by Speer, Flora
The four of them were just leaving the chamber when Lord Oliver and Lady Marjorie appeared at the door. Marjorie looked frantic and Jenia could see traces of tears on her cheeks.
“My lord king,” Oliver declared, stepping boldly forward, “I beg your permission to join my son on his journey.”
“Do you, indeed?” Henryk looked from Oliver to Roarke. “What do you say to that idea?”
“Lord Oliver and I discussed the matter last evening,” Roarke responded in his chilliest tone. “When we parted, I understood that he had agreed to remain here at court, in case you have need of him while we are gone.”
“I have thought better of the matter overnight,” Lord Oliver insisted. “I woke this morning knowing that I ought to be with my son.”
“I can see no reason for you to be included,” King Henryk told him.
“Thank you, my lord,” Marjorie cried. “I have tried and tried to convince my dear husband that his first duty lies with you, but he refuses to listen to me.”
“Be quiet, Marjorie,” Lord Oliver ordered. To King Henryk he added, “Of course, I know where my first duty lies, my lord. But I feel I owe this much to my son.”
“No,” Roarke stated firmly, “you do not. King Henryk, I beg you to command my father to remain here at Calean.”
“The matter is settled, then,” the king declared. “Lord Oliver, you will remain with me, and with your lady wife.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Marjorie whispered.
“But, Roarke,” Lord Oliver protested, ignoring the king’s deep frown at hearing his command overruled, “I ought to be at your side. I know I’ve failed you in the past. Allow me to make up for my defection.”
Jenia saw Roarke hesitate and she guessed that he was deciding exactly how to word his reply. She knew him well enough by now that she did not doubt he would refuse the request made by his rather foolish parent. Still, he would not quarrel in the king’s presence. He’d be diplomatic, and he’d try to appease his father’s eagerness. She watched him take a long breath before he responded to Lord Oliver.
“Father,” Roarke said, and Jenia knew he hadn’t used that endearing term for many years, “King Henryk needs you here, with him. Your wife and children need you nearby. I am trusting you to see to the king’s safety, in case we stir up unexpected trouble and someone attempts to harm him.”
“You trust me to protect the king?” Lord Oliver blinked hard, as if his eyes were suddenly moist. Then he embraced Roarke, who stood rigid and proud at the parental onslaught until, at last, his arms clasped the older man’s shoulders for the briefest possible moment.
“You may depend on me,” Lord Oliver said when Roarke had stepped back from him. “And you, too, my lord king. I vow, I will not fail either of you.”
“All the same,” Roarke muttered to Jenia as soon as his father turned aside to bid farewell to Lord Giles, “I will never again entrust any woman to his care. What’s more, from certain rumors I’ve heard among the knights and squires, and from what I’ve seen of Marjorie in the past two days, I expect her to take a younger lover when my father grows too old to please her any longer. I thank heaven that will be their problem and not mine. I will quarrel no more with that frivolous pair and I intend to stay well away from them.”
“What about Lan?” Jenia asked, thinking of the clever little boy who, at five years of age, was able to outsmart both of his parents.
“I will keep Lan in mind over the next few years and I’ll make certain he comes to no harm,” Roarke promised. “Perhaps, when Lan is old enough, Garit will take him on as a squire.”
“Marjorie may be able to convince Garit to do just that,” Jenia murmured. “Look, Roarke; I do believe she’s making up with her brother.”
Marjorie was embracing Garit, kissing him on both cheeks and urging him to take good care of himself.
“Please, let us be reconciled before you ride into danger,” Marjorie cried. “Garit, your rejection six years ago nearly broke my heart.”
“That is over, Marjorie,” Garit told her. “In a world in which love can be killed in an instant, family feuds make no sense at all. I know that now.”
“People may die,” Marjorie said, smiling through the tears that ran freely down her cheeks. “Love never dies. Love lives on, Garit. Dead though Chantal is, she still loves you. I am certain of it.”
