by Tamara Leigh
Lark nodded. “Your Nedy Plain is likely a commoner who blundered on the massacre and took advantage of it.”
But if a commoner, how had she come upon the gown she had worn when he chased her through the wood? It had fit as if made to her every curve. “Tell me of the castle bailey, Lady Lark. What did you see?”
“I paid little heed to anything but the woman my captor asked me to name.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A gown of homespun. An ugly thing and too large.”
Esther’s gown?
“And there was a knight who followed her as if she were of import.”
Sir Malcolm. Then it was at Castle Cirque she had been imprisoned, meaning this went beyond Cardell, meaning Jaspar may have determined to rid him of a wife. She had known of Edward’s plan to wed Fulke to Lady Lark when no other had. Could it be? Jaspar was many things not pleasant, but a murderer? “How did you escape?”
A smile slipped onto Lady Lark’s lips as if she found pleasure in the memory. “A stone from the sill was loose. I swung it and God’s hand guided it to the dark one’s head.”
And that eve Lady Jaspar had suffered what Fulke believed was one of her headaches. Coincidence? He strode to the tent flap. “Squire James!”
“My lord?”
“Bring me Sir Leonel.”
The squire turned and ran.
Fulke looked to where Nedy Plain sat with Arthur Crosley’s head in her lap. He dragged a harsh breath and told himself he was not jealous. Soon all would be revealed.
Curse Nedy Plain! He had given her a chance, and for it punishment would be given him. Leonel pumped his hand on his sword hilt as he followed Squire James across camp. If not that the squire had summoned him to Wynland, he would now be on his horse and headed away from Farfallow. What awaited him in the tent made his heart constrict.
He had been a fool to allow desire to bring him to the place he now found himself. When Nedy had tried to halt the confrontation between Wynland and Crosley, he ought to have mounted up and gone from here. Instead, he had followed her and been captivated by her acquaintance with Crosley. Fool!
Squire James lifted the tent flap.
Leonel pumped his hilt twice more, resolved he would not take his hand from it, and ducked inside. He looked first to the man whose presence dominated the tent. The hard set of Wynland’s face caused a thrill of fear to wind Leonel’s innards.
As the flap dropped behind him, he turned his gaze to the other occupants of the tent—John and Harold asleep on the pallet and the woman who sat beside them. He looked back at Wynland. “My lord?”
“Do you know Lady Lark, Sir Leonel?”
A lovely woman, though not beautiful like Nedy. Executing a bow, Leonel sought to compose his face while he kept it turned down. “’Tis my deepest regret we have not met, my lady.”
She pulled her mantle more closely around her shoulders, acknowledging him with a lowering of her lids.
Wynland stepped between them. “It has been learned that Lady Lark was imprisoned at Castle Cirque. What do you know of this?”
He jerked, sputtered. “How can that be, my lord? I would have known if the lady was at Castle Cirque.”
“And you did not?”
Was that him trembling? Did it show? “The lady is mistaken.”
“She is not.”
“Surely you cannot believe Jaspar capable of such an atrocity? ‘Tis true she wishes you for a husband, but this? I will not believe it.”
“If not you nor Jaspar, who?”
“I know not, my lord, but be assured that when I return to Castle Cirque I will discover the truth of it.”
“You will not be returning.”
Leonel felt every ridge and crevice of his wire-wrapped hilt. “You think ‘twas me.” Fear, powered by ire, thrust him forward a step. “For what would I do it? I bear this woman no ill and have naught to gain from her death.”
Wynland was so unmoving it was as if he had traded flesh for stone. “Perhaps, but until ‘tis known who held her at Castle Cirque, you shall remain with me.”
“I am to be your prisoner?”
“You may call it such, for which I shall apologize if ‘tis found you are innocent.”
What chance had he if he drew his sword? Leonel eyed the scabbard on Wynland’s belt that was marked by Crosley’s blood. No chance.
