Dreams of Stardust

by Lynn Kurland

  "My thanks, Christopher," she said, giving him a smile.

  "Enough of that fetching of water," Robin boomed. "Christopher, lad, take that sword I had made for you and let us be about a moment of work whilst Amanda rests her womanly self."

  The poor lad looked as if he were destined for a trip inside Hell's mighty jaws. He swallowed with difficulty, put his shoulders back, and drew his sword. Amanda buried her smile in her cup. She would have to pull the boy aside and give him a few final words about her brother's vile sense of jest. She had tried, over the past pair of years since Christopher's arrival from Blackmour, to ease the torment of being Robin's page, but there was only so much she could do. Her brother was impossible. How could she remedy that?

  She waited whilst Robin went about his instructions, then followed him and his page back to the hall once they had finished. She entered, let her eyes adjust to the faint light, then saw her family was congregated in a cluster of seats near the fire. Her father, Rhys, looked up from his ale and sighed at the sight of her.

  "Robin," he said patiently, "someday you will walk in with Amanda looking quite like a squire and find a suitor here whom she might like to impress."

  "And why shouldn't she impress them thusly?" Robin asked, casting himself down into a chair next to his wife. "She's a goodly wench. Quite useful about the castle. Good chatelaine and all that. And she might actually be able to guard your back in a pinch. Besides if a man cannot keep from soiling himself at the sight of Amanda in hose, then the saints preserve him when she really begins to show some spine."

  Their father coughed to cover what Amanda could tell would have been a hearty laugh. "Aye, I suppose you have that aright." He looked at Amanda with twinkling eyes. "The saints only know what the poor man would do did you pull out a blade in truth and point it in his direction."

  "I'm sure there would be prayers involved," Amanda said dryly. "Now, if you will all excuse me, I'm off to resume my identity as a girl."

  "But we'll be at it again at first light," Robin reminded her. "Don't let your frillies and such deter you from your labors."

  She waved in answer and continued on her way up the stairs. She trailed her hand along the cold stone of the wall as she did so, wondering how many times it was she'd done the like in the past. Too many to count. Artane had been finished when she'd been a young girl and she'd spent all the years since roaming its pleasant passageways and rooftops. And now, never to run through the front doors into the great hall, never to smell the smells from the kitchen, never to feel the sea breezes on her face from the roof?

  It didn't bear thinking on.

  So she concentrated, as Robin continually demanded that she do, on exactly what was before her.

  Dressing, then supper.

  The rest would come later.

  Supper was pleasant, if for no other reason than Amanda was afforded the company of her own sweet kin and for that she was grateful.

  Until they gathered in her father's solar, that was.

  She should have been accustomed to it after all these years. The discussions had been light ones, when the first men had come to seek her hand. The family had sought and found faults, laughed at foibles, and dismissed the lads out of hand.

  But now things were different.

  " 'Tis grave, the situation in the north," Rhys said, for what was no doubt the hundredth time. "I don't know if we can hold our borders with what strength we have ourselves."

  "An ally is what we need," Robin said wisely, nodding ever so slightly toward Amanda.

  Had she found him tolerable company that day? Amanda glared at him as he sat sprawled in his chair with the ease of a man who had found his heart's desire and had no fear of his father wedding him to someone unpalatable.

  "And we all know that lawlessness has increased—" Rhys continued.

  Amanda pursed her lips. She had no more use for ruffians than the next woman, but she had no liking at all for this conversation, for she knew the direction it was taking. Rhys, Robin, and Nicholas would begin stroking their chins and examining each of their allies in turn, seeking fatal flaws. Then they would turn their jaundiced eyes upon the lords in the north who had, for whatever reason, remained aloof to the de Piaget charm.

  It would be at that point that her younger sister Isabelle would plead pains in her head that could only be alleviated by an immediate retreat to her bed.

  Nicholas would suggest that perhaps her father send his youngest two lads, John and Montgomery, to squire with the lords needing appeasement, that said lords might see what marvelous things Artane produced.

