Claire Delacroix (36 page)

I ran. I ran as fast as I could, but it was not fast enough. He was far larger than me, far more accustomed to running and fighting. He grabbed me and threw me to the ground. He searched me for jewelry and struck me when he found none. When I rolled away from him, hoping to flee, he grasped my hips with painful vigor. I screamed but he knotted my hair around his fist, he held me down.

He raped me thrice.

Then he cast me aside, like so much offal. He left me bruised and bleeding and violated. I struck him when he looked back at the keep, struck him in the head with a stone. He laughed at my effort to avenge myself and came after me again.

I struck him once more, furious at what he had done, terrified that he would do it again. The stone cracked against his skull, his blood flowed from a gash in his temple and he fell to his knees.

It was all the respite I needed. I ran. I leapt over scree and rock and scrambled down the coast. I sobbed as I fled, I dashed the tears from my eyes. I ran faster when I heard him shout after me. I ran for Dunbar, but it proved to be so far that I was out of breath before it drew appreciably closer.

It was then I doubted my own scheme. Who would believe my tale? I had no evidence of my station, no mark that I was my father’s child. I had nothing and I was a woman. I knew my assailant’s insignia but not his name - what if another wore his colors? Even if I saw that knight again, even if I pointed a finger at him in utter certainty, I feared that none would believe me.

Not if he was powerful. I knew of no knights who were not powerful. So, I hunkered down amidst the stones, listening for pursuit that did not come - for he had had what he desired of me - watching and weeping as Kinfairlie burned to the ground.

It took three days.

When the rubble ceased to smoke, I crept out of my hiding spot. The men were gone, my father’s lands bare, the crops shriveling. I learned later that the field had been covered with salt, a rich man’s curse and one that would take years to be so diminishedthat crops would grow again. I walked through the ashes of the keep where I had played and I concocted my tale.

Then I walked to Kinfairlie village and recounted the story you have heard. It is not true, Ysabella. It was created on impulse for my own defense. I feared the knight would come again and have a worse due of me if I accused him.

It was perhaps a cowardly choice, but it was done.

Within weeks, I knew that I dared not change my tale. A child grew within me, a child whose presence could confirm my accusation, a child that wicked knight would never suffer to live. I was young myself, but I knew that you were to be my family, that you would fill the yawning hole in my life left by loved ones stolen away too soon.

I never saw the knight again. I do not know if I would know him if I did. But here is the greatest injustice wrought by my selfish lie - that you, my daughter, believe yourself to be common-born. You are no peasant, no bastard spawn of a serving wench. You are the grand-daughter of the last Laird and Lady of Kinfairlie, the get of their daughter Marie Elise and a nameless knight. Your lineage is noble, Ysabella, and none can steal the legacy of your blood from you.”

I felt shock settle into the men on either side of me. I sensed that William in particular was vexed and he stared out over the company with narrowed eyes. George fiddled and fluttered, showing his agitation in another way.

I stared at Merlyn. He was my anchor in a world gone awry.

“I apologize that I did not tell this to you myself, for the tale would have been sweeter falling from my lips. I considered it once, when you and Merlyn wed, for I thought it fitting that Ravensmuir, once part of my father’s holdings, would be your abode. I thought then that your lineage was evident to the shrewd eye of Merlyn Lammergeier, I thought that he had spied the pearl hidden in the mire. And I was proud of how you carried yourself, how you spoke, how readily you assumed the mantle of your responsibilities. I knew a moment’s pride that I had not fared so badly as that.

But I evaded the telling, and then it seemed my words would be as salt in the wound - ah yes, daughter mine, I know you ache for Merlyn. I know you question your choice. I know that you never will forget him. And it is true that in my heart, I fear your condemnation for a lifetime of lies. We have always been close, Ysabella, and I have no desire to push you from my side, not these last months.

I regret now that I never taught you to read and to write, for then you might have read my letter yourself. It does seem fitting that in the end I prove to be the one most vexed by this lack wrought of my own choices.

