Pendragon

by Catherine Coulter

  “I just hope it will clear by tomorrow.”

  “Why?” Meggie asked as she stuffed her windblown hair back under her bonnet and retied it.

  Thomas said, “Traveling by boat is more difficult in bad weather. Women tend to moan and complain and puke their guts over the side.”

  “What a perfectly happy thought,” Meggie said and climbed down without waiting for anyone to assist her. Her skirt snagged on the brake, and she very nearly went crashing to the ground. She said a small prayer of thanksgiving that she didn’t fall. She could just see him standing over her, legs spread, hands on hips, sneering at her, treating her like a nincompoop. She said, “How nice it must be for men not to get seasick. Do you think it is due to a man’s natural superiority? Or to a female’s frailty, her inherent weakness?”

  “Dammit, some men get seasick.”

  She said slowly, tapping her fingers to her chin, “Why did you admit that to me?”

  “Because Tim is one of them and you would find out soon enough and point it out to me in a perfectly snide voice.”

  “What a fine example of logic. You saved yourself from my ill manners. Goodness, it’s very cold here,” she said as she shook out her skirts.

  “Yes, a bit,” Thomas said, then gave Tim instructions while he handed Pen’s reins to a stable boy who was staring at the big black horse. “He won’t hurt you. Just be firm and gentle with him. Tim, go along with the boy, see that everything is taken care of.”

  “Pen is a very big horse,” she said, then sighed. “I will miss Survivor, but Rory and Alec need her.”

  For the first time since they’d arrived, Meggie turned to look at the inn that was set behind some oak trees. She didn’t see much, just a flapping wooden sign that said The Hangman’s Noose beneath a lantern that hung over the inn door.

  Meggie looked from the inn to Thomas. “This is very strange. We haven’t seen a soul except for the stable lad. This place looks utterly deserted. There is only the lantern over the front door and look, it seems there is just a single candle shining out that one front window.”

  “This isn’t right at all,” Thomas said, and she heard the alarm in his voice. “No, usually, Bernard’s inn is very busy. Why didn’t the stable boy say anything? Good Lord, I wonder what has happened. I want you to stay here, Meggie.” She didn’t want to, but she saw him pull a pistol from inside his jacket. An eyebrow went up. There was no one else about in the inn yard.

  What was going on here?

  The sky was filled with rolling black clouds, obscuring any hint of light. She fastened her eyes on that single lone candle set in the window.

  Then she knew something was very wrong when she saw Thomas break into a run to the inn, the pistol gripped firmly in his right hand.

  She was just behind him in seconds. “I don’t like this.”

  He stopped, turned. “I don’t want you here, Meggie. Go back there where it’s safe.”

  “Safe with the stable lad? How do you know he’s safe? Where is he, by the way? You don’t think he’s hurt Tim, do you?”

  “Don’t be absurd, but you’re right, surely he must know if there is something wrong. Why didn’t he say anything? Stay here. I will see to this. Obey me.”

  “No,” she said and fell into step beside him. “This is a very important item on my wife’s list: Keep your husband from harm.”

  A black eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything, just tried to get in front of her when they reached the inn door. Later he’d be inordinately pleased about what she’d said, but not now. Slowly he opened the door, shoving it slowly, inexorably inward. It creaked loudly, making Meggie’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, making her suck in her breath.

  “I don’t like this at all,” she whispered against his shoulder.

  “I don’t either. Dammit, stay behind me at least.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I am too. Be quiet.”

  Thomas walked into the small beam-ceilinged private parlor where the single candle was flickering in the window. It looked like it was a signal, but to whom?

  Other than the candle, the room was empty. Thomas picked up the candle, saw that it was nearly burned all the way down. How long had it been lighted, and set in that particular spot? An hour? More?

  Meggie moved to within two inches of her husband, came up onto her toes, and whispered in his ear, “Is there smuggling on the northern coast of Cornwell? Between Cornwall and Ireland?”

  He shook his head, placed his fingers over his mouth.

