In the King’s huge lodging, Arucard discovered no garrison of soldiers. Instead, only the Sovereign waited. As customary, Arucard knelt, bowed his head, and pressed a fist to his chest.
“Rise, Sir Arucard.” As Arucard gained his feet, His Majesty displayed two parchments, one of which he passed to Arucard. “The burden of rule presents us with a seemingly endless supply of enemies in quest for our throne, and we must depend on our judgment to determine who we can and cannot trust. We art gratified to learn we can rely upon thee.”
Scanning the contents of the missive, Arucard clenched his teeth and simmered with rage, given the outright lies contained in the document. “Majesty, on my life, never have I—”
“Keep reading, Sir Arucard.” The King smiled and then poured two goblets of wine.
As he neared the closing, Arucard paused, sighed in relief, and then chuckled, as the traitor, in his zeal to deflect blame and condemn an innocent, had unwittingly provided too much information and all but heralded his own culpability. “The earl of Rochester knows naught of my affiliations or my history.”
“And therein lies his downfall.” His Majesty rubbed his chin and narrowed his stare. “At the time thou were supposed to have committed thy heinous infractions against our authority, thou were, in fact, our guest in White Tower. Thus thou could not have perpetrated the crimes of which thou dost stand accused. And Aeduuard de Cadby supports thy account of the skirmish in Chichester as an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Lord, be praised.” For the first time since departing Chichester Castle, Arucard relaxed. “Sire, if I may, I would like to ride for Rochester.”
“Sir Arucard, thither we have journeyed, since thou joined our caravan.” The revelation stunned Arucard, as the King descended his traveling throne and stretched upright. “And we would ask our Nautionnier knights to drive ahead, as we art but a day’s ride from thy wife’s childhood home.”
And Arucard could arrest the earl for offenses against the Realm, if not for Isolde’s abuse. At the prospect, he rejoiced. “Majesty, it would be my pleasure.”
#
It was just after dawn when Isolde emerged from her chambers, clothed in a green cotehardie and with her hair plaited. While most homes opted to forgo a morning meal, her father always demanded a sop, bread, and tea, so she prepared the fare, herself, to spare the cook and Margery any complaints. But she coveted other motives, as she preferred to keep him isolated, in the event her servants divulged precious information that might harm Arucard. So to avoid any additional protests, she delivered the food.
“Good morrow, Father.” She set the tray on the bedside table and turned to exit.
“Come in and pull up a chair, chitty-face, as I would have words with thee.” How she hated it when he called her that, but she would not protest and incite his anger, as she found comfort in his disdain. Garbed in a robe, he sat at the edge of the mattress and draped a blanket over his legs. “Wherefore hast thou not answered my last letter?”
“I did not realize it required a response, as thou didst not ask for one.” Given he thought her dull-witted, she saw no reason to disabuse him of the notion, especially when it aided her cause. So she would play her part to perfection and, mayhap, save her husband. “Art thou comfortable in thy accommodations? Is this not a grand castle? Sir Arucard hath many plans for improvements, we shall purchase new oak benches for the great hall, and I should love to plant roses in the spring.” Smoothing her skirts, she bounced. “And dost thou favor my new fashions?”
“Stupid girl, I did not travel hither to discuss the furnishings or thy attire.” He scowled, as sop trickled down his chin, and she yearned to vomit, but she maintained her false veil. “What hast thou learned of thy husband’s fortune? And how hath he earned the King’s favor?”
“I know not, Father.” She blinked and shrugged, but inside she laughed at his ignorance. “As Sir Arucard doth not discuss such things in my presence, as I am but a woman.” It physically hurt to proclaim such a falsehood, given Arucard shared everything with her, but Father would never learn her husband’s secrets from her. To reinforce her act, she giggled and toyed with the cuff of her sleeve, knowing such behavior would incite him. “Hast thou admired the tapestries? Art they not very fine? And hast thou noticed we have glazed windows? Is that not a wonder?”
“That thou art my issue is the wonder.” The ire in his tone left her shaking, as she feared a lashing. “Get thee gone, as thy mere existence annoys me.”
