by Robyn Carr
“How could you do this? How could you?”
“I doubt you’ll ever believe it is most difficult for me. I worked hard all my life and suffered the indignities of a common merchant rising to title. I had wanted more than that for you and put too many energies toward building a fortune and too few toward building a man out of my son. I failed to reach you with lessons in honor and justice. I can hardly be called stodgy and rigid; I have myself twisted the rules and the truth for my own financial gain. But somehow I think I managed to stop short of doing any real harm. But treason, theft, and murder? Stephen, the raping of a peasant maid and burning of a farmer’s house?
“Even without daily lessons in righteousness, you could have emerged better than this. Orphans and paupers look around them with some value for life and property, and they have had no expert teachers. I thought to find you older, wiser, and more respectful of the law. I see that I never shall. I’m sorry for both of us that we couldn’t live as father and son should.”
“It is not too late to undo this,” Stephen said in a voice that he had much trouble controlling. His attempt at calm came off as high-pitched and whining. “We can see an end to mysterious crime, or better still, Wescott could be the—”
“It is too late. I will not conspire with you again. I regret that I did in the past and I am finished with you now.”
Stephen rose and held the parchment over the candle and watched it take light; his father’s eyes were cool, distant. “Now what, old man? Do you make another list?”
“You think I am foolish enough to give you the only statement I’ve made? It is too late, Stephen. You are free to go. A harsher taskmaster would have you jailed or transported.”
Stephen whirled once full circle, his face contorted into a scowl. He bared his teeth and snarled, a bit of spittle showing on his lip. Julian stood shaking but tried to remain calm. Stephen grabbed a hefty, many-faceted crystal that served as a decorative weight on Julian’s desk. He held it almost as if it were a dagger, the bulk of it completely filling his hand and the sharpest edge pointed at his father.
“Don’t be a fool, son. My life would cost you your own. You stand the only suspect should I suddenly die or disappear.”
“And now you not only play me for stupid but inept as well,” Stephen whispered. “You are the only one to name crimes of mine because you were close enough to see. Before your foolhardy recriminations, no one ever approached me as a criminal.”
“The villagers—”
“Those stupid swine? Who would listen? No, it is only you, Father. And when you’re gone, no one will be this close to watch me again.”
“You’re wrong, son, there are many—”
Julian’s statement which began as calmly as possible and rose quickly to a fearful shout was cut short by the first blow to his head. Stephen accomplished that with a lunging movement over his father’s desk, and then he quickly rounded the furniture to lay many fatal blows to Julian’s head and shoulders.
Jidian melted to the floor on the second strike and was stunned silent, but Stephen was crazed and out of control and struck his father long after he was dead. He gripped the rough-edged rock with violent determination, and over and over again he muttered, “You old fool. You old fool.”
Finally he was spent; Julian’s head was barely recognizable and spilled forth its contents onto the floor. Stephen knelt in his final attack, and when exhausted by his brutality, sat back on his heels and huffed as savagely as if he’d just run a mile at full pace. “Wescott,” he muttered under his strained breath. “Wescott, the ally. Ah, the ally turned murderer.”
He dropped the rock onto the floor beside his father and stood shakily. He looked at his hands and felt a sudden wave of nausea that was nearly pleasurable in its weakening quality. Then he began to scatter the papers both on the desk and in the drawers, looking in panic for more lists of crimes or letters of incrimination. He pulled out drawers, sifting through everything, finding nothing. He wiped his hands on a last piece of parchment to remove a small amount of remaining blood. Looking at the mess from the door of the study, it looked as though the place had been torn apart by a thief. And he smiled.
He tried to make his steps through the house quick but easy so that no one would think his behavior suspicious, although he doubted anyone here would dare betray him now. He made his way to the guard quarters and called out four men—the four he thought most trustworthy. Among them were both Bruce and Matthew.
