by Lauren Royal
They traversed the short corridor, following meandering bloody footprints. "I don't like this," Kendra muttered, gingerly picking her way past the dark red marks.
They paused at the entrance to the kitchen. "Benchley?" Ford ran a shaky hand through his wavy brown hair. "Benchley, are you here, man?"
"It appears not," Jason said unnecessarily.
Kendra pointed to one of the two sunken wells. "Oh, my God."
Ford glared at her. "What now?"
"Do you not hear the dripping?"
"Dripping?" Jason started toward the well, then suddenly flung out an arm. "Stay back!"
"What?" Kendra breathed. "What is it?"
"This is no joke. Ford, fetch Colin now!"
Despite Jason's warning, Kendra rushed forward, then let out an earsplitting scream before whirling to muffle her face against his chest.
"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead," she panted. "Benchley's dead. Oh, my God, Benchley's dead!"
Instead of fetching Colin, Ford threw his arms around them both, his breathing labored though he'd failed to utter a sound.
Squished between her brothers, Kendra turned her head and cracked an eye open, just to make sure. Bent at the waist over the crossbar that spanned the well, Colin's manservant dangled, his clothes streaked with red. More blood dripped from the sopping mass of his prematurely gray hair, echoing as it plopped into the water far below.
At the grisly sight she let out a whimper and promptly reburied her face.
Until, with an unnerving suddenness, mad laughter burst out behind them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Colin's siblings stared, dumbstruck, as he strode in and leaned over the well.
A plaintive voice resonated from the depths. "My back is killing me. Help me out of here, I beg you."
Kendra blinked. The color rushed back to her cheeks. "You lout! That was mean."
"But a good one," Ford admitted with a sheepish chuckle. "You did yourself proud, Colin."
"A devil of a mess, but worth it," Colin agreed cheerfully. He reached down to hoist Benchley up. "If you could only have seen your faces."
The manservant's shirt was plastered to his short, wiry form. "I'll be going to clean off now," he said with the greatest of dignity. Back ramrod straight, he thrust his beakish nose into the air and strutted from the room.
"Hurry back!" Jason called. "We're fair starving!"
The siblings waited until Benchley was out of earshot before bursting into peals of laughter.
Jason leaned both hands against the large, scrubbed wooden worktable, his long black hair falling forward to hide his face. "I cannot credit that I fell for it," he mused. "I even said at first…" He looked up at Colin. "By God, but your betrothed will be sorry she missed this one."
"Bosh!" Kendra waved a hand. "She would say it was a childish waste of time."
Ford sniffed at a covered platter. "Suckling pig," he mumbled, hiding a smile as he made his way over to one of the basins and reached for a bronze tap.
Her eyes sparkling with mischief, Kendra turned to Colin. "Have you and Lady Priscilla Snobs set the date?"
"Lady Priscilla Hobbs and I have yet to decide." Colin scanned the shelves, looking for something he could use to clean up. "She won't move to Greystone in its present condition."
"Gravity," Ford declared, opening the tap, then shutting it again. With obvious glee, he repeated the motion. "Definitely gravity."
Kendra nodded absently and turned back to Colin. "Priscilla could live at Cainewood with us."
"Not likely. This family is a bit too, uh, high-spirited for Priscilla." He dropped a wad of rags on the biggest puddle of pig blood, poking at it with one booted foot. "She's an only child, you know—used to peace and quiet."
"She's a snob, you mean. Otherwise—"
"Kendra!" Jason's leaf-green eyes glared into his sister's lighter ones. "Lady Priscilla is a perfectly nice woman. More important to Colin, though, she's pretty, titled, and the only heir to an enormous fortune. If it takes her a while to get used to us, we'll just have to put up with it." He turned to Colin. "How are the rest of the renovations coming along?"
"Slowly." Colin looked up from where he crouched on the floor, mopping the last of the bloody trail. "My study and one bedchamber are finished, enough for Benchley and me to stay here and work. But for Priscilla…"
Raising a hand to his narrow black mustache, Jason stroked one side then the other. "I imagine Priscilla requires a small army of servants, as well as a proper suite and a couple of receiving rooms, at the very least." He shot Kendra a warning glance. "On the other hand, she's not going to wait for the entire castle to be remodeled, is she?"
