The Braeswood Tapestry

by Robyn Carr

  It was signed, witnessed, and dated the first day of January. Adrienne gulped hard when she finished. She could only surmise from the pages she read that Julian feared for his life, but endeavored to protect his son’s reputation by keeping his testimony secret unless he met premature death in a last effort to see Stephen reformed. But the crimes began when Stephen was a mere babe, and his outrageous act of betrayal of the Wescotts when he was only a young lad. He was a cruel and demented man. And he was horribly dangerous.

  Her mind spinning with the next possible horror, she struggled with what to do. All these things, over all these years, had been hidden, covered up, and excused. Upon Wescott’s return to the country, he had taken blame for crimes that could not be proved. Not a doubt remained that Stephen had done it all and somehow escaped suspicion by anyone but Julian. She knew in her heart that Julian would be a victim, and shortly thereafter, herself.

  “Troy, damn you, where could you be?” she muttered distractedly.

  She thought to try his house, though she was not certain he would help her. Forgetting that and near panic, she called for Rex. “Saddle my mare and get ready with your men. We ride immediately.”

  “Madam?” he questioned.

  “Hurry now and don’t argue with me. I will change clothes and we will be off.”

  The man stood still as stone with arms crossed over his head. “I must ask your destination, madam,” he said firmly.

  “The country, now hurry.”

  “I must refuse, madam. My lord gave strict instructions that you are not to leave the city and should be closely watched. And most certainly, you are not to venture near Dearborn.”

  “Shut up, fool,” she snapped. “If I don’t go, my lord will be killed.” She shook the rolled papers at him. “It says so here by his own pen. Master Stephen is to blame for all the trouble that’s beset Dearborn, and when my uncle tells him he no longer inherits title there, there will be murder done, mark me. Now tarry no longer and get thee gone.”

  “But, madam, if Dearborn is dangerous, then you must remain here,” he offered.

  She turned around in a huff. “I won’t go to Dearborn, you idiot. My uncle instructed me to go to someone who can help. I go to Braeswood.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Kerr household was fairly quiet and the dinner hour passed in strained discomfort. Julian felt the tension arise from his choice of this night to face his son with his collected information and final decision on Dearborn. Over the course of many days, Julian had taken the opportunity to visit each hamlet, farm, and merchant within his domain. Stephen seemed to regard this as his father’s strict attentiveness to his holdings and paid little heed.

  Whether it was Julian’s true desire to see how deep the roots of Stephen’s evil went or whether things had worsened severely over the winter was not clear even to him, but what Julian learned from villagers and neighbors left him stunned. He wished never to face the discourse that would follow their meal, yet knew he could not delay it another day.

  Stephen was likewise distressed, but his anxiety rose from other quarters. He did not enjoy his father’s presence in the manor and despised his interference. When Julian was home, Stephen’s rule was secondary. Even his own guard looked past him to be certain Lord Kerr did not stand behind with an opposite order. And to further agitate Stephen, he was forced to dress, sit, and sup with his father.

  Julian attempted to converse about level, nonemotional, surface matters pertaining to the manor to clear the way for more serious subjects later.

  “Are you finding the plans for planting will yield us better crops at harvest?” he asked Stephen.

  “I don’t pay much attention to that,” the young man replied noncommittally.

  “But it’s quite important that the amounts spent on seed and new tools be entered in the ledger. I also keep a record of what each field plants and which lay fallow.”

  Stephen put down his knife with a sharp bang and there was an evil insolence in his eyes. “You keep records, Father. I do not bother with all that.”

  “Have you recorded rents and taxes?” Julian asked. To Stephen’s affirmative nod, he continued, “How do you tabulate the sums and amounts if you keep no record of what is planted and what is yielded? How do you manage your charges and rents? I have given this responsibility to you in my absence and—”

  “I know the sums,” he broke in snidely. “The farmers lie about their yields and try to withhold payment.”

  “They are mostly poor and hard put,” Julian replied.

  “Bah,” he scoffed. “They make a fool of you. They are neither poor nor hard at work. And they owe a debt to their master for all we do to supplement them.”

  “It seems their troubles are more from their master,” Julian attempted.

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed and his mouth took on a sarcastic sneer. “What is it you accuse, Father? I know you, and this is not typical dinner conversation.”

  Julian’s appetite was not good to begin with and he gave in, finding it impossible to finish his meal. He lay down his utensils and looked pointedly at his son. “If you are finished, I should like you to come to the study where we will look at the accounts and lists together.”

  “What is this buffoonery? I have no interest in—”

  “You will gain interest, I assure you,” Julian broke in with a firm voice.

