Old Magic (18 page)

I pull myself up, eager to get this initial meeting over and done with. “Coincidence or hereditary makes no difference at this stage. As long as they buy it.”

We’re both weary, having walked all morning without food, and little water. But this is the last part of our journey, which gives us an energy boost. We don’t talk much, are content with our own thoughts, battling our own doubts. Soon speech becomes difficult anyway as we struggle with the climb in our mud-heavy clothes.

As we near the apex the castle walls become clearer. I glimpse a portcullis, the iron bars forming even crosses, set within high stone walls. In front of this is a raised drawbridge, which creates a barricade to the entrance of the castle. On top stands a stone structure like a cabin. This has to be the gatehouse. There are guards—knights, I assume, and these are the ones that have been observing us, no doubt. It’s an irritating feeling, knowing they’re just standing there, watching, and armed. Glancing back down I see that from here there is a perfect view of the whole road, all the way across to the village in the distance. I see now why the castle was built on this hill, so close to the ocean. It’s perfect, strategically, and easy to defend from invading armies.

The view is actually quite spectacular. The far side of the keep drops away sharply to a thrashing blue-green ocean, which seems to go on forever. To the north, on the twin peak stands another keep, also on a cliff edge. I can’t seem to draw my eyes away from it. It looks isolated and strangely sinister. The tallest point is a circular tower that stretches so high, rumbling dark clouds threaten to obscure it.

The eerie sight causes goose bumps to break out everywhere on my skin. “I wonder who lives there?”

Jarrod’s eyes shift sideways, and he shrugs. “Who cares?”

“It looks dark and spooky. And didn’t that pigman warn us not to go near it? Why is that, do you think?”

Jarrod gives me a bit of a disbelieving look, then inclines his head toward the castle so close now, only a few meters to the smelly stagnant moat. “Are you suggesting Thorntyne Keep looks friendly or inviting? Look at those high walls.”

He’s right, both buildings look uninviting. And even though Jarrod still carries the name, these people are strangers. But I want to keep his thoughts light. “They’re your relatives,” I remind him.

His face forms into a sarcastic sneer. “Yeah, right. Like eight centuries ago.”

Jokes aside, I can’t shrug off an unnatural feeling emanating from that dark neighboring castle. It scares me.

As we near the gatehouse of Thorntyne Keep, a deep male voice demands to know our business.

“We are weary travelers from a faraway land, once of Thorntyne,” Jarrod announces with a calm I know he doesn’t feel inside. But we’ve rehearsed his lines many times on the road, and he’s doing well.

“Thorntyne! Who are you to claim the Thorntyne name?”

“My name is Jarrod. I am the lord of Thorntyne’s eldest brother’s son,” Jarrod returns. We had to rehearse this line the most.

The man gasps and swears. A lot of murmured discussion from the guards in the gatehouse follows. My skin starts tingling like a thousand ants are chasing each other across it. Finally the soldiers move away from the battlements to obtain a clearer view of the youth who claims to be the son of the lost Thorntyne brother.

I see the man in charge clearly for a minute. He’s largely built, with broad straight shoulders and a full head of dull red hair going gray. He would have been a striking man in his day, and still is, though I can only guess his age to be around the mid or late forties. He’s wearing leather bands, wrapped around his lower legs, a beige tunic with a full skirt to his knees, and a cloak with a rectangular mantle pinned on his right shoul-der. He’s not wearing chain mail, but his companions are, and the sight of them is breathtaking. I wish I wasn’t so nervous.

He’s probably a knight of some high order. He moves back and starts descending the inside stairs, looking formidable. The knight has made a decision.

An order reverberates through the gatehouse, and the portcullis starts sliding gratingly upward, then the drawbridge lowers. The knight is accompanied by a soldier on each side of him, one young, one much older. They make an awesome sight. I can’t help but stare as they cross the bridge and head toward Jarrod, who is standing a little way in front of me. My pulse is racing, my palms sweating, and I’m glad at this moment that I lingered behind a little looking at the castle on the other peak. I hope Jarrod handles this just like we rehearsed. He looks scared. He can’t stop wiping his palms on his tunic and flicking me quick worried glances. He looks like a wild pony that wants to bolt.

The knight stands directly in front of Jarrod and studies him carefully with narrowed eyes. He’s clearly suspicious, taking in every detail, from the rust tints in Jarrod’s hair to the creamy color of his skin. But it’s Jarrod’s eyes the knight lingers over the most. And then he surprises both of us when his own eyes go all watery, and a huge grin splits his rugged face almost in two. He looks at the two soldiers flanking him for a quick second, grinning and nodding. In one lightning movement the knight turns back, grunts loudly, spreads his arms wide, and smothers Jarrod in an almighty bear hug that lifts him completely off the ground.

