Claire Delacroix (5 page)

I was thinking that it was time we rose for mass at dawn. Tynan had finally fallen into slumber and I was reluctant to wake him. So, I lingered abed, waiting for the bell of the chapel to toll, savoring the haze of my dream.

I heard the hoof beats of a fine horse once more.

My drowsiness was immediately banished. I knew from the proud clatter of shod hooves that this was no horse bent beneath the weight of the plow, nor even a mare pulling a wagon. No, this steed pranced, it fairly danced, and the bells upon its harness jingled with the unmistakable sound of silver. It was as if I summoned Merlyn back to my side.

Again.

I rose and wrapped my arms around myself in the darkness, both waiting for a summons at my door and hoping it would not come. A man’s footfall made the loose wooden step creak, and I did not so much as breathe. My sister Mavella sat up in alarm, however, our gazes meeting across the room.

We had become accustomed to harassment, accustomed to wicked tales with no basis in fact, accustomed to those who took satisfaction in our tumble from favor to lowly status. We were poor and we were spurned - and the taste of it was yet more bitter, given what had once been mine. To know sweetness only makes its lack more harsh.

Though I knew I had made the right choice in abandoning Merlyn, there were days and nights when I cursed the price. We had become so adept at cheating death that the feat was unremarkable - and my brother knew no other life than this.

I did not jump skyward at the light rap upon our door, though Mavella caught her breath. Unlike my sister, I was certain that it was not the usual trouble at our door this morn.

It had to be Merlyn. He should not have been able to enter the village at this hour, for the gates should have been barred, but when there is little to protect, men are less vigilant in their watch. A far more stupid man than Merlyn could slip past Kinfairlie’s sentries without notice.

Even a less wealthy one could manage it.

I peered beneath the hide, and my heart nearly stopped at the sight of the stallion tethered below. The beast tossed its head proudly, making the bells jingle merrily again, its gleaming coat as black as a midnight sea.

As black as its master’s heart.

The rap upon the door came again, oddly tentative to be from Merlyn’s own hand. I crossed the floor with suspicion, though I did not open the portal. My sister stood, her hands clutched before herself, and watched me with wide eyes.

“Who troubles my household at this hour?” I demanded with the impatience of one roused for no good reason.

“My lady Ysabella?”

My breath caught in recognition of that voice, no less the music snared within it. Fitz!

But why would Merlyn’s most trusted manservant arrive at my door alone? I glanced back to the window, but knew no other lesser steed stood with the destrier. And no nobleman, however generous, would grant such a beast to even his most beloved servant. No, that was Merlyn’s mount.

I feared the portent of the steed being here without Merlyn.

“It is Rhys Fitzwilliam,” the caller continued, though I knew that well enough. “I would speak with you for a moment, my lady, if you please.”

I pulled open the door. My dread redoubled when I found Fitz’s countenance pale.

Something clearly had gone awry.

What shall I tell you of Rhys Fitzwilliam? He is a man who savors life’s pleasures - that the board of the Lammergeier groans with many such pleasures is evidenced by Fitz’s girth. He is not corpulent, but neither is he slender. He is, shall we say, a sturdy man. He is of a height with me, though perhaps twice my age. His face is tanned and lined, and his eyes can sparkle with merriment most unexpected.

Not on this morn, however. Fitz looked woebegone, strained as I had never seen him.

Fitz is oft under-estimated, for his appearance is that of a gruff but good-natured man, a simple man who cares more for his comfort than much else. A man, perhaps, who has the urge to say more and to do less. But he has a will of steel not unlike Merlyn’s, and one perhaps less easily anticipated. Never did I see Fitz shirk from a thankless or unpleasant deed that had to be done.

His thoughts are difficult to read, his impassivity a trick he learned without doubt from his liege lord. I do not know how long Fitz has served Merlyn, perhaps all of Merlyn’s life. I wondered once how many secrets of the Lammergeier were known to Fitz and solely Fitz outside the family, how many quiet missions he had undertaken to see their interests served.

That he showed his dismay was no good sign, in my estimation. I gestured that he should enter, struck wordless.

