At her side, Renald cleared his throat. “I’m certain your parents are fully aware of your presence at Rothwyn, my lady, but your reunion with them merits, no doubt, complete privacy.” He proffered an elbow. “My instructions are to take you to your mother’s chamber upon your arrival.”
Renald’s explanation made sense, and Lora grabbed at the comfort it offered. Still clutching her bag, she tucked her free hand into the crook of his arm, and allowed him to lead her indoors.
As the hefty door closed behind them, Lora breathed in the familiar air of her childhood. Rothwyn brandished a pungent bouquet of aromas; burning tallow, roasted meats, baking bread, mildewed walls, and musty tapestries. Other less pleasant odors hid behind scented masks of rosemary and thyme, as well as the sweet perfume of fresh rushes underfoot.
Memories, equally potent, flew out of the past, each accompanied by the sobering realization that none of them should ever have occurred. If I’m successful, all of them will cease to exist. Nay! Not if, but when. When the wish works. Don’t waver now. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t…
Blood rushed past her ears and the walls around her seemed to lean inward.
“Give me a moment, please,” she whispered, tugging on Renald’s sleeve. “I’m a little…”
“Overcome?” Renald placed a steadying hand at the small of her back. “’Tis to be expected, given the circumstances. Take your time.”
Take your time. The knight’s words seemed ironic, somehow. Although choose your time might have been more apt. Lora took several paced breaths, gathering her courage and her wits once more.
“I’m ready now,” she said at last.
Renald escorted Lora in silence to her mother’s chamber. At the doorway, he lifted her hand to his lips. “It has been an honor to escort you home, my lady,” he said, gazing at her with poorly disguised admiration. “Perhaps we shall speak later?”
“My thanks, Sir Renald. Yes, I’m sure we shall.”
She acknowledged a twinge of sympathy as she watched the knight walk away. His attraction to her, while perhaps flattering, was pointless. He couldn’t know that her destiny and his surely lay elsewhere.
Lora turned to face the door. Beyond it resided a woman whose true destiny had also been misplaced. A love lost. A child born. A secret guarded.
That child, after an absence of twelve years, had now returned. There was so much to share, so much to speak of. And secrets still to be guarded.
She raised a trembling hand, clenched her fingers, and knocked.
There followed a moment of profound silence, an acknowledgment, perhaps, that a timid tap on a door was the long-awaited answer to a mother’s prayer. Then a muffled response came from within, spoken in a familiar and beloved tone.
“Enter.”
Lora held her breath, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open.
As if seeking escape, sunlight tumbled across the threshold and tripped over her feet. It brought with it the sweet scent of thyme and roses, her mother’s unique essence, synonymous with love and comfort. Lora filled her lungs with the intimate elixir and stepped forward, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the mosaic of light and shadow.
The room was as she remembered. A canopied bed stood against the far wall, hung with moss-green velvet drapes edged in gold, and a hefty wooden chest at its foot. In the far-right corner stood a tall candle sconce adorned with pearls of amber beeswax. An ornately carved oak armchair occupied the left corner. By the window, against the adjacent wall, an escritoire partnered with another, more modest chair angled toward the door.
A woman stood motionless and silent beside the chair, but as their eyes met she released a soft cry, hands flying to her mouth as if to capture the sound. Lora froze, mind and limbs crippled by an unexpected wave of uncertainty. So many years had passed. So much time had been lost. How should she react? How could she bridge such a void? She searched her muddled brain for a greeting, one that might rightly express the intensity of this long-awaited reunion. In the end, she spoke but one word, the only word that mattered.
“Mama!”
An instant later, with no memory of crossing the floor, she found herself enveloped in her mother’s arms. Long starved of maternal comfort, she at once became a child again. “Mama,” she repeated, letting her bag fall to the floor. “I have missed you so.”
“I have missed you, too, my daughter,” Lady Elizabeth murmured, pressing a kiss to Lora’s hair. “God has answered my prayers at last. How was your journey home? Not too difficult, I hope?”
