Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Across the hall, Helena spied two pages. They were only a few years older than Merry, and helping to set the trestle tables for the evening meal that would soon be served. The boys were sons of noblemen; they were serving her father’s household as they trained to become squires and then knights. “I can ask those two lads to play with you. Would that be all right?”

  The little girl wrinkled her nose. “Are they nice? Boys can be…well…silly.”

  Helena chuckled. “I expect they will be delighted not to have to do their chores. They will play whatever you like.”

  Picking up the horse Helena had put down, Merry tidied the animal’s mane made of brown yarn. “All right.”

  Helena rose and walked over to the lads who bowed, one of them almost falling over in his earnestness. She spoke to the boys and, excitement in their eyes, they agreed to play with Merry. Helena led them to the hearth where they sat and chatted with the little girl, who issued instructions on what was to happen with the farm animals.

  As Helena started for the forebuilding stairs that led down to the bailey, she pressed her hands to her belly. Her innards were twisting into an anxious knot. Yet, she wouldn’t allow Crandall to see her unease. For her father’s sake, she must be resilient and, with Tavis’s help, find a way to convince Crandall to admit to what he’d done.

  Late afternoon sunlight slanted over her as she hurried out of the torch-lit forebuilding into the outdoors. At the ruins of the stable, men were clearing away ash and charred wood. By the well, servants were drawing water. Maidservants with armloads of folded garments were heading for the keep to put away the clean laundry, while giggling children chased one another in a game. The daily routines of the castle went on as usual, even as the pivotal meeting with Crandall was about to unfold.

  Tavis approached her from the direction of the tiltyards. When his cloak pin caught the sunlight, the glass center glowed blood red. “A man-at-arms told me his lordship has arrived.”

  “He has.” An awful coldness settled within her as the clatter of horse’s hooves echoed from the gatehouse and then Crandall appeared, followed by his guards.

  Tavis growled. His hand slid down to the sheathed dagger secured to his belt.

  “Do not do anything rash,” Helena said quietly. “If he doubts our reasons for summoning him, he will turn his mount around and ride off.”

  “I will be gallant,” Tavis muttered as his hand fell to his side. “I will be thinking, though, how much I want to crush his face into the dirt.”

  Seeing them waiting for him, Crandall guided his horse to them and halted the enormous, lathered beast. Tack jangled and leather saddles creaked as the other riders also halted, their horses winded from a fast ride.

  “Lady Marlowe.” His lordship dipped his head in greeting.

  “Good day, milord. Father asked me to welcome you, since he is resolving an unexpected matter right now.” How she hated to speak falsely, but in this instance, she had no choice. She clasped her hands, trying not to fidget.

  “Your father is well?” his lordship asked.

  What a wicked question. Crandall was no doubt trying to find out whether her sire had fallen ill—as the London official expected. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his poison had worked. Managing to keep her polite smile, she said, “He is, thank you.”

  Suspicion touched the older man’s gaze. His grip tightened on his mount’s reins, as if he might suddenly turn the destrier and bolt, but then Tavis strode forward and patted the horse’s head. “What a magnificent destrier.” Tavis glanced over the animal with undisguised appreciation. “What I would give to own a horse as fine as this one.”

  Frowning, Crandall asked, “Have we met, milord?”

  Tavis stepped away from the horse and bowed. “Tavis de Rowenne. I do not believe you and I have met before, but you undoubtedly know my father, who is lord of Dumfries Castle in Galloway.”

  “Ah. I did not realize you were visiting Kellenham.”

  Helena’s clasped hands tightened as she fought a pang of dread.

  “I was traveling through this area with my daughter when I heard about the fire.” Tavis gestured to the remains of the stable. “I offered my help putting out the blaze, as would any honorable knight of King John’s realm. A shame we could not save the building, but at least no one was badly harmed in the fire.”

  “You were a tremendous help,” Helena added.

  “I am glad, milady.” Tavis grinned up at the London official. “My travels were fortuitous, but even more so now that I have met you, Lord Crandall. ’Tis not often we Scots get to meet high-ranking men from our King’s court.”

