Angharad sat in pensive silence, considering what her grandmother had said. She despised what she was been forced by her parents and coerced by her grandmother into doing. Deep within she felt the sting of betrayal that the one person to whom she had come to for support had evinced instead. There was no one left to whom she could appeal. She briefly considered running away, but the memory of her recent attempt in that direction dissuaded her. Suicide also crossed her mind, only to be rejected as equally childish and impractical. In the end she was faced with the decision of bowing to her parent's will and accepting the duke regent's offer, or going against her parents and being given to Sir Hildreth. There was no true choice either way. Stiffly she got to her feet and looked down into her grandmother's face. For the first time in her life she perceived the same arrogant pride in the old woman's eyes that had always been manifest in her father.
"I will do what is commanded of me," she stated dully. "I will allow myself to be married to the Duke Regent of Langstraad."
"Very wise of you, my dear girl," the dowager approved warmly. "Do not worry, I promise that the idea will grow on you with time and that by the actual wedding day you will be as excited and lovely a bride as anyone could imagine!" The words had a hollow ring to them and Angharad's answering smile was not even half-hearted.
"I have disturbed your rest enough for one night," Angharad said in the same dull tone. "I'll take my leave now, Grandmother. Good-night to you." She bent forward and placed a dry kiss on the wrinkled cheek.
"Let me ring for someone to see you back to your room." The old woman began to rise from her chair.
"There is no need, I know the way quite well. You need not worry; I will go directly to my room," she added with a defeated sigh.
The door closed and the old woman collapsed back into her chair. Her mind began to agitate with concern for her grand-daughter until she firmly pushed her worries aside. The first step had been taken and the girl had come round to accept the inevitable. She might not like the idea, but she had begun a compromise with it. Getting her married would do her a world of good; she would stop fretting about that unfortunate young man in Pentarin, she would be reconciled with her parents, and she would be taken to a new environment in which to live and make her own peace. Smugly pleased with herself, the Dowager Duchess of Creon rang for a cup of hot milk to be brought to her before she retired to her bed.
In the morning, wearing fresh clothing, her hair brushed and the traces of her tears washed away so that only a faint pink swelling about her eyes and nose betrayed last night's emotional storm, Angharad d'Aurilac went to inform her parents that she acquiesced to being wed to the new Duke Regent of Langstraad. Her father was delighted, telling her that he knew she would be reasonable after thinking it over. The duchess said little, a small smile hovering at the corners of her mouth as her husband praised their daughter's capitulation. Saying that he would have a letter sent to Sir Alister that very day inviting him to come to Gwenth to finalize the contract and the details of her dowry, Branwilde dismissed his daughter with a kiss to her cold brow and she returned to her room in the nursery to lament her decision in private. According to her father, if all went well, she would be married within a month.
Chapter 16
The eleventh-hour bells rang dolefully into the night air. Fog had rolled in off the sea at sunset and now drifted in veil-like wisps about the walls of Tuenth's ducal castle, Rengard. The peals were slowly swallowed by the darkness, leaving only the distant booming of the sea to be heard by the men patrolling the battlements. The night had crawled forward another quarter of an hour when lights began appearing in windows and the shouts of servants and the pounding of shod feet reverberated in the halls. At the doorway leading into the duke's private study a tight knot of people stood, looking into the room with mingled expressions of fear and horror. An older man wearing a leather surcoat, his cloak fastened with a large silver and enamel boss depicting the red stag of Tuenth, pushed his way roughly into the room. Giles Benet, Seneschal of Rengard Castle, dropped to his knees before his lord's dead body and loudly demanded an accounting from those present.
"If you please, m'lord." A small, thin man nervously fingering the edge of his servant's tabard stepped forward into the room. "I was making my rounds, seeing that all was taken care of and put away like, you see. I usually go into his grace's study the last thing at night to make sure that it's tidy for him in the morning. But tonight when I come here, I see a light coming from under his door. I knocked but as was no answer I tried the door, you know, thinking that maybe his grace had forgot to sconce his lights, but when I opened the door there he was lying on the floor with blood all around him. I was frightened so I screamed and ran for help. The guards outside heard me calling and come back with me."
