by Amy Tolnitch
Saraid let out a snort of disgust. “Aye, and no doubt reared on rules made up by hypocritical priests who judge others who don’t follow the same rigid code.”
Gifford put a hand on her shoulder.
“I fear you may be right,” Cain said. From Gifford, he knew some of Saraid’s past and she had good reason not to trust the church. “But I am not sure what to do about it.”
“Such a girl is not for Piers,” Saraid said with a frown. “He deserves better.”
Amice turned to Cain. “There is no signed betrothal agreement, and Giselle claims she wishes to become a nun.”
“Aye,” Cain answered, idly stroking her hand as he spoke. “I do not understand why she has not already taken her vows, though. Apparently, she knew nothing of her mother’s request.”
“Why did she leave the abbey at all?” Saraid asked. “There is something wrong here.”
“I agree. I am thinking we should contact this Bishop of Ravenswood,” Cain said.
“Do you think ‘tis in truth my brother’s letter?” Gifford asked.
Cain exchanged a glance with Amice. Only she knew of the secret chamber where the journals of the Earls of Hawksdown were kept. They had gone there soon after Giselle’s arrival and found his father’s reference to the betrothal. But he could not share that with Gifford. “As I said before, it looks like Father’s signature. There is no evidence it is not a legitimate betrothal agreement, though not in the typical sense.”
“A betrothal to which the girl brings nothing,” Saraid commented.
“So it appears.”
“Pah,” Saraid said. “Just deliver the girl back to the nunnery. Piers need not be bound by an old agreement no one knew existed.”
Gifford sighed. “I would like to agree with you, beloved, but a betrothal is not a matter to treat lightly. And ‘tis clear that for some reason, the girl is not wanted at Kerwick.”
“We cannot simply abandon her to the fates,” Amice said.
Cain’s face softened as he gazed at his wife, still thanking God each day he was lucky enough to have won her heart back. “I will not force Piers to put duty before his happiness.”
“Good boy.” Gifford beamed his approval.
“Aye. I learned the folly of that course.” He took Amice’s hand. “And nearly lost everything that mattered.”
She smiled her love back at him.
Cain chuckled. “The decision is up to Piers, but I cannot help but find a bit of humor in the situation. To find my brother bound to a pious girl who devotes herself to prayer is a strange match, indeed.”
Amice squeezed his hand. “We do not know the girl well yet. A nun’s life is all she has known.”
Cain’s smile faded. “Aye, and that is what concerns me.”
After Lord Veuxfort left, Giselle refused Nona’s offer of assistance and gently pressed the door to her chamber shut. She tried to flood her mind and body with calm, to find the serenity she desperately needed.
It didn’t work.
Though she knew she should begin her evening prayers, the sight of the sun setting over the sea drew her. She stood at the window, captivated by the glow of fading sunlight dancing over the waves. Perhaps tomorrow she would venture down to the shore, she thought. Feel the water that looked so soft and welcoming wash over her hands.
As she stared out over the sea, her vision gradually blurred and shifted. Too weary to fight it, Giselle let the vision sweep her into its depths.
She was running across a lush, green valley. Two flaxen-haired children, a girl and a boy, bobbed and weaved ahead of her, shrieking with delight at the chase. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky, the fragrance of wild roses sweet in the air. When she caught up with the children, she gathered them close and laughed with them, her heart light and happy.
Strong arms came from behind her and pulled her against a hard chest. Comfort and love spilled though her, and she tilted her head back to see him.
She couldn’t see his face.
Giselle blinked and sank to the floor. “No,” she whispered. The woman in her vision could not have been her. That life was for another woman, was another’s dream.
She clasped her hands together and bent her head, but the prayers refused to come. Instead, for the first time in many years, she yearned for her mother. Longed for someone to guide her, someone who loved her. Despite what the Abbess and the Bishop had said, Giselle knew her mother had loved her. She remembered that much at least.
A tear trickled down her cheek.
