The girl grabbed the bucket from the well and stepped back, through his invisible form. “What was that?” she demanded.
“What do you mean?” Hawkstowe narrowed his eyes.
“That chill, there, like someone watching. What—”
Hawkstowe’s raised hand signaled her to wait as he took a sudden step forward and through Henry. He wouldn’t know what he’d sensed, though. The fool knew the afterworld waited for him, but neither he nor any other Gifted knew the living could travel it.
Henry smirked. Even if Hawkstowe learned what Henry was doing, he would have no idea how to stop it. Oh, it really was a shame that gloating openly would draw the wrong sort of attention. Playing with the young idiot would have to do.
But first, Henry would spy on whatever conversation they had after church and find out whether these visions of hers had the potential for trouble. While no one living had the skill to undo what he’d done, especially since he’d stolen the scroll that contained information on summoning and trapping wraiths, he’d rather not deal with the meddlesome councilors who ruled the Gifted Conclave. Not until he was ready.
So … Dover after church. Focusing, he set off through the mist.
Bending over the basin, Miranda splashed water on her face. As she wiped it dry, Lord Hawkstowe called, “Mistress? Supper’s here.”
“Coming,” she called. He probably expected her to set out the meal. She should hurry.
Miranda hastily tied her worn shoes and hurried into the parlor between their bedchambers. She’d expected to be housed with the inn’s servants, not to have a guest chamber.
Lord Hawkstowe stood before a table that had been set up near the hearth. He directed a keen gaze at her. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you, milord. The sleep helped.”
“Good.” He turned to pull out one of the two chairs by the table, and she saw that the meal had already been set out. Why didn’t he sit in the chair he’d pulled back? What was he waiting for?
With a slight smile that made her pulse kick, he asked, “Would you rather sit on the other side?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. He’d pulled out the chair for her. No one had ever done that. Foolishly flattered even though she knew he was merely being courteous, she shook her head and hurried to sit.
At least her “thank you” came out clearly.
He took the folded linen napkin beside her spoon, shook it out, and laid it neatly across her lap. Taking his seat, he gestured to the food. “You must be hungry. Help yourself.”
Unsettled by the jouncing coach he’d hired, she hadn’t eaten all day. She was about to insist he go first, but his wry smile stopped her.
“You slept well?” he asked as she laid a slice of beef on her pewter plate.
When she nodded, he continued, “Earlier, I had a feeling similar to the one in the inn yard, that I was being watched.” Reaching across, he poured ale from a pewter pitcher into a leather tankard.
“Any more cold patches?” She tore a chunk of bread from the round loaf on the table as delicately as she could.
“No.” Helping himself to meat, he said, “Yet it was unsettling.”
She frowned at her food, and he said, “I can mix an herb posset to help settle your stomach for tomorrow’s journey, though mine won’t be as good as some others could make. You should eat your fill while you can.”
It was sound advice, so she took it. Throughout the meal, he refilled her ale and made sure she had enough food. Nothing in his demeanor implied anything but courtesy. Indeed, he performed the small tasks almost absently. Yet they unsettled her.
Without her familiar glamours, which he’d convinced her to shed in the coach as part of the new life she meant to build, she already felt exposed. Having him serve her only added to her sense of being out of place.
He offered her more bread, and she shook her head. “Thank you, no.” Carefully, she said, “You’re kind to look out for me so, Lord Hawkstowe, but I can manage.”
To her relief, he didn’t take that amiss. Instead, he smiled, in such a friendly way that relief vanished in irrational warmth and a senseless impulse to touch.
Miranda took a firm grip on her napkin.
“You’re my guest,” he said simply. “I see to my guests’ needs.”
“That’s good of you, but I’m not used to it. I can do for myself.”
“You’d best become accustomed,” he warned. “I’ve a house full of servants who’ll be offended if you don’t let them do their jobs.”
That didn’t make any sense. She frowned at him. “I thought I was to work for you, too. You said you would give me money.”
“As a boon from one Gifted to another, and in appreciation for your time and help. You’ll need to spend more time with my grandmother and me than any servant would, so you’ll be our guest. As I said.”
That still seemed strange. So did having him look directly at her when he spoke. She was accustomed to people looking at her when they spoke, of course. What she was not accustomed to, after so many years of relying on her disguising glamours, was having anyone actually see her. Yet Lord Hawkstowe did, glamours or no.
“Did you have enough to eat?” he asked. When she nodded, he continued, “You said you knew summoning and glamours. What of scrying?”
Miranda frowned again. “What’s that?”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Let’s have these dishes cleared, and I’ll show you.”
Henry walked out of the shadowland and into his own parlor. He gripped the stone in his pocket, his anchor to the real world, and reached for the fire’s warmth. The chill faded, the slight veil obscuring the room vanished, and he was home.
Not before time, either. Any trip through the shadowland was tiring, in part because of the need to maintain shielding. One lapse, and the wraiths would tear him apart. Today, he’d spent long enough in their realm to be nearly drained.
“Bloody bitch,” he muttered.
“Father?”