  He checked every inch of the room, then said, “I want you to remain in here, Meggie. I must check the rest of the inn.”

  Meggie walked to the fireplace and lifted a poker from beside the mantel. It was big and soot-covered. “No,” she said. “Let’s go. The Hangman’s Noose. I don’t like the sound of that name. Who owns it?”

  “Bernard Leach.” He said nothing more until they were across the hall and through the open door of the taproom. It was perfectly dark and smelled of years upon years of ale. “Keep your voice down. Bernard is a Cornishman I’ve known all my life. We need a light, I can’t see a damned thing. Stay put. I’m going to get the candle.”

  He was back in a moment, the candlelight shining upward, setting his face in relief, making him look like the devil himself.

  “I wouldn’t have married you if it were dark like this and you were holding a candle. You look evil, Thomas.”

  “You hold it then,” he said, and then laughed low when he saw her pale face lighted by the candle flame. “You have the look of a succubus.”

  “Not a good thing,” Meggie said and shuddered even as she walked toward the long bar and raised the candle to look behind it. “If I have a child, he or she will be a demon or a witch. Did you know that Merlin was supposedly spawned by an incubus? That’s a male succubus.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” he said.

  “Where could everyone have gone? Perhaps there was an accident in the village.”

  “It’s possible. St. Agnes village is still a half mile to the west. Bernard’s grandfather built the inn in an oak forest because he liked his privacy.”

  They went through the entire downstairs, ending up in the small cramped kitchen. That was where they found Bernard Leach lying unconscious in the middle of a pile of flour, blood from his head seeping into the white flour.

  Thomas went down beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck. “Bernard, wake up. Dammit, man, come on, wake up now!”

  The man, older, grizzled gray hair, thin as a broom handle, a huge white apron wrapped around his middle, moaned, then opened his eyes. “Oh God, be it you, Thomas?”

  “Aye, you old buzzard. You just gave me a mighty scare. Where is everyone? What the hell has happened?”

  Bernard clutched at Thomas’s shirt. “Oh my lord, Thomas, it was the Grakers. You know about the Grakers, don’t you?”

  “I think I’ve heard the name but now, I don’t know. Who are the Grakers?”

  “Not who, Thomas. They’re not people. They’re not of this world. They come and they destroy and then they leave again.”

  “All right, what are the Grakers? Where are they?”

  “They’re like your English pixies, they live under rocks and in caves and only come out at night. But they’re not like pixies, they’re vicious, attacking if they’re displeased with you.”

  “You’re telling me that some sort of evil pixie came to your inn, took you in dislike, and smashed you on the head?”

  “It weren’t quite that simple,” Bernard said, and struggled to sit up. He moaned, gently rubbed his head.

  Meggie said, “Let me get you some water, sir. How do you feel?”

  “Is that a girl I hear? She shouldn’t be here, Thomas. God only knows what the Grakers left upstairs. They scared off all the guests, but I have this very bad feeling that they did something she’s not going to want to see. Aye, they’re mightily displeased with me. I kilt one of them. It was an acciden
t, I swear it, but they don’t believe me. They came for their revenge.”

  Thomas shook his head. “First things first.” Thomas took a wet cloth from Meggie, motioned for her to hold the candle closer, and examined the wound. “It isn’t bad, just a single blow. After I take care of you, Bernard, I’ll go upstairs and see if there’s anyone else here. Where’s Marie?”

  “Marie?” Bernard frowned.

  “Your wife, Bernard.”

  “Oh my lord, I’m in a bad way here, my boy. Marie—I don’t know, I just don’t know. What if the Grakers hurt her, Thomas?”

  “I will go search the rest of the inn. You will stay here and rest.”

  “But who is this girl?”

  “This is my wife.”

  “Ah, your wife. Ain’t she a pretty one? Look at all the lovely hair, can’t make up its mind what color it wants to be.”

  “That’s enough, Bernard. Your head should hurt too much for you to flirt with her. All right, I’m going to help you to that chair and you will rest until I see what’s going on here. Do you have a lantern?”