“This night I shall send an escort to deliver Lady Jaspar to Brynwood Spire that we may hear what she has to say,” Wynland said. “Now leave your weapons and go.”
Such indignity he was made to suffer, but what else could he do? Loathing making a meal of him, he unfastened his sword belt. “You are wrong, my lord.” He lowered the belt to the ground and dropped his dagger alongside. “As you will soon learn.”
“’Tis my hope.”
The sincerity of Wynland’s words were a balm to Leonel’s resentment, though slight. He turned away.
“Sir Leonel.”
He halted but did not look around.
“Do you think to flee, I will take it as proof of your guilt and hunt you to ground.”
“Worry not, my lord. I have no reason to run.” He stepped outside, closed his eyes on the night, and felt death’s breath on his neck. All would be well. Jaspar would convince Wynland that neither she nor her cousin had committed the heinous crime. But how to explain Lady Lark’s stay in the oubliette?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She was returning as a prisoner. So different from when she had first marveled at the splendor of Brynwood Spire.
Kennedy considered Fulke where he rode ahead. Lady Lark was at his side, as was to become her permanent place once they were married. As for John and Harold, the former rode with Fulke, the latter with the lady. From time to time, Kennedy caught the sound of their high-pitched voices, but it was as near as she got to the boys. Fulke kept them as far from Mac as possible.
“Take the reins,” Mac rasped.
She looked around and saw that perspiration coursed his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I have a fever.” His lids fluttered. “Take the reins, Ken.”
She caught them up and was grateful for the instruction Fulke had given her, brief though it had been. “Hold on, Mac, it’s not much farther.”
He leaned more heavily against her back as he had done by degree throughout the ride. Kennedy tried to take her mind off the burden and her concern for Mac by rehashing last night’s conversation with him. She had told him all that had transpired since her first journey here and done her best to convince him of Fulke’s innocence. But with equal zeal, Mac had tried to convince her she wasn’t dreaming. Though she continued to deny it, the doubt he planted was sprouting, reaching to the sun, daring to hope for sweet rain. And perhaps it would come, providing she was able to convince Fulke to give her the time of day. Though Mac was still not entirely convinced of Fulke’s innocence, he said the wyvern was the key and insisted she tell Fulke about it. But how could she when he wouldn’t look her way?
Shortly, they reined in before the keep where Fulke’s brother, mother, and sister hurried forward to accept John and Harold as they were handed down.
“We’re here, Mac,” Kennedy said. When he didn’t raise his head from her shoulder, she shifted around. “Mac?”
He slid sideways, but though she grabbed for him, he slipped through her hands and landed hard on the ground.
“Mac!” She scrambled off the horse, dropped down beside him, and thanked God when she saw the flare of his nostrils.
The others who had dismounted moved in, their shadows closing around Kennedy and Mac.
She tossed her head back and glared. “Back, you vultures! Give him room.”
They stared.
She curled her hands into fists and started to rise.
“Stand back!” Fulke commanded.
Sunlight falling once more on Mac, Kennedy met Fulke’s gaze. It pierced her.
Lady Lark pushed past Fulke. “He is dead?” Concern drew her
eyebrows together.
For the first time, Kennedy looked fully into the face of the woman she had played, the one who had befriended Mac when he had gone to court. Seeing how strikingly different she was from Lady Lark, Kennedy wondered how she had gotten away with impersonating her.
“Is he?” Lady Lark asked again.
Kennedy returned her attention to Fulke. “No, but he’s very ill. He needs a doctor.”
Marion appeared and dropped to her knees beside Mac. “Arthur,” she called, “’tis Marion.” She stroked the hair back from his brow and pressed her cheek to his forehead. When she looked to Kennedy, her eyes were moist. “What happened, Lady Lark?”
“She is not Lady Lark,” Fulke said, “but one who calls herself Nedy Plain.”
Though confusion wound her face, Marion said, “He is in a fever, Fulke.”
