"I don't care what it is—we need our sleep!" Rod rolled over, sitting up to glare at Magnus. "Who did you wake this time?"
"I did not, Papa!" Magnus's voice broke. "Or if I did, 'twas unawares, from dreaming!"
"That's all we need." Rod held his head in his hands. "We're gonna be living in a haunted castle, with a son who calls up ghosts even in his sleep." He turned go the spectre. "Just who do you think you are, coming in here in the middle of the night and scaring my family half to death?"
The moan turned into words. "I cry thy pardon, gentle knight. I would not affright younglings an I had any other way to seek thee."
"How about catching me alone, when I'm on my way to the jakes?"
"I cannot, for 'tis thy son who doth give the power to bring me forth."
Rod glanced up at Magnus, eyebrow raised. "Settles that question, anyway." He turned back to the ghost, frowning, studying its appearance. The new apparition was a stocky suit of armor with a sword in its hand, clanking appropriately. "Have the courtesy to show your face, and tell us your name!" Rod growled.
"Thy pardon." The knight sheathed his sword and lifted not only his visor, but his whole helmet, too—and stopped looking frightening. He was balding, and had wrinkles in his kindly face, all in softly glowing outline. "I am Sir Donde L'Accord. I had not meant to affright, least of all little ones."
"We are no longer little!" Geoffrey snapped, but Gregory just stared.
"And I am Rod Gallowglass, Lord Warlock. This is my lady, and my children. What do you want with me?"
"A warlock!" The ghost's eyes lit with hope. "I cry thine aid, my lord! Have pity on a poor, troubled father, an thou wilt! Assistance, I prithee!"
"Father?" Rod was suddenly totally alert. "You wouldn't happen to have a daughter who roams this castle too, would you?"
"Aye." The ghost's expression darkened. "As will I, till I have found the means of my revenge!"
"Ah," Rod breathed. "Revenge on the man who wounded your daughter?"
"Aye, tortured her heart, then slew her! Would that he and I were flesh, that I might cast down my gauntlet and dash out his brains!"
"Not exactly a worthy thought, for one who presumably hopes to win to Heaven. How come you died so soon after your daughter's death?"
"I did not." The spirit stared. "Wherefore wouldst thou think I had?"
Well, so much for Holmes's methods; Rod wasn't scoring any higher than Watson had. "Had to be after, or you wouldn't have known how she died. Couldn't have been very long after, or you would have carved the villain's gizzard, and cheerfully gone to the block if you'd had to."
"Indeed I would have, an I could have." The ghost smiled sadly. "Yet I died ere she did, in battle. My spirit surged toward Heaven, yet slowed and tarried; my concern for her did bind me back to earth. Yet in all else I longed for the mede of the Blessed, and so I hung, poised between this earthly mansion and the one above, until at last her longing for me grew to terror, and drew me back to this castle—at the moment that her spirit stepped forth from her clay. Yet she could not see me, for her whole being was consumed with weeping, as it hath been ever since."
"The poor lass!" Cordelia cried, and Gwen said,
"Was her soul so filled with anguish, then, that she could not break free?"
"Aye, and ever hath been. I have slumbered by, for when death passed, her craving for my presence ceased; she was so filled with horror that there was room for naught else. Only now have I awaked—and I must needs find some way to ease my child's rest!"
Rod rolled out of his blanket and beckoned to his children. "Up. Everybody up. Now it's my mission, too."
"But their rest!" Gwen protested.
"I think we'll have better luck sleeping during the day, dear. Fewer interruptions, you know?" Rod turned back to the ghost. "Name the villain."
Fires licked at the backs of the spectre's eyes. "The Count."
"But I thought he whipped his son into line. Did he turn around and commit the same crimes himself?"
"Nay—he died. And the son became Count in his turn—the last Count Foxcourt, and the final scion of an evil line."
"Evil line?" Rod frowned. "It sounded as though his father had some morals."
"True, but only what was needful to bind his knights unto his service—and to be sure that none could have their will, save he."
"Oh." Rod translated. "So his son couldn't bundle the knights' daughters into bed, because that was Dad's prerogative—only Dad wouldn't do it, because he needed to have his knights stay loyal."
