Lady Changeling

by Ken Altabef

  And now he was dead.

  Eric put on his dark blue jacket and buttoned it up. He wiped his face, smoothed his hair and tied it back. He threw a dark cloak around his shoulders and stepped out into the corridor. He glanced down the hall at the door to the nursery. The children will be fine, he told himself. Lucinda is there, and Jermyn and Pratt. I’m no good to them right now. Nothing more I can do.

  He walked the hall alone. Now what could he do? Who could he turn to?

  I’ll need the rest of the men. With Fitzroy March gone, the next in charge was Oliver Stine. I’ll have to talk sense to him, convince him to help.

  Most of his house guard were billeted in a small barracks adjacent to the stables. At this time of night several men would be there. Eric descended the grand staircase of Grayson Hall. He thought it best to avoid the front door with its well-lit courtyard. Instead he exited the building from the east side going directly into the garden access. The garden path was where Fitzroy March had been killed. While it was possible the murderers could be still lurking among the fruit trees, he thought it unlikely. The bodies had already been found and removed.

  Eric was surprised to see that none of his men were about, searching for the killers. But then again they were not professional soldiers. Without Fitzroy March giving them orders they most likely had no idea what to do. He’d have to straighten that out at the barracks.

  He passed through the garden. The silence was eerie. There seemed to be no creature about at all, neither furred nor fowl. Eric walked softly, keeping off to the side of the garden path, his eyes wide open, attentive and alert, his heart beating fast.

  The barracks door was ajar, a warm glow of candlelight shining through the windows. Eric pushed the door open. Half a dozen men were in the common room, sitting around a table and standing nearby.

  Eric charged into the room.

  “Stine! What the hell’s going on?”

  The lieutenant stood up and nodded his head slightly. Stine had an average build, a smoothly shaven face and shoulder length brown hair. He was only half the man Fitzroy March had been, but there was nothing much to be done about that now. “M’lord.”

  “There are invaders on the grounds. What have you men been doing? Let’s get organized and get outside.”

  “About that…” said Stine. Even in the dim candlelight it was obvious he had already noticed the gray lesions on Eric’s face.

  “You know your duty,” said a woman’s voice. “Seize him!”

  Theodora stood to the side of the doorway.

  “What?”

  “It’s true,” she said, addressing Stine. “You can see that it’s true. Lord Grayson has succumbed to the Gray Rot.”

  Eric was faced again with having to try and explain away what the men could plainly see with their very own eyes. “You did this to me!” he raged at Theodora. “Listen to me, Stine. All of you! This is not Lady Grayson. This is a faery spy sent here as prelude to attack.”

  “Come now,” said Stine. “We’ll, uh, that is to say, we’d best get you some help, sir.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. She’s to blame. It’s the faeries. They killed Fitzroy March. Who did that, Theodora? Was it you?”

  Theodora looked embarrassed. “I suppose you don’t remember, Eric,” she said, “but it was you killed Fitzroy March and the Bambury brothers. The kitchen boy saw the whole thing.”

  “He saw no such thing.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “You put him up to it. Or made him see something that wasn’t there. Just like this!” Eric turned his face toward her. Let her see what she’d done. She shrank away, pretending to be shocked and afraid. Eric realized too late that drawing attention to the lesions was not his best course of action at this point.

  “I know, Eric. I know,” she said, her voice quavering. She was practically sobbing. “You would never have done it, were you in your right mind. We’re going to help you. I promise. Let us take you somewhere safe.”

  Eric turned to Stine. “I am the head of this household and you will listen to me. This woman—this faery spy—is dangerous.”

  Theodora groaned softy. “The Lord is not himself. Escort him to the holding cell. And, please, be gentle with him.”

  “You will not!” said Eric. He twitched a shoulder as if shaking off a restraining arm that had not yet been placed there.

  The men were as yet still undecided. It was all up to Stine. Eric thought he might still be able to convince them.

