by Sandra Heath
“That was not your madness or my trickery, just a simple piece of reality. Nor am I conjuring more fantasy from thin air when I tell you that harvest time here in Cathness, and in many other places throughout Britain and Europe, is inextricably entwined with the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone. You must believe me, Anthea, for it is an unavoidable truth.”
“I believe you,” she answered. To look at him now was not to know him at all, for he was part of something far outside the range of ordinary experience, something so different and rare that—
“—that you feel compelled to accept whatever I say?” he broke in.
“Well, I...” It was very disconcerting to have him knowing what she was thinking almost before she thought it.
He smiled tenderly. “Never be in awe of me, my darling, for that would change you, and I love you as you are.” He dragged her back into his embrace. “I swear to you that I will overcome all this wickedness and that none of you will come to any harm. Tonight I must go along with their rites; indeed I must seem to be so doing right up until the last seconds, but I believe I know how to defeat Lethe and erase this savage business from Cathness.”
“You do?”
Footsteps approached the door, and someone knocked loudly. “You are needed, your grace,” Sebbriz’s voice said.
“I-I’m almost ready. Hic. I’m trying to c-clear my head a little.”
“We must leave in five minutes, your grace.”
“Very well,” Jovian replied, and as the footsteps walked away again, he drew Anthea close a last time. “We can send Lethe and his creatures packing, my darling, and that is exactly what I intend to do. But for now, please try to rest if you can.”
“That is easier said than done.” Rest? She was too overwrought for that.
“Try anyway, but just remember that the kykeon would have made you sleep, if things had gone as they intended, so be alert for the door. The moment you hear someone coming you are to lie on the bed and give every impression of being in a deep slumber. It’s important, Anthea, because since the night Lethe came to Lady Letitia’s dinner party, he has known that I gave you lavender. He must be reassured that the lavender was not as potent a deterrent as he feared, and that you are after all susceptible to his will.”
The sound of horses and voices drifted from outside. “I had better go, but I will return later; on that you have my word.”
He went to the door and looked out at the deserted gallery; then he remembered something and came back to her. “Whatever you do, don’t drink any red wine that may be brought, or indeed any drink that is any shade of pink, purple, or red,” he said, in little more than a whisper, “for they are always mixed with pomegranate juice, against which no one is safe. That is how they were able to gain control of me, and it is how I would have remained had I not chanced upon their method. Now I merely pretend to be drunk when I am expected to be, and I secretly dispose of their brews.”
Anthea’s fear seeped back. “Why do they want to keep you under control? Oh, Jovian, I can’t help being frightened, in spite of your assurances.”
“I will be with you again very soon, my darling, and whatever question you may ask, I will answer in full.”
Opening the door, he left the apartment, and she heard his uneven footsteps dying away. He sang as he went. “Lavender blue, dilly, dilly—hic—dolly, dippy, dandy ...”
“Oh, Jovian, please take care,” she whispered.
When she could hear him no more, she went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The room was regal in proportion, and she noted that the elaborate azure-and-gold hangings of the immense Tudor bed were embroidered with the badges and initials of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. She extinguished the candles as if going to bed, then went to peep around the drawn curtains into the courtyard.
Chapter Twenty-two
Torches and lanterns lit the courtyard, revealing about twenty horsemen, among whom Anthea recognized Obed Dennis and some of the faces she’d noticed at the Cross Foxes. Jovian’s dapple gray horse was ready and waiting, and Sebbriz was just mounting a powerful bay.
The woman from the orangery stood nearby, her face still a mystery because of the lace shawl over her hair. Anthea wished she’d remembered to ask Jovian about her; now, like all her other questions, it would have to wait until he came back.
The window, being hundreds of years old, did not fit all that well in one corner, so that sounds from the courtyard carried clearly to Anthea. She heard the jingle of harness and the occasional murmur of a voice, and then she heard Jovian’s singing as he emerged from the main entrance and began to descend the steps. “Lavender stew, dilly, dolly, lavender stew, if I were rich, dully, dally, you’d have some too ...”