"Aye, but his son had not so much wisdom. Bad blood will tell—and in him, it fairly howled. All his grandfathers had preyed upon the folk within their demesne, in all ways that they could, without inciting rebellion; they seized upon each chance for cruelty, every means of exploitation. Thus were they named as they were."
"What—Foxcourt?" Rod said. "Doesn't sound all that evil."
"Nay—that was but the sound the peasants gave it, till only we, whose forebears had been knights to that first Count, did remember its first form; for his neighbors dubbed him with the name that he, in insolence, took up in pride: Faux Coeur.''
The French vowel and "r" made all the difference; Rod's eyes widened. "False heart!"
"Quite false, in truth, for he was a man who would, for profit, swear to any oath, then be forsworn upon the instant. He would speak bravely as he led his troops out; yet would hang back behind while they did fight. Oh, false he was in words and deed, speaking fair and smiling sweetly, then wreaking every cruelty he could—and all his heirs were like him. Yet this last Count swore to outdo them all. He did not even deign to marry—what cared he for the future of his House?—but set out to seduce all women. Harsh-faced he was, but bore himself with a swagger, and spoke in honeyed tones, and wenches swooned when he came near."
Rod nodded. "Combination of a certain animal attraction, and money. Works on naive serving-wenches, every time."
"Thou hast known the kind."
"Yes—but I've also noticed their blandishments don't very often work on ladies of their own station."
"Oh, he scrupled not to seek out other ways than wooing! By fair means or foul, he would seduce each lady that he could bring within his power, then spurn her from him, to dwell in shame—and several slew themselves. He only gloated."
"Why, what a thorough villain!" Cordelia said in indignation.
"And he used his tricks on your daughter."
"Aye, for she was young, and very beauteous—and he, though a youth no longer, had taken womanizing as his foremost pastime. I sought to keep her from his sight, yet he did make a progress through his lands anon—I think more to espy out wenches than to be sure his bailiffs dealt honestly—and called in turn at each knight's house. He knew the number of my children, and summoned all before him—and when he saw her beauty, there was no restraining him."
"You could have taken them and fled!" Cordelia protested.
"Aye, yet I was bound by mine oath of fealty—the more fool I, for this Count did not feel bound by any oath of his! Yet when his man did come bearing his command to go unto his castle to attend upon him, and with all my family, I did say, 'Nay.' Within a fortnight, he did declare a war on Count Moline, and bade me forth unto the fray."
"Ah!" Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "That command thou couldst not ignore, for 'twas the essence of thy knighthood!"
" 'Tis even as thou sayest." The knight bowed his head. "And he set me in the front rank, to be slain in the first charge—yet did not trust to fortune; for at the moment when my lance struck home 'gainst my opponent, a bolt did strike through mine armor 'neath my shoulder blade."
"From behind!" Geoffrey cried. "Ah, what scurvy knave of an archer did that for him?"
"I know not, yet I misdoubt me an his pay was aught than death, for only a fool of a lord would chance his other knights' learning of such foul treachery. The barb pierced home, and I did swoon, and was mindful of naught else, till I did step forth from my mortal part."
"And went straight up to be caught between your duties and your rewards." Rod nodded. "So you don't even know what happened to your daughter."
"Only that she was driven to death by one means or another, and that my son was gone."
"Son?" Magnus looked up. "Nay, surely! He must needs be removed, or he would do all to prevent his lord from reaching to his sister!"
Cordelia turned to gaze at Magnus with a musing frown.
"Even so," the knight agreed. "He was a goodly lad, and would ward his folk from every harm. Nay, surely he must needs have been banished or murdered—and I have no doubt that his soul ascended on the instant of his death, for he was indeed a goodly lad."
"And thy daughter's spirit saw thee not?"
"Nay; she is ever incoherent in her grief. I did seek revenge and, I hoped, arresting of the Count's misdeeds, by haunting him; yet I had died without great anger, for I'd had little cause ere then, and my spirit lacked its fullest strength; and for his part, the last Foxcourt cared only for himself and his fleshly pleasures, and perceived little enough of others' feeling, and certainly naught of ghosts."
