She was standing at the chamber window, contemplating the wisdom of leaving her rooms or not, when she saw the flash of white sleeve close to the wall below. She stepped closer to the window, the cantilevered alcove giving her a ready view of the happenings on the ground. Her brows drew together.
It was Oliver, looking so very much like August from that vantage point—he even had his brother’s sword strapped to him now. He was crouching down next to a puddle of woman on the ground. Cecily.
What were they about?
He helped her to her feet, and when it seemed she would have pulled away from him—her face downcast, her head turned aside—he pulled her closer, stepped into her. He seemed to be speaking to her, imploring her to look at him. But she would not. She only shook her head, bringing her fingers to press against her mouth. She nodded briefly, and then shook her head again.
Suddenly, Cecily wrenched her arm free and then turned, walking swiftly around the side of the keep wall toward the doors and disappearing.
Oliver stood alone for several moments, his dark hair a plaything for the breeze. His arm was no longer in its sling. He could have been August then, and she caught her breath as tears came to her eyes. She sniffed and brushed angrily at her cheek. Oliver turned then and she stepped back from the alcove, farther into the shadows of her room.
But he did not glance up. Instead he began to walk across the bailey, toward the chapel. Oliver paused for a moment, and then disappeared into the domed doorway. She saw a glimpse of the heavy wooden door swinging tardily, following after him.
She thought of the finger of crystal, the vivid, frustrating, seemingly meaningless dreams it had induced.
She thought of Cecily’s betrothal to the vicar.
Then she thought of the Foxe Ring.
Chapter 19
Oliver departed Fallstowe on the seventh day after Cecily had returned from Hallowshire, his man from Bellemont arriving with an entourage of mounted soldiers and several horses for his lordship. Cecily stood some distance away in the bailey with John Grey, watching as Father Perry bid Oliver a quiet farewell.
Sybilla was absent, but Joan Barleg stood to the side of the great double doors, her eyes red and swollen, her arms across her midsection, her hands gripping her elbows. Oliver thus far had not afforded the obviously brokenhearted woman so much as a glance when he swung onto his horse and adjusted the reins in favor of his weaker arm.
John Grey leaned his head near Cecily’s ear. “You must feel relieved to soon have this behind you.”
Cecily turned her face to him, looked into his eyes, wanting forever more to be naught but honest with this good man.
“Yes,” she lied, and gave him a weak smile.
Wanting something and having it were two very different things, Cecily now knew.
He returned her smile as Father Perry backed away from Oliver’s mount, bestowing a blessing in the air before him. Then the priest was striding past Cecily and John, a happy smile on his narrow face.
“It is days such as this that give me more cause than usual to praise God,” the man spouted, raising both hands in the air. “Hallelujah! It is a wondrous day for confession!” Both Cecily and John laughed at the man’s triumphant-sounding whoop as he disappeared into his chapel.
Cecily could not discern why, when surrounded by men the likes of Father Perry and John Grey, her heart would still be reaching toward the only scoundrel in Fallstowe’s midst. The man atop horseback, who was dancing his mount in a circle, its muzzle now pointing toward her.
Cecily raised her face until her eyes met Oliver Bellecote’s, but her pensive words were meant only for John Grey’s ears.
“It is a good day for confession, John.”
Cecily felt his eyes on her, sensed his surprise, as she slid her arm from his grasp and turned, walking swiftly toward the chapel.
It seemed a lifetime ago when she had stood at those wooden doors, pausing to gaze over her shoulder toward the Foxe Ring.
This time though, Cecily did not look back.
Oliver watched Cecily’s retreat with an ache in his chest. She would not even bid him farewell. His every instinct clawed at him to dismount and follow her, force her to face him. But his instincts, trained on the wrong desires for so many years, had done naught but fail him thus far. Oliver knew that if he ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon Cecily after leaving Fallstowe’s bailey, she would be John Grey’s wife. He’d had his chance to win her, and he had been judged unworthy. Perhaps, he thought, rightly so.