  “Stine,” said Theodora. “There are very clear directives about what to do if the Creep appears among us. These policies go back a long time. They came from the mouth of Lord Grayson himself. If left to rage unchecked, the Creep will destroy the entire household. We are all in danger now. You will escort my husband to the holding cell and we shall summon the doctor.”

  Fear of the Creep was the ultimate trump card. Stine shook his head sadly. “M’lord, the lady is correct. We have standing orders to that effect, orders handed down to us by you yourself in better days. You should come with us.”

  Eric whirled on Theodora. “Parasite! Traitor. Show them your true shape!”

  Theodora addressed Stine again. “Please help him. He is raving mad. I can’t bear it. After what happened to March…” She broke down sobbing, unable to finish the sentiment.

  Stine nodded to the others. There were six men in the room, which made for terrible odds. A man approached Eric from either side. Before he knew it, one had seized his elbow. Eric glanced at Theodora one last time, trying to read her face. She was cold as stone. Was there a hint of sorrow there? Any trace of guilt at all?

  Then he took action. He sidestepped, yanking the man’s arm from his elbow and twisting it painfully behind his back. At the same time he spit full into the other guard’s face. It was harmless spittle but Eric knew the man would recoil, thinking he’d just been sprayed in the face with foam that was the hallmark of the Creeping Gray Rot.

  Eric flicked out his free arm, knocking over the candelabra on the desk. Three lit candles spilled across the table igniting a pile of papers there. One rolled onto the floor. He flung the man whose arm he was twisting at the others who were now coming rapidly from the side. He backed out of the open door. He had only a split second to make his escape.

  He ran a few paces to the east then threw himself to the ground, rolling down an embankment toward the dairy farm. The roll kept him low and out of sight beneath the slope. He had only a second or two to get permanently out of sight. He hid under a juniper bush as several men came boiling out of the barracks. A few had to remain inside in order to squelch the fire. With any luck a few others might have to go for buckets of water.

  Theodora paused for a moment at the top of the embankment. Eric felt humiliated, hiding under a bush from his own men. It was pathetic. But he had no choice.

  Theodora had excellent vision at night but didn’t seem to notice him. Could she smell him, he wondered? Apparently not, as she turned to walk away. For ten years she had deceived him, worming her way into his life and his bed, sharing the most intimate moments two people could have together, fooling him into revealing all his hopes and dreams and sharing his innermost thoughts. All the time wearing a false face, a deceitful loving smile. Her plan seemed too cold and calculating for such a chaotic creature as a faery. She had loved him so convincingly, so effortlessly and consistently. She loved the children. All a deception? Her own children? What sort of monster was she?

  Faeries hiding in our midst! Theodora’s betrayal had transformed his entire world. Nothing around him seemed right; nothing seemed real. He felt like a weary traveler who returns home to find he’d never had a home at all.

  No time for that now. The men were probably on their way to the kennel to fetch the dogs. Would they turn on the lord of the house? His own dogs? He only had to think of his grandfather Griffin’s death to answer that question. Not much time.

  He had to get away. Get help. He didn’t want to leave t
he children, but he must. It was all too much. Theodora had made a fool of him, discredited him, and turned his own men against him. His best friend had been killed and himself framed for the murder. He marveled at how quickly she had achieved all this.

  Oh what a fool I’ve been, Eric thought. She’s had this planned all along.

  Chapter 30

  Eric walked quickly, but he didn’t run. He hadn’t yet heard the dogs barking. There was still a chance to get away, so long as he kept up appearances. If any of the servants saw their master taking an evening stroll they would think nothing of it. But a mad dash through the property would certainly raise suspicions. He headed for the stables with the idea that he might get a horse and ride for town. If he got far enough away, the faery’s charm would surely fade. It wouldn’t work on strangers all the way in town. They wouldn’t see the Gray Rot when they looked at him.

  “Frederick!”

  The stable master was taking a late supper at a table in the tiny slat-roofed pergola in front of the stables. He looked up, startled, a spoon of stew halfway to his lips.

  Eric kept the ruined side of his face turned away. I can do this. I only have to act natural.

