The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  As he spoke, he noticed a flicker of fear in her eyes and felt her body stiffen against his.

  “Where's Emma?” she asked. “Did she return with you?”

  Alex hesitated for a moment, his stomach twisting at the fear in her voice. “Nay. She's still in Yorkshire.”

  “How is she?”

  “Frail yet, but much improved.”

  “Is she coming home?”

  “Aye, in a week or two. When Stephen returns from London.”

  Althena whimpered and her fingers clutched at his arm.

  “What is it, leannan?”

  “Argante. Dear God. He's a monster.”

  He sighed. “Aye, he is. But he'll not hurt you again. I swear it.”

  “Nay, you don't understand. I mean he's monstrous to look upon. He's horribly burned, scarred beyond belief. His face, his appearance, is grotesque. And the man is insane, Alex. His mind is sick, twisted.” Her voice faltered. “He...he wants Emma. He said she belongs to him. He's watching and waiting for her return.”

  A sense of dread rose up, like a forgotten nightmare, from the depths of Alex's mind. He recognized the sensation. It had plagued him on and off since Argante's escape from the Keep.

  “Then I must find the bastard and kill him,” he murmured, “before Emma returns.”

  Although they came from his heart, his words sounded meaningless to his ears. They dissolved in the air like warm breath on a winter's day. Sweet Jesus, he wanted nothing more than to see the bastard's blood on his blade. But something about Argante had changed. What, though? What had changed?

  “I haven't told you everything.” Althena's voice broke into his musings. “There was something else about him. Something so strange, I'm not quite sure how to explain it.”

  God's blood. The answer he sought lay with the woman resting in his arms.

  “Tell me.”

  Her head dropped against his chest. “Perhaps it was my imagination.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. Tell me what you saw, lass.”

  She sighed. “'Twas like he was part of the scenery, at one with his surroundings. Only when he moved did I truly see him. At first, I couldn't tell what it...he was. I only saw a shape, something standing by the door, but it - he - blended with the colours around him, the house, the earth, everything. Then he turned to look at me, and his face...” She shuddered. “Never have I seen such a horror.”

  Althena's words swirled in his head. How could it be? Alex knew of creatures blessed with the ability to hide in plain sight. But a human? Nay, Argante was not human. He was a demon and, dear God, a demon obsessed with Emma. Argante was far more dangerous than Alex had supposed.

  “Maybe the blow to my head confuses my thoughts.” Althena yawned and snuggled against him. “Yet my memory of it does seem quite clear.”

  “There's naught wrong with your memory.” Alex settled back against the pillow. “I believe you saw him as you say.”

  Several moments of silence passed while Alex's mind searched for ways to track and kill Argante. Dogs, perhaps? Even an invisible man must have a scent. Between him and Stephen, Emma would not be left alone for a moment when she returned, whether she liked it or not. Not until Argante lay rotting on the ground.

  “How did you know?” Althena's sleepy voice carried into his thoughts. She yawned again and rubbed her eyes like a child. He smiled.

  “How did I know what, leannan?”

  “That I had been injured. Or was your return home merely a coincidence?”

  Alex decided to tell her the truth. There would be no more deceit. “Nay, not a coincidence. I rode all night to get to you. I knew you'd been hurt.”

  “How?”

  “The birds told me.”

  “Ah. Well, that explains it.” She reached for his hand and wound her fingers through his. “I love you, Alexander.”

  Time stopped, unsheathed a hidden blade, and thrust it into Alex's heart. Sixteen years peeled away like dead skin, layer by layer, taking him back. Back to that terrible day.

  Back to Alicia.

  “I love you, Alexander.”

  A damn lie. The final words of a guilty wife. Nay, not her final words. But spoken as she lay dying in his arms, her blood spreading across the floor, mixing with that of her lover.

  A lie, followed by a confession. One that almost drove him to join his blood with theirs.