"Too insensitive to be haunted," Rod said, with disgust.
" 'Tis even so." Suddenly, the ghost was kneeling, with a spectral clanking. "I beseech thee, as one father to another—aid me! Find some means of bringing my child to the rest she merits! Avenge her murder!"
Rod's face hardened. "I don't deal in revenge."
"Art thou a craven? Why, then, pox upon thee! May thou forever be…"
"Nay, hear my father," Gregory said quietly, and, for a wonder, the ghost stilled at his words. He frowned down at Gregory, then looked up at Rod. "What means he?"
"He knows why I won't try for revenge," Rod said. "It bogs you down, keeps you from going on to make the most of yourself. The goal here is to give your daughter's spirit eternal rest, and her chance to finish her journey on the road to Heaven. If, in the process, the final Count finds himself on the receiving end of some of the cruelty he wreaked while he was alive—well and good; but that's only a byproduct."
"Yet tell us this." Magnus stood, puzzled. "How may a ghost be hurt?"
The knight sighed and seemed to grow dimmer. "I know not.''
"The last Count is now but spirit," Gregory spoke up, "yet may feel spirits' pain. In truth, 'tis the agony of the soul that may yet redeem him, for if he comes to realize the pain that he hath caused, then may he yet repent."
"The hour for that is past," the ghost said. "He is dead." But he turned to Rod. "What manner of child is this, who doth speak with the wisdom of a bishop?"
Rod winced. "Please! We've already been through that career plan."
Far away, a rooster crowed.
The ghost's head lifted up. "The pregnant sky doth lighten with the dawn, and all the spectres of the night must slip away and hide themselves from light. I have overstayed my time. Farewell! Give aid to my child—and remember me!"
He faded as he said the words, and was gone, his last words echoing in repetition behind him: "… Remember… remember… remember…" Then the space where he had stood was empty, and the room was silent.
The children turned to look at one another, and Gwen sought Rod's gaze, but he still frowned toward the place where the ghost had been. She sighed, and turned away to stir up the fire.
Magnus stepped over to Rod, hand lifted, not quite touching. "Papa…"
"Yes." Rod looked up, then smiled. "Good morning, son. Feel like a little hunting?"
"How canst thou now, in the same chamber thou wast in before, read more of their tale now, than thou couldst aforetime, my son?"
"For that I now know whom I seek, Mama. 'Tis like to searching out a face well known within a crowd." Magnus was in one of the knight-and-lady chambers, fingertips tracing the wall. He frowned, shook his head, and turned to touch the bed. He stared then, and went rigid.
"What dost thou see, my son?" Gwen said softly.
"I see the wicked Count, Rafael Fer de Lance, ushering the Lady Sola and her mother, Dame Forla L'Accord, into this chamber." Magnus's voice seemed to come to them on a breeze, wafted from a great distance. "He is no longer young, and is harsh of face, yet with that sort of attraction for women that a snake hath for a bird."
Cordelia shivered.
"He is the last scion of an evil line," Magnus continued, "and is more evil than most, not even deigning to marry, but seducing every maid he can find, by fair means or foul, then abandoning each in her turn. Only the Lady Sola endures against his blandishments. She caught his eye, for she is very beautiful, and the daughter of one of his knights; so Count Foxcourt commanded Sir Donde to attend him with all his family. The knight refused, so the lord ordered him into battle, made sure of his death, and took his family into this castle 'for protection,' no matter Dame Forla's protests—for though her son Julius did succeed to his father's estates, he is too young to administer them."
"Here in his lair?" Cordelia asked. "How could the lady stand against him?"
"She had the love and support of her mother and brother when first she came, which did stiffen her resolve. Sin that she did resist his every blandishment, and her mother was the core of her strength, the Count did have the good dame poisoned."
The ladies gasped, and Geoffrey muttered darkly, but Gregory demanded, "Did the lady then find her own strength within herself?"
Rod glanced at his young son, then realized what he'd said, and stared.
"Not so," Magnus breathed, trembling, "for the Count did trump up a charge of treason 'gainst the brother Julius, but did intimate that the lady's acquiescence might save the lad."
"The villain!" Geoffrey cried, and Rod let out a long, low whistle.
