Suzanne Robinson (4 page)

Massive and tree-shrouded, the keep of Durance Guarde loomed before her. Round towers guarded to the corners of the square keep. Their conical roofs now had dozens of holes and served as perches and nests for ravens.

Pausing at the base of the keep, Honor leaned against the wind and peered up at the four towers that guarded its corners. At intervals blank windows and arrow slits gaped open, black and ominous. A shiver passed over her, and sheet lightning flickered from a thunderhead behind the keep.
Honor felt a few windblown raindrops against her face and plunged on, over a spray of stones that had fallen from a wall and up a rickety wooden stair that led to a door set high in the keep. Odd how so many stone walls had collapsed, but the wooden staircase had survived.

She reached the door, which had no lock or bar. Blackened, reinforced with iron fittings, it seemed aged, but still serviceable. She pushed it, but it was stuck on rusted hinges. Behind her she heard Wilfred call out, but she continued to push against the door. What could be preventing it from opening? Honor looked up at the sky. Seeing the black clouds, she again realized that she didn’t have much time. She backed up as far as she could on the landing, inhaled and ran at the door, intending to ram it with her shoulder.

At the last moment the door moved. Unable to stop, she crashed against it, and it flew back. Honor heard a sharp cry as the wood banged against something and she soared into the keep. Her foot caught on an obstacle, and she fell, but instead of hitting a stone floor, she landed on something not quite so hard.

Honor cried out in surprise. She lifted her head, brushed aside long copper tresses and found herself perched on top of a black shadow. Hard muscles surged beneath her, and she heard panting. Fear surged through her as the black figure growled. What had she disturbed in this crag of a place?

Suddenly the muscles beneath her swelled and quivered, and a hollow voice boomed into the darkness of the void beyond the door. “By the devil!”

In an instant Honor was tossed aside. She landed on her back staring up at a towering menace, and scrambled to get away from it. Blessed Trinity! She had fallen right on top of some demon. Her heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet as the demon approached. It passed into the dim light coming through the doorway, and Honor beheld a man dressed in black.

Her fear ebbed somewhat. This was no demon, at least not one she’d seen in books. Demons were ugly, and this man was beautiful, although at the moment he was grimacing with the effort to hide some physical agony.

Dazed, Honor could only stare at him. Sun-burnished brown hair fell to his shoulders, and dark eyebrows accented startling eyes that reminded her of brown onyx glistening in sunlight. Fascinated and distracted by his physical beauty, Honor studied a wide expanse of chest, which tapered to a slim waist belted and laden with a dagger in a sheath. Honor’s gaze drifted down the length of a leg the thickness of two of hers. Then she jumped as the man winced and sucked in his breath.

“By the devil,” he repeated, touching a lump reddening on his forehead. He made a hissing sound. “You’ve cracked my skull.” Honor backed
away when he suddenly advanced a step and raised his voice. “Who are you?”

Honor halted and blinked at him. “Who are you?”

“You’re the trespasser, it’s for you to identify yourself.”

“I am no trespasser,” she said. “You’re the trespasser. This is my land, and my castle, such as it is.”

“By my troth, it is not.”

“It is!” Honor narrowed her eyes and looked at the interloper more closely. “Here, now. I think I remember you. You’re one of those de Marlowes.”

She said the name as if it were a curse, for the de Marlowe brothers had teased her mercilessly when she was growing up. From perches high in the treetops, they would throw acorns at her when she passed by. They tried to frighten her with stories of ghosts and demons. Once they’d even stuck her on the well bucket at Castle Stafford, lowered her into the slimy darkness and left her there. She’d cried and screamed for help for what seemed like centuries before a scullion had passed by and rescued her. All the de Marlowes were evil, and she detested them.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m a de Marlowe, now tell me who you are and get off my land.”

Honor gritted her teeth and repeated slowly, “This is not your land.”

“The devil take you. It is, and—why am I arguing with a fiery-haired little shrew?”

