Lady Changeling

by Ken Altabef

“I beg of you,” she returned. “Don’t let anyone see me taken away like this. It’s not proper. I’m thinking of the family name—the Grayson family name and the children. For their sake…”

  “That’s fine,” said March. “I don’t want the name disgraced either. We’ll go round the back way.”

  Chapter 28

  March was thankful for the quiet summer night. As he led Theodora along the path between the guest cottage and the main house, he scanned the trees at each side of the path. Shrouded in night dark, they made as good a place for an ambush as any. He’d ordered his men to secure the estate against intruders, but there was no telling who, or what, might already have breached its defenses.

  “Douse the lantern,” he said to Reed Bambury. The light of the half moon was enough to light their way. A lantern would only draw unwanted attention.

  There was no need for further talk, and the quiet suited his somber mood. He was sorry it had come to this. He turned his attention to all the details necessary for the Lady’s detention. The appointments in her room, which comforts should be allowed, how best to maintain her modesty in the presence of the guards.

  He had instructed the Bambury brothers to walk close to Theodora so anyone who chanced to see their grim procession might not notice the manacles binding the lady’s wrists. Not that there was anyone roaming about the grounds at this hour of the night. March saw no one except the kitchen boy on his way to the fresh well to draw a pail of water.

  March had been surprised the iron shackles hadn’t caused her any pain. He hadn’t actually witnessed her changing shape in the woods on Midsummer’s Eve. It was possible she wasn’t a faery after all, just a human woman in league with the faeries. A minor distinction as far as he was concerned, but a detail which might make a great deal of difference to Lord Eric. In any case, the threat was still real whether posed by the lady herself or by whatever malicious cohorts she might have lurking around. What were they after?

  I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Theodora was a strong-willed woman but everyone could be broken eventually. How much interrogation would Eric allow? March wondered how sensible the young lord was going to be in this sensitive situation. But March would not allow sentiment to get in the way of their safety. Not in this. He would have to promise to handle Theodora himself. He would have to make assurances.

  “Hold there! What are you doing with my wife?”

  A long shadow had emerged from the east wing of the house. March recognized the voice immediately.

  Damn. I told him to stay out of sight.

  The figure cut across the lawn with Eric’s trademark stride. He ignored March and stepped up close to Reed Bambury instead.

  “What have you done?” the Lord demanded to know. “Are those shackles?”

  Reed Bambury struggled to sputter out a response, and the two men seemed to meld together. March’s suspicions flared as soon as he saw them begin to scuffle. Bambury’s answer was a particular grunt and a groan, a pair of familiar sounds which March had heard on many battlefields in the past. Eric stepped away, withdrawing the full length of his blade from Reed Bambury’s belly with a savage twist.

  “Look out!” shouted March. He moved to intervene but Eric flung Reed Bambury’s still-writhing body in his path, knocking him a half step backward.

  “Let her go!” Eric shouted at Quentin Bambury.

  “It’s not him!” shouted March.

  But it was already too late. Quentin had been put off by the sudden appearance of his Lord and the shocking death of his brother. He had only half drawn his blade by the time Eric wheeled around and finished him off. Eric moved with incredible speed, circling around Quentin Bambury, spinning front to back as he slashed a chopping blow to his flank, another to the back of his neck, and then, still spinning, a thrust straight through the heart.

  Like an ill wind blowing, Eric had disposed of both men in a matter of only a few seconds. They had been taken completely by surprise, not given half a chance to defend themselves.

  March heard the kitchen boy cry out but didn’t turn his head to look. The boy ran back toward the manor house shouting for help.

  Eric turned to face March. In the pale moonlight March could see the gray patches of the Rot reproduced on his face in exactly the same pattern he had seen earlier. He admired the faery’s attention to detail, but knew it was not Eric who had just killed two of his men.

  “You filthy mound maggot!”

  The smell of garlic filled the air as he drew his own sword.

