The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  “Because I remember you, just as I remember Mama. I remember seeing your face, your eyes. I was...” she touched her fingers to his cheek, “...soothed by your presence. Why did you leave me? Why?”

  Christ have mercy, who is this child I have raised? How can she know these things?

  Had she been his, her veins running hot with the blood of the ancients, he might have expected such gifts, nurtured them.

  Had she been his.

  “Cùra, tell me the truth. Please.”

  He took a deep breath and met her gaze. What he had to say could not be delivered gently, at least, not at first.

  “I cannot begin to know how you came by it, but the memory you hold is correct. I told your mother only what she wanted to hear, to give her peace, but I had no real intention of raising you. Why would I? You weren't mine. The truth is, I went to the abbey the first time out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to see Alicia's miracle, the sickly infant born from another man's seed.” He paused, aware of the pain in Emma's eyes. “Aye, you were crying when I got to the crib. A tiny wee thing you were, with a pathetic wail. But you quieted when you saw me, reached up and tried to touch my face. I'll admit I was surprised by your reaction. Christ knows, I wanted to feel something for you, sympathy or guilt, yet I felt only resentment and anger.”

  “So you left me.” Her voice shook.

  “Aye, I left you, determined not to return. I heard your screams even as I got on my horse and rode like the devil. But I couldn't escape. You followed me, Emma.”

  Emma's eyes widened. “Followed you?”

  “And captured me. Haunted me. I couldn't get your bonny wee face out of my mind.” A sigh shuddered from him. “I was wallowing in sorrow and anger, bitterly tired of life. I had the stone, but the cursed thing is no blessing when the heart is heavy. I needed another reason to live, something to pull me to my feet each day and urge me forward. I needed hope. You gave that to me.”

  A tear rolled down Emma's cheek. “'Tis what you did for me at Thurston.”

  Alex nodded and glanced up at the sky. “Life draws circles around us, lass.”

  “But I have no memory of you returning to the abbey, to fetch me.”

  “I returned two days later, certain of my decision, yet doubting it too. 'Tis incredible how frightening a wee scrawny bairn can be. I had no idea how to care for you at first and I was so afraid you might die. But you thrived and grew like a weed.” He tapped the end of her nose with his fingertip. “Since I did not have a wet-nurse for you, I improvised. You sucked on boiled linen cloths soaked in goat's milk and ate poached eggs mashed with butter. I brought you to Cumberland to raise you quietly. I thought we'd be safe here.” He frowned, his eyes scanning the shadows surrounding them. “I was wrong.”

  “You couldn't know Argante would find us.” Emma lifted her head and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I know it was very difficult for you, Cùra, but I thank you for telling me everything.”

  Everything? Not quite. What remained, though, was surely no truth but heresy. To tell it would serve no purpose.

  “Aye, 'twas difficult, but it needed to be said, and out of tragedy came a blessing.” Alex touched his hand to his chest. “You're my child in here, Emma. You'll always be in my heart.”

  He glanced around again and, sensing no threat, urged his horse forward.

  * * *

  Argante held his hand up in front of his face, squinting through his one good eye as the sound of the horse's hooves faded into the distance.

  “You're losing your touch, Mathanach.” He slurped, gulping spittle, frowning at the way his hand blended into the backdrop of the forest. “Emma's on my side now. She did this to me. Be quiet, you stupid bastard. He'll hear you. Ears like a fox. Did you see her? I told you she'd come back.” He shuffled off through the woods, following the same path as Alex. “Bring her to me tonight, Iain. You know where to find me. And take a bath, will you? You smell like a corpse.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Cumberland forest had changed with the passing of summer. Now the trees stood naked upon a carpet of dank, rotting leaves, adorned only with ribbons of sunlight that fell through the exposed branches. Brambles, their thorns bared like teeth, twisted in thick, impenetrable tangles along the edge of the path. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the smell of decay. This stark woodland was no longer a place one would expect to find forest faeries.

