English, Elizabeth (6 page)

Celia
was a pretty young woman who looked as innocent as a spring morning, with
yellow hair and wide blue eyes. But Alyson could see the cold calculation in
those eyes and knew that Darnley had chosen his spy carefully. There would be
no help from Celia.

The
rain began again, a sullen drizzle that mingled with the mist rising from the
sodden ground. As they rode on silently, hour after hour, Alyson's fear receded
until she felt nothing but a dreamlike wonder. This could not be happening—not
now, not to her. Surely she would wake to find herself back home, Robin
snuggled close, the homely scent of baking bread drifting from the kitchens.
And she would rise and dress and go about her work, while Robin ran off to the
stables. It was a hard life, to be sure, one entirely devoid of pleasure, but
at least she and Robin were alive and still together, just as Alyson had
promised her mother.

Promises,
she reflected bitterly. How easy they were to make, yet how dreadfully
difficult to keep! At thirteen, Alyson had been certain she could get herself
and Robin back to the McLarans, her mother's family in the Highlands. Five
years later they had made it no farther than Aylsford Manor, not three miles
from the place where Clare had died.

Oh,
Mam, I'm sorry, Alyson thought. I did my best but it was so hard— She had found
work in Lord Darnley's kitchens and a place for Robin, too, but the journey to
the Highlands had proved beyond her grasp. It took so long to save, and without
gold there was no way the journey could be made. They had no horses and no
money to buy them, no way of getting a message to the clan. But just as Alyson
had begun to hope that in a year or two it could be done, Lord Darnley had
stepped in. Now Robin was a prisoner, and she was setting off to what would
surely be her death. It wasn't real, it couldn't be—

The
palfrey stumbled and Alyson was jerked into awareness. Lifting her head, she
saw they had arrived.

Ravenspur
sat on a broad hill, gray stone battlements against a gray and lowering sky.
They clattered across the drawbridge and between the watchtowers. Alyson
shivered as the portcullis was lowered behind them, the clanking of strong
chain ending with a thud as iron spikes hit the dirt. No turning back. She was
trapped now, caged behind stout bars. They passed through the bailey and into
the courtyard, where a groom waited, standing like a statue in the rain, to
help her from her horse.

The
rain turned to a downpour, soaking through her cloak, but still she hesitated
before passing through the arch and into the manor itself. I can't do this, I
can't, she thought in sudden panic as Lord Kirallen stood aside for her to
enter. Then she summoned Robin's image, straightened her back, and went inside.

The
wedding feast passed in the strange, disjointed manner of a nightmare. As soon
as Alyson stepped in the door she was whisked upstairs to a chamber filled with
women. One snatched the cloak from her shoulders, another pulled the veil from
her head and began to comb her hair, while a third knelt and brushed the
mud-splashed hem of her gown. All this was accomplished in frenzied haste and
total silence.

Though
Alyson suspected Maude would have a good deal to say about such treatment, she
didn't dare voice a protest. She was cold and tired and so frightened that she
feared any attempt to speak would end in tears.

The
women finished and a hard-faced matron stepped forward. "This way, my
lady," she said curtly, bustling from the room and down the corridor, not
bothering to see if Alyson followed her or not. At length she stopped, pointed
down the stairway, gave a quick curtsey, and vanished back the way they'd come.

Alyson
walked carefully down the narrow stairway. She had expected to be nervous, but
not as frightened as she found herself right now. One step, she told herself
firmly, and then another. Just take each moment as it comes.

When
she reached a landing she stopped and leaned against the wall, staring blankly
at two stairways, one leading to the left, the other to the right.

Which
one? she wondered. Damn the woman for not telling her the way! Now she would
have to go back again and ask. She imagined the women up above, waiting for her
to do just that, and started down the right-hand steps.

When
she reached the bottom she found a dim, straight corridor that stretched as far
as she could see. Listening hard, she heard none of the sounds of a feast in
progress. She turned back and climbed the stairs again. Such a petty trick, she
thought, anger quickening her steps. So needlessly cruel. You'd think that
here, on the very edge of nowhere, people could at least show a bit of charity.

The
left-hand stairway ended in a corridor exactly like the first. Alyson walked
on, and after a time the scent of food guided her down another passageway and
yet another. At the bottom of one short hallway she found herself at the
doorway of the kitchens.

Safe
in shadow, she watched the familiar rhythm of a manor kitchen at the very
pinnacle of activity. Scullions hurried about their tasks while pages and
serving girls lingered in the warmth, snatching a bit of meat or bread amid
much laughter. Her eyes moving over the busy scene with practiced ease, Alyson
noted that the joint over the fire was burning as the spit boy flirted with a
serving wench.

Looking
more closely, she saw signs of carelessness and waste that appalled her thrifty
nature. A split bag of flour had been tossed into a corner and its contents
tracked across the flagged floor. Wilting vegetables were heaped on a table
along with offal that should have been simmering into a pudding for tomorrow.

But
for all its faults, it was a kitchen, bright and warm and blessedly familiar.
It was with some effort that Alyson tore herself away and walked back down the
passage.

Which
way now? she wondered, staring down two equally gloomy expanses of cold stone.
How had she come? Which way led back to the stairway?

She
chose the left-hand way, thinking that it seemed more brightly lit, but as she
traveled on the wall sconces became less frequent, the torches far less bright.
When she reached another crossroad she nearly burst into tears.

All
right, she told herself, you're lost. But if you're lucky, you might find a way
out of here altogether.

The
thought restored her, and as she walked quickly in the direction that seemed
best to her, she found herself passing a high, deep window. She pressed her
face against the small panes, listening to the keening of the wind and the
swift patter of rain against the glass. Looking more closely, she saw that the
window was hinged.

