The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  Yet Troy just shook his head and rode on at breakneck speed.

  You art found wanting…

  He had behaved abominably, and if his wife was now taken away from him, was paying for his sins, he would carry this guilt for the rest of his life.

  There were lanterns lit all around the village, candles in the windows making the rain sparkle like diamonds scattered in the streets. Without conscious thought, Troy let his gaze stray to the familiar bump of the village church against the night-darkened sky, only to find it empty and void of all but clouds and rain.

  The normally peaceful and silent night was filled with the sounds of men swearing, of the squelch of people’s footsteps as they hurried through the rain, dashing to and fro, from house to house. Above, thunder rolled, and for a moment Troy was thrown back in time, to a bloodied piece of land somewhere in Europe, heavens knew where; he had lost track of times and places. In the end, all fields of death were the same; the stink of the gunpowder smoke, of burnt flesh, the cries of wounded men and animals, the roll of the drums and booming of the cannons all blending together into a symphony of death and destruction, of terror and madness, a man-created never-ending hell—

  A flash of lightning made him start.

  He blinked several times, and the vision of war vanished, reverted to a small village struck by disaster.

  His village.

  His people.

  He had no time to engage in private musings on his personal horrors.

  With a dull thump and a splash of water, his feet landed on the muddy lane. “We’d best go and see who is in charge around here. The vicar most likely,” he said over his shoulder, his voice loud and clear. He did not wait for his friends’ answer, but strode down the lane, his tired horse stumbling in his wake.

  Most of the people did not seem to recognize him in the flickering light. Some started, stared at him, wide-eyed, and mumbled a quick, “Good evening, my lord.” Then they hurried on, their steps full of purpose as if they were bent on untold tasks.

  Troy shook his head and pushed on. Never had the way through the winding lanes seemed longer; never had the time so dragged on until they finally reached the vicarage, a snug little building with potted flowers in front. Yet this night the rain had pelted down the flowers, had torn the blossoms off the stalks.

  The sight made Troy shiver.

  Impatiently he pounded on the front door. When it opened, it was not the kind old face of the vicar that greeted him, but the vicar’s wife. “Your husband? Is he here?” Troy barked in lieu of a greeting.

  With her frilled white cap and her large, round spectacles, Mrs. Norris looked like a startled owl. She blinked, once, twice, before she found her composure. “I’m afraid he is out, my lord. He’s taking the rounds, looking after the sick and the wounded.”

  “Isn’t that the doctor’s task?” Exasperation made his voice sharp. “Why hasn’t anybody sent for him? I doubt that your husband is very skilled in tending wounds.”

  Confusion registered on Mrs. Norris’s face. “My husband? Of course not.”

  “Troy? What is the matter?” asked Justin, as he and Drake stepped up beside him, the reins of the horses dangling from their hands. Seriousness had sharpened their features, creating sterner lines and angles.

  “The doctor is still in Keighlin. The vicar is tending the wounded instead.”

  “That’s the most caper-witted scheme I’ve ever heard,” Drake remarked. “Why hasn’t anybody fetched the doctor from Keighlin?”

  Her eyes almost as large and round as her spectacles, Mrs. Norris looked from one to the other. “But they did, my lord,” she said. “One of Lord Ravenhurst’s stablehands tried to ride to Keighlin, but the river’s swelled and the bridge’s been washed away.”

  “Dear God.” Troy rubbed his forehead, fighting the despair that threatened to swallow him up. His wife was missing, his village was in desperate circumstances, and he was as helpless as a kitten.

  “Now look, we have to establish some sort of order,” Justin said firmly. “Establish what exactly happened, how many are wounded, and then we have to organize the looking after them. Naturally, we must relieve your vicar. I doubt that the poor man is at all able to deal with such a crisis.”

  Troy nodded. “You are right, of course.” He glanced at his friend. “But there is also that other matter.” All at once, his chest felt constricted, and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. “My wife. We have to find her.”

