The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  The king had ordered Edmund to keep silent because of the political situation. Then King Richard had died at Bosworth Field, and the Tudors who followed him had blamed him for the boys’ deaths and anything else they could lay at his feet.

  Plagued by guilt, Edmund had sworn that neither he nor his heirs would rest in life or death until they cleared the king’s name.

  In a dry voice, Cabot said, “Odd, how this brings de Vere to mind. Or Lord Wyndon, as he is now. He could create such a manifestation as easily as either of us could, and he would know how to intrigue you with its message.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve exhausted every lead. I’ve no more idea how to clear King Richard’s name than I did when I began. I can’t ignore this summons.”

  Not with the Mainwaring heirs doomed to a shadowy realm between life and death, unable to pass through the portal to final judgment until someone proved the truth about the royal boys’ deaths. The curse also caused high rates of obsession, madness, and suicide among the doomed Mainwarings.

  Cabot frowned, then shook his head. “I don’t like it, Richard. The only thing Wyndon would prefer to dancing at your deathbed is driving you to it, regardless of the rules of engagement. Remember that.”

  “I’m not likely to forget.” Those rules forbade the Gifted from using magic to mislead or harm one another. The penalties ranged from a rebuke to death, but it would be just like Wyndon to assume no one would catch on to what he’d done.

  Shooting Cabot a wry glance, Richard said, “You know I can’t ignore any chance, however slim, to discharge my blood debt.”

  Only doing so would allow him, finally, to marry, perhaps even to beget a responsible heir. He was two and thirty years old, overdue by anyone’s standards.

  “I can reach Dover in a couple of days,” he said. “If Wyndon created the beast as a trap, he has violated the Code and given me cause to challenge him that even the Conclave cannot deny. If it’s not Wyndon, perhaps I’ll find an explanation for that unearthly wind.”

  A frown still creased Cabot’s face. “If I didn’t have to report to the Admiralty in London, I’d come along. Since I can’t, you watch your back.”

  “Count on that.” Richard rubbed his chin with one gloved hand. The Earl of Hawkstowe would draw too much attention, so which of his many aliases should he use?

  Aloud, he mused, “A merchant could stay at an inn without undue notice, so perhaps ‘Ralph Wyatt’ will pay this girl a call.” He’d used that identity often during the struggle to end Oliver Cromwell’s protectorate and restore the monarchy.

  Cabot nodded. “Farewell, then, ‘Master Wyatt.’”

  “I may not return in time for the White Rose dinner on the second.” He welcomed an honorable excuse for missing that annual gathering in Richard III’s honor. “Explain my delay to my grandmother, will you?”

  “Of course. Don’t tarry overlong, or I’ll come after you.” Despite Cabot’s light tone, worry lurked in his eyes. “Godspeed.”

  “To you also.” Richard turned Zeus. He’d have to backtrack to reach the Dover road.

  Riddle or no, this adventure at least promised a further reprieve from the grinding, shallow gaiety of attendance at court. As for what else it might offer, it was best not to hope too much. He’d watch his back, certainly, and all the possible angles.

  Two days later, in the late afternoon, Richard reached the outskirts of Dover. Big, fluffy clouds hovered over the English Channel to the south, and a faint hint of brine rode the breeze.

  The Golden Swan inn stood alone opposite a farm lane. The passage of years had given the rambling, two-story structure’s half-timbered walls a slight outward tilt, but barren rose bushes clung tenaciously to the weathered stucco. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the whitewashed walls.

  Such an unprepossessing place looked unlikely to harbor great secrets. Of course, that might make it perfect for such.

  He rode through a boxy passageway and into a big, square yard. Men and women in homespun lingered in the yard, chatting. Some also stood on the galleries that fronted the upper story on all four sides of the yard.

  A similar passage across the way revealed a rear yard that held a well and a rough, wooden building that might be a stable.

