Suzanne Robinson (7 page)

Near mad with grief and rage, Galen had
tracked Roger Scrope down, in the hunting lodge where he’d gone to weather the storm of outrage that had resulted from his raid. Galen and his men surrounded the lodge, allowed Scrope’s servants to go free, and set fire to the place. When Scrope and his knights fled, a hail of arrows from longbows rained down on them. Galen found Scrope hiding in the stables, forced him into the kitchen yard, and attacked. Scrope’s venality was no match for Galen’s cold rage. He ended up begging piteously for his life. At least, Galen assumed that was what he was crying as he ran his sword through Scrope’s throat and pinned him to the ground. Galen watched him die, feeling nothing, and wishing that he could die too.

In the stairwell of Berengar’s Tower Galen made a strangled sound in his throat and fought back tears. That had been seven years ago. The pain would never go away, and neither would the knowledge that if had he not left to follow one of his visions, Constance, Gisela, and Oliver would still be alive.

He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Galen picked up the torch and wandered aimlessly around the keep. Eventually he ended up back in Rowena’s chamber. He slumped on the bench and looked out the window at the expanse of bare rock that was Berengar’s Tower. Tired of holding the torch, he propped it in a sconce. Then he turned around, leaned against the scarred window embrasure and
stared at the floor, wretched. His boot slid over the floorboards as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees and closed his eyes. They opened again, and he bent down. Abruptly he picked up the torch and held it close to the floor.

In the dust left from centuries of neglect he saw what he should not have been able to see—footprints. Someone had been here. Someone real. Galen walked around the trail of prints, studying them. A real person had been in this chamber. Who?

He knelt down and studied the imprints. They were small, light footprints. Had mischievous children played a prank on him? Galen rubbed his chin, then narrowed his eyes. These weren’t children’s footprints. They were the prints of a woman’s slipper.

And drops of candle wax. That’s what his boot had slid over so easily. Dried wax. Ghosts didn’t leave footprints, nor did they need candles.

Galen touched the bits of wax, then straightened and contemplated the footprints. Children wouldn’t come to Durance Guarde at night. Few dared to come near it at any time. In truth, there was only one person he’d encountered since he’d been here who might dare to go into Rowena’s Tower at night. Only one who wore a small slipper. Only one who might be crazed enough to pose as a ghost.

Lady Honor the shrew, by God’s mercy.

Fury burst upon him as he realized how he’d been made to play the fool. His emotions had zigzagged madly, like the flight of a butterfly, and he’d been devastated by ugly memories, all on account of that spoiled termagant. Shaking with the effort to contain his anger, Galen rose, and glared at the footprints.

“God save you, Lady Honor Jennings. For you’re going to need Him.”

F
IVE
 

H
er face plastered with a sickly white paint, Honor crept onto the landing outside Rowena’s chamber and pushed open the door. She clutched a bundle that contained her wig and spare jar of alabaster paste. Jacoba stood nearby holding a small candle. Wilfred and Theodoric followed Honor inside bearing larger parcels.

Wilfred pulled tall, fat candles and two torches from his bundle, while Jacoba produced a piece of dark wool fabric, a length of white cobweb lawn, and two short wooden wands. Theodoric set his bundle down with a
clank
, which made the others jump.

“God save us!” Honor hissed.
“I
told you to be careful.”

“Sorry, me lady,” Theodoric said. He pulled a
length of chain and a small copper cooking pot from his bundle and left to continue upstairs to the roof.

Holding the dark fabric, Wilfred jumped onto the stone bench below the window and held it across the window. His hands shook, and he muttered prayers while Jacoba inspected Honor’s face paint.

“It’s still good, lady.”

“Then light the candles and torches.”

Honor threw off her cloak to reveal an old-fashioned gown of thin, white wool. It was long and full-skirted, with wide sleeves that revealed tight undersleeves. She wore a silver girdle low on her hips. Jacoba brought her the horsehair wig, one she’d had made and dyed in secret at Castle Stafford. The hem and long oversleeves of the gown had been cut in slits so that when Honor moved the ragged edges trailed and floated.