He had the grace to struggle with his enmity, jaw convulsing and hands turning into fists. “Take them to the tower.” He turned away.
Hands dragged Kennedy upright. “No, Fulke, please!”
He didn’t falter.
She looked to Marion. “Talk to him. Don’t let him do this. Mac—Arthur—will die if he doesn’t get help.”
“I will speak to him. I will.”
Kennedy was thrust opposite the keep. Shortly, a hand between her shoulder blades launched her into a small, round room at the top of one of two towers that guarded the entrance to the inner bailey. She looked around at the scant hay on the stone floor, a stool in one corner, and a pot in the other. There were six windows, if they could be called that. Evenly spaced around the perimeter, they were eighteen inches high and all of a hand wide.
A shuffling sound announced the arrival of those who conveyed Mac. The two men laid their burden at the rear of the room and withdrew, then the soldier who had brought Kennedy closed the door with a finality that made her wince.
She knelt beside Mac. He was pale, his cheeks chill. She examined his leg. The bandage was dark with dried blood, the glistening at the center evidence that the wound was bleeding again, likely from his fall.
Kennedy freed the knot with which she had tied off the bandage and carefully lifted Mac’s leg to unwind her shredded chemise. The bit of light from the slotted windows showed the injury more clearly than the moon had done. The six inches that sliced diagonally across his upper thigh was ghastly, fresh blood flowing over festered skin.
“All right, then, we do it again.” She lifted her skirt, grasped the remains of her chemise, and began to tear.
It was her again. “For what do you once more invade my chamber?”
The tapestry flopped against the wall. “Brooding, brother?”
Fulke sank deeper into the chair and stared harder at the flames. “Where are John and Harold?” Try though he did to forget the boys’ fiery deaths of which Crosley had spoken, he could not. The boys were safe, he told himself. It was only a game Crosley and Nedy played.
Marion rounded his chair. “They are in the garden. Mother and. . .Lady Lark are with them.”
He stared through her as if she did not obstruct his view of the fire. “And what does mother think of this Lady Lark?”
“She likes her little better than the first.”
That would change once she was told this one was of royal, albeit misbegotten, blood. Providing he told her. And for what? There would be no marriage.
Marion sank to her knees before him. “Myself, I like the first better—Nedy Plain, is it not?”
If the woman was not lying about that. “Why do you steal into my chamber, Marion?”
“He needs a physician, Fulke. I beg you, send one.”
It was a long time since he had seen her so steadfast—as if the madness was gone from her. He reached forward and cupped her jaw. “You believe yourself in love with him?”
She looked down. “I feel for him as I have not felt for another.”
Fulke believed her, having thrice taken her back when those with whom she was to have made a marriage rejected her. Where had her madness gone? “Does he feel for you as you feel for him?”
Hope brightening her eyes, she nodded.
“He has told you this?”
“Not in words, but I know ‘tis so. The way he looks at me, the things he—”
“You are a fool.” Fulke dropped his hand from her. “Crosley cares only for himself.” Just as Nedy cared only for herself in spite of her words of love.
“You’re wrong.” Marion grabbed his hand. “Arthur is a good man.”
She saw only through the eyes of depraved love. He pulled his hand free. “Did you know they are acquainted—Sir Arthur and Nedy Plain?”
“’Tis as she told us when first she came.”
“As Lady Lark she told us—said they met at court. All lies, Marion.” He sat forward. “Do you not think it a puzzlement how this woman came to pretend herself a lady—as Crosley pretends himself a knight? ‘Tis not to be slighted, especially as they may have been party to the attack on Lady Lark.” Not that he could make any connection between them and Castle Cirque.
Marion’s mouth dropped open. “It cannot be. As Arthur is mistaken in believing ill of you, you are mistaken in believing ill of him and Nedy.”
“He stole John and Harold!”
She sat back on her heels. “Never did he seek to harm them, only to protect.”
“From me!”
She winced. “He did not know better. I tell you again, he is a good man.”