  The imposter laughed. It was a very poor imitation of Eric’s laugh but struck to the heart of Fitzroy March just as well. The sight of Eric laughing as he stood above the bodies of two of his men, Reed still groaning and rolling on the ground, was sickening.

  The faery attacked immediately with a series of slashing blows alternating high and low. Eric’s favorite sword was a light spadroon with a stirrup guard. March noted that these blows had too much force behind them for such an elegant weapon. Another illusion?

  He put up a strong defense, quickly gauging his opponent’s skill set. His footwork was hampered by his leg injury but he was still capable of parrying all the attacks. His opponent was fast, inhumanly fast, but March did not have to step very much, just turn this way and that, and it was not his intention to retreat.

  The faery had a supreme confidence, striking with a strange sort of glee, almost to the point of making a game of it. They don’t take anything seriously, March thought, not even blood sport. His opponent didn’t seem frustrated by March’s solid defense. It was as if he were dancing around, a smile still on the false face of Eric Grayson he was wearing. If the garlic stink on March’s rapier bothered the blight at all, it did not seem to matter.

  March was a patient swordsman and eventually found an opening. He deflected a strike with a backslash of his sword, noticed the blight’s spadroon hanging a little bit low and then stepped in to deliver a punch in the face with his free hand.

  The faery was surprised by this unexpected move. He stepped back, his sword still raised for defense. But he was now a she.

  Her glamour had been broken by the sudden punch. She now appeared as an attractive young woman, whose short red hair shone a deep crimson in the moonlight. Her pale complexion was splashed with freckles across the nose and cheeks, her rosy lips full and pouting. She was nearly as tall as March, a slender woman dressed in tight-fitting, brown leather breeches and vest. A small trickle of purple blood trailed from one flaring nostril.

  “First blood,” he declared.

  She waggled the tip of her sword playfully at him. March now saw that it was not a spadroon at all. It was in fact a claymore, a much heavier weapon. This explained the discrepancy in its punch. Good to know.

  March was not distracted by the faery’s apparent beauty. To his mind she may just as well have been an ancient, withered hag, and perhaps she actually was. Who could know?

  She paused to see what effect her newfound beauty might have had on him, giving him just long enough to scoop out a handful of dried St John’s wort from his jacket pocket and throw it in her face. She coughed, a foul, forked tongue raking across her lips. A grimace twisted her attractive features into an ugly look of hatred.

  “Don’t like that very much, do you?” he asked.

  Without waiting for an answer he moved in for the kill. Unfortunately the bad leg cost him just the fraction of a second, just enough time for the faery to dodge aside. She had incredible speed. His sword thrust found only empty air. And then she was spinning around again, her sword flashing with renewed determination.

  The faery moved even faster than his eyes could follow but his reflexes were impeccable. He turned aside another attack with perfect form. Each time their swords met, tiny flashes of faery light erupted from her blade. He did his best to ignore her distractions and keep his full attention on her sword arm. Nothing else.

  He was surprised when her sword tip stung his elbow. The strike had been too quick to av
oid.

  “First blood,” she declared.

  “You’ll have to do a lot better than that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The wound was little more than a scratch. Still, the pinprick disturbed him. He’d had no chance to block it. He couldn’t allow her to get another, more lethal, attack through his defenses. He must end this soon. He renewed his assault, pressing her hard. She was able to defend, but nothing more. She was clearly getting fatigued. She’s just a woman. She can’t win.

  “Getting tired, girlie?”

  The red-headed faery didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was too busy gasping for breath. It was hard work, but if he kept up he was certain to win. It won’t be long now, thought March. No more tricks. A straight-up fight. I’m just better than she is, that’s all.

  “I don’t understand,” Theodora said. “What’s he doing?”

  She stood next to Redthorne as they watched Fitzroy March slash and parry. The swordsman was making a fool of himself, fighting a battle against empty air.