Donning the wig, Honor climbed up beside Wilfred on the bench. After Jacoba lit the remaining candles that had been placed on either side of the bench, she lighted the torches and picked up the cobweb lawn. She had tied the corners of the lawn to the two wands, and handed one to Wilfred, who was still holding the dark screen over the window.

Once Jacoba was in place opposite him, he dropped the screen, and together they waved the rods slowly, cobweb lawn rippling between them. The moment the screen dropped, Honor swayed
and held out her arms. She heard Theodoric wailing into the cooking pot on the roof. She opened her mouth and put her hands near her face as if she were weeping, but she was careful not to touch the plaster on her cheeks.

They had rehearsed this scene many times over the last few weeks, and the whole demesne was alive with talk of Rowena’s ghost. Four days earlier they’d played their haunting scene near Durance Guarde for the first time. She’d stood on a hillock with her companions behind her holding candles and in front of her waving the cloth. Galen had come down the path to the castle, stopped and stared at her. He’d looked as if someone had kicked him in the stomach, but she must not have remained on the hillock long enough, for he’d recovered himself and gone on as if nothing had happened. That’s when she had decided to haunt the castle itself.

The moment she saw movement at the window in Berengar’s Tower, she would hear Theodoric’s wails grow louder. That was the signal. He would wait only two more wails before hurrying downstairs. She would back away from the window, then crouch and douse all the lights. Then they would throw everything into the sacks and run. If Galen de Marlowe didn’t leave after tonight, she would have to haunt another tower farther away, because the cursed man had chased them instead of cowering in fright like he was supposed to do. Last time they’d barely gotten out of the keep in time.

Honor swept her arms up and swayed some more. She had to stop herself from grinning when she remembered the way de Marlowe had leaned out his window the first time he’d seen her inside the tower. She wished she’d been able to see him clearly, but of course it had been too dark for that. What a sight he must have been gawping at her in fear. Surely this would be the last time she’d have to perform this farce.

She dearly wanted this ruse to succeed. She needed her new manor house, her new life. Without her plans and schemes for the improvement of life, like the printer’s press, she felt empty. But she could do something helpful, make up for her failure as a wife. She had so much to give, if only Galen de Marlowe would get out of her way and let her get on with it.

Theodoric’s wailing suddenly rose, then ended on a shriek. Honor’s arms froze, and she peered across the emptiness of the night to Berengar’s Tower. De Marlowe wasn’t at his window, but something on the roof caught her eye, and she nearly cried out. A sickly greenish-white glow rose from the tower, and something horrible rose up from it. Honor heard Wilfred and Jacoba gasp as a giant black creature took form. It seemed to be wearing a cassocklike garment with a hood, but there was nothing inside that hood. No eyes, no mouth, no face at all.

Suddenly the creature raised its arms, and long,
skeletal limbs ending in bony hands appeared. It pointed straight at Honor and uttered an inhuman screech.

“God’s mercy!” Honor took a step back and nearly fell off the bench. Wilfred and Jacoba dropped the cobweb lawn and grabbed her. They jumped to the floor.

Theodoric clattered down the stairs, passed the door and cried, “Run, lady, run for your life!”

Wilfred and Jacoba stood motionless and shaking.

Honor shoved them toward the door. “Run!”

They burst into a gallop, caught up with Theodoric, and scrambled through a passage that led to the keep stairs and hurtled down them to the hall. They ran across the hall, with Honor in front. She hauled the door open to find another black monster behind it. Honor screamed and drew back, bumping into Wilfred, who crossed himself and mumbled feverish prayers. Theodoric held up the cross he wore on a chain around his neck, his mouth working silently. Jacoba clung to Honor’s arm and whimpered. They kept retreating as a group when the black figure stepped over the threshold.