He looked at the not-a-vicar for a moment, and the blond man looked back mildly, with no obvious trace of resentment on his face. Cecily was likely right—John Grey was a better man than he. The idea of it, of Oliver’s failures, burned and twisted in his guts.
But he could overcome his past. He would.
And so, Oliver raised his right hand, even though it felt as though it had been nailed to his ribs. “I wish you well, Grey.”
John Grey stood very still for a moment, and then began walking toward him. Oliver opened his mouth as the man drew near, but John Grey turned his eyes to Fallstowe and walked directly past Oliver’s horse.
“May God forgive you,” John Grey muttered as if it was all he could allow through his clenched teeth. He disappeared through Fallstowe’s doors.
“He already has!” Oliver shouted at the thick wooden doors. His frustration was threatening to explode. “So ... so you can go to hell, Vicar!”
Oliver winced as, at his side, Argo snickered. Not a good start.
He caught sight of Joan, standing against the keep wall, her face a clear mask of misery. He would fare much better with this attempt.
“Joan,” he called.
She pushed her shoulders away from the stones and approached him, her arms locked together across her stomach. She had very recently been crying.
At his horse’s side, she stopped, looked up at him. “So now you would call me to you like a dog?” She huffed. “Well, I came, didn’t I? What do you want, Oliver?”
“Joan,” Oliver began again, “I’m sorry for how things turned out.”
She raised her eyebrows apathetically.
“Truly. And I must confess to you before I go, so that I do not leave you with either false hope or ideas that are out of line with what has actually gone on during our time at Fallstowe.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she looked slightly more interested.
“I told you upon my arrival here that I had no intention of marrying you, and that was the truth. Even when it seemed that I had made a proposal to you—”
“Seemed?” she asked shrilly. “You asked me to marry you!”
Oliver winced. “Actually, I asked you if you would marry me, a question to which I was already informed of the answer. I had no intention of ever going through with it. I only did it at Lady Sybilla’s request.”
Joan blanched. “What? Why? That makes no sense.”
“All she would tell me is that she has some suspicions about August’s death, and that she thinks you know something that you aren’t telling.”
“What?” Joan whispered. “She ... she thinks I killed August? Oliver, do you think that? Is that why—?”
“No, I don’t think you killed August. You were awakened in my bed the morning he was found. But discovering whatever Sybilla thinks you know is why she’s been so unnaturally cozy to you the past weeks. Sybilla’s reputation isn’t false; she is a cold woman. And a dangerous woman, so take care with her. I owe her no loyalty now that August is gone. Telling you was the least I could do after having played a part in deceiving you so.”
He saw her swallow, her eyes bulging; even her lips were pale. “Thank you, Oliver. But perhaps ... might I call on Bellemont? Perhaps we could still—”
Oliver shook his head and cut off her words before she could go any further. “No, Joan. Our time—as friends and other wise—is over. I bid you no ill-will, but I would rather we not see each other again.”
She
swallowed again and Oliver could see her tremble.
“I am sorry, Joan,” he repeated.
Her eyes narrowed. She suddenly spat up at Oliver, and he recoiled from the base attack.
“You will never take August’s place,” she hissed viciously. “I hope the king strips you of Bellemont and leaves you penniless in the gutter, you filthy, drunken pig!” She spun on her heel to retreat to the keep.
“Joan,” Oliver called, shocked at the woman’s virulent reaction.
She stopped in front of the doors the guards held for her, turned, and raised her chin.
“He was a better lover than you, as well.”
Then Joan was gone and Oliver was left in Fallstowe’s bailey, surrounded only by his uneasy entourage. No Sybilla, Graves; no John Grey. No Cecily. Not even the roughest squire of Fallstowe remained to see him through the gates. Only the new knowledge that Joan Barleg had slept with his brother. Had slept with him and then compared them both.
Oliver’s face burned. His jaw clenched.
He cleared his throat, and didn’t look at Argo as he kicked the sides of his mount. He felt like galloping the whole of the way back to Bellemont.