  In a roped-off area at one corner of the main yard, brightly costumed men loaded props into a wagon. They must be the acting troupe he’d heard of on the road. From the look of them, they’d just finished a performance. Good. This crowd they’d drawn would let him locate and observe the mysterious serving maid without attracting notice.

  A deep breath, a shake of his head, and the Ralph Wyatt identity settled into his mind. Wyatt would seem less imposing to this girl than an earl. Of course, someone with the power to send such a summons might not prove easily intimidated, but best to take no chances.

  The odors of horses and dung pervaded the air. Opposite the yard entrance, a door on the ground floor stood partly open. Voices coming from it signaled the public room’s location.

  The yard could have accommodated half a dozen coaches and teams easily, but it held only the players’ cart and a large wagon with no horses hitched to it. Its driver must mean to stay the night. Big, wooden casks filled the wagon and emitted the pungent aroma of tobacco, probably imported from the Virginia colony.

  A man in rough wool and homespun loped through the passage across the yard and waved to Richard. “I’ll take ’im, good sir.”

  Dismounting, Richard nodded. “I’ll stay the night.”

  The ostler touched his cap. Richard slipped him a penny to ensure good food for Zeus, who snorted as though he would prefer to spend the night in a better hostelry. Richard patted his neck before turning toward the public room.

  The two of them had stayed in worse places. The heavy, thatched roof and leaded glass windows spoke of regular maintenance. Perhaps someone occasionally aired the sheets.

  Linens, however, mattered little next to the larger problem of the reason for this summons. While suspecting Wyndon came naturally, there were other unscrupulous wizards. Some allied themselves to the forces of darkness. Richard would take this wench’s measure before choosing his course.

  He made his way into the common room, ducking beneath the low entry. Light from the front windows didn’t penetrate far into the long, gloomy chamber. Lanterns mounted on the walls provided little illumination, but he could see better than most men. Curse or no curse, being Gifted had its advantages.

  A table in the rear stood vacant. He edged through the crowd to claim it. The scents of pipe smoke, hot meat and bread, and unwashed bodies hung in the air. Conversation and occasional raucous laughter created an amiable din.

  He seated himself and glanced over the crowd. A sturdy, brown-haired maid rushed out of a passage opposite the door. Carrying a tray laden with wooden plates and leather tankards, she moved with brisk efficiency that belied her dour expression. Behind her came a petite, red-haired girl. Neither seemed remarkable.

  He let his gaze drift over the room. In the far corner stood a tall, lanky girl, dark-haired and pox-scarred. Judging by her apron and that of the thin, tired-looking man facing her, she was a maid and he, the innkeeper. Behind them, a sturdy, smiling blonde hoisted a tray of empty plates.

  His attention swung back to the pox-scarred girl. She seemed unremarkable, and yet ...

  He summoned power, narrowing his eyes, and her face became translucent, like a reflection in a window pane. Under the concealing glamour lay smooth skin, thick, glossy dark brown hair, and a fine-boned, elegant face. Even more appealing were the intelligence in her light blue eyes and the self-possession in her expression.

  The Gifted one did, indeed, stand out.

  “You’ve done well of late,” Master Warren muttered. “See that it continues.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Miranda had had no more dreams or visions in the four days since dispatching her dragon. Mayhap she’d truly bought herself peace.

  “Now see to that gentleman i
n the far corner.”

  “Aye, sir.” Looking for the newcomer, she turned.

  An instant later, she met the level, confident gaze of the man she sought. His shoulder-length, black hair framed the strong planes of his face and jaw. Across her vision flashed an image of him facing the red dragon.

  The helm had hidden most of his strong, chiseled features, a face that would make any woman’s heart beat faster. He wore the stylish coat and long vest of a prosperous gentleman, with lace at his throat and the coat’s broad cuffs.

  “Miranda. Don’t go daydreaming again.” Warren’s voice cut into her daze. “See to the man.”

  “Aye, sir.” The image faded, but the man’s alert yet relaxed posture spoke of power that would awake in an instant. The air of danger he’d worn in the vision still swirled about him. He made her painfully aware of her homely appearance, faded, worn garments and work-roughened hands.