For a moment, she’d felt such joy, such completeness. She could still feel the man’s warm arms around her, still hear the children’s laughter.
Guinevere pushed the door open and trotted over to nudge Giselle’s shoulder.
Giselle buried her face in the dog’s shaggy fur.
Aldrik Durand, Bishop of Ravenswood, sat in his shadowy solar at Kindlemere Castle with a cup of wine in one hand and a message from his guardsman in the other. His men had delivered the girl to Falcon’s Craig. Aldrik let out a sigh of relief and sipped his wine.
“You saw to the girl?” Donninc asked.
“Aye.” Aldrik’s lips tightened. “I should have sent her away years ago.”
Donninc raised a brow. “I often wondered why you did not. You held a simple way to rid yourself of the … embarrassment.”
Aldrik scowled. It was the same question he’d asked himself time and time again, ever since he’d found the girl at Kerwick, looking so much like her mother it was as if the past had returned to taunt him. “She possessed skills useful to the abbey.”
His visitor said nothing. He didn’t need to. Aldrik knew his words for the weak excuse they were.
“We all must atone for our sins,” Donninc said. “In this life or the next.”
“I paid for the girl for fourteen years. ‘Tis atonement enough.” Aldrik shot back a drink of wine. Despite its quality, the wine tasted sour on his tongue.
“Does she know?”
Aldrik refilled his cup. It seemed he could not drink enough this eve, his usual satisfaction at presiding over such a grand holding as Kindlemere escaping him. “Nay. Do you take me for a fool? The girl knows nothing, nor shall she. She will spend the rest of her days well wed on the remote edge of nowhere.”
“She has her mother’s looks.”
Aldrik put his cup down with a thunk. “Enough of the girl. She is gone.”
Instead, Donninc leaned closer. “What of the girl’s strange ability? Do you not worry that—”
“No,” Aldrik snapped. Before he could catch it, he crossed himself. The Abbess had claimed the girl foretold that Sister Anne would choke on a piece of stale bread. And so the nun had. “It was mere chance. The girl undoubtedly had seen Sister Anne eat, and knew how quickly the cow stuffed food into her mouth.”
“I heard a story once, from a man who had been on crusade. He claimed to have met a woman who could see into the heart of a person simply by tracing the lines on his hand.”
“Peasant superstitions.”
“It would be interesting though, if it were true.”
“Enough!” Aldrik stood. “The girl is gone, with whatever devil’s taint she carries with her. I never want to hear mention of her again.” He walked to the doorway of the solar, picking up the jug of wine on the way.
“I will never have to look upon her again,” he proclaimed. Never have to look upon a face so familiar, a face that had teased, beguiled, and ultimately hated him for what he’d done to her.
“I often wondered why you did not see that the girl suffered an … accident.”
Aldrik paused. “Even I have my limits, Donninc.”
Donninc chuckled. “As you say.”
Aldrik frowned as he left the solar. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of the girl. But, no, he thought. She posed no threat to him. He’d seen to it she knew nothing of her true background.
And now, settled into the isolated north, she never would.
Chapter<
br />
III
After a restless night filled with alarming dreams of Piers Veuxfort, Giselle rose early. She splashed water on her face, and drew on the gown she had worn the evening before.
Even as she told herself to hasten to the chapel, she pulled back the wooden shutters to look at the sea. The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting gold onto the smooth surface of the water. Giselle gazed at it in wonder. Here is proof of God’s majesty, she thought.
The sea stretched out endlessly, like a shining platter of blue. Gentle waves lapped against the shore below. Giselle drew in a deep breath of salty air. The sight and sounds of the sea soothed her restlessness. There is something so peaceful about it, she thought, reluctantly turning from the sight.
After making her way out of the tower, Giselle hailed a passing laundress and obtained directions to the chapel, a two-story stone building near the great hall. She managed to keep Guinevere from following her and entered. For the first time since leaving Kerwick, she felt at ease.