Fitz’s very presence was incongruous in our home, for he was garbed as the servant of a wealthy lord. To his credit, he did not so much as glance at his humble surroundings, nor did any trace of judgment touch his features. I offered him a cup of ale and a seat at the well worn table.

He accepted neither, but stood, hands locked together. I poured the ale despite his refusal, suspecting that he had ridden long and hard, and that he sought to not strain our finances.

“My lord Merlyn is dead, my lady,” he blurted, his voice thick.

My hands froze in the act of pouring the ale, then I knew this to be another of Merlyn’s jests. My lips tightened and I filled the cup, then set it firmly upon the board.

“Do not be ridiculous, Fitz,” I said sternly, feeling my sister’s wide-eyed gaze upon me. “It is the sickly and the failing who die, who fade until they cease to breathe or to be. Merlyn’s is a defiant and vibrant nature. He will live to eternity just to spite death.” I indicated the ale. “Sit and restore yourself, for you must have come far in haste at Merlyn’s bidding.”

“It is true, my lady.” Fitz bowed his head. “He is lost to us. Merlyn is dead.”

Mavella looked between the two of us as she crossed herself and whispered a prayer. Tynan slept on, oblivious to the turmoil within me and the pain in Fitz’s lined face.

I was certain of myself until I saw the tear. It eased from Fitz’s eye and slid down his cheek. He held my gaze relentlessly, neither moving nor wiping away the tear.

I turned my back upon him, shaken by the anguish in his eyes. “No, Fitz,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Not Merlyn. It cannot be.”

Fitz’s silence was more eloquent than any argument he might have made. I heard the rustle of cloth and turned in time to see him produce the only token that would have persuaded me.

“Sweet Mary,” Mavella said and crossed herself anew.

My eyes widened in recognition of the box Fitz placed carefully upon my table, a box as finely wrought as the table was rough.

There could not be two such boxes in all of Christendom - and the one I knew was Merlyn’s pride. Even for that fortnight that Merlyn and I had lived as man and wife, he had never suffered to be parted from that box. It held his every treasure, coins and gems and deeds and secrets, and he would never suffer it to fall into the hands of another.

At least while he drew breath.

Fitz pushed the box toward me with one heavy fingertip.

I recoiled. That Fitz carried this box, no less that he surrendered it to me, was all the evidence a thinking woman needed.

Merlyn was dead.

I rose and went to the window, pulling back the hide to study the steed below. Tears pricked at my eyes and my throat was tight as I fought to make sense of this news.

It was incomprehensible to me that Merlyn no longer reined in his steed just shy of the lip of a cliff, that he no longer spat into the wind. Inconceivable that he was not somewhere beyond my vision, laughing into the wind, his blue eyes flashing with mischief and merriment. Impossible that his heart did not thunder beneath the fingertips of some wench, that his triumphant smile did not flash in some shadow.

“Where is he?” I demanded, glancing back at our guest. “I must see him dead to believe it.”

Fitz shook his head. “I had to act with haste, my lady.” He sighed heavily. “Such a duty must be accomplished before rumor spreads. No churchyard will have a Lammergeier if they know the truth of his identity.”

“Where is he?”

“I took him to a monastery, you need not know the name, and called him a pilgrim I found assaulted upon the road.”

In better circumstance, I might have laughed at the irony of such an occupation being associated with Merlyn.

Fitz continued. “I gave him no name and no doubt they thought me a thief whose crime had gone awry.”

“I would see him.”

“You cannot, my lady. I dare not raise their suspicions further.” He looked discomfited. “So anxious was I that my donation was too great. They questioned that a pilgrim would have so much coin, then that I could show such interest in the eternal rest of a stranger.” Fitz very nearly squirmed. He was sorely agitated.

“You could have buried him at Ravensmuir,” I said softly.

The older man shook his head and spoke with resolve. “I have learned to look away many a time, my lady, but a man must be buried as befits a man. A man must be buried in sacred ground. A man must meet his maker as it is preached he should.”

“Even if it takes a lie to do it.” I turned away, saddened by how sordid this tale was, saddened that Merlyn had had so little chance to repent.

Then I shook my head. Merlyn had had a lifetime to repent and had not chosen to do so. Even given the chance of confession and absolution, he would have changed nothing at the end, I am certain.

“How did it happen?” I asked, staring blindly at the road below.