He came into her view, still teetering a little. He made such a fumble of mounting that an irritated Sebbriz was obliged to dismount and manhandle him into the saddle. Jovian’s acting was worthy of the new genius of the boards, Edmund Kean, for no one could possibly have guessed that he was probably far more sharp-witted and alert than anyone else.
Suddenly another horseman rode swiftly into the courtyard, scattering gravel as he reined in. Some of the other horsemen tried to make him leave again, but he maneuvered his mount defiantly alongside Jovian, then casually drew a pistol from inside his coat. It was a gauntlet no one was prepared to pick up. He grinned at Jovian, whose discreet answering smile told Anthea he genuinely liked the man. So, she thought, he was Jovian’s friend, but not the steward’s, and he therefore certainly had her approval.
The newcomer’s courage impressed Anthea. He was in his fifties, a fine looking man of rather Celtic appearance, with expressively dark eyes and a mop of gray curls that had probably once been coal-black. His horse was a stout cob, and he wore rough clothes, so he was not a gentleman. Nor was he at all welcome as far as Sebbriz and the others were concerned.
The steward scowled, and Anthea heard him shout. “We do not want you here, Huw Gadarn!”
Anthea gasped. Aunt Letty’s old love!
“Well, I’m here anyway, and I’m not leaving until I am sure His Grace is safe and well.” Huw had a very pronounced but very pleasing Welsh accent.
“I will have my revenge upon you, Welshman!” cried the steward.
“You’ll need to be sharper than you have been until now, you damned Greek dog. Your sleight of hand with pomegranate will never deceive me, so like it or not, you have me on your shoulder.”
“Sir Erebus will make you wish you had never been born.”
Huw grinned at Sebbriz and cheekily waggled the pistol again to indicate that he was ready for them all to set off. “Lethe can go to the Devil, although even Old Nick is a little choosy about the company he keeps. Well, let’s get going then and get this barbarism started.”
Anthea’s lips parted with dismay. Barbarism was a strong word to use and hinted at so much of that which she would rather not think about.
Sebbriz looked fit to strangle Huw, but the Welshman’s pistol put paid to such rash notions, so the steward wisely left well enough alone and gave the order to depart. The horsemen rode out in single file, with Jovian and Huw bringing up the rear.
The torchlight cavalcade disappeared beneath the gatehouse and reappeared on the drive, then followed the path by the ha-ha toward the Scotch pines. It passed out of Anthea’s sight, so she hurried to the other side of the bedroom and looked from another window. The line of lights bobbed through the trees toward the lavender field, and as she opened the window a little, she heard pipe and tabor music coming from the large wheatfield where the reapers had been.
A pale blue sheen lay over the land, and the horsemen’s torches and lanterns passed the abandoned carriage, then continued along the lane for a few hundred yards. Anthea could just see an entrance into the field, in which the last neck of wheat was now surrounded at a respectful distance by what appeared to be the entire population of Cathness.
The music came from morrismen, six dancers and four sword bearers, al
l wearing black billycock hats, white shirts, and breeches. They carried staves that were struck together as part of the dance, and although Anthea could not hear the morris bells, she knew they would be jingling. Such costumes and dancing were suddenly no longer lighthearted and delightful but possessed of a chilling air that seemed to reach back into the very mists of time.
As Sebbriz’s horse entered the field at the vanguard of the procession, so many torches were lit that the night flickered with flames. The morris dancing ended as the cavalcade approached, and the crowd parted to provide a way into the heart of the circle.
Silence descended, and Sebbriz and his horsemen encircled the central area, then halted facing the neck of wheat. Jovian and Huw had remained on the edge of the crowd, but now Jovian rode to the neck and dismounted. He brushed against the wheat as he placed himself directly between it and the steward.
Huw, still taking no chances where Jovian’s wellbeing was concerned, rode swiftly up to Sebbriz’s side and pressed the pistol to his temple. It was a clear warning to all the others that if anything befell His Grace the Duke of Chavanage, the steward would suffer the consequences. Sebbriz raised his hands pacifyingly, but the pistol remained where it was.