  “My blade was poisoned,” Redthorne said. “A little dream herb, a little purple sage. I have him thinking he’s still fighting me.” She laughed. “Look at his face. He even believes he’s winning.”

  Redthorne danced around him, sticking out her forked tongue. March did not notice. He kept slashing at shadows.

  “He has no idea,” Redthorne giggled. “I can kill him anytime I want.”

  Theodora felt sick to her stomach. It was pathetic to see March brought so low. “You don’t have to kill him.”

  “Of course you’re right. We can tie him up or some such thing. Stash him away somewhere where he’ll be no trouble at all.”

  “That’s fine. Our work will be done in a few days anyway.”

  “Sure,” said Redthorne. “He can die right along with the rest of us, when that damn monster comes and we have no answer for it.” She laughed. “Should I give him a haircut?”

  She flicked the claymore at the top of March’s head while his back was turned. A lock of dark hair drifted to the ground. March turned back around but didn’t see either of the faeries. His face dripping with sweat, he was rapidly becoming exhausted.

  “Have mercy on him, Redthorne. We don’t have to be the bloodthirsty creatures they imagine us to be.”

  “Of course not.”

  Redthorne cut a leather thong around March’s waist and his scabbard came clattering down. Still slashing at nothing at all, he tripped over it and kept going.

  Theodora could stand it no longer. She gathered her own power and sent out a confounding burst to disrupt Redthorne’s illusion.

  March stopped cold. His adversary had suddenly disappeared. He turned around, completely disoriented. It took him a moment to recognize Redthorne and Theodora.

  Redthorne knew exactly what Theodora had done. “You bitch!” she said.

  March cast a withering gaze at Theodora, seeing her at last for what she truly was. “You bitch!” he said.

  That’s how they see me, she thought. A traitor. An enemy. A faery. Is that what I truly am?

  March went at Redthorne, but by this time he was already spent, his sword arm slow, his feet clumsy. He was almost completely exhausted. In contrast the faery swordswoman was well-rested and still fresh. She parried March’s attacks with ease, dancing swiftly around him. This is a cat and mouse game to her, Theodora thought. Perhaps even more cruel than before.

  Redthorne ran her sword through March’s left shoulder. He stumbled to one knee. As he recovered, he cast a final, hateful gaze at Theodora. His fiery expression was one she had never seen before. You’ve killed me, his eyes seemed to say.

  But that was all wrong. Theodora’s heart broke. I was trying to save you.

  In the next instant Redthorne had him under her spell again. March swung his sword around and around, the tip sagging lower and lower as he chased his nonexistent opponent.

  “Have mercy on him,” Theodora said again. “He was a friend.”

  “Fine.”

  With a lightning quick strike, she stabbed him through the back.

  “Redthorne! No!”

  The assassin wiped her blade. “A quick death is a mercy, Clarimonde.”

  Theodora watched March fall. His eyes bulged but did not see her.

  She was completely horrified. Three people now lay dead at her feet. Three friends. This was not the first time she’d seen men cut down. But the deaths of these men were all directly her fault.

  “Hold out your hands,” said Redthorne.

  With a powerful stroke of the claymore she snapped the lock on the shackles. They fell away.

  Redthorne smiled. “I’ll bet that feels better.”

  Theodora was still looking at the dead.

  “Let’s go,” Redthorne said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 29

  “May I get you anything else from the kitchen, M’lord?”

  Eric pushed the silver dinner tray away. Beef sausages with mustard-onion gravy, pork pie, steamed vegetables, Yorkshire pudding. He needn’t anything more from the kitchen. He’d hardly eaten a thing. “No. Thank you, Jermyn.”

  Eric sat on the edge of his bed. His valet stood by the window, head slightly bowed, his hands behind his back. Jermyn Wilkes had spent more than twenty years in the service of the Grayson family. He was a short, balding, middle-aged man with soft features and prominent ears.

  Eric resumed pacing back and forth across the bedroom.