“He was assaulted from behind, stabbed and left for dead in a ditch.”

“Were you not with him?’

“He forbade it.” Fitz cleared his throat. “I sought him out when he did not return.”

“Where did he go?”

Fitz shrugged. “I know only that it was late and I found him. I did all I could, my lady, but it was too late.” I heard him sit heavily then, heard the scrape of the cup upon the board as he seized the ale, heard him drink lustily of it.

My fingers tightened upon the hide, an unexpected thirst for vengeance awakening within me. “Who, Fitz?”

“God only knows.”

I glanced back at the bitterness in his tone and found his eyes shining with the same desire that I felt. Fitz’s expression turned grim and he gave the box another shove in my direction. “It is yours, all yours, from this day forward, my lady. May you bear its burden with grace and good fortune.”

“The box?”

“Ravensmuir.”

I left the window, so astounded was I by this revelation. “But that cannot be...”

“It is. Merlyn insisted upon it.” Fitz spoke with vigor, as if he would have no argument from me in this. “The deed to the keep is within the box, if you would care to see it.” He fumbled with a key, trapped upon a length of silken cord and my eyes widened.

That cord had graced Merlyn’s neck. I had once tangled my fingers within it. Indeed, it might yet be harboring the warmth of my husband’s flesh.

Though warmth had abandoned Merlyn.

Grief caught me by the throat and I looked abruptly away, hoping against hope that I might hide my unwelcome response from this astute servant.

I shook my head, then said the first thing that came to my lips. My voice was flat. “I cannot read the deed, Fitz.”

“I would read it to you.”

“I believe you, Fitz. Leave it be.” I looked out the window again, eying that black stallion which seemed now to appear despondent to me.

It had probably witnessed its lord’s demise.

I shivered and turned back to the shabby room, needing to ask yet more. I sat opposite the manservant and studied his features. “Why me, Fitz? Why did Merlyn not leave Ravensmuir to his brother Gawain?”

Fitz coughed delicately. “They have been estranged, my lady.”

“As have Merlyn and I. We disagreed just yesterday.”

Fitz inclined his head. “I believe the rift with Gawain was a greater one.”

“That is hard to believe.”

“But true nonetheless.”

In this moment, I wished that I had not denied Merlyn the day before. I would never know the truth of his scheme and it was my own fault. I sighed and frowned, feeling suddenly tired. “They are all great rifts now, Fitz, for there is no chasm greater than the one betwixt life and the grave.”

No one spoke. Distantly, I heard the sounds of the village awakening, of goats bleating as they were milked, of women cursing and chickens clucking, of the chapel bell beginning to toll.

It was Christmas Day, a realization that seemed most incongruous with Fitz’s news. How to rejoice when one’s heart is leaden?

Fitz set the ale aside and lifted the box in his hands, offering it to me again. The key lay atop it, the silken cord twined like a red snake. “Will you accept Merlyn’s legacy, my lady Ysabella?”

I was about to decline, my pride decreeing that I had need of no crumbs from Merlyn’s table. Indeed, what difference is there is making coin with sin and accepting the luxury that can be bought by such stained coin? Once I had seen no moral distinction. I thought my knowledge of what was right to be the same today as it had been five years past.

Then my gaze fell upon my brother Tynan, bundled to his eyes upon the thickest pallet we possessed. The deep auburn tangle of his hair was dark against the rough bedding, against the pallor of his brow. My heart ached that he had known so much want in his few days, that I had been able to give him so very little.

I had taken health from him, denied him prosperity and comfort, by the very act of leaving Ravensmuir, even though I had not known of his pending arrival when I made my choice.

I suddenly realized that I could fix that failing.

I could take Ravensmuir, I could claim it for Tynan. I straightened as the idea took root. I knew that this was the choice I should make.

It was the choice that I would make.

“It could be said that Merlyn owed me much,” I said quietly, “and, although this is not the prize I might have sought, it is the one I am offered.” I took a deep breath and met Fitz’s gaze. “Ravensmuir will do well enough to settle the balance.”

A ghost of a smile lit Fitz’s face. Perhaps he was relieved that his lord’s will was fulfilled so readily - certainly none would expect me to be biddable.