Perhaps he would.
Chapter 20
It was as if the sun was loath to rise the next morning, perhaps dreading being witness to Cecily’s dire missions. But the hearth in Sybilla’s sumptuous chamber was roaring, and there were a pair of oil lamps lit in an attempt to pretend the light of day.
Cecily had confessed to Father Perry just as Oliver Bellecote had departed Fallstowe yesterday afternoon. She had begun at the very beginning, with her rebellious and envious thoughts at the Candlemas feast, her journey to the Foxe Ring, her encounter there with Oliver. She had followed each shocking admission with one even more grave, realizing that her words had grown from an anonymous whisper to a somber and very recognizable voice. Father Perry knew everything now. He knew and he had counseled her. And although she knew his advice had been given with the best intentions, Cecily was not at all certain she would follow it.
Cecily had gone straight to her elder sister’s room after mass, and after telling John Grey that she would find him again very soon. She had asked Graves to deliver Lady Alys, sans Lord Mallory—this would be difficult enough without an intimidating man present.
Sybilla sat at her wide table before the windows, still in her robe, as was her habit in the mornings. She did not speak, but Cecily knew that it was not out of a lack of curiosity, only another of Sybilla’s traits. If she did speak before the noon meal, it was not pleasantries that typically came from her mouth. Sybilla’s tray of tea and toasted bread sat nearby, as well as her thick, leather-bound calendar.
Cecily noticed the large crystal was still in residence, as well, although she could not think of a reason her sister—normally so insistent on fine and beautiful things—would think to keep it as a decoration of any kind. Cecily thought it looked rather ugly, and perhaps dangerous.
Cecily herself sat near the hearth in a chair covered in cloth she had embroidered herself. She offered no answers to the questions Sybilla did not ask. Her hands were in her lap, clammy, her fingers feeling like sticks wrapped in thin, wet leather. At least she hadn’t vomited.
Sybilla’s chamber door swung open, and Alys burst through, as was her habit, Graves close on her heels. It never occurred to Cecily to ask Graves to leave—it would be akin to asking the stones that comprised Fallstowe’s walls for a spot of privacy—although the old steward only nodded in Sybilla’s direction before ducking back through the doorway and closing the door soundlessly after himself.
“What is it?” Alys demanded, marching to Sybilla’s table and immediately thieving from her tray. She spoke around the toast in her mouth. “I’ve not had breakfast yet, and my babe is hungry. Shall I not get below soon, all the tart will be gone.”
Tart did sound rather good.
Sybilla slid around in her chair to face Cecily at last, while Alys leaned her bottom against the edge of the table and munched. The brunette looked on with cool patience, the blond with spirited curiosity.
Cecily cleared her throat. “Yes. All right. I have something to tell the both of you. I wanted you to know before any others.” She paused. “Except Father Perry, of course.”
Alys rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
Sybilla said nothing.
“I ... well,” Cecily stuttered. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You never want to disappoint anyone, Cee.” Alys pulled a face. “Please tell me you have something more salacious than that to share. I am starving.” She tore off another hunk of bread with her teeth.
Cecily swallowed. “I’m pregnant.”
Alys’s mouth, still working on a bite of toast, fell open. She dropped the bread in her hand and grasped at the table edge, swallowing with obvious effort. “Oh my God,” she gasped, and then lowered her voice even further, her eyes wide. “Is it ... immaculate? ”
Cecily frowned. She should have expected that.
Sybilla spoke for the first time since Cecily had entered the chamber. “It’s not immaculate, Alys. It’s John Grey’s.”
“Oh my God!” Alys shrieked.
Cecily squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head briefly. “It’s not John Grey’s.” She opened them and looked at her sisters. “It’s Oliver Bellecote’s.”
Both of Alys’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle her scream.
Sybilla said nothing. In fact, the only sound that came from her at all was the muffled thud of her body as she slid out of her chair and onto the floor.