  Alicia's final thoughts were not for Alex. Apart from a false declaration of love, she gave nothing to him. No expression of regret, no outpouring of grief at her wrongdoing. Nay, he was not in her mind as she went to God. Her final thoughts were for someone else.

  “We have a child,” she said, the light fading in her splendid eyes. “At Creake Abbey. Take care of her, Alexander. Please. Give me your word. Her name is Emma.”

  A numbing confession. The existence of a child. Her lover's child. Fitzhugh's bastard.

  Alex hated Alicia at that moment and almost cast her aside to lay by her lover's corpse on the cold stone floor. Perhaps she deserved to die looking into Edward Fitzhugh's unseeing eyes.

  But Alex could not push her away, for even in the midst of hate he loved her more than life. His soul was devastated, his heart ripped to shreds, but he held his wife until her heart stopped beating. And, as she drew her last few breaths, he gave her what she'd asked for.

  He gave her his word.

  The past does not stay in the past. It circles around to greet us as we step into the future. One becomes the other. Thus has it always been.

  His father's words drifted back to him. They had not spoken to each other since Alex had taken Emma from the abbey. At that time, harsh things had been said, unjust accusations made, impossible truths sworn upon the Holy Book.

  He'd been confronted by a tapestry of lies, woven by people he had loved and trusted. But, God forgive him, was he not guilty of the same sins? Had he not lied to Emma? Destroyed her trust, broken her heart?

  Time moved forward, shrugged off the memories and carried him back to the present. He took in a deep breath and gazed at Althena. She slept, her chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm, her dark lashes resting against pale cheeks. It surprised him that she'd accepted his explanation of the birds without question.

  Ah, to trust a woman again, to discard that other shield wrapped so tightly around his heart. Could he?

  He only had to give himself permission, he realized, whispering a belated, but very honest, response.

  “I love you too, Althena.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Stephen fought with his conscience unarmed, struggling to reconcile right and wrong. It was impossible, he realized, since both decisions were right and wrong. He lied to Henry, straight faced, aware of Keir's eyes upon him. The story of the stone was merely a legend, he explained, with no basis in fact. The priest in the abbey had spoken only in riddles. There was no indication that such a stone existed.

  Argante was a rogue, a mercenary leading a group of undisciplined men on a futile quest. They would find nothing, for there was nothing to be found.

  Henry listened, thankfully showing little interest. His mind was otherwise occupied, strangely enough, by one of Stephen's distant cousins who was busy rallying the English barons to a rebellious cause. The 6th Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, was giving the English king plenty to think about.

  So, after telling Henry of his findings, Stephen was paid for his services and quickly dismissed.

  * * *

  Creake Abbey, Norfolk, England.

  “Francis, do you know me?”

  Francis frowned. An unfinished prayer died on his lips and his fingers paused on the polished wooden beads of his paternoster. He squinted through eyes misted with age, trying to make sense of the dark shape before him. The voice was familiar, and that of a man.

  “Were you here yesterday?” Francis asked, searching his failing mind. “I think I do remember you from yesterday.”

  Another voice spoke, also that of a man. “Is he add
led as well as blind?”

  Francis tensed with annoyance. Who is this stranger with the insolent tongue? “I may not see well,” he said. “But I'm not deaf.”

  Soft laughter emerged from the shadows. “Please forgive my young companion, old friend. He tends to speak before he thinks. He means no offence. 'Tis I, Lord Keir. Do you remember me?”

  “Lord Keir?” Francis's heart clenched. Of course he remembered. “Why are you here? Is it Alexander? Has he been hurt?”

  “Nay. Rest easy. Alexander is in good health.”

  “Good.” Francis nodded, wondering why tears burned behind his eyes. “Aye, very good. 'Tis many weeks since I've spoken to him, but I expect he's occupied. Does the babe yet thrive? They said she wouldn't live the summer.”

  He waited, frustrated by the silence. Had he imagined the voices? Sometimes he heard whispers in the night, ghosts from the past who refused to let him be. But these visitors weren't ghosts. So why did they not answer him?

