by Amy Tolnitch
Agatha fiddled with the folds of her drab, blue bliaut. “To be like you.”
“I… I do not understand. Be like me in what way?”
Agatha bit her lip. “I know I shall never be a great beauty like you, but I wish to at least be passable.” She gave Amice a forlorn expression. “If ‘tis possible.”
“Uh, yes, of course, ‘tis possible.” Amice’s mind reeled to find the right words of reassurance.
“Good.” Agatha beamed a smile, and Amice realized for the first time that it might indeed be possible. “When do we start?”
“Agatha, is there a particular reason you wish to change? A certain man?”
“Nay. Not yet, but someday I hope.” Her eyes softened into a dove-like expression. “An elegant, learned, fair-haired man who will write me poetry. Perhaps one who can play an instrument and accompany me in song. A man who will walk with me to view my flowers.” She looked at Amice. “I am a keen gardener, you know. The gardens at Styrling Castle are beyond compare.”
“I did not know that,” Amice said faintly.
“But of course the main thing I want is the mating.” Agatha sniffed. “I am exceedingly tired of being a virgin.”
For a moment, Amice just stared at her, vaguely aware her mouth was hanging wide open. “Mating?”
“Aye.”
“Good God.”
“I have shocked you.”
“Uh, well, aye, a bit.”
Agatha drew in her lips. “I prefer to be honest. And it is not as if I plan to sing silly songs about it, like my older brothers and crazy Uncle Gifford. Well, Piers anyway. Cain is not much for that sort of thing. Not anymore.”
“What happened to change him?”
“Perhaps you can tell me.”
“What?”
“And, of course, there was Luce.” Agatha said the name with a sneer.
“He must have been very distraught at her death,” Amice managed to say.
Agatha gave her a narrow look. “Aye, but not for the reason you might think.”
“What do you mean?”
For a moment, Agatha stared back at her, but then shook her head. “Nay, that is a story to come from Cain, not me.”
“But—”
“When do we start my lessons? You will help me?”
“Aye. Tomorrow?”
Wrinkling her nose, Agatha said, “I hoped today.”
“My first duty is to… persuade your ghost to leave Falcon’s Craig.”
“Ghost.” Agatha shivered. “Do not say anything more. Very well, tomorrow. When?”
“Sext?”
“Aye.” Agatha’s expression turned solemn. “Thank you, Amice. And thank you for not laughing at me.”
“You are welcome.”
Agatha nodded and walked away, leaving Amice staring after her in total befuddlement. Who could have imagined Cain’s dour sister held such desires? And who could have imagined that she may have found an unlikely friend?
The golden shimmer of a setting sun illuminated the chamber Amice and Laila had chosen to contact Falcon’s Craig’s ghost. Situated on the upper floor of the castle’s east tower, the chamber was largely empty, save for a bench, a few broken pieces of furniture, and a fireplace set into one wall, sooty black from inattention. Amice took in the bare timber floor, the large, open windows facing the sea, and felt a familiar sense of anticipation spread through her body.
She shot a sideways glance toward Cain and frowned. He had insisted on being here, claiming he had a right to see his bothersome spirit. He stood leaning against one wall, his brow curved, his arms folded across his chest. Watching. Wearing what Amice privately called his Knowing Expression.
He caught her scrutiny and gave her a bland look. As Laila set candles in iron holders upon the floor, Amice hung a small copper pot over the newly built fire and poured in a measure of water. She threw sage atop the burning wood, then reached into a pouch and began to add handfuls of herbs to the simmering water. Borage, fennel, fumitory, pennyroyal, rosemary, mugwort. And finally, a sprinkle of amber fragments.
For a moment, Amice just breathed in the herbal scent, blinking from the smoke as the sage caught fire.
She slipped off her enveloping mantle, and the fragrant air floated over her nearly bare skin. She wore only a plain, white silk bliaut. No chemise. No undertunic. Only the bliaut.
And, of course, the torc. An ancient Celtic gold collar, with two lion terminals, their eyes shiny red. Where Laila had obtained such a piece, Amice did not know, but on the eve of their first meeting, Laila had looked into her eyes, gone inside her tent, and emerged to place the torc around her neck.
