by Jo Ann Wendt
But this pond didn't fool the wolfhounds. She heard their loud splashes as they leaped into the water. Too soon, their terrifying baying resumed. The duke's voice rang out, closer now, a madman's voice, garbled, frothing.
" 'Tis only a matter of minutes—You shall pay for Angelina's adultery. You shall pay, just as Royce paid for taking Glynden from me—"
Oh, dear God. She ran blindly. When she went careening out of thick fog into a pocket of visibility and ran into the same dead black walnut tree again, its massive hairy roots exposed, its trunk angled in the cradle of live trees, she went wild. Circles, dear God, she'd run in circles!
She wheeled to run again, but the dogs were coming from that direction. She could hear their lunging barks as they loped along, following her trail. Desperate, she clambered up over the massive roots of the dead walnut tree. If she could keep her balance, if she could hold on and not fall, she could creep up the angled tree trunk. She prayed her slight weight wouldn't cause the trunk to shift, to come crashing down.
Holding her breath, keeping desperate eyes on the path behind her, she began her precarious climbing. Hurry, hurry! The bark was rough and wet and slippery. It scratched her knees, raked her shins. When she grabbed at it, clumps of rotted bark flaked off in her hands and she had to throw her arms around the trunk to hold on. The bark raked her face.
She'd progressed ten feet, when she lost her hold on the slippery bark and slid back five feet. The baying grew ever louder. Oh, dear God! She gouged her bruised toes into the bark and pushed, grunting her way up the trunk, the bark scratching her breasts as she clung. She recovered the footage she'd lost and pushed on.
The ground lay some fifteen feet below as the first wolfhound came loping out of the fog like a ghostly beast, its gray wolf shag wet and stringy, its bulbous eyes shining. She clutched the trunk in terror as it lifted its huge head and howled its victory. Three wolfhounds came bounding. All four beasts padded round and round the massive tree roots, leaping into the air, snarling, snapping, baying, filling the marsh with their fearful frenzy. Her heart nearly failed.
The boldest leaped up on the massive roots. Terrified, Jericho inched her way upward again. Don't fall, don't fall, dear God, don't fall or the dogs will be on you. Below, on the massive roots, the boldest hound sniffed, then cautiously began to climb. Jericho's terror grew boundless.
Surefooted on the ground, the tall, rangy beast was not surefooted in the air. He lost his balance, slid off the log with a yelp and fell ten feet to the ground, hitting with a thump. Jericho prayed he was dead. But he was only stunned. He rose and shook himself, snarled at her and leaped up on the massive roots to try again. All the while, the others leaped and howled, trying to leap up and get her. The hound was more surefooted on this try and mounted higher before he fell. Jericho inched up the trunk desperately, hanging on to branches that dipped down from the other trees.
When the frenzy suddenly died for a moment and silence rang out in the marsh, Jericho looked down in terror. Below her stood the duke of Blackpool. He looked like the devil himself, his eyes burning like coals, the fog curling around his black cloak. He gazed up at her like a madman. The dogs paced around him, eager growls breaking from their huge throats, and when he shouted at her he frothed at the mouth, spittle flying.
"Come down, whore-daughter! I command you. You cannot escape me, you de Mont bitch. You are dead—dead, do you hear?"
Jericho didn't answer. She used her strength to continue to inch upward. To her terror, her stiff numb fingers lost a handhold. She slid down six inches before she dug her nails into the bark and caught herself. She wrapped her arms around the trunk and hung on, heart pounding.
"I've done this before," he shouted madly.
Her mouth dry with terror, Jericho inched her way up.
"Royce did not escape—Nor shall you—My dogs tore him apart—Oh, he was handsome, yes—But not after my dogs finished with him—I sent him home to his wife, torn limb from limb—But I spared his son—I spared him for Glynden's sake! Do you hear, bitch?"
Jericho climbed desperately, heart banging.
"It was not a planned event," he shouted wildly, the madness in his voice ringing in a ghastly way, echoing in the fog. "I chanced upon him hunting. My dogs had just brought down a stag. They were in a blood frenzy, and I thought— why not? I would gain Glynden. And Arleigh Castle."
He was totally mad. He was insane. With his eyes burning and his black hair mussed, the silvery streaks standing out in disarray, he looked like Satan. Jericho's heart beat so hard she could hear it thumping against the hollow tree trunk.
