The Herald's Heart

by Rue Allyn

  The Herald’s Heart

  Rue Allyn

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Rue Allyn.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance™

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-5072-0135-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0135-0

  eISBN 10: 1-5072-0136-2

  eISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0136-7

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © Ivan Mikhaylov/123RF; © The Killion Group, Inc.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  For all the readers who love the Middle Ages.

  PROLOGUE

  Our Lady of Sorrows Abbey, Northumbrian coast on the Scottish border, 1294

  “I would meet this miraculous woman. Where is the abbess? I’ll have her order you to admit me.”

  “Mother Clement is at prayers and cannot be disturbed. I am in charge of the infirmary, and I will not have my patients treated as objects of curiosity. The return of the girl’s speech is indeed a miracle. However, I remind you, Lord Hawksedge, that she has been mute for the seven years since she came to us. I doubt she will be able to say much of any interest.” Sister Joan’s tone discouraged argument.

  “But I understand that she regained her speech at the sight of my insignia. ’Twould be wrong of you to deny me, since my mark caused the miracle to occur.”

  “God is the source of all miracles, your lordship.”

  Count on Sister Joan to steer every conversation to God. But since the Earl of Hawksedge was the target of the sanctimonious old nun’s reproach, Larkin nearly cheered as she listened to the polite disagreement taking place outside the infirmary window.

  “Very true, Sister. But how often does a man get to witness a miracle in which he played a part?”

  “I could not say.”

  “Allow me to see the woman, please. I will be gentle in my manner and most generous in my gratitude,” Hawksedge persisted.

  Sister Joan sighed. “As you will.”

  A polite knock sounded, and the infirmary door opened before Larkin could force her rusty voice to bid them enter.

  “The Earl of Hawksedge has learned you recovered your ability to speak,” the nun said in slow, calm tones.

  “Aye.” Larkin rasped the word and stared at the tall, elderly man who followed Sister Joan. Of course the murdering hypocrite she’d wed by proxy would hasten to witness the miracle of a mute orphan’s speech. May his soul rot in hell. Hate boiled in Larkin at the sight of him.

  “Here, drink this.” Sister Joan handed her a cup of water. “Try not to talk too much. Your voice will need time to accustom itself to being used again.”

  She drank and nodded.

  “The earl wishes to witness the miracle of your returned speech. Praise heaven.”

  The man stared at Larkin, as if surprised to see an ordinary woman where he expected a deformed idiot, though she knew her bright red hair made her far from ordinary.

  She ducked her head to greet the nobleman and kept her eyes downcast. She wanted him to see humility, not the fear and loathing that crawled along her skin and burned her face. She had a request to make and needed all her courage, for she had every reason to believe the earl would not be pleased.

  Hard fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “What is your name?”

  “Lady Larkin Rosham,” she croaked. “Your wife, my lord, and I demand justice for the murder of my family at the hands of your men.”

  The earl’s face purpled. He dropped his hand as if scalded. “That is preposterous. Scots killed Lady Larkin and all her family on the eve of sealing the vows we made by proxy.” He rounded on Sister Joan. “What is the meaning of this? Do you harbor liars here, or is she mad?”

  The nun stepped to Larkin’s side and placed a hand on her forehead. “Lie down, child, and do not speak again until you have rested.” Then Joan turned to the earl. “See how red her face is. She is fever mad. Let us leave her to the care of the good sisters who assist me at the infirmary. You have traveled far from your estate in the south. I’m sure your business at Hawksedge Keep is more urgent than the ravings of a fevered orphan.”

  They left the small building, pausing once more where Larkin could hear them beyond the window.

  “Ravings or no, I will not support such insult. She is not a nun, so I want her gone from the abbey by daybreak, or I may forget why I generously allowed the abbey to be built on my lands and reclaim the property.”

  Larkin shivered at the cold fury in the earl’s voice. He served the abbey as landlord and patron, making large donations that the nuns could sore afford to lose. But to order them to stop giving charity seemed especially heartless.

  “When she has recovered from her fever, I will consult with Mother Clement. I’m certain she will find a solution that satisfies you.”

  “’Tis more than that liar in the infirmary deserves.”

  “But a Christian soul would not send a sick woman out to fend for herself.”

  The earl blustered as if he wanted to argue. Larkin wished she could see his face. All Northumbria knew the earl believed himself magnanimous, when nothing could be further from the truth. He was a self-serving old hypocrite whose generosity always came with conditions. Until this day, she’d never met him, but she knew from personal experience he was not above using violence to achieve his desires.

  “Aye,” he finally muttered. “’Tis the right thing to do and pious too. I will pray for her soul when I return to Hawksedge Keep.”

  “You are all that is gracious, my lord,” Sister Joan lied without qualm, just as she had lied about Larkin’s fever. Larkin heard their footsteps move off. She went to the window and peered out. The earl called to his men, climbed into a curtained chair, and was carried away.

