Will, though, needed an excuse to get away, to clear his head. Byron would be fine without him for a week and was assuredly safe. The meddlesome Lord Laswick had needed to leave on a short trip of his own, after all, so the timing was convenient.
After Will crested the hill ahead another horse came up close behind him. It was a white mare with a braided mane atop which sat Vira Feiron. She sat sidesaddle, wearing a light blue dress of many ruffles, slashed with white at the bodice. Will had encountered her again on an evening a few nights after their first meeting, at the same house garden balcony in the castle at Lyle. He had been surprised at first, but then he remembered that she mentioned she visited the place with some frequency. Due to that he had to question whether or not some unconscious desire on his own part, to connect with someone, anyone, had driven him back there again. They had a far more friendly conversation that second time, and Vira listened quietly as he talked about his desire to see Alaina, something he felt she could relate to, being so close a friend, and all. When he told her of his appointment, and his intent to visit Erris, she had grown inexplicably giddy, insisting on joining him. For some reason he had found it difficult to resist her protestations.
Now, Vira smiled at him, and he returned a grin, as they headed down into the green valley toward his ancestral home. The manor they came upon within about another mile’s ride was called Featherstone. A large estate of stone foundation, with a wood frame stained in a reddish hue, bearing many iron-framed windows of leaded glass. There were cherry trees in the front, just now blossoming in whites and pinks and reds, and for a moment, he began to realize there may have been other reasons that his family had pined for this place, that he may not have understood as a child.
The local magistrate had made his home at the estate, before Byron re-assigned him, so the country manor was stocked, maintained, and staffed. There were some dozen servants, Byron had said, to maintain the grounds, the house, and to see to daily necessities. The whole affair made Will feel quite uncomfortable, but he had to face these things he supposed, if he was going to make this whole situation work and use his new position to remain close to Byron and protect him.
Will and Vira stabled their horses, then made their way across a flagstone courtyard, and through a set of two glass doors that led inside. The ceilings were high, the floors of wood polished to a sheen. There were several stone hearths and chairs of all shapes and sizes; iron-wrought, wooden, over-stuff, or cushioned. Tapestries depicting events of old lined the walls, and there was ornamentation and decoration of all types. Vira studied a glasswork bauble sitting in a clay bowl, ran her hands over miniature statuary depicting some emperor or other and his horse, likely of old Mandra. She seemed impressed, which, for some reason, made Will happy.
“I’m going to go find the washroom and freshen up,” she said, after she had circled the room.
“Alright,” Will said, removing his riding gloves, and tucking them behind his belt.
Vira gave him a smile and then ran off down a hallway, her golden braids bouncing on her shoulders as she went.
As Will continued to roam the many rooms and halls, he thought he heard footsteps coming off from down the way, but when he stopped, the sound had stopped as well. Then a few minutes later there was a loud crash, and the sound of breaking glass. He search about the place but could find no source for any of it. Vira perhaps. But then I thought she had gone in the other direction? Maybe he had gotten turned around worse than he realized, the place was after all large and labyrinthine in places.
When he found a small office, complete with two shelves dedicated to scrolls and leather-bound tomes, he made his way inside and sat down at a small desk of wood painted a muted red. He ran his hands across the smooth surface, and then opened the drawers at its sides. There was quill and inkpot, parchment and sand. Then he noticed that on the corner of the desk was a rolled parchment sealed with wax. At first, he thought not to disturb it, but then, reminding himself that he was now lord of this estate, he broke the seal and unrolled it.
As he began to read, his heart started to beat faster and faster. The missive read: The crown is in peril. You are right to be suspicious of the actions of those striving for power. You are in danger here. There was no signature. The seal had been nondescript. Who could possibly have left it? Who could know so much? He should never have left Lyle. Byron was in danger. As he was rolling the parchment back up, his mind lost in thought, a noise sounded from ahead and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Standing in the doorway was a woman of middle years, dressed in pale linen robes and apron, a headscarf about her head. “M’lord Erris,” she said. “Welcome to Featherstone. Please do let me know how I can be of service. I am the Matron of this house and have been so for many years. My name is Marelle.”
Will nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Well met, Marelle. The Lady Feiron and I will likely wish to break our fast soon and will need chambers and bedding for the evening. Beyond that, I believe we are set for a time.”
“One chamber for the evening or two?” she asked.
Will turned red and coughed into his head. “T-two,” he said. “Assuredly two. That is— that is all.”
Marelle curtsied and bowed her head, turning to leave the room.
“One other thing,” Will said, his curiosity temporarily overtaking his embarrassment.
Marelle turned back. “Yes, m’lord?”
“I heard footsteps before. And a crash. It did not sound like the Lady Feiron. Was it you, perchance, or another member of the household?”
Marelle nodded, seeming to understand immediately. “I think not a servant, m’lord. I think likely it was our guest of the manor these past five years.”
“Oh?”
“A man of literary pursuits. The king bestowed his patronage upon him, and the magistrate eagerly took him in as houseguest.”