For a moment time seemed to stop. Then a boy—Anthea thought it was Billy Dennis—hurried to lead Jovian’s horse away, and Anthea sensed the increasingly expectant air of the crowd. She waited with bated breath, aware of the pumping of her heart. There was a slight stir at the far end of the crowd, which gradually parted again to allow the line of reapers to enter. They may have been the same men she’d seen earlier, but all she could be sure of now was that they carried only sickles, not scythes.
The reapers formed a second ring inside the circle of horsemen, and the crowd began to chant. Anthea could not hear their exact words, but the rhythm and an informed guess suggested they were repeating the prayers to Demeter and the Harvest Maiden. Make the earth abundant, give us fruits, and ears of wheat, and a goodly harvest, O Demeter.... Come to us, O Harvest Maiden. Protect us from the Lavender Lady. Come to us, O Harvest Maiden....
The chanting ended abruptly, and in the eerie quiet that followed, Anthea was distraught to see one of the reapers hurl his sickle at Jovian. The curved tool glinted in the moonlight, and she pressed terrified hands to her lips as it seemed the deadly blade must stab the man she loved. Instead it fell a few inches short of him and quivered in the wheat stubble. An excited gasp rose from the watching crowds, and Anthea could hardly bear to watch. Had it fallen short by accident... or intent?
A second sickle followed the first and again fell exactly the same distance short. It was deliberate! Anthea breathed again as one by one the sickles flew through the air and landed by Jovian’s feet, until at last they had completely ringed both him and the neck of wheat. As the final sickle struck the ground, Jovian moved outside the ring, and another sickle was taken to Sebbriz, who stood in his stirrups to throw it. Anthea’s heart gave a lurch, as she feared Jovian was the steward’s target, but instead the deadly blade struck the wheat without felling a single stalk. There were loud cheers, but all Anthea could think was that if Jovian had remained within the ring of sickles, by now he would surely be dead.
The night’s rites were clearly not yet done, for the cheering died away, and the chanting resumed. A movement in the lane caught Anthea’s attention, and she saw two figures on horseback moving toward the field. One was a man dressed in a hooded black robe, mounted on a very large and dark horse. Sir Erebus, Anthea thought without hesitation. The other rider was a lady whose white pony, or palfrey, he was leading. Anthea stared at the lady, for even at that distance in the strange blue moonlight, she recognized her missing stepsister.
Corinna was wearing a flowing white gown, and her golden hair had been brushed loose. She was seated astride, possibly bareback, and her gown had been carefully draped in an elegant manner. In either hand she carried what appeared to be a bunch of wildflowers, and she gazed directly in front of her, not seeming to display any emotion at all, even when suddenly confronted by the torchlit field.
Sir Erebus led the palfrey through the twin circles of Sebbriz’s horsemen and reapers, and the crowd began to chant again. Sir Erebus dismounted and lifted Corinna to the ground. She seemed in a trance as he led her three times around the neck of wheat and ring of sickles, to the continued chanting of the onlookers; then Sir Erebus conducted her back to the palfrey and lifted her on to its back again.
As two women hurried from the crowd to assist with the draping of her gown, Sir Erebus turned and spoke briefly to Jovian, who had remained nearby throughout. Those few words provoked a violent response. Jovian swung his fist at Sir Erebus’s chin like a battering ram, and the latter was lifted from his feet, then fell sprawling back on the stubble. The chanting petered out in confusion, and for a second or so no one moved, but as Sir Erebus staggered to his feet again, Sebbriz and his men urged their mounts toward Jovian, intent upon seizing him.
Huw appeared as if from nowhere, his cob going down on its haunches as he reined it in beside Sir Erebus and then leaned down to clamp a strong arm around his neck. The pistol was shoved to Sir Erebus’s temple, and Anthea heard the Welshman shout some sort of warning. The steward and others fell back as Sir Erebus struggled in vain in Huw’s unbreakable grip. Corinna had remained motionless throughout, seated quietly on her palfrey, staring ahead like a beautiful statue.