"Come down, whore-daughter. I command you! You have no right to live. Nor does Angelina. Nor Aubrey. I'll get you, all of you. Do you hear?"
The dogs circled below, snarling.
"Come down. I command you!"
Jericho swallowed, her voice croaking with exhaustion. "You will have to come up and get me." Maybe he would fall, break his neck.
He looked up at her in wild fury.
"Then I shall."
He shed his cloak but not his sword. A lithe man, he leaped to the roots with little trouble. Terrified anew, frightened she would lose her grip and slide down into his arms, she began to shinny upward. So did he. Under the additional weight, the tree trunk shook. Jericho gripped it. Dear God! He might shake her off! She would fall into the pack of dogs. Circling the tree, anticipating it, the dogs howled, smelling the kill. They went into a wild frenzy—snarling, growling, leaping, baying.
The duke climbed, his dark eyes mad and glowing. He was stronger than she, more surefooted. Even though his boots slid and slipped on the rotting baric, he closed the gap with terrifying swiftness. Lunging, he grabbed for her ankle. She kicked wildly and he lost his grip, sliding down a little.
"Bitch!"
The dogs grew wilder, anticipating blood.
He lunged again. Branches hung helter-skelter in dead limbs. Risking a fall, Jericho let go of the trunk with one scratched bloody hand and grabbed at a dead branch. Dead wood, it snapped off. Exhausted, using the stick for a club, she gathered every ounce of her dwindling energy and bashed the stick into his upturned face. He lost his hold and slid. She abandoned the stick and inched upward again.
"You bitch, you damnable she-bastard bitch," he howled, clutching his eye. The dogs barked in frenzy, howling, leaping, teeth bared, vicious snouts upturned. She could smell their wet musky fur. They smelled feral, like wolves.
The duke sprang up the tree trunk again, shaking it violently. Jericho cried out in fear and hung on. This time, the duke drew his sword. He stabbed at her.
' 'Whore-daughter!' *
Jericho kicked wildly, kicking her legs away from the flashing steel. But he got her. She shrieked in pain as steel pierced her calf. Hanging on with one arm, she grabbed at the wound, trying to staunch the blood with her fingers as it flowed. But some of it dripped down to the ground. She watched in terror as the dogs sniffed her blood and now went truly wild. Snarling like mad beasts, they threw themselves into the air with grotesque leaps, frenzied, trying to get at her. She grew faint. She clutched her wound, then clawed at the trunk, climbing.
The duke lunged at her again. He missed. But his stabbing movements had shaken the tree trunk loose in its precarious cradle. With a lurch the tree slid down a notch. The dogs went into a frenzy. Jericho clutched the violently rocking tree trunk and held on, but the duke slid all the way down to the roots. With an angry leap, he sprang to the ground.
He stood under her, his eyes burning excitedly, his dogs encircling him, prowling around him, excited, snarling at her, baring their fangs, eager for the kill.
"I've got you now, you de Mont spawn. I've only to shake you out of the tree and let the dogs have you. Are you ready, you whore-daughter? Ready to die?"
She had only a moment to think. Thoughts flew wildly through her head. Die? She couldn't! She had so much to lose. She had a mother now. A father. And Dove. She couldn't die. She couldn't die and leave
Dove. Frozen in terror, she looked down at the duke, the dogs. Save yourself!
She tore her fingers from her bloody wound. The blood welled up. She kicked out her leg and let the blood splatter down on the duke. It took him by surprise, dripping on him like a red shower. The wolfhounds stopped circling. They sniffed. Their shaggy snouts quivered. Their hackles rose. They crouched.
"No!" the duke screamed, backing away, throwing up his arms in a shield. The first snarling gray form sprang. "No —no!" he shrieked. The others were upon him instantly, taking him down, a dog pack in frenzy, growling, snarling, tearing, ripping, their shaggy maws bright with blood.
Unable to watch, Jericho clutched her wound and buried her face in the rough bark, sobbing, choking, crying, praying.
"Stop, stop, stop. Oh, dear God, make them stop."
It was horrible, horrible. The sounds. His death scream. The ferocious snarling as the dogs tore him to bits, then turned on one another, maws wet and scarlet, to fight over what they'd killed.
In the midst of the frenzy, there came a faint shout.