“Ah, I see. I did not realize there was a guest in attendance.” Will wondered if Byron had known this, though he assumed the man would have told him if he had. Perhaps this guest had been the one that left the note. “I would like to meet the man, as the occasion arises.”
“Yes, m’lord,” said Marelle. “He rarely leaves his rooms, a bit different that one. But you can find his chambers in the east wing, beyond the kitchens and dining hall.”
Will nodded to her, and then let her on her way.
When he met up with Vira again she look refreshed, adorned in a new red dress, face powered, and dark rogue applied to her lips. It was a look that Will found attractive, even if it was one that Alaina had never favored. They went outside and walked the grounds, past trees of oak and birch, and around a clear pool of water, over which willows wept into the water. Fish were visible within, and frogs. It was a peaceful place, assuredly.
After their walk, they supped by candlelight in the large dining hall. It featured a table sized to fit two dozen, with crystal goblets, and silver plates. The cook, an older woman with thick arms and practiced fingers, had prepared roasted quail with cranberry preserve, mashed field turnip, and buttered stalk beans. A crisp wine was poured, and Will and Vira raised their glasses before emptying the contents.
When the meal was done Will saw a stumbling Vira to her chamber, and then made for his own. When he came to the door though, he tarried, the note of earlier at the fore of his thoughts. He moved past his room and headed back toward the kitchens. Moving past these, he came to what he imaged was the eastern wing and wandered until he found a closed door that he ascertained must belong to the guest he had been told about. Will had asked Marelle to invite the man to dinner, but he had not arrived. So now he moved to the door and knocked.
There was no answer. He knocked again. No answer. He thought to leave but worry over the missive was getting the better of him, so he knocked once more. Finally, the sound of feet hitting the floor. The shuffling of legs and footsteps moving closer to him. The door swung one and there he stood.
A man some ten years his elder and
a head shorter. He had a fringe of pale orange hair around a bald, freckled pate, and was dressed in a white sleeping gown ruffled at the neck and wrists. His face was adorned with a large nose and bloodshot eyes. The man looked neither angry nor thrilled to see Will before him.
Will looked him up and down, while the other man stared at him bleary-eyed. After a few speechless moments, Will opened his mouth and closed it several times, not knowing where to begin.
The man finally said, “What?”
“H-hello. My name is William Erris. Master of Erris. Er, Lord—or Earl of Erris, now. I was wondering if you had a moment to—"
The door slammed shut. Will stared at the thick, oaken panels for a moment, and then turned to leave. He walked a few steps away before turning back. He hesitated for a moment and then knocked on the door again. No response. He knocked once more.
The footsteps again and the door swung open.
“Excuse me, if you would, for my intrusion, sir, but I am William Erris. Yes... I wondered if you might have a small bit of time to speak.”
The man stared at him for many more moments before turning and retreating to his chamber. He moved to his bed, a large four-poster of cherry wood, and sat down. The door remained open.
Will looked about and then stepped into the room. It was a cluttered space, with a large window, a chest in the corner, and everywhere stacks of parchment; on the chest, beside each end of the window, on the floor below the bed. There were many quills as well, several littering the floor, and inkpots both upright and tipped over, having left stains of pooled ink some time ago, from the looks of it. There were also scrolls and leather-bound tomes of all sizes, stacked haphazardly about, or shoved into corners or between the slats in chairs. Several candles set in candlesticks lit the room. Their flickering light reflected off the window.
The man was looking down at the floor appearing in some sort of stupor. Perhaps from drink, as there were also several bottles of wine strewn about as well, most apparently empty.
“Well, Erris,” he said. “What?”
Will had been looking at the condition of the room and did not realize the man was now staring at him. He swallowed hard. “I wondered if, perhaps, you had left a message for me. In my offices.”
“I wasn’t aware you had offices,” the man said.
“Well, the magistrate’s offices, then.”
“Are you certain the message was for you? The magistrate worked in that office for near ten years, and before him another man, I am sure.”
Will hadn’t considered that, but after thinking on it for a few moments, he said, “I think not.”
“What was the content of this message?”
Will wasn’t certain why, but he took the parchment from the pocket of his breeches and handed it forward.
The man took it and read. A light came to life in his eyes. “Most interesting. Hm. Yes.” He looked up at Will. “Did you have any reason to suspect you may get a missive of this nature?”
Will looked to the ceiling for a moment and then wet his lips. “Perhaps.”
The man scratched his chin in thought. “Yes. Most interesting.” He handed the letter back. Will took it and found the man starting at him. He eventually extended his hand.
Will shook the other man’s hand and then he said, “I am Otollicus.”
Will nearly lost his footing. He recalled now the matron of the house stating that the man was a scrivener, but never imagined this is who it would be. The work of Otollicus was well known throughout the realm.
“I’ve read your work. A Treatise on Martial Engagement.”
