“Me,” I said at last. “You were going to sacrifice me.”
He bowed his head, covering his eyes with his hand. “Yes,” he whispered, “it would have been you. But consider, child, while the wrong is the same, the doing is a little easier with a tiny babe that has no personality or name. As I said, I might not have been able to do it, even then. I pray not. But what is certain, Serapia, is that since you appeared in my carriage, I have not once thought of sacrificing you, not even in the darkest corner of my soul. That was all over long ago, though I dare say the punishment keeps still.
“I will say, though,” he added, “that since I met you I have ceased to regret that your mother did not hand me over for my rightful punishment. You make every long year worthwhile.”
I was touched by this quiet, sincere confession, but I recoiled from the idea that he could have wished for punishment. “They would have burned you!”
“They still could,” he said calmly, then went on, without a trace of self-pity, “it would have been a few minutes of physical agony, which might have gone some way to mitigate my future punishment. Instead, I have suffered anguish like hell fire licking at my soul for years, and who knows if that even counts?”
I gave a dismissive snort. “Of course it counts. Pain is pain, isn’t it? I may have said it dismissively before, without any idea of what I was talking about, for which I apologize, but I say it again now, in much fuller knowledge; I’d wager quite heavily that your soul will be fine.”
He shook his head quietly and made no reply.
“What?” I said in frustration. “True repentance equals forgiveness, and if you don’t truly repent then no one does.”
He just shook his head again. “There is no forgiveness for me,” he said softly. “You see, when I first engaged upon the sorcery, in my half-mad state I committed a much worse sin: I thought to myself that it didn’t matter if what I did was wrong, I could always repent later. How do I escape that?”
“By repenting it, which you clearly do!” I cried furiously. And then, because I obviously wasn’t getting through to him, I shuffled down two steps and put my arms around him. He remained still in my tight grasp for a long moment, as if even now disbelieving that I could forgive him and love him still. Then, finally, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. He is getting rather bony, I thought to myself, I must see he eats more. That was when it really hit me. I jerked backwards so I could see his face.
“Pa,” I said in something of a gasp, “what did you mean? What did you mean about the security?” My voice cracked in sudden fear.
He turned his face away, as if unable to look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, child,” he whispered.
“No! I must have it wrong, tell me!”
He sighed heavily. “I was the security for the sorcery,” he said, almost under his breath. “If the sorcery is not completed five years after your mother’s death—and rest assured, it shall not be—then, I too, will die.”
“No,” I whispered numbly, my mind racing. “No!” I cried more vehemently, “that’s March this year. No!”
“Peace, child.” He gathered me in his arms again. “I have known the outside limit of my days for many years. It does not trouble me, though I do regret that I must leave you. But you will want for nothing.”
“Nothing save a father,” I sobbed, “who I would rather have without a penny than not have with all the money in the world!”
He seemed hard pressed to answer that and simply held me tightly for some time, before finally rising and lifting me in his arms to carry me back to my bedroom.
~+~
I sat on the bed while he cleaned the wounds on my wrists and ankles. He also gave me a piece of raw meat from the larder and I pressed this gratefully to my swollen nose. I knew he was feeling bad, because as he dabbed my wounds with brandy, he didn’t even make any comment about getting his own back. When he had bandaged everything carefully with strips of clean linen, he left me to sleep.
But sleep was impossible. Everything that had happened, everything that I had learned in the last few short hours, churned through my head, and while I knew that I would never be able to settle it all into sense in my mind without sleeping on it, sleep evaded me. But I had not been twisting and turning for long when I heard a soft tap on my door, and at my ‘enter’, my father came back in.
He held a teapot and a pair of cups, which he set on my bedside table, where my dagger would have been if I had not slipped it under my pillow.
“I made you a cup of tea,” he said quietly. He still evaded my eyes, and I very much hoped that that would wear off by morning. “It will help you sleep. I fully intend to drink whatever you leave. It beats getting falling down drunk, come morning,” he added under his breath and rather to himself.
“What’s in it,” I asked, sniffing.
“Hops, cloves, chamomile, valerian and ginger.”
“I’ll have some,” I said, so he poured two cups and sat by the bed companionably as we drank, albeit a very silent, bow-headed, floor-studying companion.
When I had finished and refused another cup, he departed, looking a rather forlorn shadow as he went, teapot in hand. I lay down again and eventually I slept, for the next I knew, it was morning.
~+~
CHAPTER 22
IN SEARCH OF HOPE
When I first woke, I didn’t remember anything, but then it began to creep back like a bad dream. A very bad dream. When I sat up in bed, I received incontrovertible proof that it was no dream. I still wore my father’s chamber gown, and the sharp pain from my bandaged wrists and ankles as I moved could scarcely be imaginary.
I glanced at the window, alarmed, but it was only just dawn, no one would disturb me yet. Quickly I stripped off both garments, which were bloody at cuffs and hem, and pulled on a clean nightgown.
