Claire Delacroix (7 page)

“These rushes are withered and filthy beyond belief,” Mavella said, poking at them with her toe.

“We could make it clean!” Tynan said with the enthusiasm of one who will do little of the work.

We had need of some task to occupy us. We lit candles and set to work while we were yet dirty, sweeping the old rushes and dust from the hall. I did not expect that Ada would contribute, for she clearly had not tended to the chamber in years. Fitz began a song and Tynan sang with him, the two of them making such a ruin of the tune that Mavella and I were compelled to join them.

“We have need of a Yule log,” I said, for the empty fireplace was not only cold but disheartening.

“What is a Yule log?” Tynan asked. I ruffled his hair as he stood beside me.

Mavella and I exchanged a glance of guilt, for the boy knew so little of festivities. Celebration costs coin and for all of the boy’s short life, I had spent what coin we had upon food and fuel for the fire. We had considered ourselves fortunate to have tallow for a candle on Christmas Day.

“You are clearly too young to remember the merriment of past Yules,” Fitz said heartily, though his eyes revealed that he understood the truth. He smiled at Tynan. “A great hall has need of a great log, to warm the hearts and the hands of all who come to the hall on this festival of festivals.”

Tynan tugged at my hand. “Who will come, Ysabella?”

I looked to Fitz, who said nothing, then shrugged. “Traditionally, all of the peasants come to share at the bounty of their lord’s table.”

Tynan frowned. “What peasants?”

“I do not know whether there are any sworn to Ravensmuir any longer.”

Certainly, there was no village and no cultivated fields near Ravensmuir. Originally, Ravensmuir had been the summer abode of the lord of Kinfairlie. In former times - well before my own days! - its sustenance came from further inland, from the fields pledged to Kinfairlie proper. The destruction of Kinfairlie keep had been just before the first onslaught of the plague, the one which had killed nearly half the peasants hereabouts. Perhaps whatever peasants remained had simply taken up the lands left vacant near Kinfairlie village.

The Lammergeier had claimed suzerainty of Ravensmuir, though I did not know what else they had claimed.

Fitz shrugged, which meant that either he did not know or he would not tell. I supposed any villeins pledged to Ravensmuir would come to the portal in search of that free meal.

Tynan frowned. “No lord gave us dinner in Kinfairlie.”

“No, because Kinfairlie keep is burned and gone, and Kinfairlie village is pledged to none in these days. You know that tale,” I chided. “There is a Lord of Kinfairlie no longer.”

Tynan brightened, his recollection prompted, and began to recount the tale he had heard so many times. It was a favored one of his, for he had a boy’s taste for violent tales of chivalry. “For the keep of Kinfairlie was attacked by wicked men who wished to seize it.”

Mavella continued. “And when the Lord of Kinfairlie refused to surrender to them, they burned his keep while the Lord and his family was trapped within its walls.”

“Then they burned his second abode at Ravensmuir!” Tynan said. “They thought to frighten the lord into surrender, but he was too brave to be frightened. Then the wind came from the sea and fanned the flames and the fires burned too heartily to be halted.”

“That is sufficient...” I said.

But Tynan continued in his enthusiasm. “And it is said that the twin fires of the burning of Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie keep challenged the very light of the sun. And none escaped the blaze but Mother.”

Mavella nodded. “Mother, who was in service to the Lady of Kinfairlie and had been dispatched down the treacherous sea cliffs to seek aid from Tantallon or Dunbar.”

“After Kinfairlie was reduced to ashes, the bad men sowed the fields with salt and left Kinfairlie for all time, their scheme thwarted,” Tynan continued, though he had difficulty with the last word.

Mavella nodded. “No one remembered their names, for the plague came fast on their heels and killed half the people who had occupied Kinfairlie manor and all who had seen their faces.”

“And the priests declared that it was reparation for the sins of all those who lived upon Kinfairlie’s lands, and demanded penance of us all,” I concluded.

“Do you remember?” Tynan asked.

I bent and tickled his tummy. “No. I was smaller then than you are now.”

“None of us were not born yet,” Mavella said.

“That is smaller than me!” Tynan giggled and squirmed away from my tickling finger, then tilted his head to regard me. “But Ravensmuir is here, not burned. We stand inside it. How can that be?”