“Aye, Father.” He did not know it, but that was just what she wanted—his condescension and dismissal. If she could fool her father until her husband returned, she would survive. For good measure, she skipped to the door and added, “Have a lovely day.”
As expected, he didn’t even acknowledge her. So Isolde returned to the kitchen to plan supper. But just as she gathered the ingredients for her special herb bread, a soldier approached, and his expression conveyed ill tidings.
“My lady, a visitor is just arrived.” The guard shuffled his feet. “He claims an acquaintance with Lord Rochester, and the earl’s men permitted entry, despite our protests.”
“But thou didst make the right choice.” So many decisions had fallen to her judgment, and never had she foreseen assuming such responsibility prior to her marriage. And while Arucard had not written, she maintained their home and their people. Given her father’s troops outnumbered the garrison of Chichester, by a majority of two to one, Isolde had instructed her husband’s soldiers to yield, as she would not risk unnecessary violence. “Whither is our guest?”
“In the great hall, my lady.” The young soldier speared his fingers through his hair and sputtered. “It seems he expects thee to provide lodging.”
“Oh.” Fear sparked and grew, as she contemplated housing her father’s ally, and she loathed another villain in their midst, but she recalled her position and the power invested therein. “Then summon Margery and have her prepare an additional chamber.”
“Aye, my lady.” The guard saluted, and she laughed.
When she entered the primary seat of dining, drinking, and celebrating, she was surprised to find a tall and handsome man waiting. With the garb of a noble, ebony hair, and foreign features, the stranger gazed on her and smiled.
“Welcome to Chichester Castle.” She extended her hand, and he bowed and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “I am Lady Isolde de Villiers, the chatelaine.”
“I have heard much of thee, my lady.” When she attempted to retreat, he squeezed her fingers, and she swallowed her trepidation, lest she panic. “Thy father neglected to mention thou art beauteous. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Juraj de Mravec.”
#
The journey to Rochester had been arduous, given the weather had turned, but Arucard uttered a prayer of thanks when they arrived. Quaint but rugged, Isolde’s childhood home presented an odd mix of quiet beauty and austere resilience. A rolling hill hugged the manor house, which was protected by a large ditch at the base of the outer wall. To his surprise, the lone gatehouse remained open, and he rode into the courtyard with no resistance, just before sunset. As he studied the natural stone structure that boasted a single crenellated tower, an elderly man and woman emerged from a large entry.
“Good eventide, sir.” The grey-haired servant bowed. “I am Hervisse, Lord Rochester’s majordomo. How may I be of assistance?”
“I am the earl of Sussex and thy master’s son-in-law.” After descending his destrier, he peered left and then right, as the yard was eerily quiet and empty, which worried him. “Is Lord Rochester in residence?”
“Nay, my lord.” Hervisse whispered to the woman, and she curtseyed and then scurried into the house. “Wilt thou not come inside and take thy ease?”
“Thank ye.” He was in no mood to partake of the earl’s hospitality, but he cooperated. To Demetrius, Arucard said, “Search the garrison, the stables, and any other structures. Report what ye dost find.”
“Aye, brother.” De
metrius signaled the Brethren.
When Arucard strolled into the grand residence, which opened into a massive gallery, he noted numerous paintings of what he presumed were de Tyreswelles past and present, but he failed to locate any portrait of his wife. While he recognized the earl, the heir, and what he would have guessed was the countess, in light of her resemblance to Isolde, thither were no images of his lady.
“Hither she is not, my lord.” The bespectacled woman wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “The earl of Rochester commissioned no renderings of his daughter, the Lady Isolde, God bless her kind spirit.” Then she drew a handkerchief from her fitchet and daubed her nose. “If I might infringe on thy generosity, mayest I prevail upon thee to convey my lady’s personal belongings to her? The earl commanded I destroy Lady Isolde’s things, but I had not the heart to abide his order.”
“Of course, I will transport them to her.” When she indicated a very small trunk, he frowned. “Is that all of it?”