My father’s chamber gown was a dark color and the blood didn’t show, so I threw it over a chair. I could return it to him and let him worry about how to get it washed. The nightgown was a different matter. I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain my injuries, but I doubted the explanation would involve my having been in my nightgown at the time.
I got scissors and quickly cut off cuffs and hem, then, more carefully, cut the rest of the gown into handkerchief sized pieces. I threw these into a basket of similar, waiting to go down to the urchin home for embroidery and sale.
The bloody scraps I tucked into the pocket of my own chamber gown. Once the fire was lit, I would dispose of them. And if any of the maids actually missed the nightgown, I could say quite truthfully that I had been so careless as to stain it badly and had therefore cut it up for handkerchiefs. I was not in the habit of needing waiting on hand and foot; there would be no surprise that I had done it myself.
As to the injuries themselves, I was at a loss. Injuries to my wrists alone, or my ankles alone, well, I could always claim I had been tangled in Hellion’s reins and dragged, but no one would believe I had got hands and feet tangled at the same time. I’d probably better consult with my father before I gave out anything about that.
My father. I sank down in a chair and my mind seethed, as I considered my father. To be involved in sorcery was indeed damnation and the particular sorcery he had unfolded to me was certainly an evil thing. But he was not an evil man. Nor a fool, generally, but one need be foolish only once to fall very badly indeed. He had been foolish, and fallen. And picked himself up and struggled on as well as he could, unwaveringly repentant despite the fact that he could see no salvation ahead.
I gave a faintly irritated sniff. I was no believer in irredeemable sins. The God I felt when I prayed was as loving as a parent. I was not greatly worried about my father’s soul. I was worried about his life.
It was so clear now. His increasing thinness. His tiredness. Just like with my mother. He would waste away before my eyes and then I would be alone again. I had not noticed before because my father was very different from my mother. My mother had always been sunk in g
loom, alternating between bursts of visiting and gossip, and drawn-out days of moping. Wallowing in self-pity, she had wasted the years she had mourning for the years she would not have. The years she had which she would never have had in the first place without her husband’s rash actions.
I shook my head, hands pressed to my forehead, trying to drive the traitorous thoughts away, but it was no good. Everything I had never understood seemed to have come into clear focus. I had never been able to understand my mother’s despondence, but finally I did.
My mother had used up all her courage and strength in leaving her husband, securing my safety and the safety of any other potential children of the Duke’s blood with that letter. Then, finding herself with a child that reminded her of nothing but the husband she had abandoned, she spent the rest of her life pitying herself.
That’s not fair, cried part of me. No one can be expected to stay with their spouse after they’ve had recourse to sorcery! That sort of thing breaks all bonds. But I wasn’t sure that it did. After all, had my mother hated him or not? I wasn’t sure. Certainly, if she hadn’t, she had been too proud to go back to him and make up. In which case she had no reason for self-pity, I thought angrily. She took the time he bought her and left him, then squandered it!
I rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes. I was getting a headache. I pushed consideration of my mother away. Just then, that was not the point.
The point was that my father was made of sterner stuff. He’d ploughed on through the years with an utter determination to live out his allotted time as fully as possible, and by doing so keep from doing violence against himself and further damage to his soul. He was not moping already. Mourning still, maybe, but not moping. He was physically stronger, hence the wasting disease, if it could be called a disease in this case, had taken longer to show itself.
But now that I knew it was there, I could see it all too clearly. And I knew that it would kill him. That thought drove a spear of icy terror to the pit of my belly, and I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.
I would be alone again. Alone, and rich, and wanting nothing, which would be ten times worse. I wasn’t sure if I could survive it. Surviving before, at least in regard to my mother’s death, had been very easy. Staying alive was extremely distracting.
But this time there would be no distraction and no ring at my waist. No hope of another person who would love me and take care of me. Except a future husband, and the thought of having to pick one out from among the throng of fortune hunters, unguided, made me feel sick. I’d rather be an old maid than get that wrong.
But I’d be alone again! Raven pawed at my cheek comfortingly and I fought against tears. I loved Raven very much, but it was not the same. My father was going to die...
No, I thought desperately.
No, I thought fiercely.
No! I thought with utter determination. I will not let him die. There must be some way to save him and I’ll find it. I’ve got to find it. There is nothing in this world that cannot be undone. I won’t let there be.
With this new resolution thrumming through my veins and holding that icy fear at bay, I jumped up and hurried to my father’s bedchamber, blind to the pain walking caused in my ankles. I tapped and heard a soft ‘enter’.
The Duke stood by the window, gazing out. He did not turn to look at me, so I suspected the eye-evasion had not yet worn off. I put the chamber gown on the bed.
“I’m afraid I’ve got blood on that,” I told him. “It will need washing discreetly.”
“I’ll arrange it,” he said, still ostensibly looking out of the window. “Don’t worry about it. Your nightgown...”
“Already dealt with.” A maid must have just lit his fire, so I crossed the room to cast the blood-stained strips of cloth into the blaze.
