by Sara Bennett
“During those days, I tried to put it all behind me. I thought of myself as a phoenix, risen from the ashes of le château de Nuit. I promised myself that I would do something with my life, make a success of myself. I swore I would not let Thearoux, that monster, stop me from living it the way I wanted to. I would make my survival worthwhile. It was remarkable that I was not hunted down, but I later learned that Thearoux’s friends and family did not even know I was there—very few did. My mother said nothing. She must have known, but she took the secret of my escape to her grave. I suppose I can thank her for that, if nothing else.
“When I arrived in England with William, the past was long forgotten. Even I had forgotten it, or I told myself I had. And who would connect Lord Henry of Montevoy with the sniveling boy who had crept from Thearoux’s château while all about him burned? I was safe. Until Jean-Paul came to Gunlinghorn.”
Henry turned to look at the shadow of her face, and his shame and self-disgust filled him. And his guilt. He could see the shine of her eyes, like that long-ago girl, staring up at her tormenters and knowing she was about to die. And he had not been able to save her, just as he could not save Jenova and Raf.
“This is my fault. Jean-Paul wants to hurt me. He thinks he can do that by hurting you and Raf.”
“Henry…” She was close to him, her breath fragrant and warm upon his cheek. “Who do you believe Jean-Paul is? I think you must already know, in your heart.”
He felt light-headed. Too much, it was all too much. The faces from the past were ranged before him, accusing him, pleading with him, telling him he had not tried hard enough. Murderer…
“Souris. I think Jean-Paul is Souris. He knows too much for it to be otherwise. He knows me too well.”
“But why does he hate you? Surely Souris was your friend.”
“Because he thinks I left him to die. Because that place was his home and Thearoux was his father. I took all that from him, remember, so now he wants to take you and Raf from me. He wants me to hurt as he hurt, to suffer as he suffered.”
He wondered, bewildered, why she was asking him these questions. Why was she still in the same room with him? He would have to make it even plainer for her, and then she would walk away from him. As he deserved.
“I enjoyed killing Thearoux,” he said. “That’s what I didn’t want to tell you. Sometimes I even enjoyed the hunting. There was excitement in it, in the chase and the kill. I felt…powerful. Mayhap that was the real reason why I had to kill Thearoux and escape. Not because of that poor girl, but because I was beginning to like it too much. I was turning into one of them. I had to save myself before it was too late.”
Jenova made a small sound in her throat. Her hand was limp by her side, but he lifted it up and gripped it, tightly, as if he did not mean to let her go. Although he had expected to drive her away, he found now that he did not want that. He knew he should be strong and walk away from her, but suddenly he did not feel strong. Henry felt like weeping.
“That day at Gunlinghorn Harbor, Jean-Paul gave me a choice, Jenova. I did not tell you that. I could not begin to tell you. He said he would inform the king about my past if I did not hand you over to Baldessare with my blessing. You see, Thearoux was the king’s uncle. He will hate me for what I have done, and he probably will not believe that Thearoux was a monster. Why should he, it is only my word against his. And he will ask why I have taken so long to tell him my story. If I was innocent, wouldn’t I have spoken of it before? I imagine that he will order me to my furthest estates—if he leaves me any estates after he has punished me. As for my friends…Once Jean-Paul lets it be known what I have done, and the king has cast me off, I will not have many friends left.”
“You speak as though it is a foregone conclusion,” she said huskily. “That you will stay here at Gunlinghorn and see your life destroyed.”
“Leave Gunlinghorn? Of course not. You see, he knows me, Jenova. He knows I will never leave you unprotected against Baldessare. And he also knows I cannot bear you to know my secret. So I will stay, and you will find out—as you have done—and abandon me. And then I will have nothing, just as Jean-Paul has nothing.
“Except he has broken his word and taken Raf. He is a liar and a cheat, and we will not give in to him.”
Jenova stood up then and lit a candle. The flame wavered, illuminating her face as she set it down on the lid of a trunk nearby. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes reddened, as though she had been weeping, and yet he had not heard her. She had sat and listened to his story and wept, and he had not even known it.
“Look at me, Henry,” she said.
Henry met her eyes. And waited. For the noose to tighten.
“I can understand why you would believe your London friends would desert you, although I am a little surprised you would think Radulf might do so. And I can understand why those women you share your body with would leave you—they are hardly in love with you, or you with them. But I am…angry that you would believe I would turn my back on you when I heard the truth. I would have liked you to tell me before, when you first realized who Jean-Paul was. I can understand why you would wish to forget it, but in not telling me you have allowed this man, this Jean-Paul, to work his spite upon us all. If I had known, then Raf would still be here.”
She paused, thought a moment. “Well, maybe not. Agetha would still think Alfric a suitable husband for me if he had two heads. But you should still have told me. I suppose this is why you wanted to marry me? So that you could save me? Even though you believed I would hate you when the truth came out. Oh Henry, you are a silly, wonderful man!”
“But Jenova,” he said, his voice hoarse with the effort to keep it steady, “I could not let Baldessare hurt you. I could not let another woman be degraded and hurt by a monster….”