  Mr. Boothe wiped his lips with a napkin and stood up from his stool. “You’re up late.” And then as an afterthought he added, “My lord.”

  Eric didn’t care one whit about formalities just now. “Believe me I’d rather be in bed. I have to get these papers to Kensington by tomorrow.” He patted an empty pocket of his coat. “Ordinarily I’d send my man March but he’s absolutely exhausted from hunting Draven Ketch all the way up and down the coast these past few days.”

  Eric watched closely for the man’s reaction at mention of Fitzroy March. There seemed to be none. If news of March’s murder hadn’t yet reached the stables, talk of the master’s disease and madness had not either.

  “Ketch?” mumbled Boothe as if he hadn’t heard about the pirate either. Surely he must have heard about that. Well, thought Eric, the less he knows, the better anyway.

  “Can you saddle one up for me?”

  “Why of course. Of course. Which saddle did you want?”

  “The Brixton.”

  “Certainly sir.”

  “Please hurry, Frederick. Your fastest horse. I want to get this over with and back to bed before sunrise.”

  “Betsy will do. Spent the day out to pasture, well-fed and watered. She’ll get you there and back double time. I’ll go fetch her right away sir.”

  The stable master rounded the low half-fence that separated the courtyard from the paddock. Eric struggled to appear nonchalant, despite the pounding of his heart. No need to worry, he told himself. Things were looking up. Even if Stine and his men decided to pursue, he’d already have a good head start and the fastest horse.

  He didn’t look forward to a long ride into town. Would Graysport even be safe? Would he seem a madman running through the streets in the middle of the night with a gray patch on his face, ranting about faeries and spies? In truth he might have to ride all the way down to Kensington. A small force of His Majesty’s redcoats were garrisoned there. They would not question his authority. He’d have a fair chance to explain. And bring them back to reclaim the estate.

  A long ride. Now he regretted not having eaten all that wonderful food his valet had set out for him earlier.

  He bent over the stable master’s table and stuffed some crusts of bread into his pockets for the trip. He took a couple of bites and washed it down with a few gulps of red wine.

  Boothe returned, leading a beautiful brown horse by a fine leather bridle. He pulled a saddle down from the wall.

  “Looks like a wild one out there tonight, sir.”

  “Seems all right to me.”

  “Ah, you never know what kind of thorny things be on the march these hot summer nights.”

  March? Why had the stable master chosen that word? What did he know?

  “I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  “Certainly sir,” said Boothe as he cinched one of the straps. “Once we get this harness on. Won’t take but a moment. But, as I say, you’d best be careful out there. It’s a wicked night for the fey folk. That’s how it looks to me.” As an afterthought he again added, “My lord.”

  Eric didn’t like the way the stable master twisted that title as he said it. He didn’t like that at all.

  “You mean faeries?” he asked. The very word seemed to make him feel a little dizzy.

  “Blights, nixies, mound maggots. Can’t you smell them?”

  Eric didn’t smell anything except the bitter aftertaste of the wine. “It’s a far journey and well past dark,” he said curtly. “Just saddle her up.”

  Boothe tightened the stirrup leathers and gave the horse a playful pat on the rump. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Yes,” agreed Eric.

  “How did it feel when you were inside her?”

  “What?”

  “Not what. Surely. Who?”

  “Who?”

  Boothe grinned at him and said, “Clarimonde.”

  That name. The stable master’s face had begun to grow fuzzy. Eric felt a sudden tightening in his chest, a heaviness dragging at every breath.

  Boothe licked his lips, still grinning devilishly. “Tell me, can you grow thorns on your cock like I do? As I recall she always enjoyed that little trick best of all.”

  “You’re one of them,” Eric gasped. His tongue had grown thick in his mouth. “Just like her—a lousy, two-faced blight.”

  “Now, now. That’s no way to talk about my daughter.”