“Thank you, Marjorie.” Garit hugged his sister, then hastily extricated himself from her clinging arms.
“I’d like to take issue with her assumption that she knows what Chantal’s spirit is thinking and feeling,” he said to Jenia in a soft voice, “but this time I prefer to depart from her on a peaceful note.”
“Wise man,” Jenia responded with a smile. “I am glad to see you speaking to her. Marjorie loves you and she has missed you sorely. She told me so yesterday.”
“Did she?” Garit looked back at his sister, who was clinging to Lord Oliver’s arm and looking up at him with unconcealed adoration. “Well, perhaps we’ll grow close again, in time. Shall we leave now?”
Jenia cast a final glance toward the anteroom, noting that Sir Durand had slipped away as quietly as he had arrived. Lord Oliver and Marjorie apparently hadn’t noticed him at all, though Jenia was sure the king knew exactly when his secret agent had gone, and where. Before she could join Roarke and Garit in the corridor, Lord Serlion appeared at her side.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” the mage murmured, “what happened to the court gown you were wearing on the night when you were abducted?”
“I don’t know,” Jenia answered, a bit surprised by the question. “When I wakened in the dungeon cell, the gown was gone, along with the jewelry I’d been wearing. Chantal thought our captors had stolen it to sell.”
“That was my thought, too,” Serlion said. “If those belongings can be found, they might provide useful evidence about who was responsible for seizing you and your cousin.”
“After so long?” Jenia asked.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Serlion’s smile concealed a world of secrets.
“Chantal had hidden a few pieces in her maid’s gown,” Jenia said. “She gave me a plain gold chain and simple earrings to wear so we could continue our pretense of reversed identities. But the men who killed her and carried me aboard their ship snatched them away. Still, that wasn’t so long ago. You may have better luck looking for them.”
“I’ll see what I can do. We will meet again soon, Jenia,” Serlion promised. One long, slender finger touched her forehead in the lightest possible caress. “Your grandfather would be proud of your valiant heart.”
Though it was not the direct route to Thury, they took the road from Calean City to Auremont, where they would spend the night and collect the extra men-at-arms that Garit was providing. The squires whom Lord Giles had brought to Calean and half a dozen of his men-at-arms from Nozay rode with them, as well as Roarke’s squire, Elwin, and Garit’s man, the ever-dour Anders.
“As I mentioned yesterday, I have received word from a trustworthy person that Lady Sanal is currently in residence at Thury,” Lord Giles remarked to his companions as soon as they were in the open countryside and could speak without wondering who might possibly overhear and report on their conversation. “Since Walderon never allows his wife much freedom, if Sanal is at Thury, we are likely to find Walderon there, too.”
“When you speak of my Aunt Sanal, I think you must know her,” Jenia said.
“Since she was a girl,” Lord Giles responded with an odd little smile.
“I never heard her mention you,” Jenia said in some surprise, “and you never visited Thury while I was there. I’m sure I would remember you, my lord.”
“I have kept well away from Thury since Walderon moved there after he became Chantal’s guardian. Walderon trusts no one except, perhaps, his son who holds Catherstone for him. I, on the other hand, have often been told that I trust too easily,” Lord Giles added, with that same odd smile still curving his lips.
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“Given a choice, I much prefer you over Uncle Walderon,” Jenia told him. “Even if he proves not to be responsible for Chantal’s death and my imprisonment, my uncle is still a most unpleasant person, who has misused his Power.”
“I am well aware of Walderon’s reprehensible character, and of what he has done to his Power,” Lord Giles said.
They arrived at Auremont in time for the midday meal. After eating, while Roarke and Garit discussed with Sir Ronal, the seneschal, which men-at-arms were to travel to Thury and while Lord Giles was seeing to his own men and squires, Jenia took herself off to the garden. There she sat on the stone bench, leaned her back against the trunk of the pear tree, and let her thoughts drift to Chantal.