  “Your wife, my lord?” Mrs. Norris cut in, in a tone of total amazement. “Lady Ravenhurst? But… she is the one who is tending the wounded. My husband is only assisting her.”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Troy turned back to look at the woman. It was still the vicar’s squat wife with the frilly cap and the oversized spectacles, and yet it was as if she had suddenly turned into Pythia, talking in dark riddles that made no sense to the listener.

  “I thought you knew, my lord,” Mrs. Norris went on. “My Lady Ravenhurst has been helping Mistress Nanette look after the ill for some time now. She was the one who gathered all the herbs, they say. Tonight she was desperate to stay with Mistress Nanette, of course, but in the circumstances.…” Her voice trailed away. Her lips lifted in a quick, tremulous smile, while she pulled a white lacy handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “I felt honored when she asked me to stay with her.”

  Troy swallowed hard. “Stay… with Mistress Nanette?” Apprehension sliced through his first relief that his wife was unharmed.

  “She was in the church when it happened, you know.” Mrs. Norris took off her spectacles as more tears spilled over and slowly ran down her withered cheeks. “She has such a good heart, Mistress Nanette—always thinks of others. She came to light a candle for those who were ill with fever.”

  “How badly was she hurt?” Troy managed to force the question past his constricted throat.

  “Oh, my lord.” Mrs. Norris pressed a hand to her mouth. Nevertheless, a muffled sob escaped. “She will not survive the night.”

  “Sacre dieu!” Justin’s mutter was almost lost against Drake’s sharp inhalation.

  Troy closed his eyes. His beautiful, brave wife was somewhere out there, looking after other people, while the person she must love most in the world lay dying.

  Drake’s voice sounded flat when he asked, “Are there any more people who have sustained such grave injuries?”

  With visible effort Mrs. Norris gathered her composure. “No, my lord, we believe not. Some of them were hurt by flying stones and such, and some were burnt when they extinguished the fire, but none so bad… so bad that—”

  “Yes. I quite understand,” Drake said softly. “Troy…”

  Troy opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder at his friends. “Would you make sure that there is enough dressing material and such? Bring linen down from the Hall, if need be.” He turned back to the vicar’s wife. “I should like to see Mistress Nanette.” To see if there was anything he could do. “Would you be so kind as to bring me to her, Mrs. Norris?”

  She regarded him curiously, yet after she had dabbed at her eyes one last time, she stepped aside to let him in. “Of course, my lord.”

  He left his sodden coat and jacket in the hallway and, in silence, followed Mrs. Norris up the stairs to a room at the end of the corridor. The first thing he saw when she opened the door was the fire in the hearth. The flames flickered merrily as if the world outside had never turned into chaos. It was a snug little room, the blanket on the bed lovingly crafted to resemble a sea of woolen flowers. However, there was nothing cozy about the petite, old woman who rested on the pile of pillows. Her eyes were closed, her skin so white and transparent that Troy could see the net of blue veins underneath.

  “I have given her some laudanum,” Mrs. Norris whispered. “We hoped it would ease her pain and make her last hours easier.” She padded to the bed and touched the old woman’s bony hand. “Mistress Nanette? Lord Ravenhurst is here to see you.” />
  The woman’s lids fluttered, then her eyes opened, as small and dark as a sparrow’s. Slowly, she turned her head, and for the first time Troy saw the traces of blood that had dripped from her mouth to her chin. When she caught sight of him, a ghost of a smile flickered over her face.

  “You are back, my lord.” Her voice was the merest whisper.

  “Yes.” He stepped into the room, gave a nod to Mrs. Norris as she left.

  “Have you… found… the wolves?”

  “There were never any wolves in my forest.” He reached for a nearby chair and sat down.

  “And yet you… went out… to hunt them.” This time, the smile stayed longer. “You have… a good heart… my lord.” On the woolen blanket her fingers twitched.

  He took hold of her hand, held it between his palms to warm her cold flesh. Gently, he stroked his thumb over her aged skin. Her bones felt fragile and tiny like a small bird’s. “Hush.” A cold, hard lump had become lodged in his throat. “You should not tire yourself thus.”