Colin shook his head vehemently. "God's blood, no." An incredible amount of work lay ahead; the castle had stood vacant since '43 when the Roundheads laid the great hall in ruins. "I'll warrant we'll see another quarter century before it's fully restored."
"See this lead pipe?" Ford gestured at the stone wall. "I'd lay odds there's a cistern on the roof. This second tap controls outflow—the River Caine lies downhill from here, yes?" He grinned, his deep blue eyes flashing with satisfaction. "Gravity."
"Fascinating," Jason said dryly.
Standing up slowly, Colin twisted the new gold ring on his finger, considering the enormity of the task ahead of him. "Priscilla wishes to wed and start a family soon. Just a few more rooms…" He sighed. "Everything's so damned expensive, and I'm spending more on farm equipment and livestock than renovations. Until the estate is in shape, it cannot generate a decent income."
"Poor Colin." Kendra walked around the kitchen, reaching up a hand to trail along the mantels of the three immense fireplaces. "I suppose I cannot fault you for wanting Priscilla and her enormous fortune, but why not hurry it along a bit?" She stepped in front of Colin, who was busy lighting candles to ward off the encroaching dark. "Can't you manage to compromise her or something?"
"Kendra!" Jason scolded.
Ford snorted, his attention finally diverted from the pipes. "Compromise her? At King Charles's court? Just what would that entail, do you suppose?" He wandered over to break off a piece of the fresh-baked manchet that Benchley had left on the table. "I'm afraid compromising went out with knights in shining armor—or Cromwell, at the very least."
He sank his teeth into the fine white bread, talking around a mouthful. "Colin could ravish her on the hazard table at Whitehall Palace, and I doubt anyone would take notice—other than to push them out of the way so they could get on with the game."
When he reached for more bread, Kendra slapped his hand away. "I'm not a half-wit." She often claimed that, due to her three brothers' exasperating diligence, she must be the only virgin at court. "I was trying to put it delicately, but what I meant was, why not just get her with child?"
Colin had held his tongue during Ford's tirade—facts were facts, after all—but this went beyond his gentlemanly sensibilities. "I cannot believe you'd suggest such a thing."
"I cannot believe you haven't thought of it. I'm sure you all have, in fact, and you just won't admit it!" Kendra's lips thinned with irritation. "You and your honor. If Priscilla Snobs had half the honor of any one of you, she'd swallow her pride, marry the man she supposedly loves, and help him rebuild his home. She can afford to live simply for a few months; it wouldn't kill her. Or she could move in with us, or live in the town house."
Colin gave a resigned shrug. "We've been over all our options." One by one, he took four goblets off the shelves and set them on the table. "The town house always has people coming and going—it's no place to actually live—"
"I like living there." Kendra reached for some napkins and started folding them into triangles. "London is exciting."
"Well, Priscilla feels differently. She's a very calm person. I like that, you know. Having been dragged halfway around the world most of my life, I'm looking forward to staying in one quiet place, with my own quiet family."
She straightened the fourth triangle, then
looked up. "You'll be bored to tears in no time."
"Kendra's right enough," Ford put in. "It sounds like Priscilla's main attraction, other than the aforementioned enormous fortune, is her talent for putting one to sleep—"
"Enough!" The word burst out of Colin like thunder. His gaze flashed around the table, resting on each sibling in turn. "Perhaps I've yet to set a date, but I am marrying Priscilla Hobbs, and I won't have you discussing her this way any longer. I like her. I like her appearance, I like her demeanor, I like her background, and yes, I like her title and her fortune. She's exactly what I've been looking for, and I'm not going to let any of you ruin it for me!"
There was a rare silence among the Chase family. Colin considered they might even have stopped breathing; the only motion seemed to be the candlelight that flickered against the whitewashed stone walls.
"I'll be right back," he muttered after a minute, then stalked off down the corridor to the buttery.
