The sun was drying the rain from the earth, creating dust and clouds of insects as she made her way to the kitchens. The smell of urine was sharp in her nostrils but she paid little heed to the stench, her focus on finding Kirk. Once inside the small enclosure that housed the buttery, the butcher’s block, and other kitchen necessities, she saw quite clearly that Kirk wasn’t in the area and, frustrated, turned to leave. Returning the way she had come, she was almost out of the yard when she noticed movement from the corner of her eye.
It was movement in the cool shadows and Mara could hear a good deal of whispering. Peering closer, she noticed several pairs of eyes stared back at her. Putting her hand up to shield the sun, four dirty children abruptly came into focus.
Mara frowned. “What are you doing in there? Hiding?”
One of the children, a boy a year or so younger than herself, emerged from the dampness. He was a bit taller than she was and they gazed at each other curiously beneath the bright blue sky.
“What are you doing?” the boy countered. “Have you lost something?”
Mara shook her head. “I am looking for someone. I do not suppose you know where I could find Kirk?”
The boy’s freckled nose twitched. “Kirk the Giant?”
Mara scowled. “You will not call him that!”
The boy shrugged, scratching his dirty blond head. “’Tis the truth. He’s a giant.”
Mara still did not like the term, even if the lad was correct. She eyed the boy, glancing to his three companions still in the shadows. “What’s your name?”
“Robert,” the boy said, gesturing to the gaggle of children behind him. “Those are my kin; Fiona, Gilly, and George.”
“Do you work in the kitchens?”
Robert nodded; for a peasant youth, he seemed rather well-spoken. “Our mam assists the cook.” He looked Mara up and down. “You do not sound like another Irish lady.”
Mara’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “I am not. My sister is going to marry Lord Edmund.”
Robert’s eyes widened. He turned to look at his sisters and brother, brave enough to emerge from the cool recesses now that their brother had engaged the lady in conversation. Four pairs of astonished eyes gazed back at Mara.
“Why do you look like that?” she demanded.
The children looked to each other again, dirty youths with similar coloring and features. Finally, Robert looked at Mara.
“Is your sister forced to do this?”
“Our father betrothed her,” she said, unsure how to answer the question. “Now, you will tell me why you look so distressed.”
Robert gazed at her a moment, his intelligent eyes studying her striking features. “What’s your name, lady?”
“Mara.”
“Are you hungry, Lady Mara?”
“I ate not an hour ago but… aye, I suppose I could eat.”
Robert motioned her with him. “Then come along,” he said as his siblings collected around Mara in an eager group. “Mam will feed us.”
Surrounded by grinning children, Mara had no choice but to accept.
Robert’s mother was a round woman who gave the children as much food as they could carry. Munching on a wedge of tart white cheese, Mara followed the group from the kitchen yard and through a small tunnel carved into the outer wall. Emerging into the knee-high grass of the surrounding fields, the five of them tramped down a small hill and into a grove of gnarled oak.
It was cool and pleasant among the trees. Mara finished the cheese and crunched into a small green apple as Robert graciously brushed off a rock for her to sit. Smiling, she accepted.
The lanky youth plopped to the dirt at her feet, smacking loudly on pumpkin seeds. “Now,” he said, licking his fingers. “You have got to send word to your da. He must come and take your sister away from Anchorsholme before she can marry the Devilboy.”
“Devilboy?” Mara repeated. “You mean Lord Edmund?”
Robert nodded, his unkempt blond hair waving like grass in a breeze. “He is evil.”
Mara stopped mid-chew. “How do you know this?”
Robert picked more seeds. “Because I have lived here all my life, lady. If your sister stays, she’ll end up dead like all the rest. Mayhap you will, too.”
Mara could hardly swallow. She tossed the apple aside and spit out the contents of her mouth, her bright blue eyes wide on the boy. “Dead? For Heaven’s sake, Robert, what are you talking about?”