Lora breathed in her mother’s scent and snuggled closer. “Long, but no, not difficult.”
“Good. That’s good.” Her hands moved to cup Lora’s face. “Lift your head. Let me see the woman you’ve become. Ah, so beautiful! You truly have the look of…” She paused, tear-filled eyes darting to the open door. “Run and close it, dearest, before another word is shared between us.”
Lora nodded and obeyed, a tingle of anticipation trickling down her spine. They had many words to share. With a push, the door swung shut, forming a barrier against inquisitive and unwanted ears.
She returned and clambered onto the bed where her mother now sat. Settling herself, Lora took a moment to study the woman who had given her birth. Time and anguish, no doubt, had left subtle scars. Lady Elizabeth FitzGilbert appeared more delicate. Fragile, even. Fine lines mapped the translucent skin around her cornflower-blue eyes, currently rimmed red and still bright with tears. Sunlight picked out golden threads in her hair, but also a noticeable measure of silver that had not been there before.
“You look well, Lora, if perhaps a little weary.” The scrutiny had been reciprocated, it seemed. Her mother reached over and brushed her knuckles across Lora’s cheek. “I hope you haven’t been too unhappy. Your letters were pleasant, but somewhat impartial. Understandably cautious. They told me little of what was truly in your mind. I hope… I pray you’ve found it in your heart to accept certain…situations.”
The subtle request for affirmation plainly lingered behind her mother’s words, as did a need for reassurance that her child had not suffered too much. Lora had a simple answer. She burrowed into her pocket and tugged at the little pouch, pulling it free.
“Hold out your hand, Mama.”
“What’s this?” Her mother’s face took on a quizzical expression as the two small pebbles tumbled into the hollow of her palm. “Stones?”
Lora nodded. “Two of my most treasured possessions.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t understand. What is their significance?”
“The day I left Rothwyn, they fell from heaven and landed at my feet. I was in the wagon, thinking of you at the time, as I recall.”
“They fell from heaven?”
Lora chuckled. “Well, in truth, they were thrown at me by a guardian angel. It was his way of letting me know I wasn’t alone, that he was there, watching over me. He’s always been there, though, hasn’t he, Mama? Watching over me. Guiding me since the day I was born. As a loving father is supposed to do.”
Elizabeth gasped, closed her fingers around the pebbles, and pressed her fist over her heart. “Oh, dear God. Yes. Yes, he has always been there. Always. You were–are–his secret delight.”
Lora smiled. “I consider myself blessed to have been sired by such a man. He made my years at Whitestone more than bearable.”
“He’ll miss you terribly.” Elizabeth lowered her eyes and examined the pebbles again. “Did he speak of me on occasion?”
“He’ll be happy to know I’m returned to you.” Lora smiled again, trying to stifle a fresh threat of tears. “And yes, he spoke of you often, and always with love.”
“I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see him again. God knows, I thought I’d lost you both.” Elizabeth hiccupped on a sob. “Although, in truth, William being here at Rothwyn was both a blessing and a curse. To be so close to each other, to feel what we did and not be able to express it was torturous. We were always so fearful of ma
king a mistake, of raising suspicion. You were ours, but no one could ever know that. We were forced to live a lie. Indeed, I have lied to my husband every day! Worse yet, I lied to you. Please forgive me.”
“There’s naught to forgive. It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sure you’ll see him again someday, as will I.” Lora’s gaze drifted to the window, allowing her inner vision to travel beyond it and descend to a spot in the bailey, where a ring of pale stones encircled an ancient well. Like a flame to a moth, she felt the irresistible pull of it. She needed to go there, and soon. “Fate got it wrong, Mama.”
“I have oft thought the same thing, and Will—I mean, your father, was convinced of it.” Elizabeth sighed. “If only Godfrey hadn’t fallen from his horse that day and been brought to my father’s house, none of this would have happened. None of it.”
