Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  “I’m sorry everybody was so concerned. It was stupid of me. I was wrong about Roger, and I’ve gotten him into this intolerable mess. I feel like crawling under the trestle boards with the dogs and staying there until I die.”

  “Don’t fret. Richard knows Roger had nothing to do with William’s death.”

  But when Alexandra looked at the baron, standing stiffly on the dais at the end of the hall, staring without love or pity at his wayward second son, she felt far from convinced.

  When the inquiry began, Roger made no effort to smooth the waters between his father and himself. Instead, followed closely by two cautious Douglas men-at-arms, he strolled up to the dais to address the baron: “You’ve got your wish, after all: here I stand, accused of murdering your eldest son and heir. And you’re to hear my case? Surely I’m entitled to a stricter degree of impartiality. You, Father, would hardly hesitate to condemn me.”

  “If there proves to be a case against you, you will be remanded for trial to the district assizes.”

  “There to rot in prison, no doubt. Very well, let’s get on with this farce. Where are my accusers?”

  Everyone looked at Alexandra, who flushed. “As I’ve already told my father, I have no accusation to make.”

  The baron held up the papers containing her allegations. “And what of your suspicions regarding Will Trevor’s death?”

  “A fantasy, my lord, which seemed to require a villain. Because I was angry with Roger, I cast him in that role. Those are my private papers. It amazes me that anyone should have taken that nonsense seriously. I absolutely reject every word.”

  Sir Charles came forward and looked from the tall dark-haired man to the red-haired girl. “There is the possibility that she is under duress. God only knows how he may have threatened her.”

  “Alexandra, you need have no fear,” said the baron. “Speak freely, please. He cannot harm you.”

  Roger made a disgusted sound. “Show them the bruises I left on your body when I tortured you, Alix. Sweet Christ!”

  “I am not under duress. If I still believed him guilty of killing Will, no threat would prevent me from saying so.”

  “Whether or not my daughter wishes to accuse your son, Richard, there have been two deaths here recently, neither of which has been entirely explained. Although William’s death was ruled an accident at the time, the mysteries surrounding it were never cleared up: Where was he going at midnight on the night of June 12th? Why was he, a man who rarely tasted spirits, so full of drink? What was the immediate cause of his violent fall? Whether she likes it or not, Alexandra’s speculations on these matters have raised questions that demand answers.”

  “Very well,” the baron said. “Proceed.”

  Sir Charles read a passage from Alexandra’s notes suggesting that Roger’s secret arrival at Whitcombe had been the cause of his elder brother’s odd behavior. Roger denied it. He’d been out of the country at the time of Will’s accident. He had papers documenting the arrival date of the Argo, his ship. If Alexandra believed him to have returned earlier, she was mistaken.

  And so it went on, all her accusations—the broken dagger, Ned’s terror—and Roger’s calm, mocking dismissal of each point of her elaborate case against him. Alexandra heard the proceedings through a kind of haze. Her eyes saw not the great hall of Whitcombe Castle, but the woodland cottage where Roger had called her his beloved and touched her with passion. Her body flashed with excitement as she relived the feel of his hands between her legs, the feel of his mouth. She recalled the shivery ecstasy he’d led her to, that incredible sensation of falling off the world. She wanted it again. She wanted him to fall with her.

  But he’d made it clear he didn’t want her. Not for that, not for anything.

  They were questioning her now about Ned’s death. Her head ached as her father went over and over the events leading up to yesterday. Master Theobald, the physician, had examined the boy’s body. He came forward now to say that Ned had died of asphyxiation. The rope burns around the neck were consistent with what would be expected of a hanging. In the opinion of George Dawes, the baron’s master-at-arms, the knot that comprised the noose was a clumsy one, hardly the type an experienced seaman would venture to make. In other words, there was nothing to suggest foul play.