After swinging Jarrod around full circle a couple of times the big man reluctantly puts him down, then starts thumping his back with great big guffaws. Jarrod is trying hard to maintain his balance. “Welcome, nephew. Welcome,” the big man announces between powerful thumps. “I knew this day would come. I dreamed of it many nights since your father left.”

The word, nephew, sticks in my head. This man isn’t just a knight, or one of the lord’s soldiers, he is Lord Baron Thorntyne himself. And he has accepted Jarrod’s explanation simply by looking at him. Just as I start wondering how much Jarrod must resemble his ancestors it suddenly dawns on me that if they cast so much heed to looks, then our planned story just disintegrated. Too late to think of anything else now, my heart starts hammering madly in my chest.

I look again at the lord of Thorntyne, master of his castle and all its people. The warm way he’s greeting Jarrod isn’t at all how I imagined he’d be, especially after what those villagers said of him.

The other two soldiers welcome Jarrod too, though one of them remains coolly reserved. The lord introduces him as Malcolm, his twenty-year-old son, but remains oblivious in his own joy to notice his son’s chilly reception. The older soldier is Thomas, apparently a lifelong friend of Jarrod’s “father.” Thomas can’t take his eyes off Jarrod, keeps shaking his head, touching Jarrod’s shoulder, and grinning.

An elegantly dressed woman suddenly pushes through a gathering crowd at the front gates. “Richard,” she calls the lord. “What’s going on? We can hear the ruckus from inside the Great Hall.”

“Isabel, my love,” Lord Richard says excitedly, draping one of his arms around the slender woman’s waist. “It’s Lionel’s son, returned to us from a distant land.”

Isabel’s eyes widen, instantly on alert, skepticism fighting hospitality on her refined yet delicate face. She studies Jarrod closely. “Aye, he certainly resembles a Thorntyne, but not Lionel directly.”

This last comment worries me. If not Lionel, who is apparently the long lost brother, then who?

“Geoffrey,” she decides.

“Geoffrey?” Jarrod queries tactfully. Earlier we decided that if we needed information, family names and such, we would have to make the inquiry sound casual. Jarrod’s is perfect.

Isabel, apparently content now with Jarrod’s claim to ancestry, links an arm through his, explaining, “Of course you wouldn’t know him, and your father, bless him, should have told you about your heritage. Geoffrey was your grandfather. He passed away long before you were born, my dear.” She peers studiously at him. “But you’re too young to be Lionel’s firstborn.”

Jarrod quickly explains, “I’m not. I have a brother before me.” He’s good, I breathe in slight relief. But the show’s not over yet, the major hurdle is yet to come—me.

“He is well, but I had an urge to see my homeland,” Jarrod continues carefully.

We have to be careful not to release any information we’re not sure of, and that is really just about everything we know. Jillian warned us not to disturb any future destinies, not to do anything, or say anything that might lead to changing history. We know that Lionel’s real firstborn son will return one day to claim his rightful inheritance.

Others join them, a girl about my age, introduced as Jarrod’s cousin, Emmeline, who can’t take her eyes off her newfound cousin, smiling at him with a mixture of shyness and slyness. I dislike her instantly. There is another child, maybe six or seven, attached to a woman’s leg, who turns out to be Isabel and Lord Richard’s youngest son, John. The woman that shelters him is Isabel’s maid and, apparently, not worthy of introduction.

While all this is going on, I am momentarily forgotten. I don’t mind though, it gives me a chance to evaluate everything. If it wasn’t for Jarrod’s uncanny resemblance to his Thorntyne ancestors I doubt our first meeting would have gone so smoothly. But my presence is yet to be explained. And this is where we’re going to have a problem. Why were we so stupid?

They begin moving across the drawbridge into the bailey, when Jarrod turns for me. He doesn’t get a chance to speak though. Lord Richard starts babbling apologies for his rudeness.

He puts his arm around my shoulders urging me forward. Once inside the castle walls we have to stop as a large group of curious people gather in number. Richard proudly introduces Jarrod to the crowd as if the prodigal son himself has returned. There is wild cheering and Jarrod almost drowns in their welcome.

Among all the ruckus Lord Richard angles his head down to me and says, “Who is this lovely noblewoman?” And the crowd goes quiet.

Jarrod is supposed to say his sister, which was, of course, our plan. His eyes connect with mine, troubled. What should he say now?