Robert’s younger brother retrieved Mara’s half-eaten apple, brushed it off, and finished it. Robert ignored the boy, finishing his seeds. “Did not anyone tell you about The Darkland?”
Mara nodded hesitantly. “Well, yes… Sir Corwin told me that is what Lord Edmund’s Irish subjects call it.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Not really,” she sat forward on the rock, her expression intensely curious. “Why do they call it The Darkland, Robert?”
Robert finished his seeds and met Mara’s demanding gaze. “Because women die here. Any young woman who comes to this place never leaves.”
Chills of foreboding raced up Mara’s spine. “How do they die?”
“No one knows,” Robert shook his head. “One minute they are here, the next they are gone. No one ever sees them again. Nine in all, in fact.”
Mara did not reply for a moment, digesting his story. “And you believe my sister and I to be in danger?”
Robert’s expression tensed. “All young women are in danger.”
“But Sir Kirk will protect us.”
“He cannot. He is always gone when the women vanish.”
Mara swallowed, her sense of dread growing. “Is he somehow involved with these… disappearances?”
Robert shook his head and Mara sighed with instant relief. “Sir Kirk is a just man. But he always seems to be away when the women vanish.” The youth gestured at her new surcoat. “I saw that dress on a lady in early winter, a lady come to serve Lady Johanne from Ireland. The dead ladies are always from Ireland, you see, vassals of Lord Edmund. Lady Jessamyn wore that same dress the night before she vanished.”
Mara looked at the garment, horrified. “How do you know it is the same dress?”
The lad shrugged. “Sometimes I help serve the soldiers. She was sitting with Lady Johanne in that dress, eating her last meal. I remember noticing the dress because Gilly liked the silver thread around the sleeve.”
Mara was pale as she looked at the young girl seated on her left, no more than twelve years of age. The girl smiled weakly, her cheeks flushing, and Mara returned her focus to Robert in dismay.
“You are sure, Robert?”
“Positive.”
“But you said the women disappeared. How do you know for sure that they were killed? Mayhap they simply left and no one saw them depart.”
Robert shook his head, slowly. “They are dead, lady. Lord Edmund told everyone that the women returned home, but my mam once helped bury the possessions of one of the ladies.”
“By whose order?”
“No one is for certain. And no one is willing to ask.”
Mara felt sick. And terrified. Slouching on the rock, she shook her head as she pondered the lad’s stunning account on the happenings at Anchorsholme.
“So that is why they call it The Darkland,” she murmured, more to herself.
Robert nodded. “The House of the Death. Young ladies never leave here alive.”
Mara’s gaze snapped to him, trapping him within her intense focus. “Well, I am leaving here alive,” she hissed, rising swiftly from the rock. “My sister and I are leaving and never coming back, betrothal or no!”
Robert and his siblings were instantly on their feet as Mara gathered her too-long skirts. Retraced her steps up the hill, the collection of children followed.
“How are you going to leave?” Robert pulled her skirt free of prickly bramble when it snagged. “Do you have horses, a wagon?”
“We have palfreys,” Mara said firmly. “We are l
eaving and no one is going to stop us. I shall kill anyone who tries!”
“Even Sir Kirk?”
“Especially Sir Kirk. How dare he not tell us of the danger we are in!”
“Sir Kirk was the reason the ladies died,” Gilly’s soft voice came from behind her brother.
Mara came to an abrupt stop, causing the children to bump into each other. Bright blue eyes were fixed on the pale young girl with the untamed curls.
“Tell me all,” her voice was hoarse with dread.
Gilly swallowed hard, struggling for courage. She had been bold enough to make the statement, but explaining her words were clearly another matter. “The dead ladies all had eyes for him,” she said softly. “It was known that he did not return their feelings, but the ladies died just the same. Mayhap by their own hand. Some have come to think that Kirk Connaught is cursed.”
Mara’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Cursed?” she repeated. Taking a deep breath to soothe her shattering composure, she turned her eyes toward the dark stone bastion reaching for the heavens. “Dear God. Why did not anyone tell us this before?”