“You’d like this place,” she whispered to her departed cousin. “Garit insists I must sleep in your bedchamber again tonight. He says no other room in Auremont is fit for a lady to occupy. He wouldn’t think so if he’d ever seen our dungeon cell.”
That harsh memory jolted her mind onto a fresh path. She knew she must rethink the events of the last half year. Having finally understood that King Henryk was not a murderous villain, she now had to give serious consideration to Garit’s claim that Walderon was responsible for Chantal’s death. Despite Chantal’s repeated declarations that she’d rather die than marry Lord Malin, Walderon could have forced her to comply with his wishes by threatening Jenia, or Garit. He could even have used his Power to compel Chantal’s obedience, for she possessed no inherited Power.
So, if he could get what he wanted without resorting to violence, why would he order his nieces abducted and murdered? Did he want them dead because he coveted Thury, and Gildeley, too? He already held Catherstone along with several other estates. Jenia knew her uncle was ambitious, but could ambition justify the murder of blood kin? Walderon must have known he’d face a dreadful punishment if his crime was ever discovered. That meant there must be some other reason for what Walderon had done, if he was the guilty party. What could the reason be?
Jenia sighed in frustration. Then she took a long, slow breath and tried to relax and stop thinking.
A passing breeze stirred the branches above her head. A blue and brown bird landed on the sundial and perched there to groom its feathers. The garden was blessedly silent, all the noise and chatter of castle life shut out by the stone walls enclosing the small, sheltered space. The late day sun was warm. Her eyelids fluttered shut.
A fat, ripe pear plopped into her lap, startling her into wakefulness. She caught the fruit before it fell to the ground and sat there staring at it.
“Chantal?” She looked up into the tree branches. They were still now, without the faintest breeze to ruffle their autumn-hued leaves. Other pears hung from the branches, but she could see none that looked ripe enough to eat. “Chantal, are you here?”
She received no external answer, yet inwardly she experienced the same peace and strength she had felt as she walked through the royal audience chamber to confront King Henryk.
At that moment, if someone had asked her, Jenia could not have honestly said whether Chantal’s spirit was with her there in the garden, or whether what affected her was her own imagination coupled with the pain she was feeling at the knowledge that she must let her beloved cousin go. She knew at some point she would have to release Chantal and let her fade from a compelling presence into a dear, yet distant memory. So would Garit have to let her go. But not yet. Neither of them was ready yet.
“Stay with me just a short time more,” she whispered. “Just until I complete my quest.” She sat very still for long moments, but heard no answer.
Finally, still holding the pear, she left the garden, knowing she’d very likely never see it again. She felt no sorrow at the realization, only a continuing sense of peace.
She told no one about her hour in the garden, for the emotions of the last two days suddenly caught up with her, leaving her half asleep as she sat at the evening meal.
“You need to rest,” Roarke told her. “You look like a worn-down soldier the day after a great battle.”
“Thank you very much,” she muttered. When she tried to glare at him, she discovered that she was too tired, so she yawned instead.
Roarke took her to her bedchamber and there handed her over to the maidservant who had attended her on her previous visit.
“Stay with me,” Jenia whispered to him.
“If I do, you won’t be fit to ride tomorrow.” To the maidservant he added, “Put my lady to bed and make certain she’s not disturbed.” He kissed Jenia tenderly and left her with a smile.
Too sleepy to protest, she placed the still uneaten pear on the windowsill before she submitted to the servant’s care. In the morning she ate the pear, now a bit overripe and with a small bruise on one side, along with the bread and cheese and the ale the maidservant brought to her.
Chapter 16
Well mounted and heavily armed with swords and Sapaudian lances, the troop of fifty men and Jenia left Auremont in early morning under a grey and lowering sky. They headed east, into a cold wind that swept down from the Nalo Mountains. By late afternoon Jenia was thoroughly chilled. Her fingers and toes were growing numb, as was her nose, which dripped constantly. She refused to complain. Her discomfort did not matter, not when she was driven by the hope and expectation of finding Walderon and of learning what he knew about Chantal’s fate.