Her eyes fixed on the creature, Honor trembled as they neared the dying light of the fire in the center of the hall. The figure moved into the light and shoved back the hood of its cloak. Galen de Marlowe regarded them calmly.

“Ah, uninvited guests.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Leaving so quickly?”

Honor tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. Wilfred was still babbling, but he pointed in the direction of Berengar’s Tower. De Marlowe glanced that way.

“Oh. You’ve met him.”

Honor found her voice. “Wh-who?”

“Why, old Berengar, of course. You must have disturbed him with all that noise.”

De Marlowe moved so suddenly that he was upon her before she could get away. He grasped one of her sleeves to hold her still. His voice rang in her ears and sent vibrations of alarm throughout her body.

“I suggest you take your witless companions and go home, my lady. And if you return, I’ll feed you to Berengar’s shade.”

Behind her Honor heard Wilfred squawk. Theodoric bolted, and the others ran out of the keep after him. De Marlowe was still holding Honor by her sleeve. She’d been trembling while he spoke, but when he mentioned Berengar’s shade, her suspicions ignited. She eyed him, ignoring the hollows in his cheeks and the dark smudges under his eyes. Instead she studied the long legs and lean body. Something stirred inside her, a pleasurable feeling that struggled against her alarm. She ignored that as well, and concentrated on her suspicions.

“You!”

De Marlowe looked at her curiously. “Yes?”

“You black-hearted, false churl. There is no shade of Berengar.”

He smiled at her, which inflamed her anger even more. Honor yanked her sleeve out of his grasp.

“You’re a foul toad, Galen de Marlowe. Go back to your own cursed land.”

“I am on my land.”

“Liar. You were always a pestilence.” Honor jabbed him in the chest with her forefinger. “Working your evil disguisings on my poor servants. Just the kind of foul prank I’d expect of you.”

De Marlowe smirked, wiped a finger across her cheek and showed her the white paste that covered it. “I would not speak of disguisings, my lady.” He suddenly tugged her wig off and examined it. “What a monstrous ugly thing this is.”

He gave her a mocking look, but the smile on his lips faded. Honor eyed him with distrust, but he seemed distracted by her hair. To her amazement he dropped the wig and stretched out his fingers. He gently stroked a length of her copper strands.

“Heed me, my lady ghost. If I find you on my land again, I’ll throw you over my saddle and parade you all the way back to your father. I doubt not that the whole countryside will find great amusement at the sight of your little bottom wiggling in the air.”

Honor inhaled sharply and glared at him. “Why you—you—Leekshanks!”

“What?”

“You heard me. Leekshanks. By my faith, you’re nothing but a common ruffian, and I’ll not suffer you on my land another fortnight. May the Holy Trinity deliver me from ever having to come into your foul presence again!”

Honor stormed around her adversary, but as she moved, her foot caught on one of the ragged shreds of her gown as they flapped around her legs. She tripped and would have hit the floor if de Marlowe hadn’t caught her. When his arms encircled her, she grabbed them and twisted. They ended up facing each other and both went still. Honor stared up into eyes that no longer seemed hard and angry. A glint came into them, and it stirred an agitation in her that was pleasurable and disquieting.

“By my troth,” he whispered. “If all shades had amber hair and felt so soft, I’d welcome them.”

Honor swallowed. “You would?”

He bent down and breathed close to her ear. “Yes.”

She turned to look at him, and his lips touched hers. Honor froze in surprise as his tongue slipped into her mouth. He pulled away, suddenly stepping back a few paces.

“Ugh. You’ve got that cursed paste on your lips. What a foul taste.”

Honor felt herself redden beneath the paste she
wore. “It serves you right for touching me. I’ll not suffer it again, my lord.”

“Oh no?”

He came at her, but Honor grabbed her skirts and ran. She reached the door, but he caught her wrist. She clamped her other hand on the door frame and pulled. Her wrist came free suddenly, and she scrambled out of his reach and put her back to the wall beside the door, ready to slip away at the first opportunity. De Marlowe came toward her with an evil smile.