Robert was standing beside her, his blue eyes sympathetic and fearful at the same time. She was such a pretty lady, far prettier than any lady he had ever seen at Anchorsholme Castle. And she was nice, too; none of the other ladies had ever spoken to him. But Mara had.
“We shall help you leave, lady,” he said, nodding to his siblings. “Get your things together and we shall whisk you from Anchorsholme before anyone is the wiser.”
Mara should have been grateful for the lad’s assistance. But instead, she was overwhelmed with despondency over Kirk’s apparent hex and found herself unable to focus on anything else.
“Do you believe that Kirk is cursed, Robert?” she asked softly.
He shrugged weakly. “I do not know, lady. But some say he is.”
“Who?”
“Servants mostly. The soldiers defend him, saying he had nothing to do with the ladies’ deaths.”
“What of Edmund and Johanne? What do they say?”
Robert’s gaze faltered. After a moment, he shrugged again. “Who can say? Everyone is a’feared of them because of Johanne’s madness.”
“Madness?”
The boy nodded. “She rages with the change of the moons. She’s been known to beat serving wenches, or burn them with pokers. One time she bit a wench on the hand and tore off her finger.”
Mara’s eyes widened with horror. Without another word, she returned to the kitchen yard through the tunnel in the wall. With a hasty farewell to Robert and his silent siblings, she made way to her chamber as fast as her feet would carry her.
Micheline was trying on her sixth surcoat by the time Mara reached her. Huffing with exertion, she raced into the room and slammed the door, bolting it from the inside. But when she turned and saw Lady Valdine and Lady Wanda hemming one of Micheline’s new dresses, she screamed at them to leave and, in perfect synchronization, they did so.
Mara bolted the door again when they were gone. Puzzled and incensed, Micheline came down from the stool she had been perched on.
“Mara!” she scolded. “What is the matter with you?”
Mara’s face was white with fear, her breathing rapid from having mounted three flights of stairs in a panic.
“Misha,” she grasped her sister by the arms. “We have got to leave this place. Now!”
Micheline could see the terror in her sister’s eyes. “Why, Mara? What has happened?”
Mara couldn’t answer. Releasing her sister, she ran to the massive wardrobe and threw open the doors. Grabbing the worn satchel that had once belonged to her mother, she began stuffing garments into it.
Micheline went to her, struggling to calm the hysterical woman. “Tell me what’s the matter, darling. What has upset you so?”
Mara dropped the satchel in her haste. Growling in frustration, she turned to her sister, both hands clutching the clothing she was trying so desperately to pack.
“This place,” she hardly knew where to begin. “Do you remember when Sir Corwin called it The Darkland?”
When Micheline nodded, Mara swallowed hard before continuing. “It’s called The Darkland because young women die here. These dresses that were brought to us are from those dead ladies. Do you remember Lady Valdine and Lady Wanda explaining how the garments had been left behind? With hesitance and uncertainty, as if they did not want us to know!”
Micheline wasn’t any better at masking her horror than her sister. “Are you certain?” she hissed. “Who told you this?”
“Children of a servant. They have lived here for a very long time and explained the evil of this place to me,” Mara shuddered involuntarily, struggling to go on. “Thank God someone had the courage to enlighten us. But Kirk… they say he is cursed. Every young woman who died had eyes for him.”
Micheline gasped. “But… Mara! He is so fond of you and…!”
There was a sharp rap on the door. Mara shrieked, dropping the garments in her hands. Frozen with fright, the sisters stared at the panel as the caller rapped again. And a third time. Finally, a voice echoed from the opposite side of the door.
“Mara?” It was Kirk. “Lady Micheline? Are you there?”
Micheline gasped again and Mara shushed her sternly. Her entirely body trembling, she moved swiftly to the door, making sure it was bolted before replying.
