Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

And Epona? My son's mother? I never saw her again af­ter the sixth night I spent in her white bed. What are these beings?

  I knew there were servants, but they were only flashes of shadow and light, as if they moved about in a slightly differ­ent time and place, out of phase, like a moon hovering just outside your vision. They certainly kept the fortress clean, its inhabitants well garbed, but they were separate from the witches and wizards, separate from me as well. Did they take their direction from something outside the fortress? Perhaps they were guards, or bodyguards. There were cooks too be­cause the meals were splendid.

  "Where are the servants?" I once asked Epona. She wore only white, her gowns always spotless. Her bedchamber was also completely white, it seemed to me the air was white around her. "We call them only when we need them," she told me, but that didn't sound right at all. "So they are not really here then? Where do they go? Where do they come from?" But she only shook her head, smoothing one white hand through my hair, and began kissing down my belly. And I wondered, before my brain became nothing more than empty space between my ears. Do you have any idea who or what these creatures are who serve you?

  Rosalind raised her face. "Nicholas, this book isn't an ex­tract from the other, it's completely different."

  His heart was beating hard, strong strokes. "Yes, so it seems. Keep reading, Rosalind , there aren't many more pages."

  There came a night when Blood Rock heaved and groaned and spewed rock and dirt high into the sky. Flames speared into the moonless black sky, the three bloodred moons inex­plicably gone from the heavens. I heard screaming and shrieks, like demons from the deepest pits of Hell. The wiz­ards and witches? Or the other creatures I didn't know about? Rocks tumbled down the steep sides of Mount Oly-van. I could not hear them crash at the bottom, and I feared for a moment that there was no longer a bottom, no longer a valley below. I ran to the ramparts and prepared to face my death. But I didn't die, Blood Rock did not tumble down Mount Olyvan. As suddenly as the cataclysm had begun, it ended. It was still, utterly still, as if the air itself were afraid to stir.

  I didn't want to remain here and so I sent a silent plea to Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond who'd carried me to

  Blood Rock, and soon he came, swooping down gracefully onto the ramparts. No wizards or witches came to bid me farewell, indeed I hadn't seen a single one after the upheaval that had shaken the bowels of the fortress. My bowels as well. Had they all died?

  Taranis lifted his mighty body gracefully from the ground and winged away from Mount Olyvan. When I looked back, everything seemed as it had been. I wondered yet again at all their Celtic god and goddess names, for none of them ever seemed to worship anything at all—and at Taranis the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, who was named after the Celtic god of thunder, the god who demanded human sacrifices. Had Taranis caused the mayhem on Mount Olyvan? He was immortal, he'd told me, unlike those bedeviling wizards and malignant witches in Blood Rock. I asked him if the wizards and witches had survived. Taranis told me the creatures of Blood Rock were cowering within their individual enchant­ments, a cowardly lot. I wanted to ask him about my son, if he had indeed been born of Epona's body, if indeed he had ever existed, but Taranis chose that moment to dive straight toward the earth and I lost what few wits were in my head, and my bowels were again in question.

  She looked up again. "Sarimund is occasionally amusing in this account. It's completely different from the other. I wonder what really happened? Or if any of it happened at all."

  "Perhaps the Blood Rock wizards and witches unleashed all their powers."

  "Unleashed their powers on what? The fortress? The mountain itself? On each other?"

  "I don't know."

  "I wonder if Sarimund "ever found out what happened. Perhaps there is a third thin volume somewhere. Oh, dear, do you think his son survived? Epona's son? Was he even born yet? This is very frustrating, Nicholas."

  "Read the final pages, Rosalind."

  She tried to turn the page, but it was stuck. It wouldn't part. She looked at her husband, saw he was frowning at that page. "Drat, Nicholas, I cannot turn the page. It seems stuck together with the last page. Remember with the other Rules of the Pale, I simply couldn't read the code on the final pages. With this little one, the bloody pages refuse to come free. I really would like to hurl this across the library."

  Was that a rustling sound she suddenly heard?

  There was a knock on the library door.

  Nicholas looked ready to curse. Rosalind quickly got to her feet. "Let's see what's happening now."