  Once the lantern was lit, Thomas said, “Meggie, you will remain with Bernard to, er, protect him.”

  “No, he’s not my husband. His head isn’t bleeding anymore. Mr. Leach, you don’t move. Thomas and I will find your wife. Don’t worry. Let’s go, Thomas.”

  He could tie her down, he supposed, then just shrugged, raised the lantern high, and left the kitchen, Meggie on his heels.

  Thirty minutes later, after looking into every bedchamber on the second floor, they went to the attic rooms where the servants stayed. There were no servants anywhere.

  But they found Marie Leach hanging by the neck from a thick rope wrapped and knotted about a high beam in the far attic room. Meggie didn’t pause, just ran to the woman and lifted her up, trying to relieve the pressure of the rope around her neck. “Hurry, Thomas, hurry. I can’t hold on much longer.”

  “I’m sorry, Meggie. It’s too late. She’s dead.”

  She was holding a dead woman. Meggie gulped, slowly released her, and stepped back. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to accept that she was seeing a dead woman, and such a horrible way to die, but she forced herself. She wouldn’t faint, she wouldn’t moan and groan, she wouldn’t be useless.

  She might have weaved a bit, but managed to say in a fairly firm voice, “Tell me what to do, Thomas.”

  “Please hold her up again, Meggie. I need to get the rope off her.”

  Thomas managed to untie the rope around her neck. “The knot wasn’t well tied,” he said as he eased Marie down onto the single narrow cot in the small bedchamber. He paused a moment, lightly touched his fingers to the dead woman’s cheek, then drew the cover over her. He was silent for a moment.

  “You knew her. Well.”

  Thomas raised his head. “Yes, this is Bernard’s wife, Marie. I’ve known her since I was a small boy. This shouldn’t have happened, Meggie. Now, there’s nothing more we can do for her. Let’s go downstairs. I have to tell Bernard, and then we must fetch a magistrate.”

  18

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight when the housekeeper led Thomas and Meggie into a newly aired bedchamber at Squire Billings’s house at the head of Morgan Cove, just south of St. Agnes Head, a fine property some three miles distant from The Hangman’s Noose.

  Once the housekeeper had left them, Thomas said, “Go to bed, Meggie. Squire Billings and I must speak about this further.”

  She nodded, saying not a word. She’d not said a word, but she’d hurt and cried deep inside and let the shock burrow deeper than the tears, and now she was exhausted. Within five minutes she was stretched out on her back beneath a marvelous goose-down comforter.

  Thomas came into the bedchamber to see that she was all right before going back down to Squire Billings’s library. He held the candle high and looked down at his wife. She was already asleep, her hair spread out about her head on the pristine white pillowcase. She looked so very young, untouched, but that wasn’t true. And now she was no longer innocent—she’d seen a woman hanging by the neck.

  He didn’t like this at all. He turned on his heel and went back downstairs.

  Meggie awoke the next morning, still alone. No sign of Thomas. She wondered if he’d even come to bed at all. Then she remembered what had happened.

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think about Marie Leach. She looked about the bedchamber and didn’t like it. It was dark, the furnishings heavy, Spanish in flavor, she believed, having visited a Señor Alvarez in his home in London during her Season the past spring.

  She looked toward the windows, not seeing the heavy draperies, but rather Marie Leach, and she was dead and it was perfectly horrible.

  Thomas knocked lightly then quietly opened the door to see his wife sitting on the side of the bed, her face in her hands, sobbing, great ugly sobs that seemed to bow her utterly.

  He strode to the bed, picked her up, and carried her to the large winged chair beside the fireplace. He sat down and settled her on his lap. He held her for a very long time.

  She felt in those moments that she was once again with the man she’d enjoyed so very much before they’d married, the man who’d never hesitated to comfort her, to laugh with her, to simply appreciate what and who she was.

  “Thank you,” she said, and straightened up. She was knuckling her eyes with her fists, and it made him smile.