Think,
she ordered herself, pressing her hands against her temples. Where to go from
here? Find the stables and steal a horse. Get past the guard—across the
moat—and back to Aylsford in the pouring rain, with no moon or stars to guide
me. And even if I do succeed in all of that, even if I manage to find Robin,
where can we go then? It's hopeless, she admitted to herself.

The
light flickered, the torch nearest her but one guttered and winked out. The
darkness drew about her, leaving her alone in one small circle of light. For
the first time she realized how completely cut off she was from any hope of
help. Ravenspur stood alone upon the moor, surrounded by mile upon mile of
empty darkness. Anything could happen to her here, anything at all, and no one
would ever know. She would simply vanish.

She
tensed and peered back along the darkened corridor, every nerve alive. There
was something out there in the corridor, a rustle in the shadows, coming
closer... She seized the rusted window latch and twisted it with frantic haste.

A
touch on her shoulder made her scream and whirl sharply. There was an answering
cry and a boy jumped back, stumbled over his feet, and sat down hard.

"Christ's
wounds, lass!" he cried. "What did ye want to do that for?"

Looking
at him sprawled on the flagstones, Alyson began to giggle in helpless reaction
to her fear.

"I'm
sorry," she gasped. "But you—you shouldn't sneak up on people like
that!"

The
boy rose, dusted his backside, and grinned. "I didna mean to startle ye.
What are ye doing here?"

"I'm
lost," she said.

He
looked her over curiously. "But who are ye?"

"Al—"
she began, then broke off in horror, realizing she'd been about to give him her
true name. "Al—as!" she finished feebly.

"Aye,
I see you're a lass," he said, looking at her quizzically. "But which
one?"

"Alas,"
she repeated in a doleful tone. "And alack," she added for good
measure. "I am lost."

"Aye,
I ken that, but—" His eyes widened. "Why, you're the Darnley lady. My
uncle's wife."

"Your
uncle? Are you Malcolm?" she asked, surprised, and he nodded.

This,
then, was Ian's eleven-year-old son, orphaned since his father's death. He was
a handsome, sturdy lad with curling brown hair and a winning smile. But now the
smile faded from his lips and his bright blue eyes regarded her with a coldness
far beyond his years.

"Your
father killed my father. I hate him, and I hate ye, too! Why don't ye just go
home again?"

"I
couldn't even if I wanted to."

"Do
ye want to?" he asked shrewdly, glancing from her to the window in swift
appraisal. "Well, ye won't get out that way."

Alyson
straightened her back. "I wanted a breath of air, that's all," she
said with what dignity she could muster.

The
wind gusted against the glass, shaking the small panes in their frame.

"Oh,
aye," Malcolm said skeptically. "A breath of air."

"Can
you show me to the hall?"

"Aye,"
he said grudgingly. "This way."

He
didn't speak another word as he led her quickly through the maze of passages.
Soon they came upon a group of people gathered by the entrance to the hall. As
Malcolm slipped away, Laird Kirallen turned to her with another of his
sorrowful smiles, beckoning her forward.

After
they had stood in silence for some minutes, Alyson began to wonder why they
didn't go into the hall. A moment later she understood the delay.

"Where's
Jemmy?" someone whispered behind her, and another voice answered, "No
one can find him."

"If
he's any sense, he's halfway to his ship."

Glancing
back, Alyson saw a light-haired man watching her through narrowed eyes, his
mouth twisted in a mirthless smile.

There
was a burst of nervous laughter, quickly hushed, and Laird Kirallen frowned.
"We'll wait no longer," he said, offering Alyson his arm. And so they
walked together to the hall.

It
seemed a thousand torches blazed in their brackets as the Laird led Alyson to
the high table and politely pulled her chair back. Once seated, she looked
about the hall and found every eye fastened upon her.

Her
face burned and instinctively she bent her head, wishing she could crawl under
the table and escape. Chin up, she told herself. You're Lady Maude Darnley,
proud as Lucifer and twice as fierce.

With
an effort she raised her head and fixed her gaze on a tapestry hanging on the
far wall. It showed a hunt, and Alyson felt immediate sympathy for the poor
hind, fleeing for her life with the hounds upon her heels. She knew exactly how
the poor beastie must be feeling. It seemed that any moment the dogs must drag
her down, and yet, if she could make one mighty leap she might escape their
ravening jaws. Yes, Alyson decided, obscurely comforted by the thought. That
was how it ended. The hind leaped and the hounds all howled in fury as their
prey ran off to freedom.

A
squire set a smoking trencher in her place, the scent of roasted mutton making
Alyson's empty stomach turn upon itself. She hadn't eaten since... she couldn't
remember how long it had been. But she feared that if she tried now it would
only make her sick. Instead, she lifted her goblet, but her hand shook so that
wine splashed over the edge. She looked at the stain upon the linen with
horror, glancing about to see if anyone was watching. Her eyes met those of the
light-haired man she'd marked before. She set the goblet down upon the stain,
trying vainly to conceal it, and put her shaking hands into her lap.

Another
course was served and then another. In the lower hall the people had begun to
enjoy the feast, and now their eyes were fixed not so much on Alyson as the
empty place beside her. The meal was halfway through when Jemmy walked into the
hall. His arrival was greeted with cheers and laughter, and he raised a hand,
smiling, then dropped into his seat without a word of greeting. He was the only
one who didn't look at Alyson; he kept his eyes fixed on the center of the hall
where a minstrel played, the music lost in the rising talk and laughter.

Alyson
studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He had changed into a tunic of fern
green over trews of the Kirallen tartan and a length of the same fabric was
fastened at his shoulder by a fine brooch with a blue stone in the center. His
hair was loose, caught back at the temples with small braids. From the damp
curls rose a spicy scent that conjured images of sunlight and blue water and
places so distant she had never heard their names.