At the front of the chapel sat an ornately carved altar bearing a golden cross beneath a colored glass window. The ceiling arched high overhead. Only a single candle burned, leaving most of the chapel in darkness.
Her footsteps echoed on the stone as she made her way to the altar and dropped to her knees. As she began her morning prayers, she heard a rustle of movement and glanced up.
A man moved out of the shadows carrying a brace of lit candles. He wore a plain, black robe loosely belted around his waist. “Good morrow, child.”
Giselle rose to her feet. “Good morrow.”
“I am Father Michael,” he said with a gentle smile. “You must be our new guest.”
“Aye, Father. I am called Giselle.”
“Welcome to God’s house.” He gestured to a long bench. “Come, sit with me and tell me of yourself.”
Hesitantly, she sat on the bench and clasped her hands. “Perhaps we should pray together first. ‘Tis Matins.”
“Ah, a pious woman.”
“Until I came to Falcon’s Craig, I lived at Kerwick Abbey.”
The priest frowned. “Under the Abbess Maud?”
“Aye, Father.”
“Poor thing,” he said. “The Abbess is a strict woman.”
Giselle thought back to the hours she’d spent on her knees praying for forgiveness for the smallest of mistakes, and the many times she’d been denied food in order to purify her spirit. “She is a devout lady.”
“Hmm. And now you are at Falcon’s Craig. How did that come to pass?”
“ ‘Tis a long story, Father, but it appears I am betrothed to Piers Veuxfort.”
The priest’s eyes widened, then he slapped his thigh and laughed. “You will have quite a time of it with that one.”
“I want no part of it.” Giselle bowed her head. “I wish to be a nun. I wish to go back or … to another convent.” For a moment, the contrast between her lush chamber at Falcon’s Craig and the spare cell she’d shared with Sister Gertrude spilled into her mind, but she stamped it down, reminding herself she had no need of comforts.
“Ah. Sometimes, the Lord guides us in ways we would not have expected.”
Giselle fought back tears. “I cannot imagine that God wishes me to marry.” She glanced around and realized the chapel was still empty. “Do you not perform mass in the morning?”
“Of course, but not so early.”
“I am accustomed to beginning my day with prayer.”
“I imagine the Abbess demanded much of that.”
“At Matins, Laud, Prime, Terce, Sext, Nones, Vespers, and Compline.”
“Prayer is good for the soul, true, but you are not in the nunnery any more. You need not follow their strictures. I believe that twice a day is enough for our Lord.”
Giselle was shocked.
Father Michael smiled at her look of astonishment. “You will find that the earl does not expect such expansive devotion.”
“And you agree?”
“I do, indeed. ‘Tis why I never sought to join an order. There is time for prayer and time for living.”
Giselle had a difficult time envisioning what to do with that much time to herself.
“You are a young woman,” he continued. “It is a time to enjoy life, not bury yourself in continuous prayer.”
“I find great solace in it, Father.”
“And so you should. So you should. Would that all at Falcon’s Craig were of like mind.”
“Does … Lord Veuxfort attend mass?”
“You mean Piers? Not often, though I am sure he shares our beliefs.”
“What of the rest of the family?”
“There are some that do, particularly the earl and ofttimes his uncle. Unfortunately, I have not been able to persuade the Lady Saraid as of yet, and Lady Amice, well, that is another matter.”
“What do you mean?” Giselle could scarcely believe it. Not attend mass? She had always been taught that to ignore devotion to God was to put your very soul in peril.
Father Michael leaned closer and winked. “ ‘Tis a well-known secret that Lady Amice follows the ancient ways.”
Giselle felt the blood drain from her face. “She is pagan?”
“Aye.”
“Dear Lord.” What was this place she found herself in? A priest who urged her away from prayer, people who did not attend mass, and this, the lady of the castle a pagan? Giselle fingered her rosary in apprehension. Had she put her own soul in jeopardy by coming to such a place? The Abbess’s oft-repeated words rang in her mind. You must fight the taint of your blood by strict devotion to God.