  Alexandra frowned as all this was revealed. She was still puzzled about Ned. They’ll bury you in unconsecrated ground for committing the crime of self-slaughter, she thought to herself. Did you really kill yourself? I can’t believe that. Why is it that I still feel there’s something very wrong here, something we’re not managing to uncover?

  It was apparent, when the questioning wound down, that despite Roger’s calm and rational answers, Sir Charles wasn’t entirely satisfied, either. “The fact remains that two young men, neither of whom should have died for many years, have recently met unusual and sinister ends,” he said. “At the same time, after years of absence, Roger Trevor has reappeared to take his place as his father’s heir. Although we have not been able to prove any connection between his return and these two deaths, I suggest the matter calls for further investigation.”

  There was a muttering among everybody in the hall. The baron raised his hand for quiet. “Enough,” he said loudly. He looked angry. “I have listened patiently so far. I have heard nothing which convinces me that there is any substance to any of these ridiculous charges against my son.”

  Roger looked at him in surprise. Alexandra thought she saw his tan face flush slightly. He clearly hadn’t expected his father to speak for him.

  The baron went on, “I am well aware that once such allegations are made, they tend to smolder. For this reason, I intend to put an end to the mystery concerning Will’s death, even though the information I am about to disclose will bring pain to the hearts of at least two people among you.”

  The baron had everybody’s attention now. There was an almost palpable tension in the hall. Alexandra felt a series of small shivers run over her skin—a kind of premonition. The hall was silent as Roger’s father continued, “Will’s death was indeed accidental. The reasons for his drinking and his decision to ride out that night have been known to me since shortly after he died. I have maintained silence on the matter in deference to the wishes of a young woman who did not wish to have her role in the affair disclosed. She has promised to speak out, however, if her evidence becomes necessary. I think she will agree with me that the time for complete honesty has come.”

  Before he had finished these words, Alexandra’s fascinated gaze had swung to Pris Martin. She was the only young woman present to whom he could possibly be referring.

  “Mistress Martin, I must ask you to step up here, please.”

  Pris Martin put down the embroidery she’d been working on and walked slowly up to the dais. As the baron took the widow’s hand, Alexandra caught Roger’s eye. He shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of puzzlement.

  Dorcas followed Priscilla, putting her arm around the young woman’s waist. Dear, kind Dorcas. Pris seemed to welcome her support. The baron gave her a few moments to collect herself, then said, “Please tell us the nature of your connection with my eldest son.”

  There was a moment of silence during which Alexandra’s breath was suspended. She could feel herself leaning forward on the bench; beside her she sensed her father’s alertness. The premonition of disaster grew stronger. It occurred to her that if Pris was one of the two people whom this revelation would hurt, she must be the other.

  Pris Martin pulled herself together and spoke out in a firm voice: “I loved your eldest son and he loved me. Together, we were expecting a child.”

  “Jesu,” Alexandra breathed. Her father took her hand and squeezed it; her fingers clung to his.

  “My poor babe was born on the night of his father’s accident. I had a difficult labor. I imagine Will was drinking out of concern for me. It was to my side that he was hurrying when he was thrown from his horse into the ditch on the Whitcombe road.” She pu
t her hand over her mouth for a moment, then managed to continue, “They said he lived for three days, and I prayed that he would send for me to say farewell, but he did not. My son died also, leaving me with nothing.”

  She turned to stare directly at Alexandra. Her beautiful eyes were full of bitterness. For the first time, Alexandra understood why Pris had rebuffed every attempt she had ever made at friendship.

  “If Will had lived, he was going to marry me. ‘Twas me he wanted, not you.”

  Alexandra’s head felt thick, her throat ached, and her eyes could not seem to see anything around her. She was back in Will’s bedchamber, sitting beside his bed. He was dying, the physician had said. He could probably never regain consciousness. But she continued to talk brightly to him anyway, encouraging him. The physician, after all, was an ass.

  At last her efforts were rewarded: Will’s eyelids fluttered and his hand moved under hers. He tried to speak, and after much effort, a word came out. “Priest,” was what she had heard then. She heard it now as “Pris.”