  The flattery seemed to come easily to Tavis, and yet, Helena saw the tension in the taut line of his jaw. Folk who didn’t know him as well as she did would never guess he was suppressing anger.

  Crandall nodded stiffly in acknowledgement of Tavis’s words, before his hard stare returned to Helena. “I must speak with your sire.”

  “I will take you to Father now. Would your men like to come to the great hall for some ale and fare, milord? I will ask the servants—”

  “Two of my men will wait for me here,” Crandall cut in, as one of the stable hands brought a wooden block and set it down by the destrier so that his lordship could dismount. “The other two will accompany me. I will not be staying long.”

  Helena fought the urge to share a glance with Tavis; she mustn’t betray their plan. “All right. Please, follow me, milord.”

  Brushing dust from the sleeves of his cloak, Crandall walked with Helena to the forebuilding, Tavis and the other two men a few paces behind. Merry and the pages were so engrossed in their play with the animals and barn, they didn’t even glance up as the group walked past. After climbing the steps to the castle’s upper level, Helena halted outside the solar and knocked.

  “Come,” her sire called.

  She opened the door and gestured for Crandall to enter first. He walked forward into the room lit by the hearth fire and candles. Several folded blankets, a bowl of water, and cloth rags had been left on the trestle table. Helena followed the London official, aware of Tavis and Crandall’s guards behind her. The solar door clicked shut.

  Crandall abruptly halted, his gaze on her glowering father sitting up against his pillows. Three armed guards from Kellenham’s garrison stood to the left of the bed.

  The London official glanced back at Helena, his eyes bright with fury. “You told me your sire was well.”

  “I was,” Helena’s sire snapped, reclaiming Crandall’s attention. “I vow you can explain why I suddenly became sick.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  His posture stiffening, Crandall said, “I received a missive stating you wished to speak to me, milord. Was that a deception? If in truth you have naught to say—”

  “I have a great deal to say.” Helena’s father shook his fist. “If I was not so damned weak, I would knock you to the floor and shout every word in your face.”

  Spinning on his heel, the London official signaled his guards to fall in beside him. “I have had enough of this idiocy. King John will be most displeased when I tell him—”

  “Milord!” Helena moved to intercept him. If he left now, they’d never get answers.

  Tavis darted back against the door, blocking the way out. He nodded to Helena, indicating he wouldn’t let Crandall or his men leave. Grateful for his intervention, she nodded back.

  Scowling, Crandall said, “Move aside, de Rowenne.”

  Tavis folded his arms. “I think not.”

  “If you do not move, I will order my men to arrest you.”

  Tavis smirked. “Will you, now?”

  Crandall hissed a breath and set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You cannot defeat me and my men. Move, or—”

  “Enough threats,” Tavis said sharply. “Attack me, and you will also have to battle Lord Marlowe’s guards. By provoking a fight with
in this castle, you, a man appointed by King John, will be responsible for starting a confrontation with one of the most respected noblemen in these northern lands—and his peers, in both England and Scotland, will rally behind him. Is that in the best interests of the sovereign, who is already struggling to prevent a rebellion?”

  Crandall looked angry enough to spit stones. “De Rowenne—”

  Tavis gestured to Helena and her sire. “We want answers to a few questions. You would be wise to cooperate.”

  ***

  With a furious sigh, Crandall dropped his hand from his sword and motioned for his men to stand down.

  Tavis didn’t move from the doorway. Hell, he didn’t trust Crandall. In London, Tavis had met plenty of men like his lordship, ambitious thugs who used their duty to the King to manipulate others and further their own interests. Selfish, ruthless bastards, the lot of them.

  “What are these questions, then?” Crandall demanded.

  “Well,” Lord Marlowe groused, “for a start—”

  “Father, allow me,” Helena cut in. “Please,” she added gently.

  That incredible fire gleamed in her eyes again. Not only was she protecting her sire, still stricken by fever, from jeopardizing what little strength he had left, but she wasn’t going to give up until she’d learned the truth from Crandall.

