Fire Raven

by McAllister, Patricia

  “Oh, don’t leave so soon, Merry! Please.” Kat was frightened at the thought of being left to fend for herself. Those who had once been dear friends were mere retainers now, as evidenced by their respective bows and curtsies as she passed them in the hall. Even Ailis, the jovial old cook, wouldn’t meet her eye. Like the rest, Ailis murmured a formal phrase, a stiff greeting that sounded anything but welcoming.

  Kat was shown to a bedchamber different from the one she had previously occupied. This one adjoined Morgan’s and was both larger and colder, with its northern view. It was dusty and neglected, as all of Hartshorn had been. Winnie mumbled that it would be put to rights.

  Seeing how miserable Kat was in her unfamiliar role of authority, Merry took over. She informed the housekeeper of their needs, then dismissed the woman with leave to see to her assigned duties.

  “’Twill never do,” Kat moaned, after her sister joined her and the door closed after Winnie. “They are right to resent my presence here as lady of the house. They all expected Morgan to return with a wife of noble upbringing.”

  “There is nothing humble about the Tanner name,” Merry said, a trifle sharply. “Uncle Kit has been knighted and has been a long-standing favorite of the queen. Our grandmother Meredith was one of Elizabeth Tudor’s dearest confidantes, as I am one of her maids of honor. Our father served in Her Majesty’s fleet for years. Both our parents bear the queen’s favor. ’Twould be most churlish for a motley handful of taffy staff to look down their noses at you.”

  Kat winced at the slur Merry used. “Aye, but they don’t know anything of our history. For all I know, they think I’m an Irish upstart of a serf. At the least, they must suppose me a greedy opportunist who’s taking advantage of their master’s generous nature.”

  Merry threw up her hands in frustration. “Y’are giving up before you have begun! All is not lost, Kat. But you must take back the little authority you have left before it disappears altogether. Now, listen to me:

  “First of all, you must not hide away in your room. ’Twill only cause mischievous speculation on the part of the staff. They are expecting Lord Trelane to arrive and explain everything at any moment. You and I know Trelane will not save you, so by the time he does appear, you must have them firmly in hand.”

  “Aye,” Kat sighed, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Now, we must needs see you made presentable. Are there any decent maid servants to be found?”

  Kat thought of Gwynneth and shuddered. “Nay.”

  “Hardly unexpected. Then I’ll help you myself. We must change you from that dusty traveling attire into something suitable. I assume dinner will be served at a civil hour?”

  Kat replied in the affirmative, although she wasn’t sure. It was best not to argue with Merry when she adopted one of her lecturing tones.

  “I brought along a red taffeta trimmed with pearls. Mayhap ’tis a tad short for you, but ’twill serve nicely in a pinch. We will find a sempster to alter the rest of the gowns for you. As for me, I hope Maggie won’t miss her blue velvet too soon.”

  Kat chuckled. “Did you truly raid her wardrobe?”

  “There was no time to buy a proper trousseau for you, or indeed, for me to pack my things. You wouldn’t let me send for our wardrobes from Whitehall, remember.”

  “I confess, I was too anxious to reach Falcon’s Lair. I fear I have made a terrible mistake, Merry.”

  “Well, we are here now. We must make the best of it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  MERRY TANNER WAS IN her true element at Falcon’s Lair, directing servants and supervising a great household. She was mortified by conditions inside the positively medieval keep and by the appalling lack of servants. But when she questioned Mrs. Carey as to the reasons, she learned the meaning of close-mouthed.

  “Lord Trelane has no complaints,” the freckle-faced housekeeper sniffed. “Himself hired all the staff you see here.”

  Merry frowned, planting her hands on her hips. “D’you mean to say he has no more retainers? Mayhap some have run away in his absence.”

  “Oh, nay, milady. This is all there is. We’re content to serve all his needs.”

  “’T’won’t do, my good woman. Not at all,” Merry said. “Falcon’s Lair is huge, even as little Welsh castles go. ’Twill require a great deal of hired help to run properly. I shall have Lady Trelane authorize employment of two more cooks, a brace of stable hands, and half a dozen maids.”

  Winnie blinked. “Begging your pardon, milady, but wherever will you find them?”

  Merry looked aggrieved. “From town, of course,” she said. “Surely there is a settlement of some sort nearby?”

  “Well, there’s the village — ”

  “Excellent. You may begin looking there.”