  Stephen thought back to the day Emma had stepped into the sunlit dell and saved his life. He smiled to himself, a smile that sank beneath a wave of grief when he thought about what had occurred since. Her life had been dismantled, her innocence plundered, her world torn apart. If she had not been out hunting that day, or if he had died from his wounds, probably none of this –

  “Cease your lamenting, young knight.” Keir's voice interrupted Stephen's reflections. “It serves no purpose, nor will it change what has happened. You're willing and ready to stand by her. That says much about you. There are many who would not have made the same choice.”

  “I can do naught else.” Stephen pressed a fist to his heart. “She's in here.”

  “Aye, I know.” Keir smiled and nodded down the path. “We're almost there. Remember, Stephen. Do not speak of our visit to Creake Abbey until prompted to do so.”

  Before Stephen could respond, a shadow swept across the face of the sun, cutting through the dappled light, fleeting as an arrow. He squinted up through the branches, shading his eyes to see a crow circling above them. The bird cawed and disappeared over the treetops. Stephen smiled to himself. It was good to be back.

  “We made good time.” He looked ahead to the clearing, excitement twisting beneath his ribs at the thought of seeing Emma.

  “Little wonder, lad. You all but set the road alight with your pace.” Keir leaned forward and patted his horse's lathered neck. “'Tis a miracle these poor beasts are still upright.”

  The path widened as it left the trees, opening out to where Alex's house stood in its peaceful glade. No castle, this, with its simple wooden walls and thatched roof. Stephen guessed the entire house would fit a dozen times into Thurston's bailey with room to spare, yet he drew a deep contented breath, overcome by a feeling of being home at last.

  Emma was here and he belonged with her.

  Alex stood in the doorway of the barn watching their approach, sword in hand, wearing only a thin shirt and britches despite the cold. Finn appeared at his side a moment later, also holding a sword and similarly dressed.

  “Weapons drawn in welcome, my lords?” Stephen slid from the saddle, relishing the stretch in his legs as he grasped Alex's hand. “I swear we present no threat, Alex. Or should I say Caleb? Your appearance has changed somewhat since our last meeting.”

  Alex laughed. “I was teaching this old man some of the finer points of swordplay. Ach, but it warms my heart to see you, Stephen. And you, my lord Keir. You had a good journey, I trust?”

  “Old man?” Finn sputtered. “I can still –”

  “The journey was but a blur,” said Keir, ignoring Finn and throwing an amused glance at Stephen. “With a herd of weary horses left in our wake. How many changes, lad? Four in two days?”

  “Aye.” Stephen gestured toward the house. “How's Emma? Did you tell her I was on my way?”

  Alex shook his head. “Nay, she's unaware.”

  “The wee chailín is convinced you'll want naught more to do with her,” said Finn, “and refuses to believe otherwise.”

  Stephen frowned. “She should know I'd never abandon her.”

  “'Tis only because of the child she carries.” Finn expression softened. “That's why she left Thurston in such a hurry.”

  “Aye, I know.” Stephen sighed. “Thank you, Finn, for bringing her safely home.”

  Finn shrugged and sheathed his sword. “'Twas a privilege and honour to be her guardian for a few days. She's a brave wee lass.”

  Alex patted Stephen's shoulder. “I thank God you're here, lad. Go to her. We'll see
to the horses.”

  The familiar smell of the cottage wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Althena looked up from a pot on the hearth, her eyes growing soft as she crossed herself. “Stephen! Praise Mary and all the saints, you're returned.” She wiped her hands on her apron and went to him, stepping into his embrace. “'Tis just the medicine Emma needs.”

  “Althena.” Only then did he remember why Alex had left Thurston. “How are you? I heard what happened.”

  “I'm well healed, thank you.” Her fingers flew to a spot on her head. “Alex saved my life.”

  “May God be praised and may Argante be rotting somewhere.”

  “Amen to that, although I fear he's still at large.”

  “If so, we'll hunt him down.” Stephen gestured toward Emma's bedroom door. “She's sleeping?”

  “Aye, but go to her anyway. I've no doubt you're in her dreams.”