“Yea, my lord.” She bent, unlatched the lock, and lifted the lid. “My lady never had much, but she never complained.”
Tattered garb bespoke a pauper’s life, not the daughter of a wealthy nobleman, and telltale stains to the chemises betrayed the hardship she suffered long before they married. A broken comb, a well-worn brush, a bundle of lace-edged squares, and a frayed Bartholomew baby, which inspired a smile, constituted the whole of her existence, and he counted it a precious treasure. “I will see to it my wife receives the items.”
“My lord, if I may inquire after her health and happiness.” The old woman clutched her throat. “And art thou pleased with thy union?”
“Infe, thou must not ask such questions.” Hervisse grabbed her arm. “Remain in the kitchen, if thou cannot show proper respect and hold thy tongue. I apologize, your lordship.”
“Wait, as I am not offended.” Arucard understood the servant’s concern. Just as Isolde had won Margery’s loyalty, along with everyone else’s in the castle, she had charmed her former attendants, and he sought to allay their fears. “My wife was very unhappy with me, when last I saw her, as I departed Chichester without her. But Isolde counts our steward a friend, as the woman once worked for the earl, so she is not alone. Mayhap thou art familiar with Margery.”
Infe gave vent to a startling shriek, and Hervisse flinched and then hugged her. With a watery gaze, the majordomo opened and then closed his mouth. “Forgive us, Lord Sussex, but Margery is our daughter, and we have had no word of her, since the earl dismissed her from employ. We knew naught of her fate and feared the worst.”
“Then permit me to reassure thee of Margery’s continued well-being, and she seems a vast deal more than content.” And after swiping a linen kerchief, he pressed it to his nose and inhaled Isolde’s scent. “As for my nuptials, I count myself quite fortunate, as I love my bride.”
“Oh, my lord.” Again, Infe sobbed. “Thou hast given us a most treasured gift, and we art in thy debt.”
“How can we serve thee?” Hervisse patted Infe’s cheek and set her aside. “Wherefore art thou hither?”
“Whither hath Lord Rochester gone?” Naught seemed as it should, as the home was all but deserted, and he could not shake the unease nestled atop his shoulders. “Dost thou know of his plans, as it is important that I speak with him?”
“I apologize, my lord. But the earl never discusses his schedule with us.” The majordomo closed and refastened Isolde’s trunk. “However, his lordship’s pursuivant remains in the garrison, as he is young, and Lord Rochester hath no patience for the boy.”
Just then, Demetrius and Aristide charged into the residence, and the expression on Demetrius’s face bespoke trouble. “Arucard, we know whither the earl hath gone.”
“The news is dreadful, brother.” Aristide shook his head. “The earl rides for Chichester.”
Arucard’s gut clenched, his ears rang, and terror struck his heart. “Isolde.”
ARUCARD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the end of another day, Isolde presided over supper, although she had yielded her place of honor at the dais, as her father and his friend de Mravec claimed the positions of prominence. Yet she would not object to such minor insults, as her father was capable of much worse than what she deemed a mere slight.
“Unhand me.” Nearby, a maid struggled with an intoxicated and amorous soldier from the Rochester garrison, and the guards of Chichester took note.
“Let go of my servant.” Before war broke out in the great hall, Isolde addressed the offender. “Prithee, in this great household, we treat our workers with respect and kindness. If thou cannot obey our directives, thou canst take thy meals in the stable, with the other animals.”
A full compliment of troops jumped to their feet, but she stood her ground. To her relief, Grimbaud and the remaining lancers positioned themselves behind her. Just as it appeared the opposing sides would clash, the Rochesters retreated. To diffuse the situation, she signaled the minstrel, but before he could commence recitation of his poem, a loud pounding snared the attention of the crowd, and a lull fell on the sea of revelers.
“How dare thee reprimand my men? In thy husband’s absence, I am the lord of Chichester Castle, and thou wilt obey my commands.” Her father scowled and then nodded to his sergeant. “Finish thy sup, and gather thy belongings, as we depart tonight for Winchester under cover of darkness.”