“Because Ravensmuir was rebuilt and Kinfairlie was not.”

“By who?”

I crouched down beside him. “Ravensmuir was rebuilt by Avery Lammergeier, who sailed across the seas and laid claim to part of the ancient realm of Kinfairlie. After the keep was built, he gave his holding to his eldest son, who was named Merlyn. And when Merlyn died -” I choked unexpectedly here, but cleared my throat and continued beneath Fitz’s bright gaze “- he surrendered Ravensmuir to me.” I forced a smile. “And now, we shall live here.”

Tynan frowned as he considered information that was new to him. “But why?”

“Because Merlyn is - was - my husband.”

Tynan’s brow puckered as he thought about this. “Then why did we live in Kinfairlie and not here?”

Fitz lifted his brows quizzically, as if he too would be delighted to know the answer. My sister took sudden interest in the stonework.

“Because Merlyn Lammergeier was a bad man,” I said with as much care as I could muster. “I did not realize his wickedness when I pledged to wed him, because he omitted to tell me much of the truth and lied to me about the rest. But as soon as I learned of his crimes, I left Ravensmuir. That is why we lived in Kinfairlie village.”

This only fed Tynan’s curiosity. “What did he do?”

“He was a thief,” I said, unwilling to enumerate all of Merlyn’s crimes.

“Then he must be in hell,” Tynan said with quiet conviction. His eyes brightened suddenly as he studied me. “Are you sad for him, Ysabella?”

I touched Tynan’s face with a fingertip, barely recognizing my own voice when I spoke. I could not lie to a child. “Yes, Tynan. Yes, I am.”

Fitz looked away.

“We have need of a Yule log,” I said again, more firmly and before my brother could concoct another question.

To my relief, this time the suggestion was taken.

* * *

The four of us raided Ravensmuir’s woodshed and quickly claimed the largest unhewn tree which had been dragged there. Ada and Arnulf watched sullenly as we pronounced it our Yule log, and garnished it with greenery.

We sang its tribute with an old song our mother had taught Mavella and I, one that she said had been sung at Kinfairlie. Fitz also seemed to know it, though it was all new to Tynan. We danced around the log, each trying to persuade the other to be merry, then we hauled it into the hall. Its root filled the great fireplace at one end of the hall and the wood was so dry that it lit immediately, casting a heartening glow over the hall.

“It is so big!” Tynan whispered.

“It must burn through Epiphany,” I told him. “Each day we will push it a little further into the hearth.”

“And on Epiphany, we shall store the last coal safely in the cellar for good fortune until next Yule,” Mavella added. She nodded at me. “I remember Mother’s tales of Kinfairlie.”

Tynan’s lips set as he stared into the flames. “I should like to have heard her tales.”

“Then we shall endeavor to recount them all to you,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage. The ghost of my mother seemed to hover at my shoulder. Perhaps hers was the presence I felt this night, not Merlyn’s.

I certainly should have preferred it that way.

We warmed our hands and congratulated ourselves on our efforts, then reveled in the hot bath that Ada tartly announced. Fitz took himself off to the stables with some mumbled excuse about the horses and squires.

Eventually, Ada brought us a hot venison stew and rough bread, without apology for either the simplicity of the fare or her delay. Probably she knew that it was a far finer meal than we would have shared this night, had Fitz not rapped upon our door.

It was curious to dine in the great hall, for we were but three and the chamber was intended to house hundreds. We clustered together at one end of the high table, Tynan’s giggles echoing loudly in the nigh empty chamber.

Even comfort, companionship, hot stew and the welcome flames upon the hearth could not dismiss my unease. Indeed, the falling darkness seemed to feed it. My trepidation was rooted in more than Ada’s ominous greeting, more than the fact that my sole memories of this place included Merlyn, more than the echoing emptiness of Ravensmuir’s halls, more than the yearning for my mother.

It was guilt.

Could I have prevented Merlyn’s death by aiding him?

I felt that specters hid in the shadows, whispering accusations to each other, that untold doings occurred just out of the range of my vision. There was wickedness afoot, for I had no doubt that this hall had witnessed many crimes, and that wickedness breathed upon my very neck. My burn itched with an unholy vigor that I knew was a portent of ill.