  The door gave a gentle squeak as it opened to the familiar room, bathed in the dusky light of late afternoon. The small figure on the bed didn't move. Stephen tightened his jaw against a surge of emotion. Being careful not to make a noise, he unbuckled his sword, dropped his cloak across a chair, closed the door behind him and approached the bedside.

  Emma slept curled up in a ball, hands clasped together beneath her chin, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

  God's blood, she looks so tiny, so frail.

  The sight of her both intoxicated his soul and saddened his heart. He bent and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  “I've missed you, sweetheart,” he whispered, sitting down at her side, stroking her hair. “So much.”

  A small furrow creased her brow, although her eyes remained closed.

  It took all his willpower to resist lifting her into his arms, to hold her and kiss her. “Emma.”

  Her frown deepened. Stephen took a long slow breath and stroked invisible fingers across her mind, sensing her grief, aware of his name echoing through her dreams as she searched for him.

  He answered her call. “I'm here, my love.”

  Somewhere, in subconscious depths, the connection they shared renewed itself. Emma's body tensed, and her eyes flew open.

  “Stephen?” Surely there had never been a whispered word so full of hope, even though disbelief showed in her face. He cursed himself inwardly for leaving her.

  What anguish has she suffered since I left Thurston?

  Consumed by a warm rush of love, he smiled at her. “Hello, little faerie.”

  “Dear God.” Her fingers traced a line down his throat. “Do I dream?”

  Unable to wait any longer, he lifted her against him. “Nay,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “'Tis no dream. I am returned. By all that is sacred, it feels so good to hold you.”

  “Then...then I haven't lost you?” She clutched at his shirt, her eyes frantic, searching his face. “You still want me?”

  “'Tis I who have been lost without you, little one. And I want you more than anything in this world.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “But I carry Argante's child.”

  “I know.” He lifted her chin and brushed his lips across hers. “And you also carry my heart.”

  He kissed her again, his mouth gentle, loving how she pressed against him, sensing her need. Her lips parted beneath his and Stephen's world fell away. He groaned as his body responded, consumed by desire. His hand ran down the length of her, and he frowned through his kiss. How thin she was, like a fragile bird.

  “Can you feel how much I want you?” he murmured against her mouth, the warmth of her tears on his cheek. “As God is my witness, you are my life. Wait. Let me get comfortable.” He pulled away, settled himself beside her on the bed, and gathered her back into his arms.

  Her fingers wound through his. “I've prayed for this moment.”

  “Ah, sweetheart. When I found out you'd left Thurston, it almost killed me. You must never doubt me again, Emma. Never.”

  “But I was so frightened, Stephen.” She trembled against him. “'Twas Anne who guessed my condition. I had not realised it myself, so consumed was I by all that had happened. I had to pretend the babe was yours, but I knew the truth would come out once you returned. I felt compelled to leave. I couldn't bear the thought of witnessing your rejection of me. Cùra had left, so I turned to Finn for help.”

  The recount of her experience tore at him. “I would never reject you, my love. Thank God for Finn.”

  “I owe him a great debt.”

  “As do I. You knew, then, that Caleb was really Alex?”

  “Aye. I think I knew it all along.”

  Stephen smiled. “Me too. But he swore me to secrecy.”

  “I don't want it, Stephen.”

  “What?”

  “This child. God forgive me, but I do not want it.” She squirmed against him. “Don't tell Cùra, but I asked Althena to give me something to get rid of it. She refused. She said such herbs are poisonous, and can kill the mother as well.”

  “Then you mustn't even think of it.” He looked down at her belly, which showed no sign of her condition. “I swear we'll get through this, Emma. Besides, 'tis not the child's fault.”

  “But what if it's evil, like him?”

  “And what if it's sweet and kind, like its mother?”

  Yet he wondered at her words, wondered how this child might be. Could I learn to love it? Perhaps not as my own, but in some measure? Why not? Did Alex not love Emma? Aye, but perhaps Alex was her true father.

  “Did you tell your family the truth?”

  He heard the sadness in her voice and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “Aye, they know everything.”