  “Ahh.” Her eyes closed. “But then… there is only one… one more journey for me to take.” She coughed, a painful, gurgling sound in her chest, and dark blood spilled over her lips. Her fingers spasmed in Troy’s hands.

  “Here, let me help you.” On the small table beside the bed, he spotted a cloth floating in a bowl of water and a decanter of red wine. With one hand he reached for the cloth and wrung out the excess water. Gently, he wiped the blood from the old woman’s face. “There. Would you like a bit of wine?”

  She nodded, so he poured her a glass. Stabilizing her shoulders with one hand, he held the glass to her lips. She took just the tiniest of sips before she turned her head away. He put the glass down and, with great care, let her sink back against the pillows.

  For a few moments, she breathed heavily, exhausted even by this small motion.

  Troy’s heart clenched painfully as he watched her. Compassion for the old woman mingled with memories of friends he had seen dying on the battlefields of the continent, young hopeful faces squashed and wiped out by a hellish war. He blinked and forced the memories back into the farthest recesses of his mind. Leaning forward, he took the old woman’s hand once more.

  At his touch, her lids flickered and opened. Her eyes glinted with something like humor. “See?” she whispered. “One last journey… And there’s… not much time left.” Her gaze slid away. “…not much time…” Her eyes flickered, widened, and suddenly her hand gripped him tight. Her eyes darted back to meet his. “Lillian. Will you take care of my little girl?” With a surprising boost of strength she straightened, while agitated color suffused her face.

  “Mistress Nanette…” Troy tried to calm her and keep her down on the bed.

  “Will you take care of Lillian?” Her nails dug into his hand. “Ma petite fille… Will you protect her? Keep her from harm?” The blanket slipped, revealing the bright red stain that blossomed on her white nightgown.

  “Yes, yes,” Troy soothed, hardly knowing what he was saying. “Of course, I will.” If only she would lie down again, so she would not hurt herself even more.

  “A rowan tree grows before your house,” she muttered. “Guarding the gate from evil… She will not be able to come and get my girl, mon petit chou-chou. No, she will not—”

  “Nobody will get Lillian,” Troy said firmly.

  The old woman’s eyes, dark and ominous, burnt into his. “She is evil… mauvaise, très mauvaise… She took everything… everything… poisoned our lives.”

  “Who did?” He tried to steady her with one hand around her shoulders. “Not Lillian?”

  Her voice sank down to a near inaudible mutter. “Camille did… Camille… he married her… oh, mon pauvre chou-chou,” she moaned.

  “It is all right,” Troy soothed. “Your girl is safe. Lillian is safe now.”

  “She took everything… destroyed everything… every last memory…” Abruptly, her grip on his hand relaxed. Her strength spent, she reverted to a tiny, frail old woman.

  He helped her lie down, all the time crooning softly. “It is all right… everything is fine…”

  “…everything…” she murmured, as her eyes drifted closed. “…even the locket…”

  Troy’s hands stilled, and he thought his heart did, too. “The locket?”

  “My girl’s golden locket… her mother’s locket… most precious. She would have taken it. Mon pauvre chou-chou…”

  A sudden, clear image sprung up in Troy’s mind: the light glinting on gold flying through the rain. His stomach clenched.

  “…the only keepsakes from her parents…”

  He remembered the miniatures inside, small, delicate portraits, exquisitely done.

  “The most precious thing in all the world…” The old woman took a shuddering breath before she drifted off into unconsciousness.

  Troy slumped down on the chair, bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. If he had wanted proof of his wife’s innocence, he now had it: a girl’s golden locket. A locket he had bartered for safety and the fare to England.

  She had given him the thing she held dearest in the world so that he might purchase his freedom. Even when he had hated her most, she had tried to help him as best as she could. Yet, as caught in her stepmother’s web as himself, she had had only limited resources. He remembered her as she had been in the prison cell: a sad, gray shadow of the Black Widow, a girl more than a woman. How could he have ever expected a girl to fight a lifelong experience of malice and evil?