  A cry rose in her soul, silent but piercing. She had misjudged Roger, and now once again she knew the folly of believing she could read another person’s heart. Once again she had been blind. Will had not cared at all about a deathbed reaffirmation of his faith. All he had wanted was to see Pris Martin again, to have her at his side, to hold her hand and know the peace of dying near the woman he loved. Instead, because of Alexandra’s stupidity and blindness, he had been forced to endure the presence of the woman he had dutifully agreed to marry, while poor Pris had waited in solitary grief for a summons.

  Alexandra leaned over the trestle table and buried her face in her arms. No wonder Will had never shown any passion for her; he was not cold-natured, he simply loved another. And as for her, no man loved her: not Will, not Roger. Who could wonder at it? All there was at the core of her being was a black and heartless void, surrounded by layer upon layer of selfishness and pride. Who was she to pass judgment on Roger Trevor or anybody else? The light in her own soul was nothing but an illusion.

  Chapter 13

  There was a profound sense of unease among the small group of people around the trestle board. Alexandra and Pris Martin avoided each other’s eyes, while Roger was silent, absentmindedly rubbing his bandaged hand. Dorcas had gone to check on Alan, and Alexandra longed to find a bed herself. Her cold had begun to bother her again. Perhaps the drenching she’d endured the night before was going to have its effects after all. She sneezed.

  “God bless you,” said Roger.

  She nodded to him briefly, then resumed her contemplation of the wood grain in the table. She didn’t want to know what Roger thought of her now. If it was pity, she didn’t want it, and if it was the scorn she felt she deserved, she would rather not encounter it. She had disgraced him. She had made a laughingstock of herself. She had insulted the baron by suggesting that he had not properly handled his investigation of Will’s death, and she had forced her own father to lay out a series of absurd charges against Roger. Worst of all, her accusations had forced a revelation that was a discredit to Will and a misery to poor Pris Martin.

  They weren’t letting Pris leave, even now. The questioning continued until Alexandra wanted to scream for it to end. Oddly enough, Pris was bearing it better than she was. As always, she seemed to have herself firmly under control.

  Pris had loved Will ever since she’d first met him two years before, she reported, but no acknowledgment of love had passed between them until after her husband’s death. “I do not seek to justify my conduct,” she said calmly. “The misfortune of my pregnancy was in proportion to my sin, but in some ways, God was merciful: people took the child for a posthumous babe of my husband’s, so my reputation did not suffer.”

  Until today, she did not add, but Alexandra was sure she must be thinking it.

  “What made you believe my brother would break his contract with Alexandra to marry you?” Roger asked.

  “I did not believe it until the end. Indeed, I did not expect it. Will knew his father desired the match. He considered himself bound. But he grew anxious as the time for my confinement approached. Perhaps he had a foreboding. I, too, was frightened. We had sinned, and we both felt that the best way to redeem our sin was through honorable wedlock. Will intended to go to you, my lord, his father, and confess his folly. He was waiting only for the safe delivery of the babe. He trusted you would consent to his marrying the mother of his child.”

  “And if my father did not consent?”

  Pris Martin shrugged. “It hardly matters now, since nothing turned out the way we had hoped.” She smiled faintly at the baron and added, “Your father has been far kinder to me than I deserved. I am grateful.”

  She was asked to explain exactly what had happened on the night of her travail. “Will had visited me that afternoon. I told him my time was upon me. He wanted to remain at my side, but I insisted it would not be proper. I promised to send him news.

  “My labor was difficult. I dared not send for the village midwife lest there be gossip. An experienced midwife would know that my baby had not stayed overly long in the womb. No one knew the true father of my child except a single friend, who had sworn to keep my secret.”