  There was a slight, barely noticeable difference in the quality of Julian’s voice. He often swore and demanded, but seldom with any real conviction or expectation of being heard by his son. Stephen cocked his head slightly, noting the change, and then used his napkin to wipe his mouth, indicating he would call his meal finished. Julian manipulated the small bell at his wrist to call the maid. When the woman arrived to take their dishes, Julian and Stephen both stood.

  Julian was not a large man and his stomach swelled over thin legs. Stephen was taller and more trim, but already the younger man had developed an unhealthy pallor due to excessive drinking and other harsh habits. Julian noted that his greenish-blue eyes glittered in sickly fashion and he took no care with his appearance. He wore expensive clothes, true, but he was unwashed and his dirty blond hair fell lifelessly over his brow. Julian had long suspected he would find himself without options in directing Stephen, but suddenly, in looking at his son, he thought perhaps the lad was truly sick and beyond help.

  “Come, son. Let’s go over a few things.”

  Stephen followed him to the study, sighing several times in complete exasperation. If Julian was surprised that his son followed at all, he didn’t let on. The young man often refused his father’s commands and simply turned away from them. The only real control Julian ever exercised was in commanding his subjects. They would ultimately listen to the man who held the purse strings. It was perhaps that simple fact that served as impetus for Stephen to follow. His father would have the last word with the staff.

  Julian spread his account ledgers on the desk in view of himself and his son. “I have been away many months. During this time you have made no attempt to record the stores of winter food, the arrangement of farm plots, or the spring planting. Much of this is our livelihood and the continuation of this estate depends on it.” Stephen sat back in his chair in an insolent huff, completely disinterested in the subject. “In addition, there have been four deaths in one burg this year, which you have not recorded for our accounts. I had to gather the information from a village priest.”

  “What’s the difference? The peasants breed and die constantly. They’re like farm animals.”

  “They are people,” Julian stormed. “How are you to give reports on rents and taxes if you don’t even know the numbers of your villeins? What is the cause of death? Was it assisted by the caretaker of this demesne? It is your responsibility and obligation to—”

  “As if all barons and knights pay attention to their farmers enough to record all births, deaths, and farming plots,” Stephen shot back. “Who is to come to me and complain? A fa
rmer? A local clothier, perhaps?” He laughed boldly. “What is this nonsense? This is my land and it is my—”

  “It is my land,” Julian retorted hotly. “And I will tell you who will complain, in addition to a farmer or merchant. Had I suffered the indignity of dying suddenly and leaving all this to your poor management and cruel care, your neighbors or your superior nobles would not bother with complaints, they would have you promptly withdrawn and they would not hesitate to petition for your removal if not imprisonment. And while I am alive and this is my property, you will hear me complain.”

  He thrust another piece of paper at his son. The parchment had rolled and Stephen had to pull it open to read it. He read for a second and then stopped, looking angrily at his father. Then he read on. Finally he crushed the thing in his hands and his vicious glare bore down on Julian. But Julian met him stare for stare. He was through being intimidated by his son.

  “What is this?” Stephen demanded with a low growl.

  “You should have no problem recognizing it, son. It is a simple list of the crimes and acts of cruelty that I can attribute to you. It is a modest list, for I have not added all the things I suspect you had a hand in.”

  “What do you mean by this?”

  “I mean to assure you that in spite of my past performance and my neglect of proper discipline, I am completely aware of your vile nature and roguish habits. Based on this list alone, you stand not only unfit to be lord here, but you are subject to prison or transportation.”

  Stephen laughed cruelly and with heavy sarcasm. “So I am unfit? So what? There are those that would argue with you on that score, old man. But never mind,” he said, his teeth gleaming in a wicked smile as he crumpled the paper. “If you have vented your spleen and played the father dear, may I go now and see about my own business? I weary of your ledgers and lists.”

  “No, you may not go, unless your intention is to leave permanently.”

  Again he laughed, a near-hysterical, high-pitched sound that was as chilling as it was wild. “Permanently? I think not, old man. I’ve gotten to like the place, after all. And I have developed many stations useful to my purpose here. No, Father, I will not be leaving. This room, I shall leave,” he said, rising.

  “Sit down,” Julian commanded with a voice unusually harsh. Stephen in fact looked up in some surprise upon hearing his father’s commanding tone. Stephen did not oblige him by sitting, but stood in a relaxed fashion with bent knee that he purposely meant to mock his father.

  Stephen laughed again, a short, amused huff. “What the hell is the meaning of this? Lists of my disapproved acts? My permanent departure? You had better explain yourself, Father. Quickly.”

  “Sit,” Julian said again, keeping his voice firm. The younger man reluctantly took a seat. “It occurred to me before the war that I had a misbehaving youth gone awry, but until you betrayed our neighbors to the Roundheads, I did not know the lengths of evil you would test.”

  “As if my betrayal, as you call it, did you any harm. You were spared because of that villainous act, Father. You should have thanked me.”