“Go away, Sir Kirk,” she half-demanded, half-begged. “We do not wish to see you.”
In the corridor, Kirk’s brow furrowed at the sound of Mara’s voice. She sounded so… weak.
“Mara?” he tried the latch; it was locked. He rattled it loudly. “Mara, what’s wrong? Open the door.”
The sound of his deep, soothing voice was enough to drive her to tears. Terrified and confused, Mara sobbed softly against the old, scrubbed wood.
“Please,” she whispered loudly. “Just… go away. Leave us alone, Kirk.”
He rattled the latch again, more firmly this time. “I will not. Open the door or I shall break it down.”
“Nay!” she knew he was fully capable of carrying out his threat. “Do not break it down. Please do as I ask!”
Hand still on the iron latch, Kirk was distressed by Mara’s attitude. But he was even more distressed by the quaking of her voice. To become angry would only inflame her, so very calmly, he leaned against the seam where the door met the frame.
“I won’t break it down, love,” he murmured, knowing she could hear him. “But please open the door. Why are you so upset?”
He could hear her sobbing. “I am… I am simply fatigued. Micheline and I wish to be left alone.”
“I will leave you alone if you open the door and prove to me that you’re well.”
“Do you not trust my word?”
“When I do not know the reason for your tears, I must say that I do not.”
Mara stared at the latch a long, long time. Finally, and very slowly, she released the bolt. And after another lengthy pause, she cracked the panel open.
Kirk’s stone-gray eyes were staring at her. Mara sniffled, meeting his gaze and struggling not to crumble.
“There,” she said hoarsely. “As you can see, I am well. Micheline is well. Now will you leave us?”
“Nay,” he pushed the door open, his gaze roving the room. Seeing there was no obvious threat that would drive Mara to tears, his gaze immediately fell on the satchel and discarded clothing heaped on the floor. His eyebrows knit together. “What is this?”
Micheline was still standing by the wardrobe, her cheeks flushed. Hastily, she bent down to collect the falling things. “I… it was merely my own clumsiness. I was clearing the wardrobe for our new garments and this fell out.”
He did not believe her for a moment. His accusing gaze immediately turned to Mara. “Where were you going, Mara?”
She wasn’t a very good liar and it had never been her habit to excuse her way out of a situation. Fully prepared to tell him that her intentions
were none of his affair, one look at the intense gray eyes and her control shattered like fragile glass.
“I am leaving!” she gasped, the tears that has so recently fled returning with a vengeance. “And Micheline is going with me!”
He moved toward her simply to comfort her but she screamed, moving away from him as if he carried the plague. “Stay away from me!”
He froze, his gaze tracking her like a cat watching a mouse. “What is the matter, Mara? What have I done?”
She was standing next to the bed, sobbing. “You…” she gasped, hardly able to continue. “You are cursed!”
He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She wept into her hand, close to hysteria. But the bright blue eyes were intense. “The Darkland, Kirk. I know why Anchorsholme Castle is called the House of the Death.”
He did not say anything. Outwardly, his composure never wavered, but inwardly, his heart was breaking. He’d never known it to break before.
“Why is that, love?”
His gentle tone inflamed her. “Because young women die here!” she nearly shouted, angry that he would act as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “Nine young ladies who have come here to serve Johanne, women who have simply vanished into the night. Why did you tell us the truth from the beginning?”
He took a deep breath, aware that his control was slowly weakening. And that had never happened, either. Especially not where a woman was concerned. Carefully, he pondered his reply.
“Is that what you wanted?” his voice was oddly hoarse. “To hear stories of Anchorsholme Castle, frightening you to death when you were already reluctant to come?”
Near the wardrobe, Micheline nearly collapsed with the confirmation of Mara’s wild stories.
“Dear God,” she gasped, groping for the nearest chair. “Then what she has told me is true.”
Kirk eyed the woman a brief moment before returning his attention to Mara. She was sitting on the bed now, facing away from and sobbing pitifully.
Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle Page 80