"Then would the lady have yielded out of fear for her brother—but he contrived his escape, and came to her secretly to bid her stand fast. Then he laid a trail of false clues that led his pursuers to think him drowned by his own hand, and hid with a band of tinkers."
"A shrewd lad, a clever lad!" Gregory clapped his hands. "Yet did not the Count suspect?"
"Aye. He did raise the hue and cry, and searched for Julius high and low, but never thought of disguises, and failed to find him. Yet he told the lady that the boy was imprisoned and would be tortured."
Cordelia's eyes were huge. "How could she then hold against him?"
"The brother did contrive to bring his tinker-band hard by the castle walls, so that she saw him from her tower window, and heard him sing a song they'd shared in childhood.
Gregory sighed in admiration, and Geoffrey muttered, "The lad did not lack for courage."
"The lady became obdurate again," Magnus went on, "and the lord did guess that someone in the castle had betrayed the secret that the boy was missing. He began a hunt for his supposed traitor, and confined her to her chamber, visiting her daily, and alone."
"Oh!" Cordelia clapped a hand over her mouth. "He forced her, then?"
"Nay, for the chase had become too much a matter of pride for him. Yet he scrupled not to bring her wine mingled with a potent drug. She was wary, though, and knew the potion by its odor; she refused to drink—nor would she quaff too deeply of brandy wine, though he did ply her with it."
"A worthy lady," Gregory breathed, bright-eyed, "and a prudent one. Could the Count not see she was proof against his wiles?"
"Belike he did, for he lost patience, accused her of witchcraft, tried and sentenced her—and did attempt to have his rape of her be part of that sentence."
"Would he not even then give over?" Cordelia said with some heat.
"He did," Magnus answered. "Not by any notion of chivalry, no, but by the clamoring of one and all, clergy and laity, who cried that he would have intercourse with the devil. When he discerned that they might topple him from his seat, he did give over, and had to be content with her burning at the stake."
"Thus died a brave and valiant wench," Geoffrey murmured.
"Aye, and one whose life brought her only sorrow." Tears glittered in
Cordelia's eyes.
"What of the lord?" Gregory breathed.
"The Count lived out his life as ever he had lived, in cruelty and depravity—yet was he more willing to resort to rape."
"And what of the lad?" Geoffrey demanded. "The bold, audacious brother? Sought he no revenge?"
"Aye, when he had come to manhood, and had claimed his right to knighthood. Then did he stride into Foxcourt's Great Hall and challenge the Count before all his company—with a score of King's knights at his back."
"There was no help for it, then." Geoffrey grinned. "The Count must needs have fought him."
"He did, yet with treachery and deviousness, as ever. He coated his blade with poison and did manage to nick Sir Julius, just as he was on the verge of slaying the lord."
"Ah, poor knight! What a base, depraved Count was this!"
"He was indeed." Magnus's voice finally hardened. "Yet he died in his bed, of no worse enemy than jaundice and gout—and he died without issue—or legitimate heirs, at the least."
"His line died with him, then," Gregory breathed,
"Even so. Oh, there was a cadet branch of the house…"
"Still is," Rod murmured.
"…Yet they had too much sense to want the castle. Therefore hath it languished here, untenanted and grim, whilst centuries have rolled—and the Count's shade hath ceaselessly pursued the Lady Sola, whose ghost, ever lamenting the deaths of her mother, father, and brother, still haunts these halls, seeking some way to atone."
"Yet she hath no need!" Cordelia insisted. "There was no fault in her!"
But, "Hush," Gwen said, and reached out to take hold of Magnus's wrist, lifting his hand from the wall. The young man froze; then, slowly, his eyes came into focus again. He blinked, turning to look at Gwen. "Mother?"
"Aye," Gwen said softly. " 'Tis past, my son—hundreds of years past. Thou art with us again, as thou ever wast, with thy father, and myself, and thy sibs."
Magnus turned to his brothers and sister, blinking.
Cordelia whirled toward her mother. "There is no rightness in it, Mama! There is no justice!"
"The world is not always fair, my daughter," Gwen answered, her face grim, "and Heaven's judgement comes not till we are dead."
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