Huw shouted again, and Billy Dennis brought Jovian’s horse. Jovian remounted, and Huw began to back his cob away, forcing Sir Erebus to go with him by keeping his arm around his neck and the pistol fast against his temple. With Jovian alongside and Sir Erebus unable to escape, Huw forced a way through the reapers and horsemen. Only when they were about ten yards beyond the crowd did Huw thrust Sir Erebus aside and turn with Jovian to gallop from the field. They were leaving without Corinna? Anthea stared in tearful disbelief.
No one attempted to follow the two fleeing horsemen as they returned along the lavender field and through the Scotch pines, but as Anthea watched she suddenly heard the main door of the suite. Running to the bed, she curled up on the coverlet as if fast asleep. Female footsteps tapped across the main chamber toward the bedroom, and then stopped as whoever it was listened carefully. Hearing nothing, the person opened the door as softly as possible. Candlelight flooded into the darkness, and Anthea saw a female shadow fall across the floor. There was a soft rustle of skirts as the woman tiptoed to the bedside.
Anthea lay as if deeply asleep while the woman observed her intently, as if suspecting trickery, but then, clearly satisfied, she withdrew to the main chamber again, leaving the bedroom door open. Anthea dared to open her eyes and saw the other’s reflection in a mirror. It was the woman who had been in the orangery, but as she had now discarded the lace shawl, Anthea also recognized her from St. James’s and Green parks. It was Abigail Wheatley, who Anthea could now be certain beyond all doubt had also been the unfriendly woman from that bitterly cold Christmas Eve in Berkeley Square.
Shocked, Anthea continued to feign sleep as the woman went out of the suite again and closed the door behind her. Fearing her sudden return, Anthea remained motionless, but as a minute ticked by and then another, it seemed safe to leave the bed again. She saw that Abigail had not come empty-handed but had left a tray of cold supper on a table. There was Single Gloucester cheese, celery and pickle, fresh bread, a little dish of honey cakes, and a jug of kykeon. Anthea was hungry but did not dare eat anything.
Oh, where was Jovian? Surely he and Huw had returned to the castle by now? She looked hopefully at the panel he said opened to the secret passage and for the first time noticed an old engraving fixed upon it. Curious, she went a little closer. It depicted a scene in a harvested field, with morris dancers and a crowd of people watching a black-robed man whose arms were outstretched like some diabolic savior. Sir Erebus, she thought.
Beside him on one side was a young woman with long fair hair and a flowing white gown carrying a bunch of
ripe wheat and wildflowers in either hand. Standing by a neck of wheat and surrounded by a ring of sickles, she looked exactly as Corinna had tonight. On the black-robed figure’s other side, confined in a large wicker cage, was a dark-haired young woman in a gown of flowers. The engraving was dated 1738, and entitled Ye Harvest Maiden Offered and Ye Lavender Lady Captured.
There was no mistaking that Corinna was the Harvest Maiden. Anthea looked at the wicker cage and the imprisoned woman’s gown of flowers. Recalling those mysterious moments on the walk to the castle when her own clothes had seemed to be made of flowers, she could not help wondering if she, Lady Anthea Wintour, was the Lavender Lady?
Suddenly the engraving slid to one side as the panel opened to allow Jovian to step out of the secret passage. “Yes, my darling, Corinna is the Harvest Maiden, and you are the Lavender Lady,” he said quietly.
Chapter Twenty-three
Anthea went into Jovian’s arms, and they clung together before kissing. She could smell the night air in his hair and taste late summer on his lips; then he drew back to take her flushed face in his hands. “My darling, in spite of what is depicted in that old engraving, nothing terrible ever befalls Lavender Lady. She has to be detained and driven away every year, but is never held in captivity for long.”
Burning with questions even before seeing the engraving, Anthea was now beset by a hundred more. Jovian saw the look in her eyes and quickly went to pour some of the kykeon Abigail Wheatley had brought. “Drink, for it can do you no harm and will help to calm you,” he said, handing Anthea the goblet.
She drank a little. “You always seem to know what I am thinking; yet, I never know what is in your mind.”
“Call it my gift... or my curse.”