He turned around at last but went to sit by the fire without looking at me. I threw myself on his lap and hugged him tightly, determined to break through his shame. It seemed to work, because he finally met my eyes with his own, which were very sad. “Try not to fret too much about all this.”
I couldn’t help snorting at that but replied eagerly, “We’ll find something, it’s just a question of looking. There’ll be something...”
He shook his head at me firmly. “No, child, do not distress yourself further. It is not an illness exactly and cannot be cured, and even if I would stoop to it again, there is no way of removing it through sorcery. Please do not cling to a false hope. It will only cause you more pain.”
I squared my lips and returned his gaze firmly. “Nothing’s impossible.”
“For God!” he said, with a breath of exasperation. “Just think about it sensibly, child, I could fall from my horse and break my neck tomorrow or be struck by a real wasting disease next week. There’s no difference, we just know, that’s all.”
“There is a difference! You could break your neck, certainly! You could get sick, of course! But it’s not the most likely. The most likely is that you wouldn’t do either, and you’d live to be an old old man and die in your bed. And there there is quite a difference. Is there not?”
“There’s no cure, Serapia.” He looked me squarely in the eyes. “I want to be very clear about that now. I will not have you hurting yourself with a foolish hope. Do you understand me?”
I nodded. I understand you, I thought, for you are speaking plain English, but I do not believe it. I cannot believe it. Anyway, have you looked? I do not believe that you have. And if this is what those sorcerers have told you...well, they’re the very last people I intend to believe.
~+~
CHAPTER 23
THE FATE OF THE DOG
“What are the chances we’ll even find my uncle at court?” I asked my father as the coach pulled up outside the palace.
“Where else can he get the informal loan he so desperately needs?” the Duke replied, alighting as the footman opened the door.
My father had already spoken to the City Watch about the two dead bodies at Bride Well, although naming no names, having no proof. Once inside, he advanced to the Queen, made his bow, and was requested to tell Her Majesty about the affair. He did so, presenting the facts with careful neutrality and again naming no names. He didn’t need to. I watched the monarch’s face from under demurely lowered lids. Anyone who had heard about that business would have a pretty good idea. Needless to say, he didn’t mention the sorcerers.
The Queen released my father far more quickly this time, for Baron Hendfield was heading for the doors like a runaway carriage, offering nothing but the most superficial excuses to even the most powerful in his path. Alban caught up with him rapidly—people moved out of his way. He grabbed my uncle by the scruff of his over-sized ruff and dragged him behind the nearest curtains into the window embrasure. I slipped in as well, to hear what was said. No doubt a lot of ears were applied to the curtain.
“Hendfield,” said my father curtly by way of a greeting. The Baron did not reply. His face had gone milk white and apparently he could not speak.
“Right, you miserable little rat,” the Duke informed him, “I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to give you two choices. We can duel again and I’ll kill you this time, you can count on that. Or you can go before Her Majesty and confess what you’ve been up to. Which is it to be?”
The Baron stared into the Duke’s pitiless eyes for a long, frozen moment. It was clear he saw death on the point of that ducal sword as being a lot closer than anything else.
“Well?” snapped the Duke.
“I...” gasped the Baron, and cleared his throat with effort, “I’ll...I’ll go before Her Majesty...”
Fool, I thought, but did not speak. All the safer for Pa if he were a fool.
“Very well,” said the Duke icily. “I will not put words into your mouth, so you go out there and confess what you’ve done. I’ll know if you tell the truth.” The last was uttered so darkly that it was clearly a threat, and the Baron paled a little more and went sideways into the cu
rtain, flailing his way through it and heading for the dais.
The Duke followed, with something of the stalking tiger in his stride. Or perhaps that would be the stalking tigress, when she moves to protect her young.
Scurrying out into the space before the dais, the Baron bowed low. “Your Majesty, please hear me,” he cried.
You should have knelt, I thought, if you wanted even to hope for your life.
The Queen fixed him with a frosty look. “Speak,” she said curtly.
“Your Majesty,” said the Baron, his voice wavering, “I am your most loyal servant and it is with the most abject despair that I throw myself upon your mercy. I have been a very weak, fallible man, and tried to commit a most terrible crime, which God, in His great mercy, has seen fit to prevent. For which I most earnestly thank Him.”
That would have come across better if you didn’t sound so sour, I reflected.
The Baron stumbled on, “Accepting this clear chance granted from above to mend my ways, I hereby do throw myself on your mercy...”
“You’ve already said that,” said the Queen, sounding rather bored, “come to the point.”
The Baron paused and swallowed, taken aback, and shot one last look at the implacable face of the Duke.
“Have mercy on your fallible servant,” he went on after a long, pregnant pause. “I...I am in terrible want of money, due to an...an...unexpected reversal. I...I hired two men to...to...do to death my...my...brother-in-law and my niece.” Shaking, he fell silent.
The fool had actually done it. In a duel, anything could happen, but royal justice was likely to be swift and sure.
“All here are witness to this confession,” said the Queen coolly. “Guards.”
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