  Boothe’s leering face changed shape. His forehead bulged to an unnaturally large gourd, his nose sharpened and hooked, his teeth grew foul and crooked. His entire body seemed to shrink and hunch over. His laugh was a wretched cackle that Eric had heard too many times before. Finnegan Stump.

  “Stump!” Eric screamed. He lunged at the little man but, his feet unsteady, his head swimming with the poisoned wine, he stumbled. Stump reached out his arms to catch the falling man then withdrew them at the last instant. He enjoyed the dull, lifeless thump as Eric’s body hit the ground.

  “Not Stump,” he said. “Meadowlark.”

  Chapter 31

  As Eric came awake, his first thought was of Stump. That twisted, evil little troll must have poisoned him. No, not troll. Faery.

  How long had Stump been impersonating his stable master? How far back did this conspiracy go? Eric still felt woozy. His hands were tied firmly behind his back. He was seated in a chair.

  Eric had a memory, a fleeting glimpse of Marjorie Hightower. The young girl he was supposed to have married. Her smile, her laugh. Then gone.

  As he fought to shake away the mental cobwebs, the room slowly came into focus. Gray stone walls, a dirty shit-stained floor. It was the holding cell beneath the manor house.

  “There he is,” said a soothing voice. “He’s come back to us.”

  A gigantic white wig bobbed in front of Eric’s face for a moment, wafting the scent of stale French perfume. The head tilted back to reveal a face Eric had seen only a few times before. The sharp hazel eyes, the pock-marked, rouged cheeks, an insincere smile. It was the alchemist. The guest Theodora had installed in the cottage a few months ago. Another conspirator?

  Eric couldn’t care less about the alchemist. He gritted his teeth when he noticed the woman who stood behind Amalric. Theodora!

  “You rotten bitch!”

  Amalric waved a slender finger in his face. “Come now, I won’t have you talking that way about the lady.”

  The alchemist pinched him on the shoulder. Pinched him? That was an odd thing for anyone to do. Eric noticed for the first time that he had been stripped bare from the waist up.

  “Lady?” spat Eric.

  “Now, now, let’s not besmirch anyone’s reputation. After all, she was sleeping with you for a good cause,” Amalric added.

  “One more word, alchemist…” warned Theodora. She gave him a withering loo
k out of the corner of her eye.

  “You know what she is?” Eric asked.

  “Well, certainly I do,” replied Amalric. “But the more appropriate question is—what do you know?”

  “Griffin’s lens. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Amalric smiled broadly. “Got it on the first try! There’s hope for you yet, young man.”

  “Oh, Eric,” said Theodora, “Please just tell me where it is.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Do faery folk go to hell?” mused Amalric. “I always thought they turned into grand old trees at the end.”

  “Just stop,” said Theodora. “Stop playing. This isn’t a game. Just find out what I want to know. And…” She wanted to add an instruction not to hurt Eric unnecessarily but held back. It wouldn’t do to show too much concern in front of him at this point. They needed results. “Just do it.”

  “Well of course,” said Amalric. “It’s locked inside there, isn’t it?” He tapped the side of Eric’s head with his finger. “All we have to do is pry it out. Shall we use a key to turn the lock or simply smash the whole damn thing open like a rotten grapefruit?”

  “The key,” said Theodora.

  “Yes of course.” He reached for his snuff box.

  “God damn you!” Eric said to her. He struggled at the bonds behind his back.

  “Perhaps the lady would be better served waiting outside?” asked Amalric.

  “Just get on with it,” she said.

  Perhaps she had answered too quickly, Theodora considered. The suggestion might actually have been a good one. She could hardly stand to see Eric treated this way. All through their life together, he had never once spoken to her in anger. His had always been a soft voice wherever she was concerned, a hearty laugh, a patient ear, a friendly smile or even a lustful glance. To hear him curse her that way was almost too much. For a moment the entire scene melted away and she felt as if she was standing alone in an empty room. Her life was truly ruined. She had given all for the cause and there was nothing left. She wanted to go, to run out of the holding cell, away from the grand old manor house and never look back. But she couldn’t leave. If he must bear this, she must bear it with him.