  “Something bothering you, M’lord? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Just waiting for Fitzroy March to return.”

  Jermyn cleared his throat softly. “I was told he came back early this evening. No results on finding the pirate, unfortunately, sir.”

  “Oh, not that. I gave him another errand to do. He should have been back hours ago. I can’t understand what could be taking so long.”

  Eric stepped to the window and drew the gauzy curtain aside. He had a clear view along the cobbled courtyard. The yard was completely empty except for a night guard standing beside a blazing torchiere. The guard kicked absently at the ground.

  “How can it be taking so long?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  Eric let go the drapery, having noticed the thick gray lesion running down his forearm. He rubbed at it and found the skin perfectly smooth despite its scaly appearance.

  “Would you like me to go for the doctor?” the valet asked. He spoke softly.

  Eric gave Jermyn a sharp look but the old man did not flinch. His head remained slightly bowed, his eyes distant, although his mouth had drawn into a thin, tight line.

  This was the second time Jermyn had asked that same question. Eric realized his refusal of the doctor must seem crazy. But what could the doctor possibly do? For this? It wasn’t real.

  Jermyn mumbled a short prayer, a pair of rhyming lines meant to keep the Gray Rot away.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Eric said. “It’s not really the Creep.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “It’s a faery trick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A double knock rang out against the mahogany door.

  “Come in.”

  Charles Pratt stepped into the room. He bowed slightly.

  Eric nearly pounced on him. “What news?”

  “Bad news my Lord. Terrible news.”

  Pratt’s head came up from its bow. His mouth opened slightly. His eyebrows arched up.

  Eric quickly covered the gray patch on his face. “What do you mean terrible news? Spit it out, man.”

  Pratt snapped his mouth shut and jerked himself straight. “It’s Fitzroy March my Lord. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Dead? What do you mean dead?” The words came out of Eric’s mouth before he realized how stupid he must sound saying them.

  “I mean someone’s killed him. His body was found on the garden path. Quentin and Reed Bambury as well.”

  “All
three?” Eric stammered. I’ve got to get hold of myself. Stop asking stupid questions.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Eric inhaled sharply. “Listen carefully. We have to get ahead of this situation. Right now. The manor house is under attack by faeries. I’m sorry to say it, but my wife is a traitor.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but what has she done?”

  “She’s one of them. She’s a faery!”

  Jermyn and Pratt exchanged disbelieving glances.

  “It’s true,” said Eric.

  “I see,” Pratt said. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at Eric’s cheek.

  Eric rubbed the lesion again then drew his hand sharply away, realizing that it must look as if he was scratching it. He mustn’t do that in front of anyone.

  “Don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s all a trick.” He struggled to maintain control. There was no point in explaining. He would only sound foolish and unbelievable.

  He saw Pratt’s nostrils flare. He had forgotten all about the particular sour milk smell of the Rot. He smelled it now too. Not real. Not real but what to do? I’m in charge here and I give the orders. The men will follow.

  “There’s a murderer on the grounds,” he said forcefully. “That much is obvious. Go to the nursery, both of you. Safeguard the children.”

  The men found this order very agreeable. They rapidly departed the room, clearly relieved to escape their master’s rotting presence. Eric remained alone in the bedroom.

  March dead! He could not believe it. How had that been accomplished? Not by Theodora. She must have an ally in the house. Perhaps more than one.

  Fitzroy gone! Dead. Just like that. Eric wondered how his friend had died. Pratt might have told him, if only he’d had the good sense to ask. Stabbed through the heart? Shot through the head? Strangled? How was it done? All three men at once. Had they been taken by surprise or is this a full-scale war?

  He must find out and be ready to respond. There would be time to mourn his friend later. For now he had to take action. He had depended too much on Fitzroy March. Valuable time had been wasted. He shouldn’t have listened. He shouldn’t have stayed in his room. But it was awfully difficult to ignore advice that came from March. The man was always right.