I can have only faith now, Ysabella, faith that you will find this missive in the event of my demise, faith that your curiosity will drive you to learn its contents, faith that one who is trustworthy will recount its contents to you. I have only faith, but faith is all I have had since Kinfairlie burned and it has been enough.

God bless you, Ysabella. Know that conception in anger does not preclude birth in love. And bless me, for I have sinned in lying to you who most deserved the truth.

This is my last confession, though it has not the blessing of a priest. Pray for me, Ysabella, for my intention was solely to protect you.

Yours in Christ,

Marie Elise of Kinfairlie”

Merlyn folded the letter with care, then handed the letter back to me. Our fingers brushed in the transaction and I could not hold his compassionate gaze. The hall was silent, no man having a word to say. I folded put the letter carefully back into Merlyn’s box, my hands shaking.

I locked the box, focusing hard to complete the simple task, then handed it and its key to my spouse. There was nothing within it that was mine any longer. This is the gift of illiteracy - I forget nothing that ever I have heard. I did not need the letter any longer. I would remember my mother’s words forever, as they would reside in my own heart.

It was Merlyn who would need evidence that his wife was nobly born, Merlyn who lived and needed his deeds returned. My eyes were blind with tears as I stood, and I trembled at the resonance of my mother’s words from beyond the grave.

“I beg your leave,” I said, my voice so hoarse and thick that I scarce recognized it. “I would excuse myself.”

I turned when none spoke and stepped away from the table. My sister uttered my name, as did my spouse, but I plunged blindly onward, wanting only to be free of this company. My unsteady legs carried me only to the end of the dais, then I fainted dead away.

* * *

I awakened in the great bed in the solar. Mavella sat beside me upon the mattress, her fingers cool upon my brow as she stroked the hair back from my face. Her smile was the first sight that greeted me. My laces had been loosed and my shoes removed, my braids unfurled. I could hear the murmur of men’s voices in the chamber below and would have sat up, but Mavella restrained me with a touch.

“You should rest,” she chided.

“I should know what they discuss. No doubt our future is being decided while I lay abed.”

Mavella shook her head. “My future is already decided, and I suspect that yours is, as well, now that it is clear that Merlyn yet lives.”

I settled back against the pillows in dissatisfaction, guessing that she would not easily let me leave.

“You knew,” she said quietly.

I met her gaze and, unable to lie again, nodded. “He came to me, the first night that we were here. That was when I learned the truth of it.”

“And that was why you were so gladdened. I am sorry, Ysabella, that I accused you of having a cold heart.”

“I dared not tell anyone. I pledged as much to him.”

“Of course you did! Oh, Ysabella, I am so happy for you.”

We embraced and I sat up, my feet swinging high above the floor, our hands clasped. “Did you guess Mother’s secret?”

Mavella shook her head.

“Nor did I,” I admitted. “Though in hindsight, I can see why she insisted so oft upon careful speech.”

“Why she loved fine goods and victuals.”

“Why she had no trade or desire to wed a common man.”

“Why she held herself above the others in Kinfairlie village.” Mavella heaved a sigh. “They noticed that, even if they did not guess the cause. It is no wonder that she was both admired and resented.”

“Her letter tells nothing of your father,” I said softly.

Mavella shook her head. “She told me years ago about him. I assumed then that she did the same with you. I knew our fathers were not the same man.”

“Then who?”

“Do you remember Rodney?” She smiled as she said his name.

“How could I forget him? He was as a kindly uncle to us. He came so often and brought such wondrous gifts upon the holidays. My earliest memories are of Mother and Rodney sharing a cup of wine, laughing at the board.”

“And rutting afterwards.” Mavella laughed when I regarded her with shock. “You were not the only one to hear the deed, sister mine. And evidently, it began long before either of us noticed.” She smiled with mischief.

“So, he was your father.”