With a sigh of gratitude, Isolde pondered his words, as she had prayed for his departure since he arrived, and she could have shouted her joy from the top of the northwest tower. To garner the regard of her staff, she clapped once. “Quickly, we must assist Lord Rochester. Prepare provisions, pack their things, and saddle their horses”
For the next hour or so, she organized and supervised the activities, as she could not remove the enemy from her home fast enough. After stowing Father’s trunk, she followed a servant into the courtyard. With the final items secured, she located Margery. “Make a thorough search of the premises, as I would leave them no reason to return.” Then Isolde flagged Grimbaud. “Ensure the bridges art drawn as soon as the earl’s men have cleared the castle.”
“Yea, my lady.” The lancer signaled a collective. “Guard the gates.”
The cold December wind cut through her wool cloak, as she studied the full moon, which cast shadows framed in silvery light on the grounds. Clutching the folds about her, she whisked aside a stray tendril and tucked it behind her ear. As always, her thoughts turned to Arucard. So many nights, she enjoyed the view with her husband after they made love, but nature’s beauty inspired naught more than sorrow, as she yearned for him.
Juraj de Mravec gained his saddle, as did her father, and she mustered a smile. Beneath the weight of his stare, unusual in its intensity, she shivered. When he dipped his chin, she made to bid him farewell—just as two soldiers grabbed her.
“What art thou doing? Release me.” Kicking and flailing against her would-be captors, she fought hard, dragging her feet in the dirt. “I order thee to set me free, as I am Lady Isolde of Chichester Castle.”
“Turn loose my lady, thou villain.” Margery scratched an assaulter, but he struck her in the mouth, and she dropped, unmoving, on her face.
“Bind her,” Father shouted.
“Prithee, no.” As the soldier wound rope about her wrists, Isolde wrestled with her assailant. “And what hast thou done to Margery?”
Then the Chichester garrison responded with full weaponry, and the Rochester guards squared off, in a show of hostility. When Grimbaud advanced, two foes struck him down, but they did not kill him. Isotta screamed and ran to her beau, and the Chichesters responded with unveiled anger. The situation rapidly spun out of control, especially when her father issued a dire request.
“Light the torches.” The earl raised his right hand. “Once we have evacuated, we shall set fire to the castle and burn its inhabitants herein.”
“Wait.” After her attacker shoved her atop a horse, Isolde realized resistance con
stituted an exercise in futility, and she would not allow her people to sacrifice themselves, in vain. “If I promise to go with thee willingly, and make no attempt at escape, wilt thou spare Chichester Castle and its occupants?”
“Thou dost bargain on behalf of thy citizenry?” Her father sneered and motioned to his soldiers. “Thou hast more fortitude than I anticipated, though thou should expend thy worry for thy fate. Mayhap thou art of my loins, after all.”
“Pray, Father.” Tasked with the safety of those left in her care, she would not surrender without ensuring their protection. “Let them live, as they art innocent, and I will cause thee no trouble. I will do as thou dost ask, and they will not hinder thee.” She scanned the crowd to impress upon them her pact with the devil. “Thou hast my word, as chatelaine.”
With a clenched fist pressed to their chest, and sober expressions, the Chichester men nodded their assent, as the women wept. Slowly, her guards retreated, and two maids rushed to help Margery.
“Very well.” Father turned his mount, and the dragoons steered for the barbican. “Rochesters, let us ride.”
With a final survey of her home, which she vowed to see again, Isolde heeled the flanks of her horse and charged into the indigo blanket of night and equally dark uncertainty.
#
The road manifested a lethal combination of muddy ruts and furrows, which slowed the trip to Chichester. But Arucard pushed hard, leaving behind His Majesty and the royal troops, as the caravan traveled at a snail’s pace. As a wicked December storm dumped snow on the terrain, the treacherous conditions forced him to break his journey at night, or risk a lame horse, much to his frustration.
A howling gale battered his tent, as he sat upright in his makeshift bed. Light from a single brazier cast a saffron glow about the small accommodation, and he stretched. On the other side of the temporary dwelling, Demetrius propped on an elbow.
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