A prickle ran across Lora’s neck. Was her mother’s remark an affirmation of the wish?
“And how is the earl?” she asked. “Sir Renald was somewhat vague about the ailment.”
Elizabeth frowned. “It’s difficult to describe in precise terms. It’s like he carries some unseen burden. He rarely leaves his chamber anymore.”
“That’s what I’ve been told. Do you think he suspects the truth? About me not being his, I mean?”
“Oh, bless you, child, no.” She shook her head. “No, I’m certain he doesn’t. He could never harbor such a suspicion in silence.”
Lora wrinkled her nose. “I wonder what he means to tell me.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I did not dare ask, but I must assume he wishes to make his peace. Why else would he bring you back?”
“Perhaps he has forgiven me, then.” Lora tilted her head. “And what of you, my lady mother? Do you yet judge me? Or am I forgiven?”
“To echo my daughter, there’s naught to forgive.” She leaned in and kissed Lora’s cheek. “Your father told me how much you loved the stonemason. I must confess, though, to being thankful he did not leave you with child.”
She knew her mother meant no offense. The somewhat careless words were spoken as the result of erroneous beliefs. Still, Lora bristled inwardly like an irate cat, suppressing an urge to lash out and defend the truth of her virtue. She refused, however, to allow a precious memory to be diminished. Or her feelings.
“Gareth. His name is Gareth, Mama.” Her gaze turned back to the window. “And I still love him.”
Chapter 20
With questions still to be asked and answered, Lora sought out her chamber to await the earl’s summons. Crossing the threshold of what had once been her prison presented another challenge. Happy childhood memories shied away, repelled by a hoard of more recent, disquieting souvenirs, and Lora’s resolute spirit trembled a little.
With a sigh, she set her bag on the bed and glanced at the window, where daylight already showed signs of waning. Intent on confronting old memories, she wandered over to gaze out at the view, her mind digging up faded images and echoes. Harness jangling. The mocking buzz of men’s voices. Edward, astride his horse, looking up at her with his evil, knowing smile. She shuddered, wondering for a brief moment what had become of the man once intended as her husband.
Not that it matters. Nothing really matters anymore. Not here, anyway. This is all…redundant.
Her fingers traced the outline of the medallion between her breasts as she voiced a sudden and obvious reality. “So why am I waiting? I don’t have to speak with the earl. I can go to the well right now and make my wish. Change the past. Bring Gareth back. Make everything—”
“You must first choose your words.”
The voice, that of a female, seemed to leach from the surrounding air, its source undefined. Choking on a gasp, Lora spun round, her scalp prickling as she blinked into the growing shadows. How well she knew it, and how long it had been since she’d heard it. A pinch of relief eased her initial shock. Over the years, she’d come to question its actual existence, wondering if, in her sad state of despair, she’d merely imagined it.
“Who are you?” Lora cast her eyes around the empty room. “Will you tell me? Or…or show yourself. Can you do that? Please?”
But the shadows remained still and silent.
“And I have chosen my words,” she said, her tone challenging, “so there’s really no reason to prolong my time here, is there? It was you who told me I’m not even supposed to be here, right? Why do you not answer me?”
The continued silence seemed to mock her. With a cry of frustration, she fled, her feet guided by her heart, carrying her to the one place she both yearned and hesitated to be. To where a flawed past and an unknown future met. Where the one she loved had lain trapped in death for twelve years.
Can a gold medallion and a few pivotal words truly reset time and bring Gareth back?
“Yes,” she murmured, stumbling down the steps to the bailey, ignoring the curious glances of those she passed. “Yes, they can.” They must. If the earl had not fallen from his horse, I wouldn’t be here. That has to be the answer.
At the corner of the keep she paused, chest heaving, and squinted to where the well’s crown loomed out of the dusk. Abandoned and unfinished, a number of stones still sat on the ground, their pale shapes half buried by grass and weeds. Lora knew, if she counted, there would be just enough to add one more layer to the wall.