“The Lion’s Heart belongs to you,” was all she had said.
Amice ran her fingers across the warm metal, then slipped off her shoes, and loosened her hair from its plaits.
She could feel Cain’s eyes upon her like warm fingertips brushing across her skin. Studying her. Branding her.
Laila held a stick into the fire and began to light candles. Amice turned and caught sight of Cain out of the corner of her eye. He gazed at her as if he half-expected her to start flying around the room. “You shall remain quiet,” she admonished.
Cain straightened his stance. “Why? I might be able to help.”
She tilted her head. “You told me you knew nothing about her. Was that a lie?”
His skin flinched over his cheekbones. “Nay, ‘tis true, but I do know something of my ancestors.”
“Leave me to do what I have trained to do. ‘Tis why you demanded I come here.”
Cain’s eyes flared, and the chamber narrowed to just the two of them. “Demanded?” he asked smoothly.
“As much. You knew I could not resist Villa Delphino. You knew because I shared my dream with you. And,” she halted, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck.
“And?”
She met his stare directly. “You knew I would not wish to come here.”
Cain’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Aye. I well know you would not wish to see me ever again if ‘twas your choice.”
Laila moved beside Amice. “We are ready, Amice.” Her calm words brought Amice out of the past and back to the present task. She inhaled the fragrant scents from the bowl and clutched the folds of her soft bliaut. She could not respond to Cain’s last statement, uttered in such a harsh tone and so utterly untrue. “If I have a question, I shall ask. Otherwise, you shall stay where you are and be quiet. Agreed?”
Cain’s stare was fire blue. “Agreed.”
Amice and Laila stood in the center of the flickering candlelight, hands clasped. A collection of stones from the river by Wareham lay at their feet. Dreaming Stones.
The soft whisper of the night wind swirled across Amice’s face, lifting strands of her loose hair and casting the chamber deeper into shadows. She focused on opening her mind, her senses, closing her eyes and drawing in deep breaths of the herbal scent filling the chamber.
“Togaidh mise chlach, Mar a thog Moire da Mac, Air bhrììgh, air bhuaidh, “s air neart; Gun robh a chlachsa am dhòòrn, Gus an ruig mi mo cheann uidhe.”
Gripping Laila’s hands tightly, Amice slowly opened her eyes. “Come to me, troubled spirit. Tell me of your woe, so that I might aid you to the other side. Come to me.”
Just as she heard a gasp, the air within the chamber thickened, as if there were too much mass in the same space. Her bliaut rippled around her body as if an unseen wind seized the fabric, and her hair blew behind her. The candles fluttered and nearly went out.
Laila’s black eyes glittered and she gave a small nod.
“So, Amice de Monceaux, you did not heed my advice,” a woman’s voice said.
Amice dropped Laila’s hands and turned to face the apparition. She heard a murmur of excitement beyond the room, and realized that Gifford and Piers were huddled outside, like two children spying upon their elders. There was naught to be done about it now. She shot a glance toward Cain.
His face was pale, taut, his stan
ce rigid.
Amice put out her hands, palms turned upward. “Nay. I cannot.”
The woman’s gaze narrowed, her otherworldly lips pulled back in a sneer. “I see the Earl of Hawksdown has also joined us this eve.”
Amice expected Cain to respond, but he heeded their agreement and remained silent.
“My lady,” Amice murmured. “By what name may I call you?”
The hem of the woman’s bliaut skimmed over the timber planks as she came closer to Amice. Close enough that Amice could see she had indeed been a wealthy woman in life, the gleam of jewels blinking from her fingers, around her neck, and through her hair. “Why do you not go?”
Amice studied her for a moment, considering whether to reveal her purpose. “The Earl of Hawksdown has something I want. I have agreed to… to talk to you in exchange.”
The ghost snorted. “To get rid of me, you mean.” She shifted her strangely probing gaze toward Cain, and Amice fought the impulse to step back. It was a gaze ripe with hatred. But why?
Amice stepped outside the ring of candles. “To help you journey to where you should be.”