Henry wheeled. His son, William, Viscount Canby, stood in the doorway. Sturdy and fair, with the narrow, straight de Vere nose, he was clearly Henry’s son. His long, curled wig and elegant attire marked him as a man of rank. His appearance did his family credit.
“Who’s the bloody bitch?” William asked.
“Hawkstowe has taken up with a serving wench from Dover.” Henry quickly told William what he’d seen, then continued, “The visions she described hint that she possesses the seer gift. If so, she might be of very great consequence indeed. That could be why Hawkstowe travels with her.”
“What are you going to do?” Frowning, William seated himself by the hearth.
Henry shrugged. “I must determine whether she’s his mistress or merely his tool. Either way, perhaps she can be persuaded to be useful.”
“If you would teach me to travel as you do, I could help you.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.” Especially in light of William’s ambitions. He wouldn’t hesitate to push Henry aside and claim the power in England for himself if he could. Only a fool would give him the means to do so. “Ring for some food, William.”
Complying, his son shot him a sullen look. “If it’s that dangerous, you should have someone with you.”
Henry poured himself a brandy and sat by the fire. “I prefer to protect you.” And himself.
“Stealing that old monastic chronicle will pay off doubly now,” William said. “I could help you guard it.”
Before Henry could answer, someone tapped on the door.
“Enter,” he called. This had best be the food. And it was. His mouth watered at the succulent beef aroma.
When the footman left, Henry jabbed a fork into a slice of beef. “The book is well hidden.”
He couldn’t risk anyone finding the chronicle from Croyland Abbey and its description of time travel, least of all his ambitious son. That the monastic record also contained material supporting Richard III’s claim to the throne of England in 1483 was
an added benefit. The loss of that material would surely distract Hawkstowe if he became suspicious.
That was why Henry’d stolen it at a point in time when the theft would ensure that Sir George Buck didn’t find it and include it in his defense of Richard III. Because that chronicle was the only record of the parliamentary act that removed King Richard’s motive for murdering his nephews, it was vital to anyone defending the king’s reputation.
Anyone such as Hawkstowe, for example.
William smirked at him. “You want Hawkstowe to realize it’s missing.”
“Of course. I’m counting on it. Because of his family curse, he’ll be too worried about Richard III’s reputation to bother about anything else changing until it’s too late.”
Henry smiled. “I’ll enjoy watching him scramble about, hunting for it, while the changes in time roll forward and our family rules England.”
William raised his glass to his father as Henry added, “When we shape our new England, Hawkstowe’s will be one of the first heads rotting on the end of a pike.”
Though it wouldn’t actually be the de Vere family ruling England, just Henry as Lord Protector. Best not to let his power-hungry son know that, however, until it was done.
“Still,” Henry added, clinking his glass against William’s, “it’s best to keep an eye on Hawkstowe. You’re around the same age as his irresponsible and perpetually debt-ridden heir. I want you to befriend George Mainwaring. See what you can learn.”
With a nod and a smirk, William said, “We’ll soon know all about this wench and her connection to Hawkstowe.”
“Try again.” Richard kept his voice steady despite his impatience. “Reach out to the fire with your magic until you can feel the way the flames move.”
Biting her lip, Mistress Willoughby nodded and stared at the hearth in their parlor at the inn.
Nothing appeared in the flames. His brows knitted. How could she create something as sophisticated as her dragon and yet know nothing about a simple skill like scrying? Yet he could feel her magic. She was trying.
Or else she was a brilliant actress.
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, but there’s naught.”
“Like all else, this takes practice.” He passed her a plate of bread and cheese he’d kept from supper. “You’ve expended a great deal of energy, so you should eat something.”
With a weary nod, she chose a wedge of creamy, yellow cheese. “May I ask you something?”
“I’m your teacher. I’m here to answer questions.”
She hesitated before looking up at him. “This may sound foolish, but you seem ... almost familiar. In a way that has naught to do with my visions. When I’m close to you, it’s almost a feeling of, well, recognition. Have we met before?”
“No. What you’re describing is what one Gifted person feels in the presence of another. If you have that feeling in a stranger’s presence, then that person is Gifted.”
The light of understanding dawned in her eyes, and he fought the urge to cup her smooth cheek and assure her that all would be well. But he didn’t yet know he could trust her.
Her expression thoughtful, she stared into the fire. “You’ll see anything I raise. I saw what you raised to show me earlier. If there were anyone else here, would they see it?”
“Only if they were Gifted,” he said. “This chamber could be filled with unGifted and they would see nothing.”
She nodded, her gaze still on the flames.
Perhaps now, while her guard was down, was the best time to probe. Watching her face, Richard asked, “Had you ever heard my true name before I told you who I am in Dover?”
“No.” She answered simply, her gaze direct and slightly puzzled. “How would I have?”
“Someone might have mentioned it to you.” Watching her closely, he asked, “The Earl of Wyndon, perhaps.”
“I don’t move amongst titled folk, milord,” she said quietly. He wanted to believe her, but Wyndon could’ve hidden his true identity. Better to retain a bit of suspicion than to trust too readily.