  A soft sigh echoed off the cell walls. “I fear we're wasting our time. I could enter his mind. I could see –”

  “Nay, Stephen, you'll do no such thing.”

  “Does the wee lass live?” Francis interrupted, annoyed by their lack of response. “Does she?”

  “Aye, she does.” Cool breath brushed against Francis's face. “Tell me, Francis. Do you trust me?”

  Francis blinked, puzzled at Keir's question. “Of course, my lord. I've always trusted you.” He grinned and scratched his chin. “'Tis that Irish whelp who merits caution. Is he here too?”

  “Nay.” Keir chuckled. “Listen to me, old friend. In a moment, you'll feel my hand resting on your head. The sensation will be strange, painful even, and for that I'm truly sorry. But you must not resist me. Do you understand?”

  “Aye. The other one hurt me too.” Francis scowled at the blurred memory. “I forget his name. He wanted to know who held the stone, but I only told him a riddle. He was here yesterday, I think. Or maybe it was last week.”

  “Argante,” the unknown voice whispered.

  “Aye.” Francis nodded, his neck prickling. “That's him. The Devil's spawn. He stole my best horse. Do you know him?” His eyes closed at Keir's gentle touch. “What are you doing, my lord?”

  “You've been too long away from our influence, Francis. I'm going to remedy that. Don't be afraid.”

  Francis thought the sun had burst through the walls. Instead of the grey mist, he found himself blinded by intense light. At the same time, fingers of ice lanced through his skull, freezing his skin, numbing his mind. He gasped, his fist tightening on his prayer beads.

  “God help me. Keir, please...”

  “Don't fight it, old friend.”

  Stimulated by Keir's touch, the disparity of time began to right itself in Francis's jumbled mind. The light picked up his scattered memories and gathered them together, shuffling them like a pack of cards. Days, weeks, months and years all took their proper place, each one clear and fresh, unfettered by age, grief or denial.

  God's blood. So much anger and pain. So many regrets.

  Behind closed lids, Francis watched his life unfurl like a long-lost scroll, line by line, describing places and events that had remained hidden for years. Secrets, revelations, and miracles.

  Aye, miracles.

  He opened his eyes. The mist lingered, his physical world still clouded, but he was no longer without direction. Everything had circled around, just as he'd predicted. The truth could no longer be ignored or denied. After so many lost and wasted years, it was time for Francis Mathanach to step forward into the past.

  “Sweet Christ. 'Tis not I who am blind.” His voice shook with emotion. “'Tis my son.”

  He dropped his head into his hands and wept.

  “'Tell us, Guardian.” Keir's whisper brushed against his ear. “Tell us everything.”

  * * *

  Seventeen years had passed since a cold winter's night in the depths of February, when Creake Abbey's great oak doors rattled beneath the frantic pounding of Francis's fist. A man's face appeared in the peephole, his eyes suspicious and not without fear. Francis asked him for help.

  The doors were pulled open by two black-robed monks, torches clenched in their hands, the flames spitting and hissing at the frosty air. With solemn eyes, they scrutinized Francis and the silent young woman shivering at his side.

  Her name was Lady Alicia Mathanach. She was Francis's daughter-in-law.

  Alexander's wife.

  Francis didn't know where else to take her. He didn't know what else to do.

  Alicia's face, deathly pale against the night, had the look of a trapped animal. Hair the colour of dark honey swung freely about her shoulders and tumbled to her hips in a magnificent cloak. Her emerald eyes shimmered with tears that reflected the torchlight.

  The obvious swell of her belly declared her delicate condition.

  As planned, Francis told the monks a concocted tale that Alicia was his daughter, her unborn child conceived by a knight who had since left to serve in the Holy Land. Her transgression, if discovered, he explained, would only bring shame to bear on the family. He needed to place her in the abbey, out of sight, until the child was delivered and adopted out, or kept by the church. After the birth, the girl would be allowed to return home.

  “Wait here,” one of the monks commanded. He turned and entered a nearby building, no doubt to fetch the abbot. Francis had heard the man was of good heart, benevolent and merciful. He hoped so, for his own mercy and benevolence was stretched to the limit.