  “Who was that?” Roger asked, but Pris did not seem to hear the question. As if in a trance, she went on with her story:

  “I was in unspeakable pain. Between contractions I would pause in a fearful daze, waiting for the next one with great dread. I suppose it was near midnight when my son was finally born. I was weak, but I wanted to send word to Will immediately. I scribbled a note and sent it to Whitcombe with a servant.” She stopped speaking to look at the baron. “You know better than I what happened next, my lord.”

  Richard Trevor took up the story. “I was concerned about Will that day; in fact, he had been behaving oddly for several days. He sat up late in the winter parlor drinking unwatered wine. I asked him several times during the course of the evening if something was bothering him, but he declined to answer.

  “Around midnight a note was brought by a frightened servant, who ran off when I attempted to question him.” The baron reached into a pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “I kept the message. Have I your permission, Mistress Martin?”

  She seemed startled. “I assumed it had been burned. Will swore to me he always burned my letters.”

  “He flung it on the hearth after reading it, but he was too agitated to realize that the fire had gone out. Later that night, when he didn’t return home, I found it, a little scorched but still legible.” He unfolded the paper and read: “‘In great travail am I delivered. You have a son. Do nothing rash, I prithee, before we talk. Do not betray me to your family. Come to me, I beg you, tonight. There is a matter I must discuss with you.”’

  Finally Pris Martin was showing some emotion, Alexandra noted. Her face was pale and her hands trembled as the fatal note was read. “May I see it?” she asked. For the first time she sounded upset. “I had forgotten exactly what I had written.”

  The baron handed her the paper. She studied it in silence. How must she feel, Alexandra wondered, reading the message that had sent Will racing out to his death? Without thinking, she found herself addressing Pris for the first time since her revelation had been made, instinctively trying to soften the blow.

  “He would have ridden out anyway, note or no note,” she said gently. “He would never have passed the entire night without coming to you. Don’t blame yourself, Pris.”

  As usual, it sounded clumsy. She had never been able to say the right thing to Priscilla. But this time the woman didn’t even seem to hear her. She continued to stare at the paper while the baron went on to explain how he had checked in the village to find out which woman had borne a child that night. It had not been difficult to uncover Priscilla’s secret. In pity for her, he had done what he could to make her life easier. If the child had lived, he would have been properly cared for; he had been a bastard, but the boy was the baron’s grands
on. He was a sickly babe, however, who did not survive his father by more than a few days.

  His grandson. New pain flooded Alexandra as this sank in. Not only had the baron lost his eldest son, he had also lost his only grandchild. No wonder he had been in such deep mourning ever since.

  The baron finished his remarks by noting that as far as he was concerned the painful matter of Will’s death was now explained. Priscilla Martin listened without further comment, then rose, carefully folded the note she had written to Will, and slipped it into her embroidered girdle. She said, her lovely face pale with emotion, “If you are all finished with me, I would like to leave.”

  No one stopped her as she fled from the great hall.

  “Poor dear wicked Will,” said Roger, breaking the ensuing silence. “He wouldn’t really have wed her, of course. She hasn’t a farthing to her name. The two of you,”—he smiled pleasantly at Sir Charles and the baron—“would never have permitted it.” He paused a moment, then went on, “Which reminds me, while we’re on the subject, let’s not put our heads together and serve up any more family alliances. I have informed my father, as well as your daughter, Sir Charles, that I am not in the market for a wife. I hope that fact is understood by all?”

  “You cocksure bastard,” said Charles Douglas. “One of the reasons I hastened to Westmor as soon as I heard you’d returned was to put a stop to any such schemes.”

  “Indeed? I thought from the way you were proclaiming me your daughter’s seducer this morning that you hoped to force me into offering her my name.”

  “That’s what you thought, is it?” Douglas’ volatile temper was aroused; his face had turned almost as red as his beard. “You think I’d turn my only daughter over to a bloody-minded adventurer like yourself? I’ve heard tales about your doings, Trevor, which, though they be nine parts out of ten a lie, are enough to convince me that you’d be no fit husband for a child of mine. I’d see her in hell first.”