She felt sick. A wave of nausea washed over her. He had tried to save her. Just as she knew he had tried to save all those poor people, and he had only been a boy. A child. She imagined Raf in such a place and shuddered. She thought of Henry as she had known him back then, so vital and handsome, so alive. How could all that have been taken and twisted, just so that a monster could gain pleasure from it, and his son could have a friend….
“Do you understand?” he was asking, and his voice broke, the pain in his eyes making her own heart ache. “Do you understand what I have said?”
“Yes, Henry, I understand. I know what you are saying, and what you fear. But you were not like them—you were a boy, alone, frightened, and you did what you had to do to stay alive. ’Tis necessary, sometimes, to do bad things to stay alive.”
She squeezed his hand, but now it lay still and lifeless in hers. So she took his other hand, and then she moved to sit close by him and drew his head to rest upon her shoulder. He stayed there, but she could tell he would not let her comfort him. He was holding himself rigid, as if afraid to give in to her. In case she changed her mind and abandoned him after all, she supposed.
How could she have been so wrong about this man? She had believed he did not care enough, and in fact he cared too much. He had been hurt so badly that he’d kept his pain hidden, and never allowed anyone to prod it or poke it. He’d never allowed anyone close enough to understand, or to help take some of the burden from him. He’d felt he had to bear it all on his own.
Until now.
“Henry,” she whispered, “oh my dearest Henry. Do you remember when we were young, and you asked me if I had ever been kissed? And I said no? You told me then that you would be the first to kiss me, and we lay together in the flowers in the meadow, with the sky blue above us, and we kissed. We kissed for a very long time. And I still remember it. That memory is such a joy to me. When my days were dark, I would remember those moments with you. So, please, please, let me comfort you. Let me bring some light to your darkness, my dearest love.”
He stirred, but she would not let him speak. It would be just like Henry to deny himself comfort because he felt he did not deserve it. Henry, who had been w
illing to sacrifice everything he was, to stay and protect her. Henry, who would lay down his life for her and Raf, even though he expected to be abandoned all over again. How could she not have known that? She, who thought she knew him so well?
“I am appalled by what happened to you. I would like to kill that man, but you have done it for me. I am sure if we were to ask the villagers what they thought, they would weep their gratitude, Henry. I do not know what the king will say, and I do not care. You are my friend, my oldest friend, and I would never turn my back on you. Never.”
He turned his face into her breast, and it was then she felt his shoulders begin to shake. He was weeping—silently weeping, because Henry did not cry. Jenova held him close and kissed his brow and shared his pain.
Chapter 23
There was a child crying.
Rhona could hear it, soft but definite, coming from the tower room above hers. It had invaded her sleep, making her wonder whether she was dreaming, but now she was awake and she could still hear it. A child, crying.
There were no children at Hilldown Castle. So, who was it crying?
Rhona rose, shivering, and pulled her cloak over her chemise. She slid her feet into her indoor slippers, curling her toes against the bitter cold, and went to the door. It opened at her touch, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Jean-Paul had threatened to lock her in, but her door was open. He probably thought she was beaten; she had not left her room since her visit to the Black Dog.
Reynard would be wondering where she was.
Was he the sort to wait long at Uther’s Tower, or had he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed her and gone on his way? Perhaps he had not expected her to be there; perhaps despite all he had said he had not believed anything she had told him.
Rhona bit her lip. Mayhap for his sake it was as well if he didn’t, and yet she was weak. She wanted him to think well of her. She did not want him to believe she might have lied to him, or played him for a fool, duped him with false tears and sad stories.
But why not? She had done it to other men. Reynard probably thought he was just one of many. How could he know he was the one, that he was the only one….
The crying sound was louder as she climbed the stairs. Outside the arrow slit in the wall the air was icy, and stars shone in a cold sky. They gave her enough light to see her way, as she continued to climb until she reached the door.
This one was barred.
The room was used as a storeroom, or sometimes for inconvenient guests. It was small and out of the way and, most of the time, forgotten. That someone was occupying it now, someone with a child, was very strange. Especially when, to Rhona’s knowledge, no one had arrived at Hilldown Castle for weeks, and even then it had been one of her father’s elderly cronies. Surely no one in their right mind would send a child to stay here!
She lifted the bar, her arms straining. It bumped and made a noise, and the sobbing halted abruptly. Rhona could almost feel whoever it was on the other side, straining, listening.
“Is someone there?” she asked softly and tried the latch. The door swung to with remarkable ease.
And a small, wild thing launched itself at her, catching her in the midriff and making her cry out in shock and pain. She wrapped her arms about it, wrestling a moment, and, more through good luck than any skill on her part, brought the creature to the floor. She fell on top of it, using her weight to hold it there.
It fought. It muttered. But it was pointless, and after a moment it seemed to accept that fact and gave up the struggle. Panting heavily, Rhona searched for and found a face. It was a child. A child with a mop of dark hair and a pale, damp, tear-streaked face. It sniffled as she half sat up, pulling it into the better light from another arrow slit. Pale skin, dark lashes and hair, and big, big eyes.
