The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “It can come to pass. Join me, and you’ll never empty another slop jar. You’ll want for nothing, not food nor clothing nor comfort. I’ll establish you in a place of honor and esteem far beyond anything you might dream.”

  An image flashed across her sight, vanishing in an instant, but lasting long enough for her to know all he said was a lie. He would give her to his son or to some friend of his to breed Gifted children. Bile threatened to choke her.

  “No,” she gasped.

  He lunged across the space between them. Grabbing her chin in an iron grip, he demanded, “What did you See?”

  “Nothing! Let go.” She yanked at his wrist, to no avail.

  Wyndon grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her, jerking her up and out of the chair. “You’re a poor liar.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she cried, struggling against his hold. Fear tasted coppery in her mouth.

  With a wave of his hand, he shut the door. He forced both her wrists behind her and held them with one hand while his other tightened on her throat. Magic crackled over her skin, and she could scarcely get her breath.

  “If you cry out, you’re dead,” he warned. “You had a vision.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” She had to convince him, make him leave so she could somehow warn Richard of his plans.

  He grabbed the top of her sleeve and shift at the neckline and yanked downward. The fabric tore, baring her breasts above her corset.

  She gasped, and his magic pressed into her throat. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts.

  She still needed words to use the defensive techniques Arabella had taught her. Lighting a candle was one thing. Doing serious damage required far more control. Did she dare try it?

  Better to try and die than be preyed upon and die anyway.

  “Fire,” she choked, pushing the power at the lacy stock frothing below his chin.

  He shot back a wave of power that extinguished the sparks. He shook her, and only his hold kept her from falling.

  “Alas for you, I must put you and your visions out of my way. I’d hoped to keep you, but you are more powerful than I suspected. I cannot risk your discovering the way to meddle with my plans.”

  Heart pounding, knees trembling, she fought for composure. If only she could free one hand, but his vise-like grip on her wrists gave her no room to move.

  He yanked the bindings from her hair so the bunches of curls fell into cascades around her shoulders. He fingered a strand idly. “Very nice.” He smirked into her face as though savoring her fear.

  He pressed into her. Licking her neck, he whispered, “Lie with me as a sign of cooperation, and I won’t kill you.”

  Bile choked her. She yanked hard and freed one hand. She raked her nails down his face.

  He recoiled, his grip loosening.

  Miranda snapped, “Away,” magically pushing with all her might. Wyndon stumbled backwards. Screaming, she jerked free and ran for the door.

  Inches from it, he caught her again. His fingers bit into the skin on her neck. “Be silent,” he snapped. Ice stabbing into her throat cut off her scream. He smiled, and his eyes held vicious satisfaction.

  Sudden insight chilled her. Somehow, she’d done exactly what he wanted.

  In the corridor, men’s voices rang. “This way!”

  “Came from over here! Hurry!”

  Wyndon smiled. “You’ve shaped your own doom, witch.”

  He flung her against the wall. Her head struck first. She slid to the floor, and the world went dark.

  The world returned with a roar that pounded in the back of Miranda’s head where she’d struck the wall. Several men had arrived. Two of them pulled her upright and held her. A third, after making the sign against the evil eye, jerked her gaping clothes together. She turned to him. Surely he would help her.

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. But how?

  Lord Wyndon had squeezed her throat. Now she couldn’t talk. Couldn’t tell them what had happened.

  Desperate to explain, she struggled against the men who held her. Their grip tightened.

  “Better tie her hands,” one of them said.

  No, she screamed, but the plea made no sound. God’s feet, if she couldn’t talk, she couldn’t tell them what had happened.

  Holding a handkerchief to his cheek, Lord Wyndon spoke to the fourth man. “Thank God you arrived so quickly. I came to visit her, as a courtesy to my friend, her cousin. She sent the maid for ale and then tried to seduce me. Ripped her clothes open. When I resisted her, she shrieked out curses, calling on the dark powers.”

  The men shuddered.

  Patience pushed into the room, white-faced. “It’s not true. I tell you, milady’s a good person.”