  Robin would suggest that perhaps the finest export they might possess would be someone of marriageable age and tractable mein, and could not that person perhaps see her way clear to allow herself to be betrothed to one of the fools in the north and thereby assure them all of security far into the future?

  Anne would elbow him gently in the ribs, Gwen would make noises of protest, and the rest of the males in the family would stroke their chins even more, as if the very voicing of that idea was the most miraculous and inspired thing to ever be uttered inside Artane's hallowed walls.

  Of course Isabelle wouldn't be there to offer an opinion, and Amanda's opinion wasn't one to be voiced in polite company, so she would take herself and her sour thoughts and seek escape on the roof.

  But tonight she chose a different path. She sat calmly and listened, nodded politely when her name was mentioned, and did her best to look as tractable as possible.

  And all the while she thought of how this might be one of the last times she would sit in that family circle.

  But if she was wed to some oaf from another keep, she would likely never see her family again, so perhaps she would be no worse off if she fled with her virtue—and her sanity—intact, than she would have been had she acquiesced to her father's plans.

  Or so she told herself.

  In the end, she was forced to close her eyes, lest the tears that threatened to leak out escape in truth and give her away.

  Finally she did rise, excused herself, and fled. She wasted no time in dashing up stairs and down passageways and up more stairs until she exited the southeast guard tower and made her way along the parapet to her favorite brooding spot, where she could stand and look out over the ocean. A pity she wasn't closer to the water, else she might have heaved herself into it and spared herself the irritation of choosing someone to wed.

  "Mandy?"

  Amanda looked over to find her younger brother Montgomery walking along the roof toward her. She was as little surprised to see him as she had been by the topic of conversation below. Montgomery had been her devoted shadow, her most loyal champion and fiercest defender from the time he'd learned to say, in his most possessive of tones, "Manee, mine!" to anyone who tried to take her away from him. She had loved him for it and missed him whilst he'd been off squiring for Lord Pevensey this past year. Fortunately for him, Rhys had been loath to let his youngest lads be trained by anyone but him and a year had been the length of their torture.

  Amanda suspected hers would go on for decades.

  Montgomery was now a lad of ten-and-five, but still boy enough that she could put her arm around his shoulders and reach up to ruffle his hair affectionately.

  "Have they chosen for me yet?" she asked lightly.

  "Nay," Montgomery said. "They were deciding upon a final date for your decision when I left. Robin was for a date a month hence."

  Damn him. She would slip something foul into her his porridge at her earliest convenience.

  "Father says by the end of the summer," Montgomery continued.

  "He's said that before."

  "I believe he means it this time."

  Amanda had no doubt of that. All the more reason to put her plan in action whilst she could. At least she could count on her family not being nearby whilst she was about her bid for freedom. Her mother, father, and sister Isabelle were set to travel to France to visit her paternal grandmother who was fin
ally beginning to feel her age. Robin and Anne would be off to Fenwyck in a month for their yearly presentation of their son to Anne's father. Nicholas was heading for Wyckham where he was going to attempt, yet again if anyone was curious, to fix the roof of his keep. The little twins were going with him. Her other brother, Miles, was due home in a month's time.

  All of which left her a fortnight after the bulk of her family left to make good her escape before Miles returned to supervise her. She could manage that. Indeed, she had it planned down to almost the very moment of her flight—

  "What?" she said, looking at Montgomery. "What did you say?"

  "I'm not going with Nicholas," Montgomery said, looking torn between happiness and misery. "I am fond of him, as you know, but the thought of leaving you behind, unprotected—"

  "You're not going?" she said incredulously. "But…"

  "But?" Montgomery looked at her in surprise. "But what?"

  "Nothing," she said, smiling through gritted teeth. "Nothing but that I'm glad you'll be here to see to me. Very kind of you."

  "And John," Montgomery added.