  His lungs felt constricted. He drew a gasping breath.

  And how could I have ever been so caught up in my own pain that I didn’t see her suffering?

  How could he have seen only the bad: his humiliation, his fear, the degradation of the metal collar around his neck and, even worse, the abasement and the searing pain of the brand?

  His hand splayed over his chest.

  The searing pain—the sting of which she had later tried to take away with the oil and the salve. And even though she had indeed led him around the garden like a dog on a leash, in the end it had been she who had removed the collar. But he had been unable to see beyond his humiliation and the destruction of his pride.

  Instead he had projected his own bitterness onto her, had used her as a scapegoat, as if by punishing her he could erase all the bitter memories, and regain the feeling of his worth as a man. She had seen him at his lowest, no longer a man, but reduced to an animal, and for this he had wanted to revenge himself upon her. To show her his strength. His manliness.

  Leaning forward, he tunneled his hands through his hair, dug his fingers into his scalp. He could have laughed at the grotesqueness of it all.

  For all he had achieved was to prove how weak he was. Not in physical strength, but in spirit. Only a weak-spirited man would have so clung to revenge that he had been blinded to another’s suffering.

  He shook his head and jumped to his feet. He had to do something. He could not just sit here and…

  He rubbed his neck. Without his volition, his fingers slid around to his throat and then eased under the material of his shirt until he could feel the unevenness of the scar against his fingertips. A lily for Lillian.

  He drew a deep breath.

  His hand fell to his side.

  He would get that doctor. Whatever the cost, he would ride to Keighlin and get the doctor.

  ~*~

  Later, Troy would always remember this night with a shudder. Assured his friends would organize all the necessary things in the village, he rode back to the Hall and got himself a lantern and a fresh horse, a sturdy carriage horse that might manage the passing through a wild river. And on he rode, through the darkness and the rain, while the wind howled around him and dragged at his clothes. In the distance, the trees of the forest huddled together like a giant beast, ready to pounce. But he was not deterred, nor did he feel the cold biting his bones. Brighter than any flame, determination burned in him, urged
him on, and on, and on.

  This was the land of his birth, the land he had roamed since he was a little boy, the land that was in his blood. He knew this place inside out. He would not be delayed by whatever the elements threw at him.

  He knew a ford further upstream, where the old road had been before his grandfather had the bridge and a new better road built. The rain had transformed the river into a raging, foaming monster that greedily lapped at the land beyond the riverbed. To attempt a crossing now was madness.

  Troy shook the rain out of his eyes and calmed his nervous horse. He watched the river, observed the flood as he would an opponent on the battlefield. The water ran high, but not so high to hold him back. The current would be the greater threat. But his horse was strong, used to carrying heavy loads. Surely, it would be strong enough to withstand the river.

  He urged the horse forward, into the foaming flood. Soon, the river reached greedily up, slurping and gurgling, slapped water against his boots—and still, he pressed the horse on. Inch by inch they defied the river; inch by inch they came nearer to the bank on the other side. And finally, with a sucking sound, the river released them, and the horse stepped free of the water.

  “Good boy.” Troy bent forward to sling his arms around the animal’s neck. “Such a brave boy you are.” The horse might lack the blood, but it certainly had bottom and bone.

  Without faltering, it carried him on to Keighlin, where Troy proceeded to ring the doctor out of bed. Still a young man, with a shiny, pink face that was creased with worry, the physician might have been game for an adventure in the first place. More likely, though, he was loath to argue with a man who looked as if he’d just been dragged through hell. So the man packed his bag, saddled his horse and rode back with Troy.

  By the time they reached Ravenhurst lands, the rain had stopped and the wind had chased away the clouds to reveal the pale twinkle of the last stars against the gray sky. Fatigue and exhaustion made Troy lightheaded. Yet unerringly, he led the doctor through the winding lanes to the vicar's house.