“Do not worry, child. Lady Amice is a good woman.”
She had thought the same until this discovery. “If you will excuse me, Father, I feel the need to pray for the Lord’s guidance. This has all been very unsettling to me.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Surrender to God’s will, child.”
She nodded and knelt once more before the altar. In a few minutes, she heard Father Michael depart, leaving the chapel in shadowy light. God’s will, he’d said. She gazed up at the cross and shivered.
“What is your will, Lord?” she whispered. “Show me.”
The chapel remained silent, as if God were watching but revealing nothing.
She bent her head to pray.
Piers awoke with a start. He brushed hair back from his sweaty forehead. The sheets were twisted around him and damp with sweat.
“Damn.” He sat up and rested his face in his hands. The dream was so vivid in his mind he knew Eikki had a hand in creating it. Cursed creature. He winced as he recalled his dream.
It was as if another had taken full control of him. A man without mercy, without any emotion but the determination to slake his own desires. Scenes flickered through Piers’ mind. Giselle, tied to a bed, her eyes wide in stark terror. Laughter that was his own and yet not. His face mirrored in her eyes—a hard, hungry gaze, lips curled in lustful anticipation.
He had taken her without a care for her cries of pain, her pleas. Taken her ruthlessly, driving into her, innocent body until he found his release. A release sweetened by the taking of her maidenhead, and her futile attempts at resistance.
And even now, even as the thought that he might be capable of such brutality sickened him, a part of him was aroused by the memory of all that sweet purity surrounding him.
“Sick bastard,” he cursed, and rose to splash water over his face. “Leave me be.”
As he drew on his clothes, he realized this presence was not going anywhere simply because Piers willed it. He needed aid.
How he hated having to admit what his stupid recklessness had wrought. “Do not venture into the depths of the cave,” Iosobal had told them. “Even I do not know what lies within.”
But no, he had shrugged off her warnings. Curiosity drew him further and further in, certain he would find something wondrous. Indeed, he had. The cave was a beautiful, exotic place, with crystals adorning the walls, soaring ceili
ngs, and crystalline pools of still water.
And beneath it all, a deep sense of something mystical, apart from the world in which he lived.
He’d known the moment he plucked the dark purple crystal from its gold chalice he’d made a grave mistake. Freed something that should never be released.
It was too late now.
So, what to do? He pulled on his boots, considering possibilities. Perhaps Father Michael could help. No, whatever Eikki was, he was not the devil, that much Piers was sure of.
Beyond that, Piers wasn’t sure what Eikki was. Spirit? A product of dark magic? Piers’s own mind going slowly mad?
He rejected the last. Eikki was real, if unseen.
Iosobal was the only magical being he’d ever known. Would she aid him or view it all as just punishment for disobeying her order?
Deal with Giselle first, he told himself. Then, see to your own soul.
Giselle’s stomach rumblings finally drove her from her prayers. She walked out of the chapel with a lightened heart, sure God would see to her welfare. As if to confirm her thoughts, sun shone down from a bright blue sky, the air holding the warm brush of spring.
She walked into the great hall and up to the dais, pasting a slight smile on her face and endeavoring to keep her gaze from seeking out Piers. When she reached the table, she heard Gifford say, “I am telling you, I saw the damned wraith last eve.” He shot back a drink of ale. “She was watching,” he hissed, his face red.
Saraid put a hand on his arm. “I did not see anyone.”
Gifford looked around. When he saw Giselle, his expression eased and he smiled. “Good morrow, Giselle. Where have you been?”
Giselle sat. “In the chapel, of course.”
“Hrump. While you are at all that prayer, say one that will banish ghosts.”
Giselle blinked. “Ghosts?”
“Aye.”
Piers slid her a look. “Have you never seen a ghost, Giselle?”
“I … nay. Ghosts do not exist.”
Lady Amice gave her a knowing smile. “Aye, they do.” She turned to Gifford. “Muriel is gone, Uncle Gifford. You know that.”