  In truth, Francis didn't know for sure whose child kicked beneath Alicia's robe. Her telling of its conception defied belief. As far as Francis knew, only God could perform such a miracle as she had described.

  Alicia had sent him a message a few days earlier. Urgent, it said. Please come at once. Alarmed by the tone of her missive he wasted no time, and met her that afternoon in her chambers. The sight of her shocked Francis, for beneath the soft folds of her gown, he saw the telling outline of her condition. She was not alone. Alex's childhood friend, Edward Fitzhugh, stood white-faced and silent at her side as Alicia admitted she was with child.

  Stunned with anger, Francis pulled his sword, assuming Edward to be the father. Alicia placed herself between them, swearing before God that Edward was not responsible. She told him six full months had passed since her last flow, but she never suspected she carried a child. Why would she? She had never betrayed Alexander. In fact, she claimed the child was his.

  By all the saints, Francis thought her possessed by some evil madness. How in God's good name had she conceived a child with her husband when he was three thousand miles away, and had been for nigh on a year?

  “When he came to me I thought it to be but a dream,” she sobbed. “But a babe kicks beneath my ribs. A dream cannot do that.”

  Her story stunned him. It was beyond belief. Utterly preposterous. He accused her of lying, of betraying Alexander. He hurled insults at her, calling her a heretic and a whore as she sobbed into her hands. But Alicia's tale was so incredible, her fear so real, that Francis found himself pitying her, even entertaining the remote possibility she spoke the truth, absurd as it was. He knew Alicia, knew how much she loved his son. He didn't want to believe her capable of such wicked deceit.

  His growing hesitation to discount Alicia's story also came from the fact she'd sought him out as soon as she realized the impossible truth of her condition. She was terrified and in a state of shock.

  Why, Francis asked himself, would a deceitful adulteress be so quick to seek out her father-in-law, to admit she carried a child, especially with her lover at her side?

  While he stood, still numb with doubt, she pleaded with him to help her, and something in her eyes and her voice touched the very depths of his soul.

  Finally, with not a little trepidation, he relented and told her he would take care of things. Indeed, they would leave that very night.

  He knew no one else would believe
the tale. Alicia's claims would be deemed outrageous, the sorry babblings of a loose woman whose guilt had driven her mad. She would stand accused of breaking the seventh commandment while her poor husband fought to protect pilgrims travelling to and from the Holy Land. Francis forbade her to speak of her story to anyone else, for her own safety and that of her child.

  Edward Fitzhugh was ordered to disappear, never to show his face in Alexander's home again. At the time, Francis had no idea that his instructions would be disobeyed with such tragic consequences.

  For the remainder of her term, Alicia stayed at the abbey hospital, sequestered in a private cell. Francis knew she hated it. He also knew she feared Alex's return. Would her beloved husband believe her story? Francis wondered the same thing and secretly shared her fear.

  The worry took its toll on Alicia. Although her belly swelled with child, her limbs grew thin, her face gaunt. Her beautiful eyes lost their lustre, shadowed by uncertainty for her child's future and her own. Francis feared for her health and visited her daily, soothing her, insisting Alex would understand and believe her. In convincing her, he almost managed to convince himself.

  A few months after entering the abbey, on a bright spring morning when the world outside was renewing itself, Alicia gave birth to a daughter. As she held the newborn child in her arms, she swore again before God that the babe belonged to her and Alexander.

  She named her Emma.

  Francis could hardly bear the sound of Alicia's heartbroken sobs as they took Emma from her. He reassured her, insisting it was all pretence, a temporary separation. He made a generous donation to the abbey, and told them to care for the child until he could find her a suitable home. Until, he told himself, Alex returned and Alicia revealed the truth about the child.

  But she never got the chance.

  Alex refused to speak of what happened the night he arrived home unexpectedly. Francis only knew that two people had died, and his son's life was all but destroyed.