  The innkeeper rounded on her with a gesture that swept from Miranda’s head to her feet. “A good person? Look at the wench. She fooled us all, she did.”

  Miranda shook her head. She tried with all her strength to deny that charge, but she had no voice.

  If she couldn’t talk, she couldn’t use any magical tactic that could free her. She dared not anyway as long as they held her, but they would lock her up somewhere eventually. She could conceal herself with glamours, but doing so would only confirm the charge, and Wyndon would tie that to Richard. And to Patience and Robin.

  The men wrenched her hands behind her and bound them. Lord Wyndon said, “I called out to God to save me, and He did. She fell silent and collapsed, just as you found her.”

  “That’s a lie.” Patience stamped her foot.

  One of the men pushed her aside. “You’re deluded, girl. She’s bewitched you.” He glared at her. “Or are you of her coven?”

  Patience paled. Miranda shook her head at the maid. Patience pressed her lips together but held her ground.

  “Mayhap she’s the reason the crops have failed and the stock’ve sickened,” the fourth man said. He grabbed Miranda’s arm. Trying to talk, she gave him a pleading look.

  Fear and hatred lit his eyes. “We’ll lock her up, my lord. I expect the magistrate’ll start the trial on the morrow. No sense in waiting months for the assizes on something like this.”

  “My thanks. I confess, I’d not rest easy with this woman roaming free. Perhaps you’d best lock up her stable lad and maid lest they try to aid her.”

  The glint in his eyes told Miranda Richard’s servants would be hostages. If she used magic to escape, she would expose herself as a witch. Worse, Robin and Patience would suffer for associating with her.

  Wyndon shook his head. “My poor friend, to be so deceived. Considering all the damage she’s likely done, waiting for the assizes could be fatal.”

  “The magistrate’ll likely think the same, milord. Given what you’ve told us, and the hand o’God in the matter, I reckon she’ll hang.”

  Stopping at night fed the impatience and worry gnawing at Richard, but it was unavoidable. The roads were drying but still boggy in places, slowing his progress and exhausting both him and Zeus. He followed the inn’s landlord up the narrow steps. The man’s lantern cast faint light, most of which his bulky girth blocked, over the rough, plank walls.

  Even with Gifted sight, Richard could barely see the edges of the risers. Three long, tense days in the saddle, riding through countryside where the crops had failed, had drained him more than he expected.

  He stumbled over an uneven step. Caught himself with a hand on the unpainted wall.

  “You want to watch that, m’lord,” the man said. “A bit high, that one.” They turned and started down a narrow corridor. “We wasn’t expecting nobody else, not so late and on such a night. We was about to go to bed.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you. I should have stopped at dark, but I have urgent business in London.”

  Richard had decided to use his title. He needed every advantage in this race to London, and landlords forgave noblemen for awakening them much more readily than they forgave their own sort.

  “Well, you ought to be there
tomorrow if the rain lets up. Hope it’s worth the risks of ridin’ so late. O’course, I reckon robbers don’t get out much in such weather.”

  “I suppose not. Fortunately, I made good time before the rain hit.” It turned the roads to muck that slowed his pace, and its chill had seeped into his bones. He’d expected to be in London today. Still, he’d made faster progress than the coach would’ve.

  At the top of the stairs, the landlord pushed open a door. The lantern cast enough light to show that the plank walls were clean and the floor, swept. The signs boded well for clean sheets.

  Bustling into the room and lighting the candles, the man said, “You can have the chamber to yourself, as you asked, and no extra charge this late at night. Just throw the bolt on the door when you retire.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Happy to be of service, m’lord.”

  Around a yawn Richard said, “I plan to leave as early as I can, so I’ll pay you now.” He pulled his purse from his coat pocket and counted out the agreed-upon five pence, plus an extra penny for good will. Paying for an extended stay before leaving Croyland had left him low on funds.