"Jerichooo ..."
Lost in fog, the shout came again.
"Jerichooo ..."
Dazed, she lifted her head. She tore her hand from her wound. The bleeding had slowed. She raked her muddy stringy hair from her ear with a bloody hand and listened. Dove? She raised up.
"Dove," she shrieked. "Go back. It's dogs. They've killed the duke. Go back!"
But he didn't. His answering shouts came bounding toward her through the fog, growing louder.
"Jericho—answer me—where are you—" he shouted.
"In a tree," she shrieked. "Safe in a tree. I'm safe. Dove, go back. Go away. It's dogs."
"Hang on—don't fall—I'm coming—" His voice rang in the fog, ever louder.
"No, Dove, no," she screamed. "Go back."
But suddenly he burst out of the fog, running. He ran to the base of the tree, to the mountain of tangled roots, his sword drawn, his face whiter than the white shirt he wore. Across the clearing, not twenty feet away, the dogs had dragged the duke's body under a bush and were mauling it, rending it. She saw Dove's terror and cried out again.
"Dove, go back! Save yourself."
He shot her a terrified look. For a moment, his eyes were the eyes of a three-year-old child, watching his beloved father being tom to pieces—naked eyes, overwhelmed, bright with fear. He shot a look at the frenzied dog pack and reeled, as if he might faint. His sword arm dropped limply.
"Dove!" Frantic, she shinnied down the tree limb, slipping, the rough bark scraping her shins raw, reopening her wound. "Dove!"
Maws scarlet with blood, the lead wolfhound whipped
around and saw Dove. He crouched, teeth bared, hackles rising on his powerful neck like spikes. Stiff-legged as a wolf, he stalked toward Dove.
Jericho slid to the ground. She grabbed the only thing that lay there, the stick she'd used on the duke. Panting, sobbing, she flourished the stick like a broom and took her stand in front of Dove, who'd gone limp and ashen. But an instant later, she found herself rolling in the mud behind him. He'd shoved her so hard she rolled ten feet before a tree trunk struck her in the ribs and stopped her.
"For God's sake," Dove complained, "stay out of my way."
She crawled to her knees and pushed her muddy hair out of her eyes just in time to see the beast crouch and leap.
"Dove," she gasped.
But it was all over in seconds. For Dove was a swordsman. As the beast leaped, Dove lunged to one side and hove his sword like an axe. Jericho heard the spine crack with a sickening sound. The beast dropped in midleap, landing on the ground with a thud, writhing there, yelping. Dove whirled and got the second springing beast, decapitating it with a single stroke. Blood sprayed everywhere, like scarlet mist. He didn't wait for the third beast to spring, but lunged toward it, throwing it off-stride. Off balance, the wolfhound writhed in midair, baring its soft underbelly. Dove thrust his sword in to the hilt. The beast hit the ground with a thud. With a fierce slash, Dove severed its throat and whirled to face the fourth beast. But the dog backed off timidly, backed away whimpering, then wheeled and fled like the wind, escaping into the fen. Whirling to deal with the remaining beast that still writhed on the ground, its back broken, Dove plunged his sword into its heart.
Then, gasping for breath, he propped himself against the uprooted tree, eyes closed, face ashen, sword arm limp. Jericho crawled toward him and lurched into his arms, breathing as hard as he. Holding his sword in his right hand, ready, he clamped her in his left arm. As if in unison, their knees buckled and they sank to the ground, clutching each other, patting each other, panting.
The fog was lifting. Night was descending. They could hear shouts in the distance, men's voices. With the fog drifting away, pinpoints of torchlight began to appear, like meandering lightning bugs.
Drained of emotion, at the end of her tether, Jericho began to cry. Dove held her close, sour muddy hair and all.
"It's all right, it's all right now," he panted.
"I kn-know."
"That was—the bravest—and the stupidest—thing I ever saw. Did you really intend—to defend me with—that puny stick?"
"I d-don't know."
She felt his lips smile weakly against her forehead. Then Dove pulled free of her, crawled into the marsh grass and vomited his stomach out. When he crawled back, he was sick, trembling. They clutched each other, held each other.
"Blackpool killed my father. With dogs. I remember the whole thing. I remember."
She nodded, so exhausted, she couldn't lift her head.
"I know. He boasted of it, Dove. He boasted to me."