The four separated themselves from the planks. Two left a dice game, one tilted a bottle against his pallet, and another rose from a nap to follow Stephen outside into the darkness.
“Who among you can I trust?” he asked his men. They looked between each other and nodded. “Listen to me. Lord Kerr just informed me that it is his intent to give this property of mine over to Trent Wescott of Braeswood and disband this guard. Not one of you will serve here after tonight if we allow this.”
“How are we to stop him?” one man asked. Matthew and Bruce refrained from looking at each other.
“We can stop them both if you will carefully listen to me. Roswell, you will ride to Lord Wescott with a message from my father. Ted him Dearborn is under attack and Lord Kerr needs the aid of an army. If he should ask who attacks, ted him you do not know, but the manor is unprotected. He will suspect me and our troop, and you may lead him in that direction if it suits your purpose. He is prepared to help my father roust me for his own purpose.”
They looked between each other again, nodding. “Bruce,” Stephen continued. “You must ready a parcel of good men to ride with us. While Wescott ventures to Dearborn, we will be well on our way to Braeswood. Matthew and Derek, stay here and ready those men left to you. Tell them simply that I have it on good authority that Wescott plans an attack. When he arrives, kill him for his assault on my father.”
Matthew felt his eyes widen, suddenly seeing both himself and Bruce in ill positions to warn Trent of this conspiracy. “Let me ride to Braeswood with the message, my lord. I am the fastest.”
Stephen smiled confidently, not suspicious of this offer. “No, Matt, you are quick with orders, and arms are needed here.” He patted the young man’s shoulder, a sickening gleam in his eye. “I would not be surprised to hear that you slay the heathen yourself...and you will be richly rewarded if you do.”
Derek also clapped a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I can vouch for that,” he said with a smile. “I got me a good sum when the Trendell coach fell.” He smacked his lips. “Were me what shut up that old witch. Master Stephen takes good care o’ his own.”
Matt felt himself begin to quiver inside but forced a smile and even managed a laugh that Derek heartily returned.
Bruce ventured an attempt. “What do we do at Braeswood, my lord?” he asked. “I must know our mission to choose well the men to ride.”
“We shall lay a few blows to the house and people and hold the place lest Wescott is not stopped here. I will not miss the man this time. He will find himself divided and not knowing which way to run. If he takes the bait and travels to Dearborn, he may meet his maker here. If he does not leave his manor, we will attack him there. And if there is a third possibility and he finds a way to return to his home, he will find it is firmly held by us. There is no possible way for him to escape me now. He will be blamed for my father’s death and he will die. All in the same night.”
“But, milord, we are likewise divided,” Bruce attempted. “Would it not make better sense to call him to Dearborn and try to take him here?”
“You don’t hear me, lad. Why would we meet Wescott in open battle? That’s his game, not ours. We lie low outside Dearborn and pounce on him unawares...and at Braeswood, we storm the doors by dark of night while he is away. I have no desire to waste time and men on a battle; what I want can be got by killing them all in their sleep.”
Roswell and Derek began a low chuckling laugh that was soon shared by all of them, Matt and Bruce coming by it with much greater diffic
ulty.
“Now do as I’ve bidden you and have those who ride with me here in a few moments with weapons and horses.”
That done, he turned and was instantly on his way back to the manor house. Matt and Bruce stood staring while the other two jumped to their master’s bidding. “You must separate yourself from the others and meet Wescott on the road,” Bruce whispered. “Find a way to warn him.”
“Which road? There are four that wend their way to Braeswood.”
“Be lucky. Find a way.”
“Hey,” one of the men shouted. “Let’s get about it.”
They exchanged looks one last time and then bolted to their assigned tasks. Roswell was prepared to leave with the message for help almost instantly, though Matt tried to slow him with instructions for swift travel that the man did not need. Stephen departed a short time later with a healthy troop of men selected by Bruce. It was hard for him to know whether to choose the strongest or weakest of them, for he couldn’t know where Trent would be found vulnerable. He tried to select half of each.