  With a weak flick of his hand, her father gave his consent for her to continue.

  “Lord Crandall, soon after you left Kellenham a couple of days ago, my sire became grievously ill.”

  “Mayhap the fare was not fresh, or did not agree with him?” his lordship said with a careless shrug.

  “The food is not to blame. All of us at the lord’s table dined on the same fare, but Father is the only one who succumbed to sickness.”

  “’Tis unfortunate that he is ill. However—”

  “Did you poison my father?”

  Crandall’s mouth dropped open then snapped shut. “Poison him?”

  “Aye.” Her unyielding tone brought a smile to Tavis’s lips.

  “How could I have committed such an offense? You were with us when we ate in the great hall. We sat at the lord’s table, in full view of the rest of the folk eating that meal. If I had tried to put poison into his food or drink, others would have noticed.”

  “True, and yet—”

  The official’s lip curled. “What reason would I have for poisoning your father?”

  “A desire to replace him with a lord favored by King John.”

  Crandall’s expression darkened with indignation. “You are very unwise, milady, to make such accusations of a man in my position.”

  Helena was shaking now with the force of her anger. Tavis yearned to cross to her, to stand at her side and offer reassurance, but he still didn’t dare move away from the door. “I want the truth of what happened, milord,” she said evenly. “If you would be honest—”

  “You want honesty?” Crandall bit out. “The most likely cause of your father’s ailment is the fare your folk served. To accuse me of deliberately causing your sire’s discomfort is not only foolish, but an offense I will report to the King!”

  Helena’s face paled, even as she clearly rallied her resolve.

  Rage welled once again within Tavis, along with a fierce sense of protectiveness. Crandall knew how to play this hazardous game; Helena did not. “She has every right to ask such questions,” he said, drawing Crandall’s stare. “You recently visited Dumfries. Not long after you left, my sire fell very ill.”

  “There must be a sickness spreading through this area,” the official said.

  Tavis shook his head. “Not that I am aware, and I have traveled these northern lands for more than a sennight.”

  Crandall sniffed, a sound of disdain. “’Tis merely a coincidence.”

  “Is it?” Tavis tsked. “I do not believe so.”

  “You, also, are accusing me of foul deeds? Unwise, de Rowenne.”

  The London official’s stare filled with menace, but Tavis refused to drop his gaze. De Rowenne lords didn’t yield to threats.

  “Cake,” Lord Marlowe said, his voice strained. “The gift from the King—”

  “Exactly,” Helena said. “The only thing Father ate that was different from anyone else is the fruit cake brought from London.”

  Still holding Crandall’s gaze, Tavis said, “Helena, please fetch the cake, so we can remind his lordship of it.”

  As Helena walked to the trestle table, Crandall’s narrowed stare moved to her. She set aside the blankets to reveal the rectangular wooden box lined with linen and filled with slices of cake.

  “My sire also received fruit cake,” Tavis said.

  “A present sent by the King,” Crandall insisted, sweat beading on his brow. “’Twas most generous of our sovereign.”

  “Since the gift is so exceptional,” Tavis said, “I vow you would enjoy trying some of the cake.”

  Crandall’s guards shifted their stances. They suddenly appeared nervous.

  Helena brought the open box to Crandall and held it out to him.

  Raising his hand, palm up, the official said, “As much as I would like to—”

  “Eat the cake,” Helena said firmly.

  “I am not hungry. My men and I ate earlier.”

  Tavis laughed, the sound rough to his own ears. “You are sweating, Crandall.”

  “The chamber is warm!”

  “Not that warm.”

  Crandall wiped his brow then gestured to one of the guards: the man with light brown hair. “You eat it.”

  “What?”

  “Go on. Eat some of the cake.”

  The guard’s eyes widened. His throat moved with a swallow.

  Tavis frowned, for the man wasn’t just shocked, he was holding secrets. “You know the cake is tainted, aye?”

  The guard’s focus shifted from Tavis to Crandall, and then back again.