Indeed, I could not stop glancing over my shoulder.

I jumped for the hundredth time when one of Tynan’s shouts seemed unaccountably loud, then looked up to find concern in my sister’s gaze.

“You must be tired,” Mavella said, then smiled tiredly herself. “It has been a day of many changes, after all.”

I was exhausted and saw no reason not to blame that for my fey mood.

“Yes, I am,” I agreed. “I will retire, then.” I opened my arms in an expansive gesture as I stood, then smiled. “May you both sleep well in this new abode.”

“We will find some plump pallet and each claim a chamber for our own,” Mavella declared and Tynan’s eyes widened that such a deed would be possible. For all his days, we had not only shared one meager room, but lived all the events of our life within it.

We embraced, and I took solace in the goodness of my siblings’ hearts. I was fiercely glad to have this opportunity, for their sakes.

I had turned from the table to fetch a lantern before I realized a most simple fact. I, as the new lady of Ravensmuir, would sleep in the lord and lady’s chamber, in the lord and lady’s bed.

In the bed where I and Merlyn had met lustily so many times.

My heart leapt in an awkward fashion, then fluttered like a caged bird. When I might have granted myself a reprieve for this one night, Ada stepped out of the shadows, her gaze bright.

“I shall show you to the solar, my lady,” she said with undisguised anticipation. “Only that I might unlock the doors for you, of course. I would not have you forget the way.”

“How kind of you, Ada,” I said with a sweetness that made my own teeth ache.

I knew that she wished the perverse pleasure of witnessing my first glimpse of that chamber in half a decade. She meant to see my weakness but I would show her none.

I followed her to the far end of the great hall, irked anew, and spared a glance to the windows that framed a meager view of the sea beyond. A ship was silhouetted there and was evidently anchored, for its masts were bare.

“Are there guests at Ravensmuir?” I asked.

“Beyond yourselves?” Ada asked archly.

“I refer to the ship riding at anchor.”

“My lord Merlyn arrived upon that ship.” Ada shrugged. “It seems that they too await a laird who will never arrive. I wonder what their fate might now be.”

I wondered about their cargo more than their fate, and hoped it would not prove to be my concern. I had no desire to be burdened with the remnants of Merlyn’s disgraceful trade. Perhaps that was why he had left the keep to me - perhaps it had been a sly joke, a vengeance achieved by embroiling me in his wicked deeds.

I rubbed my temple with a tired hand. Morning would be soon enough to learn the worst of it.

* * *

There was a small antechamber between hall and the door to the lord’s solar. Ada paused there to fumble with the keys. She held the lantern high with one hand, the light casting her figure in silhouette. She finally found the key and fitted it to the lock, then pushed upon the door. The portal to the chamber beyond was as black as a tomb, a faint scent of burnt wick and beeswax wafting to my nostrils.

“My lord labored late his last night here,” Ada commented, pleased that she knew more of Merlyn’s recent deeds than I.

Did she know he had sought me out?

The lantern light flickered over the broad wood table and simple chairs in this chamber, the dark paneling and heavy trunks. There was another scent in the chamber, a faint but familiar one that was quickly consumed by the stronger smell of burning oil.

It was the musk of man, of a particular man, of horse and sea and wind and the tang of Merlyn’s own skin.

It nigh took me to my knees. The scent, as scents so often do, awakened my every yearning. I could taste Merlyn’s kiss again and my heart raced at this false evidence that he was near.

Ironically, Ada was oblivious to the very response she wished to witness. She had turned already toward the stairs that wound upward to the solar proper. I braced myself against the sights and memories I would find above and climbed in her shadow. She crossed the solar quickly to light the brazier, then turned to ensure that she could see every nuance of my expression.

I schooled my features before stepping out of the nook that hid the stairs. Then I let my gaze flick over the familiar room as if I had never seen it before. I looked at everything except the bed, which occupies the better part of the room, knowing I would be hard-pressed to remain impassive when my gaze first fell upon it.

Tapestries, richly wrought of red and gold, hung on the walls in that chamber; trunks were set around the perimeter of the room; candlesticks and braziers were scattered on the floor and across the tops of trunks. Nothing had changed since my departure, save the collection of dust in the corners, and I might have been cast into the past, save for one detail.