  At the sight, she knelt in silent prayer. She gave thanks that the earl was gone, then formed a plea that God would aid her in the days to come. Without the shelter of the abbey, she had nowhere to go and nothing to protect her. The world would think her a nameless peasant, and that she could not tolerate. She was Lady Larkin Rosham, legally Countess of Hawksedge, and she would prove it.

  As Larkin rose from her knees, Mother Clement and Sister Joan entered the room. The abbess dismissed Joan and the nuns who worked there. “Now, child, what possessed you to make such a foolish claim?”

  “B
ecause it is true.”

  Mother Clement cleared her throat. “The virtue of truth is not in the telling but in our actions, child. The Earl of Hawksedge is not a forgiving man, and your statements accuse him of more than failure to avenge the death of a bride and her family. By claiming to be Lady Larkin Rosham, you have placed yourself and the abbey in grave danger. I will do what I can to mitigate that risk, but since you will have to leave the abbey, any aid I may offer is limited.”

  “But . . .”

  The abbess raised a hand. “No, the time for naive foolishness is done. The world thinks Lady Larkin dead along with her parents and retinue. ’Tis best the world continues to think so. Now if I am to help you, you must tell me the whole story. Then, if you are wise, you will never again speak of this to anyone.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Near Hawksedge Keep, Northumbrian coast on the Scottish border, 1295

  Sir Talon Quereste refused to allow a little thing like being lost in a fog to prevent him from completing his task as a royal herald. After getting garbled directions from an anchoress who screeched at the sight of him, swore evil lived at Hawksedge Keep, and then warned him that no good would come of traveling there, he finally located the town of Hawking Sedge. With the mist thickening, he stopped at the alehouse and asked for better directions or a guide. The alewife refused to give more information than “follow the road.” The patrons of the house, when questioned, refused to a man to guide Talon. Even proclaiming himself King Edward’s royal herald failed to gain their cooperation.

  “T’ earl’s disappeared and ’tis haunted, sir,” they claimed.

  They exchanged taunts with him, and Talon left the alehouse swearing to spend the night in the keep and catch any ghost that wandered its halls. If he could ever find the cursed place.

  He very much doubted the earl had vanished. More like he was hiding because he knew he’d incurred Edward I’s wrath. When the king of England summoned a man to renew vows of fealty and that man failed to comply, the king might justifiably be angry. So Longshanks had sent one of his heralds—fondly known by courtiers as the king’s hounds. The fact that the chosen hound was the last person the Earl of Hawksedge would want to see was sugar on the plum for both king and herald. Talon would ferret the man out no matter where he hid. Would his father recognize him? Not likely, despite the fact that, according to rumor, Talon’s guinea gold hair and dark purple eyes could have only come from the Earl of Hawksedge.

  St. Swithun’s nose! Recognition by the earl was as likely as finding Hawksedge Keep in this fog. Talon couldn’t even see his mount’s ears in the chill gray mass that swirled around him. According to one of the village cowards, the keep “loomed on a hill near the sea, its great black stones a blot from hell upon heaven’s beautiful sky.” Ghosts! Stones from hell! Nonsense is what it was.

  His mount came to an abrupt halt. What now? Try as he might, he could not make the beast move forward. Talon twisted to look behind him. The fog had swallowed all sign of human habitation. The villagers’ absurd fears kept them warm and dry within the alehouse, while his sensible disbelief that Hades somehow escaped its bounds left him cold, wet, and stranded in an impenetrable mist, unable to determine either the way forward or the road back—on a horse gone mad with stubbornness.

  Of a sudden, the silence hit. ’Tis the fog. It deadens all sound. He wished for the comforting clop of iron-shod hooves on dirt. He shivered in the enveloping chill and took a deep breath of mist-laden air. The salt tang reassured him. At least he hadn’t ridden off a cliff into the sea. Talon smiled at his own foolishness. If his steed would not go forward on its own, he would dismount and lead the animal.

  He had swung his leg across the horse’s rump when a hideous wail arose, bleeding through the fog to ooze fear down his spine. He hung there, suspended above the earth on the strength of a single stirrup. That the horse didn’t bolt was a miracle of good training.

  The fog, so thick and impenetrable a moment ago, formed a gap in the wake of the noise. Talon looked in the direction of the sound and met the wide-eyed gaze of a disembodied head.

  His breath froze, and he swayed, dizzy with surprise. She ... it ... possessed the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. A delicate nose flared in a perfect oval framed with fiery red tresses. Long, dark lashes fluttered over bright, exotically tilted blue eyes. A berry-red mouth formed an O. Ivory satin skin pinked over high cheekbones as he watched. Every feature vanished the instant the fog closed between him and the vision. Talon choked on the nauseating aroma of death and lavender mixed with the sea-scented fog. The smell dissipated as quickly as the last glimmer of light. However, that hideous, grinding wail lingered, the aural guardian of a soul doomed for eternity to search out a body no doubt long dead.