"What's all this commotion? What is going on?" An imperious, adenoidal voice rose from the rear of the crowd. People stepped aside as a young man came forward. "Sir Benet, I demand..." The rest of his demand was swallowed convulsively as he stared at the body lying at the seneschal's feet. "Oh no, what has he done?" the young man whispered, his eyes wide with fright.
"Lord Torval, perhaps you would like to sit down in the next room." Benet briskly got to his feet and surveyed the onlookers. "Guards! I want everyone here taken to the guardroom at the end of this wing of the castle to be detained for questioning!" Uneasy glances were exchanged among the crowd but none dissented and they dutifully went with their escort.
Benet turned to find the duke's son still standing in the doorway, his eyes riveted to his father's prostrate body. "Here man!" He called to one of the guards who remained in the hall. "Take his lordship into the next room and have someone fetch a glass of strong spirits. Go along with him, my boy; I'll be with you in a moment." Numbly, Torval followed the man who came forward and took him by the arm.
With the young man gone, Benet summoned the sergeant-of-the-watch. An older man with tears in his eyes returned to the room and presented himself. Yes, he had been on duty as the senior guard for the whole of the evening. No, he had neither seen nor heard anything untoward during the watch. No, there had been no strangers in this part of the castle; no one had come or gone all evening. He had no idea how anything like this could have befallen the duke. After interrogating him, Benet ordered the body to be removed from the study.
While this was being done he questioned the other guards, but to no further effect. When the body was carefully removed he locked the study door, posted a guard and made his way to the room into which Torval had retired. There he found the young lord, a dazed expression on his face, sitting in a chair, a glass of amber liquid perilously held with a lax hand. The face he lifted when Benet entered was filled with incomprehension. Benet sent the guard out of the room and sat down, facing Torval, with a stern expression.
The young man shared the long boned body of his brothers but his hair, a reddish-yellow, was a bleached version of their richer, darker russet colour. Everything about him was a paler, weaker version of his brothers' presence and good looks. From long acquaintance, Benet knew that he lacked both Hywell's character and Blaise's intelligence, but that he was not a complete fool. Torval did not speak as Benet took his seat but instead sat mute, waiting for Benet to speak first.
"My lord, I know that this has been a terrible shock, but I need to ask you a few questions; if I may?"
"Why did he do it?" the young man blurted out unexpectedly.
"Who are you speaking about? A few minutes ago, in the other room, you said that someone had done something. Who were you speaking of? What do you think he did?" Benet asked the questions forcefully, his own nerves beginning to tingle.
Torval seemed to be shaking off his dazed mood. He stared Benet in the eye and replied, "Hywell."
Benet nearly jumped out of his chair at this reply. "Please explain yourself, my lord!"
"I came by earlier this evening to talk to father about a new hound in the kennel. I got to the door, but as I was about to enter I heard
shouting from the other side. It was Hywell and father; they were arguing violently. Hywell wanted to do something and father wasn't letting him. I didn't want to intrude so I started to leave, but as I left I heard father shout something about "only when I'm dead," and then Hywell shouted a reply that I didn't quite catch, followed by a loud crashing sound and more arguing. I went back down to the kennels and a short while later I heard a horse cantering out of the mews and when I looked out I saw Hywell riding towards the main gate.
"I thought it was odd that Hywell would be leaving like that, so late at night; but then I thought that he probably wanted time to cool off after his fight with father." He paused and a haunted look came into his eyes.
Masking his shock, Benet stood up and began to pace. "The first thing we must do is see if your brother has returned, and get his story."
"But you don't understand," Torval interrupted with an agonized voice. "The dagger! I recognized it. It's his...Hywell's! He bought a new dagger when he was in Pentarin at the council session. He showed it to me when he returned. It was specially commissioned for him when he was there and had a hunting scene in ivory inlaid with silver on the hilt. There could not be two such knives!"