Though he took his time selecting a bottle of wine, the silence still reigned when he returned. Jason shifted uneasily on his feet, Ford traced aimless circles with his finger on the tabletop, and Kendra seemed to be studying her shoes.
Colin almost felt sorry for them.
"Colin?"
"Yes, Kendra?"
"Do you love her?"
He sighed impatiently and set to uncorking the wine. "Our parents were in love, and what did it do for all of us? They were very passionate people, weren't they? Passionate about each other, the monarchy…we were born of their passion, not because they wanted children." He looked straight at Kendra, his eyes burning into hers. "No, Kendra, I don't love Priscilla, but I do like her. And I think it's better that way."
He filled the goblets, the sound of pouring wine unnaturally loud in the tense atmosphere.
Jason took a careful sip, then set his goblet back on the table, his expression tinged with sadness. "You've thought about this a lot, have you?"
Colin's chin went up. "Yes, I have."
Jason shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "It wasn't really like that, you know. Our parents—all of us—were victims of the times. I felt very wanted as a small child. During the fighting, I missed them terribly, and I'm certain they missed us. Damn Cromwell!" He slammed his fist on the table, making the empty bottle dance and the wine sway in their goblets.
"I miss them now," Kendra said quietly. "I always will."
"Well," Colin began—then broke off, interrupted by Benchley's sudden return.
The small man skidded into the kitchen, panting, water from his freshly washed hair puddling on the stone floor.
"My lord, you must come!" A lantern bobbed in Benchley's trembling hand; Colin leapt to grab it before it might crash to the floor. "I went outside the walls to dump the water, and—holy Christ, you must see it!"
"See what?" Colin asked, but the words were directed to Benchley's retreating back.
They followed him at a run, through the darkened castle and outside the turreted walls. A hush seemed to fall over the countryside as the five of them gazed toward London. At the edge of the jet-black night sky, a dazzling red glow hovered at the horizon.
Kendra's whisper shattered the silence. "What is it?"
"A fire," Jason stated grimly. "And it looks big."
"London, on fire?" Kendra's voice was tense with fear. "It looks closer."
Jason put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself, Kendra. It won't reach us here. It's just that the night is so dark, it seems to light the sky."
"But it looks enormous. Whitehall Palace could be burning, or St. Paul's or—our town house! Oh, God, what if the town house is on fire?"
By the dim light of the lantern, Jason's gaze met Colin's over their sister's head.
"We must go help," they said together.
"Ford, you'll come as well," Jason continued. "Colin, you've extra horses? Carrington will fetch Kendra home in the carriage. Let's move."
CHAPTER FIVE
Colin paused to lean and pat his skittish gelding's black, lathered neck as Jason and Ford rode ahead. "It's all right, lad," he murmured, though he knew the words were likely swallowed by the sounds of chaos that engulfed them.
"Colin!" Though they'd barely fought their way into London, Jason's voice already sounded hoarse from smoke and overuse. "Come along! We'll lose you, man!"
Usually dark and deserted at night, London's streets were alive with an appalling incandescence and a crush of displaced humanity. Colin's skin prickled with heat as he picked his way around people, animals, and debris. Bits of ash drifted down, dotting his clothes and hair. Squinting into the haze, he searched the maelstrom for his brothers.
There they were, their familiar forms near a commanding presence riding tall on a huge black stallion: King Charles with his own brother, James, Duke of York. Colin watched as the king reached into a bag flung over his shoulder and threw a handful of guineas to the workmen, encouraging them in their efforts to create a firebreak. The gold coins shimmered in the light of the flickering blaze, as though hung suspended in the thick, smoky air.
"Sweet Mary," Colin breathed, catching up to his brothers. "Where to start?"
"Here's as good a spot as any." Jason twisted in the saddle, looking for a safe place to leave their horses. His gasp made his brothers turn.
Hands white-knuckled on the reins, Colin could only stare at the terrible splendor of St. Paul's Cathedral all ablaze.
"God's blood," he murmured.
"I was there last week." Ford jockeyed his horse closer to Colin, shaking his head in disbelief. "Lady Tabitha and I—we carved our names into the lead on the roof."