  “Then I expect Anne feels justified in her assessment of me. What did Christophe say? And Bee?”

  “Well, now.” Stephen plumped up the pillow behind his head and settled back, smiling inwardly. “Let me think. I believe his actual words were, 'Tell Emma she'll always be welcome at Thurston and let us know how she fares'. And Bee? I think she said, 'Please give her my love'.”

  “You jest.”

  “I do not.”

  “Then they cannot know the truth of it, surely, or they would not be so –”

  “Understanding?” Stephen finished. He reached into his shirt and handed Emma a wrinkled rolled-up parchment. “'Tis a tad weathered after the journey, but it might explain things a little better.”

  She sat up, a puzzled expression crossing her face as she took it from him. “What's this?”

  “A letter from Anne.”

  “Oh, nay.” She handed it back. “I've no desire to read a chronicle of Anne's insults.”

  “Do you really think I'd even consider giving you such a document? Read it. I swear you have nothing to fear.”

  Above them, the tiny window in the attic framed the fiery brilliance of a setting sun. As shadows darkened with the onset of night, Stephen rose to light a candle for Emma to read by.

  A while later, the parchment lay open on the bed, the ink marred in places where Emma's tears had fallen. She'd been shocked to read of Anne's nightmare, so similar to her own. She wept at Anne's plea for forgiveness, moved to know that she now held a special place in the prayers of a woman who had previously shown her nothing but contempt.

  The transformation, Stephen noticed, began soon after Emma finished reading the letter. The signs were subtle at first; increased confidence in her voice, animated hand gestures as she spoke, the lift of her chin, the straightness in her spine. Best of all though, was the return of a familiar light dancing in her eyes, which gladdened his heart.

  With sounds of chatter coming from the kitchen, Emma lowered her voice and told Stephen about the previous night on the shore with Alex, her eyes moist as she repeated the tragic tale of Alicia and Edward's fate.

  “I knew he hadn't murdered her,” Stephen said, kissing away Emma's tears. “'Tis not in him to do such a thing.”

  “I fear he didn't tell me everything, though.” She sighed. “There's more
to the story, I know it.”

  Aye, much more. Indeed, when she told him about Alex's mysterious visit to Thurston's roof, a chill ran through him. Secretly, he doubted Emma's belief that the visit had been a dream. He suspected it was somehow connected to Francis's story.

  At that point, he'd been tempted to speak of the meeting at Creake Abbey, but instead told of his growing connection to the stone, his new-found ability to read minds and the likelihood that he was to be a future Guardian.

  Emma sat cross-legged at his side, wide-eyed, listening to his tale. She tilted her head and grinned at him. “A mind-reader? A Guardian? Who is this gifted man I'm to marry?”

  He laughed. “You may well ask. Ah! That reminds me, speaking of gifts.” He dug into his pocket, pulling out a little black pouch. “When I was in London committing treason, I purchased this. It reminded me of you, my little archer.”

  Emma gasped at the sight of the chain, so fine and delicate, adorned with a tiny arrowhead.

  “'Tis made from the finest Welsh gold,” he said, disturbed by the sudden look of dismay on her face. “Do you not like it?”

  “I love it, and I shall treasure it, but it reminds me that I have a confession to make.” She turned large soft eyes to his and reached for his hand. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  Frowning, he sat up. “Forgive you for what, sweetheart?”

  “I'm afraid I lost the brooch you gave me. The one that belonged to your mother. It disappeared the night I left Thurston. I searched everywhere, Stephen. It meant so much to me, and I know you loved it too. I'm so sorry.”

  Stephen smiled. “Is that your confession? If I'd only known, I'd have bought you another brooch as well.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. “The catch was always loose, my love. I should have had it repaired. Put it out of your mind. 'Tis no tragedy. Here, allow me. The catch on this is well made. There. Perfect.”

  Emma fingered the necklace and smiled up at him. “I truly love it. Thank you. Perhaps we can go hunting tomorrow?”

  “Of course. If you feel up to it.”

  A burst of laughter came from the kitchen, and Stephen grinned. “Shall we join them?”