At nightfall, with several hours of riding still ahead of them, they stopped at a stream in the Old Forest. While the squires watered the horses and several of the men laid a fire and began to prepare their evening meal, Roarke helped Jenia down from her mount. He held her by the waist, steadying her until she got her balance on icy feet.
“Will you be all right?” he asked her.
“Of course, I will.” She wasn’t going to admit to him just how cold and miserable she was. Roarke believed she was brave and she wasn’t going to provide any reason for him to change his opinion of her. She did have an urgent request, though. She peered through the gloom before making it. “Roarke, we haven’t stopped since midday. I need to retire into the bushes for a few moments.”
“I’ll stand watch,” he offered, adding when she opened her mouth to protest, “with my back turned. If any animal, or any person, appears to frighten you, just scream.”
“Thank you.” She made for a particularly thick group of bushes that seemed to offer the dense cover that modesty required. Behind her a small fire flared as the men continued their evening preparations. Telling herself to hurry lest she miss the discussion of exactly when and how they were going to approach Thury Castle, she picked her way through the underbrush. It was quite private, and with Roarke nearby she felt perfectly safe.
She had finished and was straightening her skirts when a rustling in the crisp, early autumn foliage drew her attention. Peering in the direction of the sound, she opened her mouth to call to Roarke. She thought better of the idea when she perceived no hint of a threat, nothing to indicate an animal or a human was stalking her. Unable to see much through the deepening shadows of dusk, she simply stood still and waited.
The rustling came again, this time accented by a small sob that sounded to Jenia as if it had been swiftly smothered. Apparently, whoever was making the noises did not want to be found. It could be someone spying on them, but Jenia thought she detected fear in that single sob.
“Hello?” she called softly, knowing she really ought to alert Roarke, yet loathe to do so. Surely, a person bent on harming her wouldn’t be sobbing. Nor did Jenia know of any animal that would cry in that way. She spoke again. “Who’s there? Are you hurt? Or lost?”
Still no response, and Jenia found renewed courage in the continued lack of any clear threat.
“If you mean no harm, come into the firelight where we can see you. We have food and if you are as cold as I am, you will be glad of the fire’s warmth.”
“Dear heaven above,” came a strangely familiar voice. “It cannot be. Are you a ghost, come to torm
ent me for my sins?”
“Who are you?” Jenia demanded. More worried than alarmed, she raised her voice. “Roarke, I think you’d better come quickly.”
“What’s wrong?” He was beside her in an instant.
“Someone is hiding just over there. But wait, please.” She caught at his arm to prevent him from rushing in the direction she indicated. The rustling sound came again, more distinctly this time, though a bit farther away, as if the person making the noise was trying to leave the vicinity as quickly and quietly as possible. “Whoever it is has been crying and is apparently afraid to show herself.”
“Herself?”
Jenia could just make out Roarke’s puzzled expression in the shadows.
“From the voice I heard, I think it’s a girl or a woman,” she said. “Possibly, she’s lost. Certainly, she will be cold.”
“Go back to the fire,” Roarke ordered. “Tell Garit what has happened and stay with him.” He set off toward the ever louder noises made by someone trying to hurry through the undergrowth in rapidly fading light.
Jenia was right behind him when he dove into a tiny clearing and made a grab at something there. A woman’s terrified shriek echoed among the trees. Immediately, alarmed shouts issued from the direction of the fire, where the other men were.
“Roarke, don’t hurt her,” Jenia cried.
“I told you to go back,” he said, sounding angry. “Don’t you know that women can be just as dangerous as men?”
“I am not dangerous!” his captive screamed, struggling against his grasp. “Unhand me at once!”
The accent was that of a noblewoman. Though the unknown lady managed to sound greatly annoyed, Jenia could detect the fear underlying her words. She knew from sad experience what self-control under such circumstances must cost a woman.
“We won’t hurt you,” Jenia promised. “Come to the fire and tell us why you are wandering about a forest on such a cold evening.”