  It was Peter Pritchard, his young face haggard, his pale eyes ringed with shadows, his dark hair standing on end. His clothes, however, looked freshly pressed and his boots were polished. Behind him stood six women and four men in the vast entrance hall, all waiting, Peter told them, to be con­vinced by Nicholas to come to work at Wyverly, which was surely an opportunity only a dolt would deny—just imagine, a lifetime of tales to whisper about in front of winter fires.

  "Give us a moment, Peter," Nicholas told him and shut the library door in his face. He'd forgotten. He didn't want to deal with convincing a bunch of villagers to work at Wyverly, and Rosalind saw it. She also saw his mouth, ah, his mouth, when he'd kissed her, when he'd caressed her with his mouth. She shivered, remembering how when she'd awak­ened, he was gone, and she wanted to howl. As she stretched sore muscles she hadn't been aware of even having, she thought about burrowing against him in her sleep, and wak­ing to kiss him, letting him—well, she'd kissed him at the breakfast table, in a small, really quite lovely room with huge windows that gave onto the front drive, kissed him until Marigold had staggered into the room balancing heavy silver-domed trays on her arms. She'd stopped in her tracks and stared and stared, then grinned from ear to ear.

  And after breakfast, when Rosalind had thought perhaps Nicholas would carry her up to his boyhood bedchamber, he hadn't. He'd brought her to the library and handed her the thin leather book. She knew this was vital, she knew it, but still—

  She smiled at him now, tossed him the thin volume. "Why don't you slip out into the gardens, Nicholas, and think about this. See if you can free those final pages. Did you notice there are no more rules? Yes, you go to the gardens. Since I am the Wyverly mistress, it is only right that I deal with hiring our staff." She patted his arm. "I am very good at convincing people to do what I want."

  He looked down at the book, opened his mouth, but she lightly placed her fingertips against his lips.

  "The book has been hare for a very long time. It isn't go­ing to fly out the window. Try to get the last page unstuck, though I don't hold much hope. Now, let me see what I can do. We need to get Wyverly back to its former glory. Ah, there was former glory, wasn't there?"

  "There was until my father became ill, actually faced his own mortality and realized the house and lands would come to me. He moved his family to London and left everything here to rot. Not all that long ago, thank God. I was very lucky Peter Pritchard was available."

  "I'm sorry, Nicholas. What a wretched old wart your fa­ther was. I wish he were here so I could punch him in the nose."

  He laughed, bent down and gave her a hard, violent kiss, and took himself out of the glass doors into a small overgrown garden. He heard animals scurrying about in the underbrush. He called out over his shoulder, "We need gardeners."

  She opened the library door and ushered Peter in. "Peter," she said, turning to face him, "I think I should like to speak to all of them at once. I trust you have ensured that none are ripe to steal the silver?"

  "The old earl told my father, who told me, that Nicholas once stole three silver spoons forged during the time of Queen Bess so he could sell them in Grantham and buy him­self a pony. The old earl, my father told me, thought it was very well done of him. The pony was treated like a prince here at Wyverly Chase. Indeed, he still resides in the stables, content to be brushed and fed carrots." Peter paused, slapped himself, and said, "I'm sorry but that has not
hing to do with the matter at hand. As best I can ascertain, we have no thieves in this bunch."

  "All right, Peter, bring in our people."

  "They're not ours yet, my lady, and I doubt—"

  She merely shook her head at him. When they were all lined up in front of her, many looking frankly alarmed to be in the old earl's library, the rumored seat of all ghostly oc­currences, several of the men trying to sneer away their fear, Rosalind smiled at each of them in turn, and said, "I am Lady Mountjoy. My husband and I are newly arrived at Wyverly Chase." She leaned closer. "Let me tell you all truthfully—I played chess with the old earl's ghost last eve­ning, and do you know what? I beat him every time. He grumbled and threw several chess pieces across the library, but all in all, he took it well."

  There were several gasps, a couple of indrawn male breaths.

  "The old earl is in transit, I suppose you could say. He is neither here nor there, but currently more here than there, if you know what I mean. He is not dangerous, not at all alarm­ing, indeed, I find that he is a good listener and I enjoy singing duets with him.