  What was he thinking? The bright blue eyes had blinked. The berry lips had gasped. She’d even blushed. Whoever she was, that head belonged to a very live woman. He settled back into the saddle and hauled his mount’s head around. With as much speed as he thought safe, given the lack of visibility, Talon hurried after the dying wail, heartened when he heard it rise again, for that meant he was nearing his quarry.

  He moved along, pursuing the noise and the woman until his horse once again refused to move. What was wrong with the beast? Talon growled. He could either stay with the horse and lose the maid, or follow the maid and ... And what? Stumble blind over a cliff into the sea and lose not only his horse but his life? Nay, only a madman would go wandering around unknown ground in a fog this thick, which made the dunces back in the alehouse look very wise indeed.

  Cold chattered Talon’s teeth, and damp soaked his clothing. He needed shelter. No doubt that’s what his mount had been trying to tell him. He could hear his good friend and fellow herald Amis Du Grace laughing in agreement that Talon’s horse was smarter than its rider. He shook his head—once again single-minded determination had led him into trouble. Still, the trouble would be worth it, if he could serve the Earl of Hawksedge even a small amount of the anguish the man had served a six-year-old boy tossed from his home and labeled a bastard.

  Talon dismounted and moved to his steed’s head. The animal needed a stern lecture on obeying its rider. The fog became darker just ahead of him. “I’ve had enough nonsense for one day,” he said, whether to the horse or the fog was hard to tell. “There are no such things as ghosts or disembodied heads that blink and blush.” He lengthened his stride, hoping to pull his mount forward, and ran smack into black stone.

  He’d found Hawksedge Keep.

  “Hell and blast the devil, that hurt.” Talon’s nose throbbed. Stinging pain attacked his chin and forehead. His shoulder ached where his horse had bitten him, taking exception when Talon’s backside landed on its hoof. Fortunately, the destrier reacted with only that one nip, standing its ground with relative calm, rather than trampling Talon to death in irritation.

  Which direction would lead him to the keep’s gates?

  Now that he’d stopped cursing and held still, he could hear the quiet rush of the sea off to his right. Logic dictated that the bulk of the keep must be to his left. Talon set off, reins in one hand, the other palm pressed against the keep’s wall to guide him. He wanted a stable for his horse, warm food in his belly, and a soft pillow upon which to lay his weary head, in that order.

  Soon enough, the stone surface gave way to wood. Talon examined the area with his hands. Too narrow for the main gate, he must have found a postern. ’Twas tall and wide enough to admit both him and his horse. He located the latch, praying that it wasn’t locked. The latch grated, and the gate swung open. Thank St. Swithun. Talon marched in, towing his horse behind him.

  The fog was less thick in what must be the bailey, but no light shone from window or lamp. The keep appeared to be deserted as the villagers claimed. He closed the gate. Not even the clack of wood on stone echoed off the walls. ’Twas passing strange. Fog or no, the animals of the keep should make some noise. None of the sights, sounds, or smells expected in an occupied ke
ep came to him. He cast uneasy glances about, seeing nothing but hazy images.

  Talon’s stomach growled. He sniffed, a little surprised to find no scent of bread or meat cooking for a meal. He should have known better than to expect hot food. Yet the very air smelled wrong. No ordinary odors mixed with the muted seawater tang. No stench of manure or the damp fur of living creatures. No pungent smoke of a blacksmith’s fire. The place was lifeless as a tomb. Surely, ’tis my imagination that creates a faint whiff of death on the air.

  Keeping his free hand on the inside wall, he walked until he found the stables. There, he gathered a bundle of straw from under foot and struck a spark with his own flint and steel, prepared to stamp out the badly needed light if the flame threatened to blaze beyond control. On a shelf by the stable door, luck blessed him with a glimmer of glass reflecting the small flame. He’d found a lantern, one that had a good wick and supply of oil. With the flame safely transferred, Talon cared for his horse.

  Then, exhausted with the strains of travel, he mounted the stairs to the keep’s central tower. He still hadn’t seen or heard sign of any man or beast other than himself and his horse. Having searched the main rooms and found nothing human or otherwise, Talon ignored the gnawing in his belly and chose the solar bedroom. From the quality of the furnishings, he guessed it to be the earl’s chamber and was entirely too tired to care. The earl would be well served when he returned to find his despised son occupying the lord’s chamber and bed. Talon stripped, laid his sword atop his clothing then settled himself on the soft ticking of the huge bed. Even damp and musty, the bed offered more comfort than he’d seen in days. Since there was none to say him nay, he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to sleep between linen and fur.

  Here in the solar, the stink of decay and neglect wasn’t quite so bad. He lay down, too spent to search out wood and light a fire or even close the door. He doubted even a ghost would wake him. How long had Hawksedge Keep lain abandoned? Yawning, he closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be soon enough to seek out answers to the keep’s strange emptiness.