Mavella nodded. “Mother said he would not abandon his ailing daughter, for he knew his duty to her and did not wish to burden our household with her illnesses. But all the same, the daughter barely knew him and was scarce aware of whether he was home or away. Mother said a man needs his heart lightened to bear the burden of his life. She was unapologetic.”

“She loved him.”

Mavella nodded. “And he loved her, I suspect. But they met too late, long after Rodney was snared with responsibilities, long after they might have made a match themselves.”

“They missed their chance, but seized what happiness they could,” I said quietly. “There is a lesson for us there.”

“One we were fool enough to ignore until it was almost too late.”

“Almost.” I pleated the coverlet between my fingers, my thoughts filled with recollections of Rodney’s merry laughter, my mother’s smile, the happy if simple times we had had together. “I remember thinking that I would die of grief at his funeral.”

“I remember thinking that Mother would die of grief,” Mavella said. “Do you remember how his family tried to shame us?”

I nodded, seeing her again. “She marched down the church to place a flower upon his coffin, just to defy them. I remember her telling them that she loved him more than all of them together, that she loved him for more than the weight of his purse which was the sole reason most of them had come.”

“And they ensured she saw none of it.”

We shook our heads with both exasperation and affection.

“God in heaven,” Mavella said. “She never could hold her tongue.”

“Now I know why she could so easily hold her head high.”

“Yes, she had been raised to it.”

We whispered together, comforted by our recollections, then fell silent when Merlyn appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I would have your counsel,
chère
,” he said, his tone bereft of any emotion. I could not have guessed whether he held any tender feelings for me in that moment, for he spoke as a man wrought of stone. His manner discomfited me - I was accustomed to anger or passion from Merlyn, never indifference. Since my heart was filled to bursting, the contrast disconcerted me.

“How so?” I asked and stood.

“The king would have the succession of Ravensmuir decided on this day.”

My hands clenched. “They all fear that you will yet be killed.”

“It is prudent to plan for such an eventuality.” Merlyn’s wicked smile flashed so unexpectedly that my breath was stolen. “I know myself to be mortal, as evidently do they.”

“It is writ that Ysabella is your heir,” Mavella reminded him.

Merlyn inclined his head. “And you have heard their fears for this scheme. Ravensmuir’s location is convenient and its strongholds secure. Even with their pledges of protection, much could go awry.”

“Any who claimed Ravensmuir could assault either Dunbar or Tantallon with ease,” I said, seeing the import of his words.

Merlyn spread his hands. “And there are no knights pledged to this hall, no mercenaries in Ravensmuir’s employ, at least not as yet. It is not unreasonable to conclude that the keep would be difficult to defend.”

“Especially by a woman,” I concluded, not troubling to hide my bitterness.

Merlyn nodded. “This is their concern.”

Mavella rose to her feet, indignation putting color in her cheeks. “They would force you to acknowledge Gawain instead. He has no mercenaries or knights either! And I, for one, would wager my all upon Ysabella afore risking a penny upon Gawain!”

Merlyn smiled again, his gaze landing warmly upon me. “As would I, but I would like to see these men dispatched from my hall.”

“You fear treachery in their presence?”

“I fear a stalemate in their presence.” Merlyn frowned. “The trap is baited,
chère
, but the mouse will not venture forth while the hall is full of hungry cats.”

My blood chilled as I recalled his claim that a life without risk was not worth the living. “Do you wish truly to die?”

“I wish to have the matter resolved,
chère
. One must have proof to demand high justice. I would force my assailant to try to repeat his crime, though this time, I am prepared for him.”

“Merlyn...”

He held my gaze as he sobered. “I have guessed his name,
chère
.”

“But you cannot prove it.”

“Not yet.”

I understood that Merlyn would say no more until he had the proof to back his accusation.

I took a deep breath, seeing some honor in his choice of secrets but not liking it a whit. “Leave Ravensmuir to Tynan,” I said, a plea in my tone for I knew I could not command him to do such a thing. “It was my intent to hold it solely as his regent, that he might have an inheritance of his own.”