  "And John," she echoed weakly.

  Damnation. Her plans befouled, and so quickly! Montgomery continued to tell her of the tasks he and John had been assigned in Rhys's absence, but she heard little of it. By the saints, what was she to do now? How would she manage to escape them? They would sew themselves into her clothing. John would spend his time reminding her that their sire had left him in charge. Montgomery would want to know what she was doing five-score times a day.

  By the saints, 'twas a catastrophe.

  Well, for now, perhaps the best she could do was get herself down from the roof before she threw herself off it. She would worry about the details of her escape later, when she was safely on the ground. She sighed deeply and looked at Montgomery. "Is there possibly any kind of sweet below?" she asked. "Or are the kitchens secured for the night?"

  "I imagine you could charm something from Cook," Montgomery said.

  "I'll smile; you use that silver tongue of yours," she suggested. "No one could resist such a potent combination of de Piaget charm."

  "Mandy, you have hit upon the perfect way to win you a husband. You smile, and I'll plead your case."

  She turned him toward the guard tower and pushed. "Aye, but the lad would meet my vile tongue eventually, and be sorely disappointed in what he'd bought himself. Better that he see what he's getting from the start. But I'm not above trying that strategy to have one of Cook's sweet pasties. Off with you."

  She followed him down to the great hall. What she said was true: she would find a suitable lad, but then lose him thanks to no one but herself—

  But to find a lad, one who would love Amanda, not Rhys de Piaget's very wealthy daughter… ?

  Impossible.

  She stepped out into the great hall and took another step closer to leaving it forever.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Jake gripped the steering wheel, turned the wipers on high and peered into the driving rain, wondering if he'd lost his mind as well as his way. He should have left London earlier. He should have checked the weather report.

  He should have gone to the Bahamas.

  The wheels of his very rare, very expensive-to-fix 1967 Jaguar slipped and slid on the pond that had at one point been the B6499. He should have known better than to have taken a B road. It was, after all, his hard and fast rule: nothing over £40,000 on less than a well-recommended A road. Jake wished heartily that he'd taken his own advice. He wished he was driving a Range Rover, one that had been seasoned on all kinds of rugged Scottish terrain, one that would have been undaunted by a little bit of wet masquerading as a small river.

  Night fell.

  It was as if the sun had been suddenly extinguished, like a light that had overstayed its welcome and was keeping young children of exhausted parents awake. Jake rolled the window down and looked out, hoping beyond hope to see some sort of landmark. He couldn't see a damn thing and he felt as if someone had blindfolded him and spun him around a dozen times.

  His sense of direction was normally quite good, but now he found himself without a clue as to where he was, which direction he was going, or if he was even on the right road.

  And his foray out into the night air left him with nothing but a very wet head.

  He pulled that wet head in, slowed down, stopped, then considered. He could go forward and hopefully find the road terminating onto something more substantial, or he could turn around and try to find his way back to the A road he'd blistered down so cavalierly.

  He suspected continuing on might be foolhardy.

  But he didn't like to retreat.

  He tried to make heads or tails of his map but it was quite dark in the car and his damned mechanic had neglected to fix the map light. Too tricky. Too temperamental.

  Too useful, apparently.

  Jake tossed the map into the passenger seat, cursed enthusiastically, took a purposeful grip on the steering wheel, and plunged himself back into the fray.

  Conditions worsened.

  So did his language.

  And at some indeterminate point in the evening, his car slipped, slid, and came to a graceful and quite final stop in front of massive wrought-iron gates. Jake eased off the clutch, then gunned the engine just for good measure; that only accomplished a deeper easing into the mud.

  He cursed a final time, then got out of the car and waded through the ankle-deep mud toward the iron gates. He banged a time or two. To his complete surprise, they opened, apparently by some remote-controlled mechanism. He entered, more hesitantly than he would have liked, but the weather was dreadful and the whole evening smacked of something supernatural.

  If he believed in the supernatural, which he did not.