He noted, “You’re an odd mix of skills, mistress, able to create something as complex as that dragon and yet not able to perform so simple a task as scrying.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that someone else created the dragon?”
“I’m asking.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes, spurring a jab of guilt he ruthlessly quashed, before her face went stony. She stood and moved to the kindling box at the hearth’s corner.
Kneeling by it, she raised an eyebrow. “With your lordship’s permission?”
He nearly winced at the hurt radiating from her, but he had to know. His dealings with her would be much simpler if he didn’t have to be on guard against her.
And if he weren’t so drawn to her, but that was a separate problem.
She drew out a piece of kindling about as long as his forearm and as big around as his index finger. “I can make this more elaborate if you’ll wait while I fetch a needle to prick my finger.”
“We need not go to that length. A simple demonstration will suffice.”
She broke the stick into pieces and laid them on the hearth with one in the middle and four slightly shorter ones at right angles to it, two on each side. At one end, she placed a piece no longer than her thumb. A single hair plucked from her head and laid along the central stick gave it a bit of color.
She took another long piece of kindling in one hand and held her other one, palm down, over her little figure. Magic crackled in the air around her fingers.
“Sticks for bones hard as stones,” she intoned, reaching into the fireplace to light the tip of the kindling she held. “Hair for a coat against the cold.” She touched the lit stick to its mates on the hearth, and the fire danced along the sticks.
Tossing the extra piece into the hearth, she added, “Fire alone to give vision life. Go, my kitten. Find the lord and prove my word.”
Magic swirled with fire in a tiny whirlwind that obscured her creation. When the whirlwind died, a small kitten with a coat the same dark brown as Miranda Willoughby’s hair stood on the hearth. It shook itself, glanced around the room, and pranced toward Richard.
So you see, a tiny voice in his head said.
He looked beyond the little construct to its maker. “My apologies.”
“Accepted, of course.”
A wave of her hand, and the kitten became sticks again. Gathering them up, she said, “But I haven’t proved anything else to you. I can’t prove that my skill isn’t greater than I admit, and I can’t prove no one put me up to summoning you. I can only give you my word that I’ve dealt with you in good faith.”
He studied her. Her shoulders slumped just enough to be noticeable. In the firelight, she looked tired and dejected. Hurt lurked in the backs of her eyes, shadowing the pale blue, and he hated knowing he’d put it there. Especially since all his instincts said she was telling the truth.
Of course, he wanted very badly to believe her, and that wanting could influence his perceptions.
But he’d always trusted his instincts. For now, he would accept her word and see where that led them.
Chapter 6
An unusually large crowd filled Southwark’s Borough High Street, blocking the way to London Bridge. Richard frowned at the throng. He’d never seen its like.
Perched in front of him on Zeus, Mistress Willoughby said, “I seldom traveled the bridge, but I don’t remember hearing of crowds like that. They seem to be milling about, not going in.”
“That’s exactly what they’re doing,” he replied, surveyeing the mass of people.
Rather than take the hired coach home through the press of London traffic and send it back, he’d turned it in at the Tabard, one of the many inns lining the street. Mistress Willoughby had seemed glad to leave the carriage despite some nervousness when he first boosted her into the saddle.
She was a tall woman, and her soft hair brushed his cheek, enticing him, making
him even more conscious of her warmth pressed against his chest and her body in his arms. She tempted him to flirt, and that wouldn’t help either of them.
The sooner they reached his house, the better.
As they neared the bridge’s gateway, the crowd grew denser. Carts, wagons, travelers on foot and herders with various sorts of livestock jammed the road between the half-timbered shops and inns. The throng even spilled into the yard of St. Saviour’s church on the left.
Angry muttering about delays came from all sides. Beside the road, a lad tried in vain to corral a dozen geese he must’ve brought to market. “It’s no use,” the boy cried. “We’ve stood here too long.”
“My lord,” Mistress Willoughby said, just loudly enough for him to hear over the din, “do you feel the taint in the wind?”
“The wrongness.” Grimly, he responded, “I do.”
It wasn’t evil, but an unearthly power in it raised the hair on the back of his neck. The air had been free of eerie taints for days. Why had the wrongness returned?
Above the crowd’s heads, a line of halberds bristled in front of the bridge gate. Soldiers must be keeping order.
“Let’s see what the problem is,” he said. Richard urged Zeus through a narrow gap between the mass of people and the buildings lining the road.
The soldiers blocking the bridge wore steel helmets and breastplates over red tunics with blue trim, but he could see enough to recognize them as grenadiers, part of the foot guard. They usually protected the royal palaces. Odd. But the face at the front was familiar.
“Sergeant Mathers,” Richard called. “Good day. What’s the delay here?”
The burly, stony-faced man stepped forward and touched his helmet’s front brim. “G’day milord. Bunch o’ folk went through this morning, got in a quarrel and someone’s pipe landed in a barrel. Afore anyone could blink, two houses caught fire.”
The passage across the bridge was only ten feet wide in places, so one quarrelsome person could block traffic for a time, even without causing a fire.
The Herald of Day Page 6