"You are certain of this?" Benet hissed, no longer able to conceal the fear and outrage beginning to overwhelm him. Parricide was one of the most heinous crimes that could be committed, and to have it occur within a Great House was treason beyond imagination.
"We must find your brother," Benet spoke with careful deliberation in an attempt to maintain a hold on the situation. "We must also corroborate your identification of the knife and check with anyone else who may have heard or seen either your father or your brother this evening." He went on enumerating the various points that needed to be checked and Torval continued to nod in speechless agreement.
By the next morning the news of the Duke of Tuenth's death had filtered out of the castle and into the seaport city below it. The duke's eldest son and heir was missing, vanishing in haste in the darkness of the night, leaving behind a unique dagger. Lord Blaise was questioned and he, with a distressed expression, affirmed that the dagger was the one his brother had commissioned in Pentarin. A guard was also found who saw Lord Hywell going into his father's room earlier that evening and another guard who saw Torval leaving the main building heading in the direction of the kennels followed shortly by Hywell. The stable grooms did not see Hywell take a horse but one was missing, his, and the sentries at the main gate saw his lordship leaving just before the eleventh hour bells were rung. In consequence of the damning evidence, soldiers were sent out in pursuit of the ducal heir.
The funeral for the Duke of Tuenth was held a few days later. His stunned and grieving widow, on hearing the evidence against her son, collapsed into hysteria reviling Hywell's name. Lord Torval, now treated as the heir-elect, seemed to act as if in a stupor, so that his younger brother Blaise was forced to take charge in his name on several occasions. With the duke buried, his barons converged on Rengard Castle to advise and debate the fate of the Great House. In the continued absence of his elder brother and especially with the unproved but assumed blood on Hywell's name, they recommended that Torval, as next in line, take the ducal coronet.
"But Blaise," Torval argued with his closest advisor. "We might have overlooked something or made a mistake. Hywell might not be guilty!" Harassed and miserable, Torval sat down on the step and buried his face in his hands.
In the warm afternoon sunshine the two remaining elder sons of the Duke of Tuenth stood on the tower battlement of the east wall. From where they stood they could look down the steep cliffs to the thriving port city and out to where the sea lay flat and placid in the sun. They had ventured here together to escape the importuning of the assembled barons and to talk in peace together.
Keeping his contempt off his face and out of his voice, Blaise placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Torval, neither of us wants to admit it, but we both know that Hywell killed father. There could have been no one else. Now the duchy and our House need you to accept your responsibilities. You must proclaim yourself duke and order a death warrant for Hywell. He has foully murdered our father and he must pay for it. Be strong and resolute in this matter Torval, or you may be forced to deal with a rebellion within your own borders!"
Fearful, Torval looked up into his brother's face. "Surely our barons are loyal. They would not rebel, would they?"
"They want to see justice done," Blaise said tersely, "and you must mete out that justice and do so now."
Torval's shoulders sagged and he spoke in a resigned voice. "If you think that it is the right thing to do, than I will do it." Diffidently he added, "After all, he is your brother too. It is as painful for you as for me."
Blaise nodded soberly. So far, he was pleased with the unfolding of his plan. Hywell's argument with his father had been perfectly timed and arranged. He had poured poisonous words into both their ears and waited for the result. Using his own resources, he had followed Hywell and waited for the argument to commence. Torval's arrival on the scene was unplanned and could have been disastrous, but instead it was an unexpected boon. Waiting until Hywell had stormed out, Blaise had quietly slipped into the room and shoved the dagger between the old man's ribs on his left side, giving the knife a good twist. His father never even saw his assailant as he crumpled forward onto the floor. Blaise prided himself on his coolness and self-control in returning undetected to his own room and remaining there, feigning sleep, until his brother and Giles Benet came to tell him of the deed.