With a lump rising in her throat, she approached, trying not to think about the horror of that final night, or the bones, scattered without ceremony, somewhere below.
Instead, she focused on Gareth’s visit to the convent, the gentleness of his spirit, the sound of his voice. His faith in her, a faith that was about to be tested.
She sidestepped the scattered pieces and stood beside Gareth’s wall, which stood a little above knee height. Yellow scabs of lichen festered in the niches between clinging ivy vines that clambered here and there. The wooden cover had either rotted away or been removed, leaving the opening exposed. From far below came the sound of water, skipping along its ancient path. A path tainted by blood.
Lora ran a fingertip along an exposed line of mortar, feeling it turn to powder beneath her touch as she glanced around, assuring herself of solitude. Her gaze paused for a moment as it brushed across the armoury, its weathered wooden walls blending into nightfall. If memories were ghosts, she thought, spirits both good and evil haunted that inconspicuous building. She shook her head, fighting off the persistent threat of melancholy. She needed her mind to be clear. Focused. One chance was all she had, one wish, at last decided upon. Why, then, do I still feel…uncertain?
She shrugged it off. How could she fail? Time would change, of that she had no doubt. Her father and mother would wed as planned. She would be born. Most importantly, Gareth would be alive. Nothing else mattered, and no one else, as far as she could tell, would be affected, adversely or otherwise. No unforeseen consequences.
With another glance around the bailey, Lora pulled the medallion from its hiding place and lifted it over her head. Then she leaned forward and whispered into the opening. “Gareth, I am returned, my love. I have the medallion and I’ve decided upon my wish. Our wish. Soon you’ll be free from this cold tomb. I don’t know, though, if…if we’ll meet again. But if not…” She lifted her gaze to the sky, tears blurring her eyes as she clutched the medallion. “If not, please know that in this erroneous life, in this misplaced time, I loved you with all my heart. And I hope–I pray–destiny will give me the chance to do so again.”
She took a slow, deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. “Spirit of the well, please grant—”
“Be careful what you wish for, my lady.”
Lora let out a startled squeal, her hand flying to her mouth as she turned toward the owner of the voice. A strange voice, spoken by a strange man who stood a mere three or four strides away. Tall, he was cloaked and hooded like a monk, yet obviously not of the cloth. Neither old nor young, she thought, wondering at his age. His face, clean-shaven, appeared pale in the dusk, with wide eyes the color of
amber, unwavering as they watched her. Despite his somewhat unearthly appearance, Lora felt no threat from him.
“You frightened me, sirrah,” she said, gathering herself.
He inclined his head. “My pardon. I meant no harm. I heard you speaking to the well and confess to being curious, is all. Since all this…” he gestured toward Rothwyn’s mighty walls, “has been built, the sanctity of the well has largely been lost to memory. That does not mean, however, that its power has diminished. A wish, especially one spoken in faith, and from the heart, must be made with great care.”
Lora blinked as an odd tingle ran down her spine. “Is that a warning?”
He smiled. “Benevolent advice, my lady, assuming, of course, that your intended wish does indeed come from the heart.”
Something about the stranger engendered trust, yet Lora hesitated to confide in him.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing you here before.”
“You’ve been gone a long time,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the well. “I know your story, my lady. I know whose bones lie beneath our feet, and who is responsible for putting them there.”
Lora frowned. “I’m sure everyone at Rothwyn knows my story, although I suspect it is a corrupted version. I ask again, sir, who are you?”
“My name is Iorwerth.”
Something vague moved in the depths of her memory. “Iorwerth.” She nodded. “I do believe I’ve heard that name. Do you work at Rothwyn, then?”
A fleeting expression of amusement flashed across his face. “Not precisely. I’m well known to your father. A mentor to him, if you will.”
“Ah.” A friend of the earl. Not to be trusted, then. Lora felt an inexplicable pang of disappointment and surreptitiously tucked the medallion into her pocket. “I’ve not seen him since I returned. Is he suffering much today?”
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 19