4 'But why? Why would he do such a thing? My father..."
"He wanted your mother. He wanted Arleigh Castle."
"Oh, God, God. He was mad. Mother never would've had him. Never. She despised him."
Weak, spent, smelling of mud and vomit, they held each other for a long time, cheek against cheek, not caring how bad they smelled. Somewhere in the distance, men had cornered the remaining wolfhound. The excitement in their distant shouts said so. Muskets cracked. There was a yelp. Cheers rose. Jericho trembled and buried her face in the hollow of Dove's neck. He stroked her muddy hair with a weak hand.
"His dogs. Why did they turn on him, grubworm?"
She knuckled her eyes, trying to rub out the memory. "I was up in the tree. He was standing beneath the tree. He'd stabbed me with his sword and I was bleeding, so I held out my leg and let the blood drip on him."
"Stabbed you?" Dove straightened. "Where!"
She showed him. Encrusted with mud and dried blood, the wound oozed slightly. Dove sprang up. Wrenching off his leather doublet, he used it as a makeshift basin and hastily brought marsh water. He rinsed the cut gently. Jericho tried not to flinch, but the pain was starting, the shock wearing away. Then he tore off his shirt and ripped it. He used part of the shirt to bind her wound, then bundled her into what remained of it.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes. Of course I can." Taking the first step, she proved herself a liar and went down as if her knees were made of melted butter. Dove caught her. Scooping her up into his arms, he smiled softly into her face.
"Spoken like a true de Mont."
Despite the pain that was shooting through her leg, despite the woosiness and the odd buzzing that had begun in her ears, she smiled woosily back.
"Dove? La-lady Angelina is my mother. Lord Au-Au- Aubrey is my . . . father. That-that makes you and me . . ." She couldn't think. The trees were spinning now, whirling around her like Mfd-Summer's Eve dancers. A hornet's nest buzzed loudly in her ears. Dove had two heads now. Both of them were smiling at her. >
"Cousins," he supplied. "I won't pretend to understand this. But, welcome into the family, grubworm."
"Th-thank you, Dove."
And then a queer thing happened.
To her surprise, she . . . fainted.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jericho awoke on her parents' wedding day feeling queasy, green around the gills. When she rose up on one elbow in her curtained bedstead in her second floor bedchamber in
Nordham Hall, her stomach rose with her. Hastily, she lay back. She closed her eyes and let the nausea roll over her in sickening waves.
Again? She swallowed the prickly juices that gathered unpleasantly under her tongue. The same thing had happened the previous morning. And the morning before that. Am I sick? It's not like me to be sick. I'm never sick. Not even in the worst New Amsterdam winter. I'm so healthy I never even catch cold.
Swallowing, resisting, her eyes closed, she heard the quiet sound of the bedchamber door opening. She heard her chambermaid tiptoe to the bed. The bedcurtain rings clicked as the girl quietly drew the bedcurtains to the bottom of the bed.
"Lady Jericho?" she whispered. "D'ye be wantin' yer morning tray now?"
Food. A horrid thought. Jericho opened her eyes a slit. Big eager blue eyes beamed back at her. "Not yet. I'll lie abed for a bit."
"Then I'll build up the fire for you, m'lady. Git the room cozy 'n warm for when you rise, m'lady."
"Don't bother. I'll do it myself later." Jericho wanted only peace and quiet.
The girl blinked in shock. "Oh, ye mustn't do that, m'lady. Tis servant's work. 'Tis my work," the girl said proudly.
Jericho smiled gently at the child. She was only twelve years old. Keen, eager to please. She reminded Jericho of herself at that age, new to Dove's household, desperate to belong, desperate to please.
"You're an excellent chambermaid, Mary. I've never in my life known a better. Yes, please. Make the fire."
The girl's smile lit up the room. She bobbed in curtsy.
The fire soon blazed and warmth sprang into the room. The sweetish smell of hickory firewood stirred more nausea. Swallowing, she sent her thoughts elsewhere.
My lady. Lady Jericho. Would she ever get used to it? She didn't feel like a lady yet. She felt as if she ought to jump out of bed and go down to the scullery to help cook the food for the duke of Nordham's wedding feast. She smiled at the notion. She wasn't a scullery maid, she was the duke of Nordham's daughter, the duchess of Blackpool's daughter.