  “You’re welcome. It’s morning. A maid is waiting in the hall to assist you. We will spend the day here. This business with Bernard and his wife, it’s a mystery and Mr. Billings hasn’t a notion where to begin.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes. I wish to speak at great length with Bernard. I will ask the local physician to look at Mrs. Leach.”

  “But why? Didn’t she die by strangulation?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “I will speak to the stable lad.”

  A thorny problem, Thomas thought, and cleared his throat. He said, “That won’t be possible.”

  “Why not?” She was off his lap in an instant, standing there in front of him, frowning, her hands on her hips, that white nightgown of hers flowing from the throat down to her toes. “I could question him as well as you could. I will even have Tim there with me.”

  “The stable lad is gone. Tim is looking after Pen and the carriage horses. Tim said he must have left while he was asleep, probably fearing he’d be blamed.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry to take the wind out of your sails.”

  “You have surprised me, true enough. Do you believe the stable lad knew what had happened even while he was leading your horse to the stables?”

  “If he did, then it would mean that he must have been involved. I will ask Bernard about the lad’s family—”

  “Ah, and then I will go speak to them, find out where he is.”

  “Perhaps. Now, I will meet you downstairs for breakfast.”

  Life had turned very strange, Meggie was thinking as the maid, Tossa—a Spanish name, she told Meggie when asked, handed down from an ancestor who’d been flung up on the southern Cornish coast during the wreck of the great Spanish Armada during the reign of Good Queen Bess—helped her bathe, arranged her hair and her clothes. Tossa told her Squire Billings was all bluff and no brain, but a good man even so. When Meggie emerged nearly an hour later, she looked like a lady, and it was a good feeling.

  She heard Mr. Billings’s voice as she eased into the dining room.

  “I say, my lord, I know all about the Grakers, they’re bad, there’s no question about that. I didn’t know that Bernard had killed one of them. However did he manage it? It’s rare to see one. I’ve never heard of actually catching one.”

  “I will find out,” said Thomas. “Bernard told me it was an accident.”

  “Ah, here’s some more eggs for you, my lord.”

  “Thank you. This is my wife, Squire, Lady Lancaster. We appreciate your hospitality.” Thomas rose from his cha
ir, followed by Squire Billings, who gave her a brief bow and a fat smile.

  “Good morning,” Meggie said as she eased into the chair opposite her husband, held out for her by a butler with trembling hands, who was so pale he looked nearly dead. Squire Billings said matter-of-factly, seeing the countess’s alarm, “Elroy is distraught. He finds death, particularly violent unexpected death, very upsetting to his innards. Fetch her ladyship some eggs and toast, Elroy. Try not to think of Mrs. Leach, and whatever you do, don’t drop the tray anywhere close to her ladyship.”

  “It were a bad thing, sir,” Elroy said, hands trembling even more, “a more terrible thing than I could imagine,” and left to fetch the food.

  “You are newly wedded,” Squire Billings said between mouthfuls of kippers. “A miserable thing to have happen. Ah well, at least you had your first night together in relative peace and calm, eh?” Squire Billings actually leered, most of it, thankfully, behind his napkin, but Thomas still wanted to kick him.

  Meggie realized what he’d said, fastened her eyes on the scrambled eggs, and said, “Ha.” She spent a good minute buttering her toast and decorating it with some gooseberry jam.

  Thomas said, “I was taking my wife home this morning, but given what has happened, we will remain here at least for today.”

  “I would indeed appreciate your assistance in this dreadful matter, my lord. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  Thomas nodded, took a final drink of coffee, neatly folded his napkin, and laid it beside his plate. He rose, saying, “Meggie I don’t know how long this will take. You will amuse yourself.”

  She wanted to shoot him, but she merely smiled, tossed her own napkin down, and rose as well. “I have decided to accompany you, Thomas.” And the look she gave him dared him to order her to stay, like a damned dog.

  She turned to their host. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, Squire Billings. Do you wish to accompany my husband and me on our inquiries? There are so many people to speak to who might know about what happened last night at the Hangman’s Noose.”