  "Do any of you sing?"

  34

  Dead silence. An older woman's hand slowly crept up. "I do, my lady. The vicar told me I have the sweetest voice in his whole flock."

  "Then doubtless you will have to carry the duet with the old earl, as his voice isn't all that true. Do you think you would enjoy that, Mrs.—"

  "Mrs. McGiver, my lady. Mr. Pritchard spoke to me about the housekeeper position."

  "The old earl knows some clever songs, Mrs. McGiver."

  " 'E's not the old earl, 'e's a ghost," one of the men said, "a bloody ghost wot doesn't belong aboveground! Singing duets, it isn't right. All this talk about playing chess with a ghost—there's evil and bad business, that's what everyone says. No good will come to anyone who stays 'ere."

  Rosalind nodded at the older gentleman with a rooster tail of white hair. "I understand your concerns, Mr.—"

  "Macklin, my lady, Horace Macklin. I was the 'ead gar­dener 'ere before the old earl came back to 'aunt."

  "The gardens are in dire need of your help, Mr. Macklin. Now, listen to me. I have discussed this with the old earl and he assures me he is not evil, he is, indeed, of a happy frame of mind. The reason he is happy is that he is very glad his grandson is here and wed.

  "He told me about many of you, how kind you were, how pleasant and witty, how very good you all were. He also said he hoped you would come back and scrub things up so Wyverly Chase can be brought back to its former glory."

  Still uncertain looks, at least two appalled faces.

  Rosalind leaned a bit closer to the group and lowered her voice. "I can tell you this: He will add interest to your lives, he will make you smile after you become used to hearing his booming voice. When he breaks into song, I daresay you will soon find yourselves singing along with him. Who among you can be so timid, so fearful, as to turn down this very rare opportunity? Isn't this an adventure, something to tell your grandchildren? Your friends? I daresay they will all be hanging off your words, buying you glasses of ale to hear you talk."

  Ah, most of the faces weren't quite so stony now.

  She continued, "All great houses have their ghosts. With­out ghosts, great houses simply don't come up to the mark. Now, the old earl's ghost isn't ancient and thus he hasn't yet decided whether or not he wishes to settle here. As I said, he is still afloat, but eager to greet all of you. Will he remain? I don't know. We will see."

  She stepped back and let them huddle. Voices were muted but they were talking, and that was good. Eyes darted around the library, but the old earl remained quiet, if he was even here.

  Finally, the woman with the sweet voice, Mrs. McGiver, took a step forward and said, "All but Robert will come, my lady. Robert is afraid, a sorry thing for a man to be—"

  " 'Ere now! I ain't afeared!"

  Mrs. McGiver sneered at him. "Then sign on, my lad. You won't even have a chance to hear the old earl sing, or sing with him for that matter, since you'll be yanking up weeds in the gardens. You too afraid to do that?"

  More grumbling, then Robert nodded. "All right, I'll stay on the grounds, but niver will I come into this den of iniquity. A ghost in the library—it fair to beetles the brow."

  Thankfully, the old earl's den of iniquity remained quiet, the air unruffled and warm.

  Rosalind heard Peter Pritchard tell the group as he ush­ered them out of the library, "If you would all begin today, his lordship and ladyship would be very pleased. Do you know that I myself have sung a duet with the old earl? His is not a very good voice, I must say, but he does try. I'm think­ing there must be heavenly points for singing rather than simply speaking. What do you think, Mrs. McGiver?"

  "He never had a good voice, at least I wouldn't imagine he did. I never heard him sing, truth be told."

  Robert said, "Well, now, the old earl's dead, ain't 'e? Who could sing good with grave dirt in 'is mouth?"

  Mumbled agreement. Thank the good Lord no one men­tioned there hadn't been a body in the old earl's casket.

  Rosalind was grinning when she joined Nicholas in the small overgrown garden with hummingbirds dipping into the rich tangled rose blooms. The air was soft, the sun shin­ing down hot from a clear sky.

  "I like my new home, Nicholas. We now have ten addi­tional servants. All will be well. Our new housekeeper is Mrs. McGiver, and I have to hand the prize to her. She's got a backbone, in addition to a lovely voice."