Matt fairly blanched as his assigned partner faced the remaining guard. He had hoped Derek would prove inept, but he seemed bent on a high reward and wished to please his master well. “We are set to secure Dearborn against Wescott, who even now rides toward us to fight. Lest we forget all, we will not man the walls and stations but lie low by the road and hit him unawares. He intends to surprise us and take Dearborn, laddies, but ‘twill be otherwise. Master Kerr promises a rich reward for the bloke to lay the fatal blow.”
Matt nearly panicked as he heard the men cheer as if ready for a good fight. Of course it was their best fighting; striking an unknowing victim from behind.
“I will be certain the house is secure, nonetheless,” Matt said. Then hurrying away before he met with argument, he fled toward the manor.
Within he found the house dark and quiet. He moved stealthily through the halls and looked quickly within each room, trying to build a plan. The stables were well manned and he could not easily take a horse and get on the road. Even at his heartiest run, he would not reach Trent in time. Then he looked within the study and saw Lord Kerr’s gruesome form and the disheveled room. So Stephen had already killed him and planned to blame Trent. He gulped hard, thinking this could be his last night too if he didn’t prove to be very clever. He tilted the candle on the desk and flamed the draperies. Then he touched the light to tapestries and curtains in the sitting room, parlor, and dining room. “Burn, you old monster,” he muttered. The smell of smoke began to rise, and he flung the candle into an open hearth and ran to the kitchen, wildly ringing the dinner bed.
“Out of the house. Clear the manor. We are under attack. Fire. Fire.”
Jocelyn sat on a comfortable daybed with her son at her breast and watched with glowing eyes as her husband wrote letters at a desk in their common sitting room. She was recovering from the birth and finally moved about with some agility, but she still took cautious steps and long, indulgent naps.
Trent occasionally looked up to catch her watching him and he would smile in contentment, for since the birth their life together had been calm and quiet. The single threat was an uprising from Dearborn, and each day passed with no word.
Jocelyn sighed and rose to put her babe in the nearby cradle. She hummed and rocked him for a few moments until his sleeping gurgles signaled his peaceful sleep. There was a light tapping at the door and she followed Trent as he moved to open it.
“There’s a messenger from Lord Kerr,” Avery said. “He’d speak to no one but yourself and the lad is shaken with some bad news.”
Trent looked quickly over his shoulder and, without a word, fled the room and was instantly down the stairs. Jocelyn followed with like panic, though somewhat more cautiously. Her heart began to beat at a fearful pace as she descended and heard them in the foyer.
“He sent me straightaway to you, milord. He asks for arms at Dearborn and says to tell you there is trouble and he fears for his life.”
“Who attacks Dearborn?” Trent insisted loudly.
“I don’t know, milord. Lord Kerr sent me straightaway before I could see the trouble. When I was riding away I heard shouting and screams and saw men running about the manor grounds.”
“Could it be your own troop?” Trent asked. “Could it be Stephen rising up against his father?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, tell me, man, how did Lord Kerr approach you? Did he come to your quarters?”
“Yes,” he began, and then thinking hard on it, changed his story. “Well, he sent a page for me, asked for me by name, he did, and bid me take a horse and come to you straightaway. I been with him a long time, milord.”
Trent looked at Avery. “It’s Kerr trying to roust his son out of Dearborn. We knew he would not go silently. Where was your troop when Kerr instructed you to come here?” he asked the messenger.
“Most of them were in the quarters, some with Master Kerr. I don’t know what they were about. Lord Kerr asked that you hurry.”
Trent’s jaw flexed in an uneasy tension. He suddenly grasped the messenger by the front of his coat and raised him to a height equal to his own. “If Kerr waits for me on yon road, man, you will die a very slow death.”
“I swear, milord, I know nothing of Master Kerr,” he insisted.