  The landlord’s round, seamed face crinkled in a smile. “Thankee, milord, thankee kindly.” He hesitated. “If you’d like a bite—we’ve not much, but—”

  “Thank you, no.” He’d eaten thin stew at an inn a few miles back. Even though he’d pushed Zeus magically, expending power he could ill afford, the fatigue weighting his limbs made food unappealing. “Good night to you, Master ... ”

  The man’s name wouldn’t come, though he’d heard it minutes ago.

  Fortunately, the landlord didn’t notice. He bade Richard a good night and left, closing the door behind him.

  The room boasted a single window and a rickety-looking bedstead with slightly frayed, patched curtains of green wool. Rain plopped against the glass. The leading between the panes allowed cold air to seep in.

  The place was nothing to boast about, but it was clean.

  Richard drew the curtains. They promised little protection from the chill but better than none.

  Against one wall stood a wooden settle, its seat worn by a procession of bodies. A rush mat covered the center of the floor. On each end of the plain mantel stood a wooden candlestick with a tallow candle, and by the hearth sat a plain, straight-backed chair.

  He draped his wet cloak over the chair and stretched his aching shoulders. He had pushed both himself and Zeus too hard today. Even with magic augmenting the horse’s strength, he could travel only so fast. They should have stopped at dark.

  At least they would reach London tomorrow evening. Zeus could have a long rest, even if his master couldn’t.

  The idea of repeating this journey in reverse made Richard’s stiff neck throb. He shrugged the thought aside, but it also brought back the uneasiness that had plagued him for hours, growing steadily stronger.

  A wave of his hand, a flicker of power, and the fire caught. Although the flames soon danced around seasoned wood, they did little to banish the room’s dank chill. He drew the chair close to the hearth. Surely he was imagining things, prey to worry born of fear for Grandmère.

  But perhaps not.

  He directed a tendril of power at the fire. Tired as he was, expending the energy felt like a mighty task, but the flames took on a bluish tint. At their heart, an image formed. He could scry through the wards at home because he’d set them himself, but they gave the fiery image an unsteady cast.

  Grandmère’s bedchamber looked as it always did, except that she liked it bright. Only one candle on the mantel burned, screened from the bed by the mantel clock. On a truckle bed next to the big bed, Jane, his grandmother’s maid, slept.

  If Grandmère had taken a turn for the worse, Jane wouldn’t sleep. He might still reach home in time.

  Grandmère also slept. Her body raised only a slight hump in the covers. He thought of her as indomitable and seldom remembered how frail age had made her.

  She had to survive this. He couldn’t lose her yet.

  At least for now, she seemed as well as he could reasonably expect.

  But if his unease didn’t come from her, what created it? Fatigue and worry? Or Miranda? He turned the scrying to her.

  The tiny image flickered, dissolved, and became a dark room with a dirt floor and no furnishings. Miranda huddled in a corner, trembling, with her hair wildly disheveled. What in Hell’s bailey—?

  Fury and fear brought Richard to his feet, leaning over the hearth, before he remembered he couldn’t reach her. He gripped the wooden mantel with both hands.

  When she raised her head, tear tracks shone on her face. She held the gaping edges of her bodice together with one hand.

  What the devil had happened? She should’ve been able to talk her way out of any problem, especially with magic behind her words and his name to shield her.

  Except that he hadn’t told her to reveal his status, nor had he done so himself. He’d been too preoccupied, too worried over leaving her and afraid for Grandmère.

  Idiot. How could he have been so thoughtless?

  Fighting his rage, he forced himself to sit, to focus. He set his jaw and looked back into time to the afternoon. At least he could still scry that far back. Two women held her down, naked, on a table in a room with rough stone walls—likely a gaol—while a third peered closely at her body. She thrashed between them like mad creature caught in a trap.

  God’s blood, no! On his feet again, he couldn’t breathe, and his hands clenched into fists. Scrying didn’t carry sound, only vision, but only one crime led to that sort of a search. The woman was seeking a flaw that would indicate an alliance with evil powers—a witch’s teat.

  Miranda was in prison, and he was three days away, even if he magically pushed Zeus to a dangerous extent. Meanwhile, Grandmère lay gravely ill, perhaps dying.