“Nay! I belong here.” The ghost turned her piercing gaze back to Amice. “Why are you really here?” she whispered.
“I told you.”
Translucent green eyes studied Amice, then the ghost gave her a sad smile. “I see.” She shook her head. “It seems we share a weakness, Amice de Monceaux.”
“What do you mean?” Somehow, she managed to sound puzzled though she feared she knew exactly what the ghost meant.
The ghost just peered back at her, her gaze holding a mix of pity, empathy, and condemnation.
“Who are you?”
“I am Muriel.” The ghost lifted her chin and held her arms out to her sides. The fire became part of her, the snapping gold flames glimmering through her body.
“One of the kitchen maids told me you jumped from the tower. Is that true?”
Muriel’s form stiffened, then faded into wispy streamers of gold. “Aye, to my death below.”
Amice pitched her voice as soft as possible, wrapping her tone in gentle sympathy. “Why?”
The ghost’s voice was as faint as her presence, and Amice crept nearer to hear. “He cast me aside.” The spirit gradually faded completely from view, leaving the sound of bitter laughter lingering in the stir of air.
“God’s wounds,” Cain cursed, coming to stand next to Amice. He stared wide-eyed toward the fireplace as if he anticipated someone or something to leap out of it at any moment and set upon them.
There was a scuffle of movement beyond the door, punctuated by a low voiced, “Nay.”
When Amice could find her voice, she called out, “Gifford. Piers. You might as well show yourselves. I know you are there.”
Cain turned toward the door with a frown.
With bright eyes, Gifford scuttled into the chamber, rubbing his hands together. Piers followed more slowly, his gaze every bit as shining as Gifford’s, but shaded with a touch of guilt.
“Good work, my lady,” Gifford chortled.
Piers shook his head. “Never have I seen anything like that.” He eyed Amice. “You were quite brave, my lady.”
“Thank you, Piers.”
Cain crossed his arms and stared down at her. “Why do you think she remains bound to Falcon’s Craig?”
Laila gathered up the pile of stones and placed them in her pouch, the dreaming stones clinking against each other. She put her hand on Amice’s shoulder. “Perhaps ‘tis the other spirit who keeps her here.”
Gifford let out a yelp. “Another one? Zounds!”
Piers chuckled and patted his uncle’s arm. “Soon, the ghosts shall outnumber us.”
“Laila, what are you talking about?” Cain asked.
Amice sensed Laila’s hesitation, and knew her friend would not share all she knew with Cain. At least, not yet. Laila did not speak unless she was sure of something.
Laila shrugged. “Or mayhap ‘tis her memories of what could have been.”
Cain turned his focus to Amice. “What do you do now?”
Suddenly, Amice swayed on her feet and Cain caught her around the waist. It all happened so quickly she had no time to brace herself for the contact. She grabbed his arm to steady herself, trying without success to halt the racing of her heart at the mere touch of his hand against her bare skin.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Amice gazed into his eyes and lost herself. She had the vague sensation of leaning forward before she stiffened and stepped out of his embrace. “Aye, just tired.”
He lifted a brow, his knowing gaze exposing her lie.
She ignored him and stumbled toward the door. “I must rest. I shall think on this and talk to you on the morrow.” I must get away, she told herself. I must get away.
Laila rushed up beside her and grasped her elbow. “Slowly, Amice.”
Just as Amice neared the door, she tripped and landed flat on the floor. In bewilderment, she glanced around her, but saw nothing to have caused her to fall.
She heard Cain growl, “Damn wraith,” before he lifted her up into his arms. “You shall end up at the bottom of the stairs in your condition,” he admonished.
“I—”
“Put your arms around my neck, Amice.” The shadow of a smile curved his lips. “I shall not bite.”
Heat snaked through her veins as she stared at his mouth, then into his eyes, soft blue in the candlelight. Slowly, she slid her hands around his neck. His gaze darkened, and he shifted her a little closer against his body. She swallowed and bit her lip. “Thank you.”