  He trudged up the way to the front door, finding himself not in the least bit surprised that said front door found itself inserted into a castle. He squished up the steps, took a deep cleansing breath, and knocked on the door.

  It creaked open, after a time, and light fell on a very proper, very butlerish gentleman of indeterminate age.

  "You rang?" the man asked.

  Jake shoved his sopping hair out of his eyes. "My car is stuck in the mud in front of your gates," he said. "If I might use your phone?"

  The butler looked him over, apparently found him less than threatening, and took two precisely measured steps backward. He made Jake a little bow. "Seakirk's hospitality is always open to the stranded traveler."

  Jake froze halfway across the threshold. "Seakirk?" he asked.

  The butler lifted a single, silvery eyebrow. "Yes, sir. Have you heard of the keep?"

  All right, so he'd heard of Seakirk, and not just from Gideon. At Eton, he'd been befriended early on by one Alistair McKinnon, son of a Scottish laird, who had dragged him numerous places in search of the old, musty, and sharp. Well, that and the odd Scottish artifact that Alistair had felt compelled to pinch and return to its rightful place on the proper side of the border, but that was another story entirely.

  Alistair had wanted to go to Seakirk, and had even tried numerous times to get inside the gates, but had found himself firmly rebuffed each time. He and Jake had remained friends over the years and Jake was periodically updated about Alistair's progress in his eternal quest to investigate Seakirk's nooks and crannies. Rumors of ghosts and incredible artifacts had only made the challenge more irresistible.

  "Heard of the keep?" Jake echoed. "Oh, only in passing. But I understand you have quite a collection of medieval weapons here."

  "That we do, sir."

  "How nice," Jake said.

  He stared at the butler.

  The butler stared back at him.

  All right, so the first move was his. He was no wuss, but this was Seakirk after all. He stepped inside the hall and allowed the other man to shut the front door behind him. It closed with a very ominous click.

  Too late to turn back now. Jake looked at the butler an
d attempted a smile. "My car is mired," he began. "If I could use the phone—"

  "Unfortunately, I fear it is too late for anyone to come out now," said the butler. "You are, of course, welcome to stay the night."

  Jake couldn't help the very long pause before he managed an answer.

  This was Seakirk after all.

  "Sure," he said finally. "Thank you. I'll just run and get my bag from the car."

  "I will see to it, sir," the other man said with stiff formality. "I will also ring down to the village first thing."

  "I appreciate it," Jake said sincerely. He held out his hand. "I'm Jake Kilchurn."

  "Worthington," the other man said, discreetly overlooking Jake's hand. "Come this way, Mr. Kilchurn. I'll show you to your room for the night."

  "I'd like to pay my respects to the owner—"

  "The master is away," Worthington said. "As is the mistress. As are the children. It is," he said without a trace of humor, "very peaceful."

  Jake very much doubted that any number of rambunctious children could cause Worthington to lose his unflappability, but he'd been wrong before and suspected he might be wrong here as well. Honestly, he didn't care. He was just grateful for a bed and a way to get his car hauled out of the muck in the morning.

  He followed Worthington obediently across a very medieval-looking great hall with fireplaces set into the walls and a raised dais at the back. A large table stretched the length of the dais, with very old, apparently very well-cared-for chairs pushed up behind it. Banners hung behind the table, and the rest of the hall was filled with tapestries of equal quality.

  Jake continued to watch the amazing parade of antiques as he followed Worthington up the stairs and down the hallway to what was apparently the guest room. An enormous canopied bed with thick, velvet bed curtains sat prominently against the wall, accompanied by other heavy pieces of furniture.

  Gems he could identify in a low-light jungle loaded with spiders and snakes crawling happily around him, and he could certainly pick out the age of the odd sword or weapon, thanks to Alistair's nose for it, but antiques were not his forte. He did have eyes, however, and that was all it took to realize what he was looking at was very old and in amazingly good condition.