The next words were past Fulke’s lips before he could think better of them. “Even were it so, Marion, do you think he would be with you, a woman thrice betrothed, thrice returned?”
Her mouth trembled, but eyes held steady—no shifting as they did when her madness was broached.
And Fulke knew what he had refused to acknowledge all these years. Relief, intertwined with anger, pushed through him. “You are not mad, are you, Marion? ‘Tis merely a game.”
She rose and turned to the fire.
Fulke gripped the arms of his chair. Aye, a game he had allowed her to play to keep her dreams alive long after his own had died. Far easier to accept her mind was bent than force her into a loveless marriage. He was weak, the military genius that had gained him a place at the Black Prince’s side rendered laughable.
“At least I stayed true,” Marion said, her voice so soft it was nearly lost in the crackle of fire. “I did not forsake the vow I made myself.” She turned. “But you will, won’t you? You’ll let her go, tell yourself you feel naught for her, won’t allow yourself to believe there is good in her.”
The chair creaked beneath Fulke’s grip.
“When you are ready to die, you will be alone and bitter, but you will remember her and, if you are honest, regret what you do now.”
He shoved to his feet. “Speak no more of that woman.”
“I have said all.” She stepped forward. “Now, for the love of your sister, I beseech you to send the physician.”
He crossed to the wash basin and splashed water on his face.
“Fulke, do you care at all for me—”
“The physician has been sent, Marion.” He dragged a towel down his face.
“He is with Arthur?” she squeaked.
“Aye, but do not think I did it for the foolish love you bear him.”
“I would not dare think it.” She gave a knowing smile. “’Tis most obvious you did it for love of the woman you deny yourself.”
Fulke caught back his impassioned denial. He did not need to explain himself to anyone. Least of all yourself. “Be gone, Marion, and stay away from the tower.”
Sparkling eyes telling she had no intention of heeding his command, she started toward the tapestry.
“Use the door, Marion.”
She turned back, opened the door, and paused. “I thank you for not slaying Arthur.” She exaggerated a frown. “Or is it Nedy Plain I ought to thank?” She yanked the door closed behind her.
With a string of curses, Fulke slung the t
owel to the table and strode to the door. Though his brother had assured him all was in order at Brynwood, surely there were matters to attend to. For the first time since attaining wardship of his nephews, he hoped there were.
“Can you save it?”
The physician sighed. “If ‘tis not removed, he will likely die.”
Kennedy stared at the bared wound. “No, he’ll die if he loses it.” And as much as she feared for Mac, she knew he would never forgive her if she allowed to be taken from him the one thing that connected him to life.
“Do you not understand what I have said?” The physician’s brow grew weightier. “Does he not—”
“I said no. Just stitch it closed and dress it.”
“Very well, but his death is upon you.”
“I accept that.”
He opened his bag and removed various implements and jars of whatever primitive substances he intended to use.
Kennedy sat beside Mac throughout, watching as his severed flesh was sewn closed. Thankfully, he remained unconscious, the only signs of life a groan, some muttering, and an abundance of perspiration.
The physician applied a pungent salve to his handiwork, carefully wrapped Mac’s thigh in clean linen, and unstoppered a jar. He took a pinch of its powdered contents and slipped it between Mac’s teeth. “For the pain and fever.” He handed the jar to her. “Thrice a day.”
“Anything else?”
“Does he awaken, keep him still.”
“You’ll be back?”
“This eve.”
“Thank you.”
He left the tower room and the guard locked the door behind him. However, not five minutes passed before the door swung inward.
As with the physician’s earlier entrance, Kennedy’s heart rushed, but it wasn’t Fulke who entered. It was Marion, followed by two women servants whose arms were ladened.
Kennedy jumped up. “The physician just left.”
“We passed on the stairwell.” Marion looked to Mac, then to the servants. “The pallets and blankets there”—she pointed to the back wall as she stepped toward Mac—“the basin there, and—”