  “What is wrong with the cake? For God’s sake, tell us,” Helena cried.

  The guard’s lips pressed into an unyielding line.

  “Answer!” Helena shouted.

  The guard shook his head. “I…dare not…”

  With a menacing snarl, Tavis strode forward, looped his left arm around Crandall’s neck, and hauled him backward to the door. The guards moved to intervene, but Tavis pressed the blade of his dagger to the official’s neck. “Stay back.”

  The men halted. How curious; they seemed relieved to be thwarted from helping his lordship.

  The oniony stench of sweat rose from Crandall as he stood trapped in Tavis’s choke hold. “Helena, his lordship will eat some of that cake now.”

  A strangled moan broke from the official: a sound of dismay, but not one of surrender.

  Helena walked up to Crandall and broke off a chunk of the dark, moist cake. As she raised it to his mouth, he choked out, “Wait.”

  “Why? If you ordered your guard to eat this, there cannot be aught wrong with it.”

  She raised the cake to his lips. Sweat running into his hairline, Crandall clamped his mouth shut.

  “Pry his lips open,” Tavis commanded.

  Helena smiled. “Gladly.”

  “I will help you,” Lord Marlowe said, accompanied by the creak of the bed ropes as he heaved himself up and pulled back the bedding.

  Anticipating an attack, Tavis glanced at Crandall’s guards. They remained where they were; they weren’t making any attempt to rescue him. As Tavis’s gaze locked with the light-brown-haired guard’s, he saw remorse in the man’s eyes. On a flare of rage, Tavis tightened his arm around the official’s neck.

  Crandall’s face went an ugly shade of red, while his breathing became a ghastly rasp. “All right,” he choked out. “All right!”

  With unsteady, shuffled steps, Lord Marlowe reached Helena’s side.

  “All right…you will eat the cake?” Tavis asked. Meeting Helena’s gaze, he tipped his head, telling her to continue.

  “Please. ’Tis tainted,” Crandall blurted
. “’Tis…fouled.”

  “Fouled?” Tavis growled against the official’s ear. “How?”

  “In London…by the River Thames…there are stagnant pools. ’Tis where unclaimed corpses are dumped, and trash and rotting animals float.”

  Lord Marlowe moaned.

  Helena inhaled a shocked breath. “Oh, God—”

  “You tainted the cake with that water?” Tavis couldn’t keep the revulsion from his tone.

  “A-aye,” Crandall said. “I poured water on it in London, soaked it again…during our journey.”

  Moaning again, Lord Marlowe stumbled to the wall and covered his mouth with his hand. He looked about to retch.

  “Did you taint the cake you took to Dumfries in the same way?” asked Tavis, fury burning like white-hot embers in the pit of his stomach.

  “A-aye.”

  “Does the King know what you have done? Did he order you to take such actions?”

  “He…does not know. I acted on my own.”

  Tavis scowled, for King John could very well have ordered the tainting. By taking the blame, Crandall was protecting the sovereign. If the London official was as loyal as Tavis expected, he would die before implicating the King. “Why would you do such a thing?” Tavis demanded.

  “To cause deadly sickness,” Crandall choked out.

  “Why not use poison? Why the fouled water?”

  “Poison…leaves signs. Too obvious.”

  “The tainted water could be as effective as poison, though,” Helena said, following the progression of Tavis’s thoughts. “Older folk, or those weakened from battling another illness, would likely perish.” Worry etched her features as she glanced at her sire, who was leaning against the wall as though ’twas the only way to keep himself from crumpling to the floorboards. “’Twould be difficult, if not impossible,” she added, “for anyone to prove the cake had caused the illness—”

  “Unless Crandall admitted what he had done,” Tavis finished for her.

  “Exactly.”

  “Is it true?” Tavis asked the guard with the light-brown hair. “Is what has just been explained the truth?”

  The man hesitated a moment and then nodded.

  “How dare you?” Pointing a trembling hand at Crandall, Lord Marlowe said, “How many good folk have you sickened and killed, you cold-hearted bastard? How many other lives have you ruined?”