Otollicus nodded in a manner that seemed unimpressed. “I wrote that one on campaign in the north, as a young man. Now it seems every young man of standing has read my tomes on battle.”
“I wasn’t a young man of standing until recently.”
“Still. None of you have read my finer work. Not the histories, nor poetries.”
“I didn’t know you wrote those sorts of things.”
“No doubt.” Otocllicus stood up. “Well, you appear to have a grave matter on hand. I hope it all works out.” Then he showed Will to the door and closed it behind him.
Will head back to his chamber no better off than when he had started. The encounter with the scribe had left him only confused, for some reason. He entered his dark room, which was similar in layout to Otollicus’ own, though larger and with two windows. He fell on the bed, larger for certain than the other man’s, and it had a grand canopy of red fabric above, which he stared up at in thought. He was studying the folds of red through the gloom, when he heard the door to his room creak open. He looked up and saw a thin female form silhouetted by flickering candlelight from the hall, standing in the doorway. This lighting from the rear obscured any features in darkness, as she closed the door behind her, and made her way over to his bed.
With a spark of flint, the candle at his bedside was brought to life, illuminating the form of Vira Feiron, wearing nothing but a dark shift fringed in lace, with a low bodice crisscrossed with thread, and a high hem that didn’t quite reach her knees. Not sleeping attire becoming of a lady, for certain, and her golden hair was free of its braids, tumbling to her shoulders, and her lips were vibrant with rouge. She climbed up onto the bed, and Will moved back, away from her. “M’lady,” he managed, “is there something I can help you with?”
Vira was on top of him then, kneeling over him, her legs pressed close to his sides. She leaned down and lifted up his tunic, kissing his stomach. “M’lady—Vira—” His head was swimming. Will grabbed her shoulders to push her away, but this only elicited a soft noise from her, as she moved up to kissing his neck. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as her hands ran over his chest. The sensations caused prickles running up and down his body, his breath started to come fast. He opened his eyes again just in time to see the tip of the dagger coming toward his face.
Will rolled away as Vira brought the dagger down into the mattress. She cursed and ripped it free, down feathers from the mattress tossed into the air in the process. Then she jumped to her feet, moving around the bed after him. He scrambled over the bed and fell to the floor as she came at him with another swipe of the slender blade.
“Vira!” he yelled. “What in the name—” He had to duck to avoid another slash. On she came as he tried to stand and move away, this time with an overhead stab. Will managed to avoid the below again, and instead the dagger became embedded in the chest behind him, as he fell over with a crash onto the floor, upsetting a chair in the process.
“Rook’s wing!” he shouted from the ground, as he turned and scrambled away.
Vira laughed at that, a strange, horrifying noise from deep in her throat.
She brought the knife down as he was trying to stand again, and he caught her arm with his hand this time, and they both fell to the floor again. She was on top of him now, putting her full weight on him and squeezing tightly with her knees, as she tried to force the dagger down toward his face. Vira managed to move her other hand to his throat and started to squeeze with a grip like iron. With one hand Will tried to push the dagger back while with the other he tried to push her off of him, all the while finding it increasingly harder to breath, the edges of his vision growing blurry and dark.
Gritting his teeth, and with all the strength he could muster, he twisted her arm back and under her body, in an attempt to move it anywhere that wasn’t his head. As they struggled, grappling with each other, there was suddenly a sound like the thud of a soup pot hitting the floor, and then Vira’s eyes rolled back in her head, exposing the whites. Without warning she fell forward on top of him.
As soon as he regained some semblance of his wits, he slid out from under her, leaving her face down on the floor. He sat up and pushed himself away on the palms of his hands. Otollicus stood over the woman, panting, an iron poker from the hearth in his hand, which he had apparently used to knock her on the back of the head.
“Did I…” Otollicus
started, “Is she...” He couldn’t get the words out.
Will went over to Vira’s fallen form, took her by the shoulder, and pulled her over onto her back. The hand he had twisted away had been stuck under her body when she collapsed, the dagger forced into her chest. “I think it was me.” He felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach when he looked at her eyes, frozen in place, the protruding dagger wet with blood.
Otocllicus dropped the poker with a thud, and moved backward, falling to a seated position on the bed again. Will looked over her form, found no breath coming from her mouth, no rising and falling of her chest, no movement of her limbs. Then he saw something on her arm that caught his eye. Otollicus must have noticed a quizzical look on his face, because he took the candle from the bedside and brought it over.
Inked into the flesh of her upper left arm was the symbol of a black raven, wings stretched wide, bearing two heads; one pointing to the left and the other to the right. Will shook his head. “I’ve never seen that crest before. It’s not of any House I know.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Otollicus. The look on his face was dark, ominous. “In a book once. A book I thought was full of fanciful tales meant to frighten and thrill, but by no means meant to be true.”
Will looked up to the scribe. He was staring down at the raven still, his gaze locked in place. “What is it?”
Otollicus worked his jaw soundlessly for a moment and then said, “The mark of The Coven.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Hawk and the Falcon Page 11