Isabel frowns at me and says, “Of course she’s not a Thorntyne, just look at her pale skin, the color of her hair, like ebony, and those eyes, so light yet incredibly still blue and . . . such an unusual shape.”

“They’re shaped like a cat’s,” Malcolm tosses in.

I try not to stare at him, even though I wouldn’t mind turning him into a cat right now.

To me Isabel adds, “My dear, from what lands do you hail?”

I stare back at her numbly.

Lord Richard, who is still holding my shoulder, glances across at Jarrod for an explanation, his head inclined with impatience. Obviously, he’s not a man used to waiting.

I know exactly when the idea hits him. His fingers go all hard, digging into my arm a little, not so that they hurt, but I can tell he isn’t pleased. My heart beats faster. What can he be thinking? Something offensive, I’ll bet. I don’t dare probe his brain, Jillian warned me about this. These people live with magic but in a fearful way, with less understanding. If they think I practice witchcraft, I will most probably be killed.

Then he says, “Surely, Jarrod, this exotic creature does not travel with you unchaperoned?”

Jarrod appears completely dumbfounded, not expecting this sudden twist. Damn, we should have prepared an alternative story. Of course I look different to them, with my black hair and unusual almond-shaped eyes. Something we should have realized earlier. Too late now as everyone is waiting for Jarrod to explain. I sense it has to come from him. They wouldn’t accept our “sister” plan now, that’s for sure.

“Jarrod? Who is this lady?”

“She, um,” Jarrod starts. “Her name is Kate—’

“Katherine,” I say quickly as the shortened version isn’t popular yet.

But this is not an explanation and the crowd waits for more. Lord Richard’s fingers tighten around my shoulder, his thoughts diving again. His head swivels to Jarrod’s, looking at him sharply. “Tell me you have not stolen Lady Katherine’s innocence and made her your mistress?” His voice grows louder and the crowd thickens around us. “Your father, my dear brother,” he continues, shaking his head, “would stand for none of this if he knew.”

I don’t like what’s happening. In an instant our welcome has turned threatening. I suddenly visualize the dungeons these castles reputedly have—literally window-less holes in the ground. Sure, as everything else around here, I’d like to see them, but my curiosity stops there. Every pair of eyes zeroes in on me. My face is in flames. I urge Jarrod to say something, anything, to get us out of this unfortunate twist.

And so he says, “Katherine comes from . . . an island, far away from here. She . . . she is . . .” He drags in a deep breath. “She is my wife.”

A collected relieved sigh escapes from the crowd, and the lord’s tight hold around my shoulder eases. In fact, he drops his arm and lifts my hand, as if searching for something. When he finds what he’s searching for he holds my hand up high so everyone can see. It’s my ring, the ruby and gold one Jillian gave me, that has everyone’s attention.

“It’s true then,” Isabel announces, coming up and giving me a welcoming hug. “How lovely, my dear. Come, you must be hungry.” She glances at my soiled skirts and messy hair. “And when you have both eaten, I will arrange hot baths and a comfortable bed.” Here she glances at her husband, Lord Richard, with one fine eyebrow raised in query. As if by familiar silent communication they agree on something, and Isabel says, “We can’t have you sleeping with the servants in the Great Hall, so you two can sleep in the tower room. It hasn’t been used since Lionel wed his young bride.”

A room of our own. This is quite an accomplishment. Other than the lord and his lady the rest of these people would normally sleep in the Great Hall on beds of straw. This privacy is just what we need.

Isabel’s glance slides to Jarrod, her voice whisper-soft. “It’s their room you see. Your father had it built especially for Eloise as a wedding gift. It’s the room your parents slept in when they lived here, before . . .” Her pause is met with an electric silence. The air practically ignites with tension. Even though Jillian warned me sternly against it, I have to do it, just one time. Isabel is hiding something. If I can decipher some of her fears, I might understand the why of it. And why the idea of sleeping in this tower room has suddenly taken on an unsavory feel. So I probe, very gently, Isabel’s mind. What I feel there shakes me up a bit. This seemingly strong, very in control woman, is scared. Of course, we know from Jarrod’s heritage book that the young bride was kidnapped. But as I understand it, the bride was returned only hours after the event. An unrequited lover’s vengeful prank. But, glancing at the gathered crowd, I see fear in their faces. There is definitely more to this story. Something dark and sinister happened to the young married couple, Jarrod’s supposed “parents.” Though it happened possibly twenty or more years ago, it still has the power to affect all those who remember it, even their children. And it happened in the tower room. That much is clear.