The first thought to cross Oliver’s mind upon waking that morning was that he had somehow broken his arm again. Although he wasn’t at all certain that it was, in fact, morning—even though only half of the heavy draperies that surrounded the bed were drawn, the unfamiliar chamber was dim and somber.
He’d been too drunk to remember to place his arm back in the sling before falling into August’s bed last night, and now he was paying for it. He struggled to sit upright in the gloom of the poster bed, groaning and hissing as his forearm and hand felt stung by a thousand needles, his bicep gripped in a cold vice.
His mouth tasted metallic, his head throbbed sickly. His throat felt as if he had drunk a steady river of sawdust the night before rather than Bellemont’s fine wine. And what good had that attempt at numbing his mind done him? None. Absolutely none.
He scooted awkwardly from the bed and staggered to his feet, stumbling to the pot in the corner. He was beset by chills as he emptied his screaming bladder.
Oliver didn’t know why he had chosen to inter himself in August’s chamber upon arriving at his home the previous evening. Perhaps it had been a subconscious attempt to glean some sort of wisdom from his overly-capable dead brother. But all it had succeeded in doing was to drive Oliver into a deeper state of maudlin. It had not been obvious to him upon casual observation of his brother’s room, but upon closer inspection at length with the aid of a wine jug, little traces of Sybilla Foxe seemed to be everywhere.
A length of thin, silk ribbon, likely from a veil or the trim of a dress; a metal cup half full of Fallstowe coins, the scripted F on one side winking in the candlelight amidst little golden discs of the king’s profile on the reverse; a pale, dried flower, pressed into the seam of a thin book of bleached vellum. The bound pages were half filled with quite good charcoal sketches, and Oliver had to admit the black and white effect of that particular medium was perfect for capturing the Foxe matriarch.
August had drawn her from memory, obviously, for Oliver had never had occasion to see Sybilla Foxe as smiling and feminine as she appeared on the pages of his brother’s tribute to her. Here was her profile, unsmiling, yet wide eyed and sincere; here, as if August stood above her, her black hair falling over the page of white as it would a mattress. Eyes closed in this one, chin tilted back and laughing—he’d even caught the little crinkles where the seam of her lashes lay. When Oliver riffled the pages
quickly, showing only blinks of each picture in fast succession, it seemed the woman came to life in jittering starts, and the obvious depth of emotion his brother must have held for this cold, cold woman caused Oliver’s heart to pound.
It was the last sketch that twisted Oliver’s guts though—a profile again, only this time in silhouette against the stark frame of a chamber window. No detail of face or dress, but hasty, bold lines depicting her figure, her hair tumbling over her shoulder.
And it could have been Cecily.
Oliver had sat down hard in his brother’s chair, his thumb holding the pages open in the seam, his other hand bringing his chalice to his lips over and over again as he stared and stared and stared at that inexpert charcoal rendition. He had proceeded to get so drunk that he could no longer properly see the sketch, but that hadn’t mattered, for in his dreams his vision had been unhampered by drink.
Now he splashed water on his face, seeking to wash away the last eerie vestiges of the images that had haunted him throughout his drunken slumber. His arm raged at him still, and so he sought the now ragged, stained sling amidst the detritus of his investigation. He was just slipping it over his head with a grimace when a solid rap sounded on the door.
“Come,” Oliver called out wearily.
Argo’s head appeared around the edge of the door, and after a quick appraisal of Oliver’s person, the steward nodded succinctly and swung the door wide before him, admitting two maids bearing trays. They deposited their gifts on the table near the hearth and left silently.
Argo, however, was not so deferential.
“I thought my lord would have want of a bit of sustenance,” he said, kicking through empty jugs on the floor. He picked one up and turned it upside down pointedly, raising his eyebrows at Oliver, before setting it on the tabletop with a hollow thunk.
Oliver had no comment, only a glare for the forward steward as he sat down at the table and poured himself a mug of warmed, spiced cider. It scalded his throat and tongue, but he drank it down nonetheless, pouring another immediately.
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