"They're erased now," Jason said grimly. "Along with six centuries of other signatures." The molten metal ran down in fiery streams, St. Paul's glorious dome rising like a torch from the sea of flames made by thousands of structures burning all at once.
Jason shook himself, then reached to touch Colin on the shoulder. "Come, there's work to do."
They wheeled to see King Charles dismount and toss his reins to a liveried groom, who led the enormous horse to a makeshift penned area crammed with aristocratic mounts.
"There's a likely spot." Jason's eyes lit with relief. They left their own horses—along with a fair amount of coin to guarantee they'd see them again—and headed down Warwick Lane on foot, jostling through the swarm of firefighters.
A bucket brigade broke apart and reformed to include them, and before he knew what was happening, Colin was accepting pails from Ford and thrusting them at King Charles. From all evidence, the king and his brother had spent the night wading ankle-deep in trenches and splashing through mud and water; their silks and laces were drenched, sooty, and scorched.
"You've been here since when, sire?" Colin yelled as the king turned to take a bucket.
"We came downriver yesterday noon." Charles twisted to pass the bucket, then turned back to Colin. "Would have ventured out Sunday, but the Lord Mayor assured me it was nothing."
"Nothing? We saw it from Greystone!"
"If I recall aright, Bludworth's words were 'Pish! A woman might piss it out!'"
His Majesty gave a snort of disgust that may have been tempered by weary amusement, then stepped from the line when James thrust a shovel into his hands.
The royal brothers trotted off into the smoke. The fire was giving Charles his first opportunity as king to play the hero in person—and he performed the part superbly, Colin mused in some vague recess of his mind, passing along another bucket.
"Help!" The cry, thin and distressed, came through the shouts of the workers. "Help! My little brother!"
A hand tugged at Colin's breeches, and he looked down at a grimy young face. "Where's your brother?" he asked.
"In a burning house!" The boy grasped his hand and yanked him out of the queue—a feat made possible by desperation, given his scant five-foot height against Colin's six-plus.
The next bucket landed in the dirt, soaking Colin's boots and spewing mud into
the frightened boy's face. "Where?" Colin repeated.
"P-Paternoster Row!" The lad was off like a rocket, brown hair flying as he threaded his thin form through the confusion. Colin followed at his heels. Rounding the corner and skidding to a halt, the boy pointed up at a high window.
Behind the mottled glass, a pale face hovered. The child's little fingers clawed helplessly at the pane.
Cursed bad luck, the lad was trapped in one of the few houses in this old neighborhood that actually boasted glass windows. The ground floor was engulfed in flame. Black smoke billowed out, cloaking the street, a typically narrow, dirty alley lined with tall houses leaning forward until they nearly met their opposite neighbors.
Colin peered through the haze. Flames leapt from roof to roof, eating their way toward them.
Without conscious thought, he bolted past another burning house to a third that seemed deserted but yet unscathed. He booted open the door and sped up two flights of stairs, coming out on the balcony.
The houses were crammed together. It was an easy leap to the balcony next door, and then once again to the one under the boy's window.
"Stand back!" he implored the terrified face.
Climbing onto the balcony's rail, Colin stretched toward the upper story to hack at the window with his sword. The boy disappeared into the smoke-filled room. Seeing flames lick up the far wall, Colin whacked at the window harder. But his elegant rapier blade was no match for the thick, uneven glass.
He dropped to the deck of the balcony and whirled in desperation, relieved to see Jason and Ford among a crowd that had gathered in the street.
"Rock!" he yelled, and the next second a chunk came sailing up; he caught and hurled it through the window in one smooth motion. A swipe of his blade cleared most of the glass from the sill. He dropped the sword and struggled out of his surcoat, tossing it up to drape over the frame before he jumped to catch the window ledge with his hands and hoist himself inside.
The small, towheaded child cowered against a side wall, wide-eyed with terror. Fed by the fresh air supply from the broken window, the blaze thundered. The fire seemed alive, a hideous monster come to devour all in its path.