Yes, he had been clever in his actions and his manipulation. He stilled a tremor of excitement when he considered that his schemes were just beginning. He was eager to let those in the south know of his success, but not before he had achieved all that he wanted here. She would be very pleased, he reflected, savouring thoughts of her. Another few weeks and a few more details to be taken care of and he could send the message that would set the gears in motion.
It amused him to see how easily Torval could be manipulated and how completely obtuse Torval was to his true thoughts and feelings. He gazed down at his brother with a face of sincerest regard. "There is one more thing that I think you should consider in the next day or two. Mother is taking all of this terribly hard. She looks very ill and I am afraid for her health. I think that it would do her a great deal of good to take the little ones and get away from here for awhile."
Torval's hand reached out and clasped Blaise's forearm in a gesture of affection and gratitude "You're right, the news of father's death, and then finding out about Hywell..." Concern and worry were mirrored in his face. "Would she go, though?"
"I think that if you suggest it she would. Tell her that it would be best for Alyce and Cluim to be away from from where father was killed. I know that this whole affair has been dreadfully upsetting to them,” he added with a sorrowful look.
At the mention of their two youngest siblings, Torvald’s brow furrowed. “I confess that I have not given them much thought lately. You are a good brother. Where do you suggest that they go?”
Casually disengaging himself from his brother's grasp, Blaise replied, "Deerstand Manor would be a good place I should think."
"The hunting lodge? Isn't that a bit remote?" Torval remarked in some surprise.
"It is secluded but quite comfortable, and I think that seclusion is what Mother and the little ones need. Quiet, rest and a change from all that Rengard must mean to them now."
"I see what you mean. I'll talk to her about it this evening; and Blaise," Torval stood up and grasped his brother by the shoulder, "I want to thank you for all of your help and advice these last few days."
Blaise stared guilelessly into his brother's eyes. "You need say nothing. I am here to assist you whenever you need me, your grace," he added with a deferential bow.
The palace grounds of the Duke of Mirvanovir's court at Challis were extensive and exotic. A small lake had been constructed and the surrounding gardens were lush
with greenery and flowers. After the cramped accommodations that she had endured traveling to and from Pentarin, the Duchess of Mirvanovir luxuriated in the spaciousness of her familiar surroundings. So what if they were indefensible from a military standpoint. They would not have to worry about enemy attacks and this was infinitely preferable to the ancestral pile of stones, Talrandir Castle, that Niall had first taken her to when they were married.
Rashara closed her eyes and let the warm sun caress her body as she lay on the cushions beneath the willow trees that had been planted at the shore of her lake. Far off she heard the discordant crying of gulls, but she ignored them in favour of the small songbirds that hung in cages from the trees nearby. Several of her women attendants stood beside her with fans to discourage insects and keep their mistress from becoming too uncomfortable in the heat.
The trip to Pentarin had been interesting. As Duchess of Mirvanovir, she loved occasions where she could show herself to advantage over those deemed her peers. She paused to consider Pentarin Palace as a possible abode. It was more ancient and had a grandeur beyond Challis, but it lacked the warmer climate and there was a historical formality to it that made her uncomfortable. Changes would have to be made when she was mistress there, she assured herself complacently. The Duchess of Langstraad and her entire retinue were destroyed, according to Lord Brescom, and that was but the first step. She stopped to reconsider; no, it was Niall's first step, her's had been taken long ago.
Her father had been old Sir Jeram de Sharonnara, a minor noble who had made an immense fortune as a young man in shipping and trading. When well past middle-age, he took a voyage on one of his trading vessels, returning with an extraordinarily beautiful young woman as his wife. Within a few years she presented him with his only heir, a daughter, before abandoning both and returning to her own people. Rashara had displayed certain talents as a child, presumably inherited from her mother, and eventually, not wanting to raise her himself, her father had sent her to the Scholastium Arcana in Dacara, where she attained the rank of arcane adept. At the death of her father she was summoned back to Mirvanovir and found herself in sole possession of her father's fortune. It was then that Rashara began to seriously consider her future.
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