Cain turned and started down the stairs, the dim light swallowing his expression. Engulfed by fatigue, Amice gave up the fight and laid her head against Cain’s warm chest, breathing deep of his scent.
His arms tightened.
And for just the slightest moment, he pressed his face against her hair.
Chapter 4
Naturally, Cain’s attempt to seclude himself in his chamber to drink wine and figure out what in the hell to do about Muriel and his irrational desire for Amice was completely spoiled by the arrival of Gifford and Piers. He sighed in resignation and eyed the two, both brimming with excitement.
They plopped down on the bench facing Cain’s chair and grinned in unison. Gifford set his ever-present jug next to the ewer of wine Cain had placed on a small table. “Damned fine show your lady put on tonight, Cain.”
“Aye,” Piers chimed in. “Never seen anything like it. And the way she just calmly faced that… that thing, and asked questions. Balls of iron, your lady’s got.”
Gifford cackled and punched Piers’s shoulder. “No lady that beautiful has ballocks, you simpkin.”
Cain rubbed the back of his neck and drained his cup of wine, quickly refilling it before Gifford could get his hands on the ewer. “Amice is a brave woman, no doubt.” He scowled and leaned forward. “But she is not my lady.”
Piers rolled his eyes. “Should be.”
“Piers,” Cain snapped. “Cease.” He tried not to think of how wondrous it had felt to hold her in his arms. Tried hard.
Gifford coughed and reached for his jug. “Well, what do you think of this ghost? And what is this about another one?”
Cain shrugged. “I do not know any more than you two, as you no doubt saw and heard everything from outside the door.”
“Hmpf. Entitled to know,” Gifford murmured, obviously lacking any embarrassment in the matter.
Piers pulled a cup from a shelf against the wall and helped himself to the wine. “I have never heard of a woman named Muriel. Have you, Gifford?”
Gifford furrowed his brows and sipped ale. “Seems like there was a story like that. Never thought of it until now.”
“Do you know what happened?” Cain asked.
Taking another chug of ale, Gifford gave a nod. “Believe it happened as the, uh, lady said. Gerard Veuxfort, the third Earl of Hawksdown it was.”
Cain ca
refully sipped his wine, deepening unease gradually spreading through him. “What did he do?”
“Don’t know exactly. I remember hearing that he would not marry her, and she killed herself. Ended up marrying another wench, who gave him nothing but trouble.”
“Sounds familiar,” Cain remarked.
Gifford eyed him carefully. “Aye. Seems as if Gerard should have gone with this Muriel instead.”
Piers reached for the wine ewer. “Why did he not marry her?”
“I do not know.” Gifford leaned forward and fixed Cain with a stern look out of character for his jovial uncle. “Mayhap his mother persuaded him he should wed another.”
Cain stiffened. “You go too far, Uncle. You know why I had to marry Luce. Not all of us have the freedom to spend our time playing with exploding rocks and ignoring the pending loss of everything.”
Gifford frowned at him. “Foolish boy,” he mumbled.
“She appeared of noble birth,” Piers offered. “Wonder why the match did not take?”
“Probably something to do with coin,” Cain said. “It is always about coin.” No matter how we might dream it otherwise, he added silently. “Amice will find out.”
Gifford stood and arched his back. “I am off to bed. ‘Tis a good bit of excitement we have had this eve.” He grabbed his jug. “Believe I shall have a bit of ale and get my rest.” Winking at Cain, he added, “Who knows what the morrow shall bring, eh?”
Piers rose also, emptied his cup and set it back onto the table. “I shall accompany you, Uncle. I have something I wish to discuss with you. Good eve, Cain.”
“Good evening.”
As Piers passed him, he leaned down and murmured, “If you will not claim Amice, then why forbid me the pleasure?”
Cain glared at him.
Piers gave him a roguish grin, then draped an arm around Gifford’s shoulders and began talking in a soft tone as the two exited. The only word Cain could make out was “elixir” and he briefly closed his eyes. Hopefully no one would get injured from whatever they planned.
Cain stared into the flames. He tried to think of the myriad responsibilities he had, the villeins who needed his attention, the fields that needed planting. But in the end, he just let his thoughts drift.