They stared at each other in the half-darkness.
“Lady Rhona?” the child said shakily. “Have you come to rescue me?”
It was Raf, Lady Jenova’s son. With a horrible sinking feeling, Rhona thought she knew what had happened. Whoever it was who was Jean-Paul’s spy at Gunlinghorn had brought him here, and now they planned to use him in their plot. They would force Jenova to their will with threats against her child, and Lord Henry would be powerless to stop them.
Suddenly Rhona had had more than enough. Oh, she had had enough before, but she had been content to stay in her room and cry and wail and wish for someone strong to come and rescue her. Now she was tired of that. She had waited long enough, and no one had come. It was time to do something for herself.
“I do believe I have come to rescue you, Raf,” she said, answering his question. “Fetch your cloak and rug up. We are leaving this place and returning to Gunlinghorn.”
Raf sat up and gave her the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. “Good,” he said with a relieved sigh. “I was hoping you would say that. Agetha tricked me, you know. I would never have gone with her if she had told me the truth. I trusted her.”
His eyes filled with tears, and Rhona gave him a quick hug. “She is a stupid girl, Raf. Don’t worry, I am sure that Lady Jenova and Lord Henry will be very angry with her when they find out. She will be sorry for what she did then, won’t she?”
Raf thought a moment, and then a small grin tugged at his mouth. “Aye, I s’pect she will.”
Rhona waited while he put on his cloak, and then she took his hand, leading him quietly down the stairs. Alfric slept in a room off the great hall. Rhona placed Raf safely behind a tapestry and went to scratch on his door. It took some time for him to wake, but eventually his face peered at her through the opening, his eyes bloodshot.
“Rhona? Are you all right? I was so worried that—”
“No, I am all right, brother.” She put her hand on his arm and squeezed to silence him, glancing over her shoulder. There was probably no one listening, but she had long ago learned never to take chances.
“You must help me. I have something I must deliver to Gunlinghorn. A small parcel.”
His face froze. He blinked. He understood her, Rhona thought with a sinking feeling. He must know that the child had been brought here and held captive until Jenova agreed to marry Baldessare.
“Rhona,” he groaned. “Do not say you are thinking to—”
“What is being done here is very bad, Alfric,” she said in her sternest voice. “You know that I am right. And I am tired of being afraid. I am very, very tired of it. So I am going to do what is right for a change, and you are going to help me. We will use ‘it,’ Alfric. He will sleep for hours and hours. Jean-Paul is in the chapel—we will bar the door so he cannot get out. And we will both of us leave this place and never return.”
Alfric swallowed. Then he blinked. “W-where will we go?” he whispered, sounding not much older than Raf.
“Gunlinghorn, first of all, and after that, wherever we wish. And we will never come back here again.”
“What of our inheritance?” he asked, suddenly sounding more like his father’s son. “I am heir to Hilldown Castle and my father’s other estates. I am the next Lord Baldessare.”
Rhona leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “When it becomes known what our father has done, the king will take everything he owns and throw him in jail. Do you want to join him there, and be heir to that?”
Alfric shuddered.
“Then help me.”
She met his eyes in the light of the torch and saw his decision even before he spoke.
“I seek words with Lord Baldessare!”
The torches held by his men flared, and Reynard narrowed his eyes against the heat and the light. The walls of Hilldown Castle were a dark mass, interspersed with more torches and the shapes of moving men. He had ridden hard to get here, and now he waited.
And waited.
“We know,” a voice called back. “My Lord Baldessare has been told.”
“Perhaps he is grinding bones to make bread,” some wit murmured behind him.
“As long as they aren’t Raf’s bones,” Re
ynard replied bitterly, and there was an uneasy silence. More voices above—the mutterings of discontent? Mayhap. Reynard could not believe that all the souls in this place were happy with the way Baldessare ruled them. He had seen some miserable hovels on his way here, and some thin, starved faces. It did not seem as if Baldessare cared much for his villeins, but then Rhona had told him as much.
Rhona.
A part of his mind mocked and tried to make him believe she was watching him from behind these walls, laughing at him. That she had been a party to Raf’s kidnapping, and she was as evil as her father. Or mayhap not evil—just desperate to please him, even to the extent of destroying Lady Jenova, so that he would set her free.
No.
Reynard did not believe it. He had tried, on his ride here, but there was another, larger part of him that simply refused to accept it. The woman he had held in his arms would never do such things. She had suffered, aye, but she was good at heart. Something or someone had prevented her from coming to him at Uther’s Tower. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he knew it. He knew it in his heart.
His Rhona was in trouble, and he was helpless to save her.
He should never have allowed her to return here; he should have taken her to Gunlinghorn when he’d had the chance, even if he would have had to kidnap her. Now ’twas possible he would never see her again.
“W-what is it you want?”
The voice came from above them, loud enough, but wavering up and down with fright. It was a voice Reynard knew. Lord Alfric’s. What was he doing there? Where was Baldessare?