  She shrugged off the awareness. A prosperous man such as he would take no honorable personal interest in a serving maid, regardless of either of their appearances.

  Swallowing hard, she sidled through the crowd. She knew him, but surely he didn’t know her. He couldn’t.

  He smiled, a slight, knowing twitch of his lips. Excitement mixed with sudden dread of what he might bring, sending a chill rippling through her. Some part of her hadn’t believed anyone would answer the summons. Now that he had, the danger of the whole situation pressed in on her again.

  She reached his table. He lifted an eyebrow at her, and his stern eyes made the gesture both question and command.

  “What will you have, sir?” Her voice sounded thin but steady. She swallowed and tried again. “We’ve mutton stew today.”

  “The stew will do.” In a low voice that wouldn’t carry in the noisy public room, he added, “Along with an explanation of your summons.” The note of authority in his deep voice boded ill for delay even as it sent a thrill of recognition through her.

  But there was more than his voice to that sensation. He seemed familiar in an eerie, unsettling way that owed naught to her visions.

  “I cannot stop to talk now. I’ll have time to myself after supper service, in an hour or so.”

  His gaze stayed level. Confident. “Of course. Later, then.”

  Relieved to escape, she hurried toward the kitchen. He knew her. How, she couldn’t fathom, but he did. Her chest felt tight, and her hands shook.

  She drew a steadying breath. Once she told this man of the visions, they would be his problem. The sooner she could manage that, the better.

  Chapter 3

  Supper service was drawing to a close. As it did, so did Miranda’s ability to avoid thinking of what lay ahead. Taking the next step, explaining to the man, carried risks, too.

  At least he’d gone to his room, or somewhere, and wasn’t hanging about or watching her. She was nervous enough without that.

  She carried her last tray of dishes into the kitchen. Even hotter than the common room and busy with the washing up, the room seemed too close. She needed air. Stumbling backward, she mumbled something about the privy and fled through the rear door.

  Flora, the cook, called, “Bring some water when y’come back in.” Miranda flapped a hand at her without pausing.

  The well stood in the rear yard, about halfway between the kitchen and the stable. Turning the windlass to pull up the bucket forced her hands to stop shaking.

  The man seemed so self-assured, even arrogant, but mayhap she worried too much. This mystery knight could be as brave and noble and capable as the legendary Sir Lancelot. Surely he would know what to do once she told him of the visions. Why else would she have been directed to summon him? Soon she would be free of the whole business.

  The bucket rose into view. She held the windlass to keep it steady and reached for the bucket.

  “Allow me,” said a deep, firm, too-familiar voice.

  Startled, she spun to face the stranger.

  He eyed her closely as he bowed. “Your dragon called me the herald of day. I’m at your service, mistress.”

  “Uh, I can manage the water, but I thank you, sir.” The windlass slipped. She tightened her grip on it.

  “Nevertheless.” He caught the rope and swung the bucket neatly onto the side of the well.

  Guests didn’t extend such courtesies to servants. Was he naturally kind or merely seeking to put her at ease?

  Miranda stepped back. “I still have duties, and this is not a good place to talk at the moment. People walk through here until they settle in for the night. Later would be better.”

  “For now, at least, we’re alone,” he noted. “Pray explain why you summoned me.”

  Miranda squared her shoulders. “Who are you, sir?”

  “Ralph Wyatt. I’m a merchant. Despite urgent business in London, I’ve ridden hard to answer your summons. And you are?”

  “Miranda Willoughby.” Annoying as it was for him to accost her while she still had duties, nothing about him raised the prickly chills over her skin that warned of danger. Yet there was that strange sense of recognition again. Without the table between them, he seemed even more imposing, and she couldn’t help noticing his broad shoulders and tall, straight frame.

  Miranda hesitated.

  “Let’s not waste time.” He raised an eyebrow. “You ply your glamours well, but they won’t serve against me. I know full well what you are.”

