming for the door. “I did many of those things. But I did not kill the earl, and I. Do. Not. Lie.” Her back hit the stonewal
l.
He caged her with an arm on either side of her head. “Then why do you deny the desire that rages between us?”
“Because to acknowledge such feelings for my husband’s son would put both of our souls at risk. To yield to passion would condemn our souls for certain.”
With an anguished groan, he flung himself away from her to stand before the hearth, head bowed.
She still felt caged. “Talon?”
“You are right.”
“Did you just say I was right?”
He raised his head to look at her, a smile on his lips but his eyes full of sorrow and regret. “Do not tease, sweet Larkin. I’ve known we could not be lovers since the day you sang a Norman lullaby to Aedwin and trusted me with the story of your family’s massacre.”
“Then why bring this up now?”
“Because I did not want it to be true.”
“Yet you publicly accuse me of murdering your father.”
Talon sighed. “I was wrong about that too.”
Larkin’s world shifted, and she stumbled to the hearth stool beside Talon. She could barely believe her ears. “What did you say?”
His mouth twisted on a dry laugh. “I said I was wrong.”
“About what?” Even to her own ears, she sounded sarcastic. She knew as well as he did what he’d been wrong about. Still, she needed to hear the words.
“I was wrong to believe you guilty of murdering the earl. Wrong to think revenge, title, and lands of more import to you than your name and justice.”
“Why? What could possibly change your mind?” Did she really hope that he’d decided to trust her word?
“Dame Margery and Mother Clement. The anchoress explained the complicated process to blend oils and scents with the wax and still retain the purity the earl demanded. You would have had to work for days to achieve the right blend. She also told me that she gives the candles to the nuns to be wrapped and sealed, that you got the candles from the abbey.”
Larkin’s shoulders slumped. “The anchoress and the abbey are much the same to me. I use them interchangeably.”