De Marlowe came toward her, and with each
step he seemed to grow ten feet. By the time he’d backed Honor to the wall beside the doorway, her head was bent back at an awkward angle, and her heart was pounding again. He stopped so close she could feel his warmth. Honor stared up into dark, burning eyes and tried not to show her uneasiness.

“Now that you know who I am, you’re afraid, aren’t you?” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “This is a place of sorcery and black magic. Fell creatures inhabit Durance Guarde—the ravens, the spirits, and the shades.…” A crash of thunder made Honor cry out. De Marlowe smiled. “And me.”

There was something about that smile that was more frightening than the thunder. Lightning struck somewhere close, and Honor bolted. Outside, Jacoba and Wilfred hovered in fear some distance from the keep. She rushed to the wooden landing and down the stairs, not daring to look behind her until she reached the ground. Then she turned and saw her tormentor leaning in the doorway, a black cloak swirling around his lean body. He gave her a mocking smile, undisturbed by the violent storm that raged around him. She remembered that mocking smile.

“Galen de Marlowe!” she cried.

His smile vanished. Grim, menacing, he left the doorway and headed down the stairs.

“My lady, run!”

For once Honor heeded Jacoba’s advice. Lifting her skirts, she turned and raced across the ward past
her servants as thunder and Galen de Marlowe’s laughter chased after her. She didn’t stop until she’d clambered across the ditch, through the barbican, and down the hill. Rain pelted her as she scrambled through the forest. Once, in the darkness of the storm, she mistook a thick sapling for de Marlowe and screamed. When she recognized the tree, she stood there staring at it until Wilfred and Jacoba caught up with her.

“I told you, lady,” Wilfred said breathlessly. “Now you’ve gone and disturbed a sorcerer.”

“That was no sorcerer,” Honor said, her teeth chattering. “That was a false, black-hearted wretch named Galen de Marlowe.”

“I was right!” Wilfred squeaked. “A sorcerer.”

“Oh, my lady,” Jacoba said as she wiped rain from her face, “you don’t want to have anything to do with them de Marlowes.”

Honor tugged at her skirt, which was sodden and clung to her legs, threatening to trip her. “Oh, I’m going to have much to do with him. Galen de Marlowe is a malicious, cunning knave, and he’s not going to steal my land.”

“But, my lady—”

Honor set out again, tramping through mud and puddles. “He thinks he can send me quavering and mewling from my own land. Mayhap he did this time, but I was unprepared. I’ll teach him to go in fear and dread intolerable, and when I’m finished, he’ll curse the day he set foot in Durance Guarde.”

T
HREE
 

C
astle Stafford was not as large as the fortresses built by old King Edward I to control the rebellious Welsh, but it had two concentric rings of defensive walls, a few mighty drum towers and a barbican, and it was only a little over a hundred years old. Visitors who first saw it would marvel at its beauty, for it was pristine white and seemed to float in a blue moat that more resembled a lake than a narrow stream. Being a newer structure, the castle lacked a keep. Instead, it boasted a great hall with glass windows, a solar, and guest chambers.

Oblivious to the beauty of her home, Honor Jennings tramped into the great hall without a glance at the windows that allowed sunlight to illuminate her soaked hair and gown. Shivering, she
hurried to the fireplace and held her hands out to its warmth. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Jacoba carrying a jewel casket. The waiting woman sneezed, and Honor felt guilty for getting Jacoba caught in the rain.

Honor realized she was staring with apprehension at the double doors that had been left open for the new arrivals. “Curse it.”

She turned her back to the fire and began to wring her hair. Ever since she had escaped Durance Guarde she’d been looking over her shoulder expecting to see Galen de Marlowe riding after her, black cape flying, on some hellish black stallion.

“Lackwit,” she muttered. “It was only Galen de Marlowe, old Leekshanks.”

De Marlowe was nine years older than she, but when she’d been five he’d annoyed her at a feast by refusing to allow her to ride his palfrey, and she’d retaliated. Pointing to his long, slim legs, she’d cried, “You look right silly on that horse with those terrible long legs. They’re like leeks, skinny old leeks. Leekshanks, Leekshanks!”