  Knew and accepted.

  The realization gave her an unexpected rush of pleasure. Still, revealing herself after so many years in hiding didn’t come easily. If he knew about the summons, though, she must be meant to trust him despite her fears.

  She took a deep, slow breath. “I’ve had strange visions, a disturbing dream. About a boar and a dragon. There was a stag, too, and a knight.” His face showed only intent interest, and she added, “The knight could be your twin. The visions came in fragments, but they directed me to summon the boar’s knight.”

  Something flashed in the depths of his eyes, but she couldn’t interpret it. Still, she felt certain the reference to the knight meant something to him.

  “How many times have you had these visions,” he asked, “and were they always the same?”

  Shaking her head, Miranda said, “Never exactly the same, and I had them several times a day until I sent the dragon.”

  His brows knitted in a thoughtful frown, but he said nothing.

  “My mother always said one should heed a dream of power,” she continued. If only heeding this one didn’t turn out to be a mistake. “Do you know what it means?”

  “It could mean a number of things,” he answered slowly.

  “Miranda!” Flora stood in the doorway, her stout frame spattered with flour and her habitual frown deeper than usual. “I need that water, girl. Quick, or you’ll rue it.” She stomped back inside.

  Miranda untied the bucket from its rope. As she stepped back from the well, a sudden, chilling awareness rippled across her neck. She wheeled. “What was that?”

  “What do you mean?” Frowning, Wyatt stepped up beside her.

  “That chill, there, like someone watching. What—”

  His raised hand signaled her to wait as he took a sudden step forward. He pivoted, staring hard at the spot he’d crossed. “There’s something here, a coldness in the air.”

  “Perhaps it’s just a draft.” She didn’t believe that, though, much as she wanted to. Not after that tingle, like power, that’d run over her skin.

  “It’s no draft,” he stated. “As you well know.” He stepped back over the spot. “It’s gone.”

  He gazed at her, his expression unreadable. What could she say? He was right, but dismissing her reactions to anything unseen had become second nature. A matter of survival.

  “We must talk more,” he said at last. “I’ll escort you to church on the morrow, at St. Mary’s on the castle headland.”

  The Church of England. “My thanks, but I must decline.” Her father had despised the Anglican
Church’s Popish rites, so she usually attended a chapel that, while Anglican, as mandated by the law, held a simpler service.

  “I must insist.” His stern expression brooked no refusal. “I haven’t pledged you my aid, nor will I until after church.”

  How overbearing. “Why church?”

  The ice in his eyes could have frozen the sea in summer. “Because, pretty dragon maid, not only the decent have power. I’ll aid a Gifted woman to my dying breath, but I’ll stir not a step for an agent of darkness.”

  Fury ignited in her heart and shot down her right arm like lightning, but unless he attacked her physically, she dared not slap a paying guest.

  Her hands balled into fists. Through taut lips, she said, “My father was a man of God.”

  He’d been a Dissenter, officially disapproved of by the Church of England, but he’d lived a devout life.

  “Nevertheless, those are my terms. We can be sure of each other after church. If you are what you claim to be, if you’ve cause for that blazing outrage, you should see that this course protects you also.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. His experience in magical matters obviously far outstripped hers. She’d never cared much that others had more wealth than she did, but the disparity between his magical education and hers burned. As did his condescending manner.

  “Very well.” Pig swill would taste better than this galling concession, but she had to see the matter through. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” He bowed and turned away.

  She scowled at his departing back. Unlike the chivalrous knights of legend, this man displayed arrogance that would do justice to a spoiled nobleman. How disappointing. Ah, well, she would attend church to convince him of her integrity and then be done with him.

  Except ...

  He was not only Gifted but trained. He must be. He’d somehow known she was the one who sent the dragon. Had seen through her glamours. If she asked, would he show her one or two simple things?

  The memory of Mistress Smith’s limp body flashed into her mind, and she shivered. No. Far better to tend to her job, hauling in this water and placating Flora.