  "However you and Mrs. McGiver managed it, I am im­pressed." He kissed her. The hummingbirds were blurs in the air, swooping closer when he took her to the ground behind a thick-pedestaled sundial. She asked him between kisses if the earl ever visited this small garden.

  Nicholas, no fool, said, "No, never. He hated flowers, hated the bright sun. Do you know, I hated leaving you this morning, I ground my teeth, kicked the chair on my way out the door. Do you know you clutched me to you when I tried to leave? Ah, be quiet now."

  "Then why did you leave?"

  "You had to be sore," he said between kisses. "I didn't want to hurt you. You're better now, aren't you, Rosalind ?"

  "Oh, yes," she said into his mouth even as she pulled his ears, "I am perfect."

  He laughed.

  Because Peter Pritchard wasn't a fool either, when he heard voices in the garden he immediately turned himself about and went back into the old earl's library. He thought about the widow Damson, her lovely smile, her pillowy breasts, and decided it was time to pay a visit.

  Twenty minutes later, Nicholas helped Rosalind to her feet and straightened her gown. She fussed with her hair. "Oh, dear, how do I look?"

  He was so sated, so contented, not a care in his brain, his eyes heavily hooded, that he wanted to fall in a heap and grin like an idiot. His fingers touched her cheek. "You look like a queen." Since this was perhaps not all that accurate, Rosalind punched his arm. He grinned down at her, kissed her mouth again because he couldn't help himself, and said, "You look happy and satisfied with yourself. You look silly and adorable as well. There were three twigs sticking out of your head like horns. This look of yours befits a new bride. Don't concern yourself—no one will know what you've done beneath the sundial. Trust me, you also look like the stern mistress of Wyverly just so long, well, so long as one doesn't look at your eyes."

  "What's wrong with my eyes?"

  He kissed her again. "Not a thing. However, the terms 'vague' and 'dreamy' come to mind." Like his own eyes, he guessed. "That sundial is very old, you know, at least two hundred years. I'm pleased it didn't fall on us when you kicked out with your foot." He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. "I am very pleased with you, Rosalind . Very pleased."

  Rosalind didn't look up at him. "I am pleased with you as well, Nicholas. I know I should be shocked at what I most willingly wanted you to do to me—again—things that you did to my great satisfaction—again—but I'm not." That tongue of hers licked over her bottom lip. He wen
t en pointe. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, "There are things I wish to try, only you didn't give me a chance."

  He could practically feel her long white legs, sleek with muscle, squeezing his flanks, and consulted his watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning. Perhaps after luncheon he could take her riding to the small copse where a stream ran through it surrounded by soft grass, and larks sang their sweet songs overhead on the maple tree branches. He beamed down at her. "I will give you a chance. We will ask Cook to make us a picnic."

  "Oh, yes. Would you look at all the hummingbirds. Do you know how long they live?"

  "Only about three years, I believe."

  "They move about awfully fast, don't they? Always mov­ing. Do you think with all our activity we will shorten our lives?"

  He stared down at her, kissed her because he simply couldn't stop himself, and said, "I wouldn't mind." He felt the book in his pocket. He cleared his throat. "I couldn't free the last pages. The answers are there, I'm thinking, only something or someone is preventing us from finding them." And he kissed her again.

  When she would have taken him behind the sundial again, he raised his head and smoothed his thumb over her lower lip. "What do you think?"

  "I think it's time to use your brain rather than other parts, my lord," she said and laughed as she tugged him back into the library. They both stopped cold on the threshold when a scratchy old voice boomed out,

  Sins of the flesh Sins of the flesh

  A bloodless bore the world would be Without sins of the flesh.

  Rosalind shook her fist toward the empty chair. "We com­mitted no sin. We are married. You are surely a lecherous old ghost. Be quiet."

  "The thing is," Nicholas said slowly, after hearing nothing else from the old earl for several moments, "my grandfather never sang a note in his life. Why should he begin singing in his death?"

  "What?"

  He drew in his breath. "I can never remember him singing when I was a boy. I've been wondering how a dead man would begin to sing when the living man never had."