He had ignored her, but his younger brothers had been nearby, heard her and took up the cry. She had been delighted with the scuffle that resulted. How many brothers were there? There was Simon, the next in age to Galen, who was the oldest. Then there were Macaire and the twins, Fulk and Fabron. Thanks be to God none of them seemed to have taken up residence with Galen on
her property. The twins had been nearer her age, and small wars had erupted whenever the Staffords and de Marlowes had met.

“Old Leekshanks,” Honor hissed.

She was furious with Galen de Marlowe not only for claiming her land, but also for making her run away from him like a startled hedgehog. It was humiliating to be laughed at by Galen de Marlowe. She hadn’t seen him since she was fourteen, right before her marriage to Aymer nine years ago.

Since then he’d become something of a legend, having fought at the side of Edward, Earl of March, the Yorkist heir to the throne. Some said he’d helped Edward in magical ways, like Merlin had aided King Arthur. She hadn’t realized that the youth with whom she’d once been fascinated had grown into a man of sinister beauty, a man who could send lightning bolts both of alarm and attraction shooting through her body. Honor refused to be a weak, foolish simpleton who lost her wits over a pretty-faced knave. She sighed, then sniffed and sneezed. She would put such lackwitted thoughts from her mind. From now on she’d make a habit of referring to de Marlowe as Leekshanks. That should banish any twittery thoughts she might have about him.

Around her the hall bustled with activity. Several pages sat on benches and listened to a lesson given by her father’s chaplain. Honor’s servants paraded in and out with her belongings, while the steward, Baldwin Trune, directed them.
Other serving men maneuvered trestles into place in preparation for the midday meal. Baldwin was an exacting taskmaster with underlings, and a fussy man. Sometimes Honor wondered that her father got on so well with him.

Just as she was wondering where her father was, he walked into the hall from behind the ornate carved screen that concealed the service areas. He was arguing with the gardener.

“I know you prefer quince, Perkin, but I want mulberry trees in my orchard, and that’s what we’re going to have.”

“But, Sir Walter—”

“No more, I pray you. Just plant them. Now, how many apple and cherry trees do we have?”

Sir Walter strode past Honor without a glance. His hair may have been silver, but his stride was long and quick, belying his age. His cheeks were hollow and his skin seemed to have thinned as well, but his manner was as strong and focused as ever. He was holding a scrap of parchment on which he’d drawn a map of his orchards, and he examined it as he paced before her.

“Father?”

Sir Walter stopped and turned. “Honor, what are you doing here?”

“I was supposed to come today.”

“Were you? Oh, yes. You were. But you’re wet, child.”

“It rained.”

“Oh, excellent. Yes, so it did. It will do the crops and trees much good. Welcome home, child.” Sir Walter strode to her and kissed her forehead. “Now, Perkin, about the quinces.”

“Father,” Honor said with a groan. “Forget the quinces and tell me why you allowed Galen de Marlowe to claim Durance Guarde.”

“Who? I allowed no one to claim Durance Guarde. There must be some mistake.” Sir Walter looked down at his map. “I wonder if I could plant—”

“Father!”

“What, child?”

“I want to build a house at Durance Guarde, and Galen de Marlowe has decided to live there.”

“Then build it somewhere else.”

“Father, he tossed me out. Are you going to allow him to insult me? You should make him give it up.”

Sir Walter folded his map and shook his head. “I’ll not cross swords with a man who calls King Edward friend. The only way to survive the contendings between the houses of Lancaster and York is to stay out of them and keep the good graces of the current king. If de Marlowe wants that old ruin, let him have it.”

“But I want it.” Honor eyed her father. “You don’t believe those rumors about him, do you?”

Sir Walter’s gaze strayed back to the folded map. “I’ve heard strange reports, child.”

Perkin had been standing nearby awaiting his master, and he nodded vigorously. Honor’s eyebrows met in the middle of her forehead.