  God’s wounds!

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Did Miranda face immediate trial? Had she already been tried? Desperate to know, he turned back to the flames.

  Bit by bit, he traced her day back to the afternoon and watched, riveted to the vision, while Wyndon interrogated and then assaulted her. Wyndon gripped her throat, then flung her against the wall, stunning her. Men burst into the room. She spoke to them, growing increasingly frantic, as they seemed not to listen.

  It all made sense now. Wyndon must have accused her of witchcraft, and that accusation, especially coming from a titled lord, would outweigh almost anything except intervention by someone with greater rank. With the crops failing and livestock sickening, he would be able to convince the magistrate not to wait for the quarterly assizes, the courts that usually tried witchcraft cases.

  The flame vision faded. Tongues of gold and orange licked the wood. Richard drew a slow breath against bone-chilling rage. He would kill that son of a mangy cur. After he saved Miranda.

  Except, how could he? What about Grandmère? He couldn’t abandon either of them.

  He straightened abruptly. There was a way, perhaps a chance to save them both. If he lived through the attempt.

  Chapter 23

  “You’re drunk or mad, Richard.” Seated in the chair by the hearth, Edmund crossed his translucent arms and scowled.

  “I drank only at dinner, and not much.” With fury pounding through his heart and worry gnawing at him, Richard waved the comment away. “I need your help. I must reach London and then Croyland before dawn.”

  “You are certainly drunk. I knew it.” Glaring at Richard, Edmund bounded from his chair.

  Richard glared back. “If you say that once more—”

  “As you’ve seen, lad, you can’t learn that sort of thing in a moment. You need a deal more practice.”

  “You said one could travel across vast distances in that realm at great speed. Grandmère’s gravely ill in London, and Miranda’s in prison, apparently charged with witchcraft, in Croyland. This time, I must succeed. If I fail, they’ll both die.”

 
“Witchcraft? She seemed too clever to reveal herself.”

  “She walked into a snare set by Wyndon.”

  The ghostly eyes gleamed with martial light. “That vile knave.” Edmund shook his head. “Still, Richard, after such a day as you’ve had, trying such a strenuous feat, you’d likely kill yourself.”

  “I must help them, no matter what the cost to me.” Richard clenched his fists. “God’s blood, Edmund, your mad curse got us all into this. Either you help us, or I bloody well will be the last damned Mainwaring.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never entirely gave up hope, no matter how poor the odds of lifting the curse. If Miranda dies on the gallows, I’ll never wed. All the Mainwaring holdings will pass into Wyndon’s control through George, and I’ll stir not a step toward lifting your curse. You can rot there.”

  If a ghost’s face could pale, Edmund’s had. He retreated a step. “And you with me,” he said. “And your father.”

  A painful shot, that. Robert Mainwaring’s only error had been thinking, when his son was born, that honor forced him to continue the quest to clear a king’s name.

  Richard narrowed his eyes at Edmund. “If she dies, it will be because she’s involved with us. Help me save her or suffer the consequences.”

  Edmund sighed. At last, he shook his head. “You’ve the right of one thing. I started this mess, so I’ll help you and pray you don’t kill yourself in the doing.”

  “My thanks, Edmund.”

  “Don’t thank me until you live through it. How do you mean to save her, assuming you can breach the barrier? Whisking her magically out of the gaol won’t clear the charges against her.”

  In his haste to rescue her, Richard hadn’t thought about that. He couldn’t let the charge of witchcraft hang over her head, and even he couldn’t blot out people’s memories, as he’d told her on a day that seemed so very long ago.

  He couldn’t stop the coming farce of a trial either. But Jeremy could. “I’ll go to Canterbury first and from there to London.”

  “Have you not harkened to me? We’re not talking about a mere conjuring. You can’t pop in and out of the realm like a soap bubble. All the scrolls talked about how much power this would take. It will likely drain you to the core. You’ll need luck to make one transit, let alone two, and ’tis madness to attempt three.”