“Tie him and hold him,” Trent instructed Avery. “I have yet to trust anything out of Dearborn. Until I see this with my own eyes, I will be wary.”
He turned the man over to Avery and started up the stairs. Jocelyn stopped him with a panicked look in her eyes. “Where do you go?” she insisted.
“I will ride with a few men to Dearborn, but I will not be sleeping prey to any notion of Master Kerr’s. I will ride behind my men and not on any expected route. And you will not be left ill-tended here.” He looked over his shoulder to below, where Avery was grasping the messenger’s arm. “Ready a few good men and horses...and Avery, you know where to find Sir Troy if there is need.”
“What should we do?” Jocelyn asked.
“Where are the children?”
“Asleep,” she replied.
“Then leave them sleeping, but Avery can put Peter to some use running errands and readying horses. In another year he may ride with me.”
“Trent, perhaps you should send someone and—”
“I gave my word, Jocelyn. I will abide by it. By morning Stephen Kerr will be either jailed or dead. He will not be given another chance to do injury.”
NINETEEN
Jocelyn’s first instinct was to see that her baby slept. She took him quickly to the cradle in her own chamber and tucked him in there, where he would be safe even if she could not stay close at hand. Trent entered her room moments later, speaking to her quietly while he attached his whip, broadsword, and knife under his massive black cloak. She watched this with fear in her eyes, and forbidding herself from crippling him with her own panic, she looked away.
Her eyes lit on the tapestry and Lady Anne; she looked there almost intuitively for strength. Often, when she was indecisive or worried, she would glance at the family scene and feel a certain warmth and understanding. In a rare moment, it appeared that the woman looked directly at her from across the dimly lit room. Jocelyn felt her mouth begin to open and she strained her eyes to clear the image, for she always remembered the woman’s head as bent to the boy in the scene.
“Jocelyn?” Trent said. She turned to look at him. “Look to Avery for anything you need. He can both pull together a troop and sense danger before it arrives.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Of course.”
“Rest easy, lady,” he said. Then he turned and left the room quickly.
Jocelyn looked back at the tapestry and had no trouble making out the woman’s image...and she was bent to give the boy her attention as always. Jocelyn moved toward the piece filled with an eerie sensation. She gently touched the threads and felt a comforting strength and peace wash over her. She w
ould never mention it lest someone think she’d gone mad, but she was convinced that for a brief moment Lady Anne looked at her. “Stay with him on the road, lady,” she murmured. “And I will guard his house and son.”
She watched from her window as Trent and his riders went out and then called Enid, instructing her to move Sarah and Warren into her chamber and stay with them and the baby. Below she found Avery and took him quickly into her confidence.
“Let’s not wait for trouble here, Avery. Have the household alerted, but keep the candles burning low. Every servant here within can hold some weapon, however crude. If someone approaches, I would not have them think us ready. And gather the remaining men to stand watch and man the doors and outbuildings. I fear there is a plot afoot.”
“Aye, mum,” he said, about to leave quickly to do her bidding. “And Avery, when you have a moment—”
She was stopped by a knock at the door and the two of them instantly sucked in their breath in sudden fear. The knock came again and Avery moved cautiously nearer.
“Who calls?” he demanded.
“Adrienne,” the feminine voice replied. “Adrienne Bougart, of Dearborn.”
Avery looked to Jocelyn and she gave a slight nod. He opened the door and nearly closed it again quickly when he saw she was flanked by three men. “Please, sir,” she pleaded, her hand coming against the door. “I must see Lord Wescott. It is urgent.”
“Let her come in,” Jocelyn instructed.
Avery let the foursome enter. “Trent is not here, madam,” Jocelyn said firmly. “What is your business?”
“I have to find him immediately. I have to warn him about Stephen. My uncle...oh, my uncle may be in danger this very moment.”
“He is warned of Stephen and rides now to aid your uncle at Dearborn.”
“Then he knows?” Adrienne asked.