  “I was the fool that thought some intention toward life and property was your motivation,” Julian blustered, red-faced. “Had I done such a thing, believe me, it would have been solely to preserve my life and home. It is not as though our enemies came pounding at the door ready to seize this manor. You rode out to find them. You brought them here to collect our friends, the very men that defended the monarchy.” His voice had risen steadily and finally he stopped before he lost control, trying to calm himself.

  “Over the years, I have clearly seen that you enjoy any violent act. How many you have committed by your own hand, I dare not say … but I have watched you glow as you set a guard to the beating of a yeoman. I have seen you laugh as a boy takes a lash for stealing a loaf of bread that he might eat. You are not only a coward, you are a dangerously evil coward.”

  The expression on Stephen’s face changed from one of insolent amusement to twisted rage. “Did I enjoy watching the Wescott bastards punished? After growing up running the same roads and riding the same fields with the pompous lot of them? Ha! They were quick to boast their strength of arms and grand Royal loyalty, and they were none too slow to laugh at one of weaker stature. They thought themselves so bloody fine, aye, it did not pain me to witness their comeuppance.” He leaned forward in his chair and sneered at his father. “Who had land and who lost all? Who was killed and who lived? As if you decry my act as misdeed. You did not do anything to stop them from provoking us, and you did nothing to save them from death. Don’t sing your high and mighty decency to me, old man.”

  Julian shook his head in sadness and wonder. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You were provoked?” he asked.

  “Aye, with every passing week there was one or more of them offering to help me learn better fencing or riding or another battle skill. They were the amiable yet highly bred princes of each village they passed through, the maids waving to them as if they were returned saviors who might bestow a single, kind word. They strutted, each one, like so many roosters, guarding purity and honor. And throwing their grand stature and great bearing in our faces with every good deed they set about.” He gritted his teeth in fierce disgust. “I hated them, each one … as I hate the only one left who still seeks to make me his jester.”

  Julian felt his insides begin to churn with distress as he listened to his son rage in this sickening jealousy. He had never known the Wescotts to speak or act cruelly toward anyone, from simple farmer to high noble lord. Stephen had never been taunted or ridiculed by his neighbors. It was the simple sight of their power and the respect they drew that caused his hate. Julian was convinced Stephen had to be demented to respond in such a violent way to simple envy. It was beyond him to help his son.

  “What have I done that you are so plagued? Where was I so remiss that—”

  “Old man,” Stephen sneered. “You are so completely impotent as a father and useless as a landholder that you had neither the power to raise me proper nor to hurt me sore. You are weak and useless. And if you will do nothing about that madman that lives just north in the Braeswood manor, I shall.”

  “I think not, Stephen. Lord Wescott and I have been hard at work this winter to form an alliance.”

  “What is this?” he asked in amazement.

  “As I have said. Almost a year ago we parleyed by order of the king to bury past differences and share a peaceful boundary. I took that suggestion another step and promised equal support in ending the crime on our mutual properties. We are allies and perhaps on a day to come we will be friends.”

  “Oh, you old fool,” Stephen cried. “Wescott is the crime. Haven’t you heard how he earned his living abroad? Don’t you know he has as many friends in back-road thieves’ nests as in Whitehall? You would trust him to—”

  “He is not the crime, Stephen. You are. And by now it is well known.”

  He laughed a forced, uncomfortable laugh. “Me? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The deaths in the villages. Fires and beatings. Rapes and robberies. And even noble coaches. In spite of your efforts to see Wescott blamed, the people in the towns speak of your harassment and night riding. I know it is you, and I plan to stop you.”

  “Oh, do you now?” he sneered.

  “Indeed, son. I have spoken with Lord Wescott and the king. They understand it is my intention to leave Dearborn and the land held by me to Adrienne when she is suitably wed. Lord Wescott declined the offer of marriage as he was wed before the offer was made, but he will aid us in finding a proper mate for my niece. Unfortunately, I feel it would be dangerous to leave you in title to this holding, and you are hereby free of it. There is other business and property in London that you may have. It will require work for you to build your fortune, but it is possible if you change your—”

  “You will not do this to me,” Stephen ground out slowly.

  “It is done,” Julian repli
ed.

  “You will not do this to me.”

  Julian looked down. Tension wove its way up and down his spine and his hands began to feel moist and weak. “If you do not take your leave of this house peacefully, Lord Wescott will aid me in having you removed.”

  “You would call him out to remove me? Father?”

  “I would. I cannot abide your cruelty another day.”

  “But my guard will—”

  “Your guard? If they want their pence for working, they must consider themselves my guard. I doubt you can convince them to fight me in this battle, Stephen. It would be a short one. No matter the winner, you are no longer my heir. And I have not made a secret of it. You, in fact, are among the last to know.”

  “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—”