  “’Tis not quite a real village, more a settlement of sorts.”

  Merry shrugged. “Are there able-bodied men and women in this settlement?” At the housekeeper’s reluctant nod, she airily proceeded. “Then what are you waiting for, Mrs. Carey? Ride out at once and secure the necessary staff to fill Lady Trelane’s orders.”

  Winnie wanted to inform this snip of a red-headed virago that any orders must come from Lady Katherine directly. She refrained from doing so. It was no use arguing with a Sassenach. Bold as brass, this one was. She sighed and bustled off.

  Merry stared after the woman and released a vexed sigh of her own. This whole business exhausted her. Every time she turned around, it seemed there was more work to be done. More headaches. The servants — if they might be called such by any stretch of the imagination — were as blasé as any she had encountered. Truly, she was beginning to wonder if all the Welsh weren’t a bit touched in the head.

  KAT WALKED ALONG THE seashore, feeling the waves rush up and curl around her feet. Heedless of the cold water seeping through her fine hose and shoes, she headed south along the border of cliffs lining the Trelane land.

  Gulls screamed and swirled against the sky, white wings riding the currents. Kat brushed back a tendril of loose hair from her face and stared out to sea. The benign water glimmered and mocked her with its secrets: Somewhere out there, the skeletons of the Fiach Teine and her crew rested together in a watery grave.

  Kat moved to a boulder where she might perch and watch the waves rolling ashore. She didn’t know what she looked for, nor what she hoped to find, but some measure of peace gradually stole over her, as she watched the sun sinking into the western sky.

  The sea had been part of her once, a friend she might turn to in good times or bad. It was the balm for her troubled soul. Kat smiled a little. Had she changed? Aye. The water no longer held the fascination it once had for her. She felt no desire whatsoever to resume her life upon these capricious waters or to command a new ship under her own name.

  She thought of all the things she had missed while she played at being a sailor: Wales; Falcon’s Lair; Morgan; most of all, a place she could call her own, where she could plant deep and permanent roots; a man she could love wholly, without reserve. Bit by bit, she felt her obsession with the sea dwindle and release its chokehold on her heart, just as a strangling vine is severed from a rose so that the flower might fully bloom.

  “Rory,” she whispered, regretful, remembering the young man who had once sailed beside her. It seemed so long ago, now; another age, another life. A vision of Rory’s face, strong and clear, surfaced for the first time in months. For one aching, bittersweet moment, she looked into his aqua-colored eyes again, smoothing back the fiery mane of his glorious auburn hair.

  “Kat, love,” Rory called to her from his watery grave.

  She rose on shaking legs and stared out to sea. “Sweet Jesu.” Guilt and shame warred within her at the possibility that Rory somehow lived in spirit and knew what she had done. She had failed to save her husband, then turned faithless to his memory nearly overnight. “I’m so sorry, Rory. Ahhh, Sweet Mother and Mary, what I wouldn’t give to relive that day again,” she shouted.<
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  Only the ebb and surge of the waves answered her cry, and, when the echo from the cliffs faded, Kat wiped her streaming eyes, feeling both foolish and sad. She only imagined Rory was there. Her guilty conscience surely sought to make amends, however it might. But Rory was long gone, claimed by a sea as fickle-natured as his wife.

  “’Twas not your fault, Kat. ’Twas my time to go.”

  Kat started at the gentle murmur near her ear, then fancied she felt something brush her arm.

  “Rory?” she cried, whirling about. She saw nothing. She was alone. Yet she was not.

  “Aye, colleen.” Kat noticed his voice no longer held heartache or terror or despair. The drowning man from her dreams was gone. To the contrary, Rory sounded content, at peace.

  “Kat, love, I must go now. You’ve a life to live without me, a life with the wee one I could not give you.”

  Startled, Kat touched her stomach. Aye, she felt a faint swelling there. Dared she hope? She sensed the invisible presence withdrawing from her, and she gazed out at the implacable depths to which it returned.

  Mayhap it was only the wind. Or the waves hissing as they rushed ashore. Nay. She could not take the chance. Another broken cry issued from Kat’s lips and echoed off the cliffs. “Rory! Don’t go. I must needs explain — ”

  “Ahh, sweetheart. Love needs no explanation. Farewell, Kat, farewell. Wish me godspeed …”

  She did not mistake the moment of severance. Rory’s last earthly link was broken, and Kat herself felt a physical jolt — part pain, part joy — as his spirit rose from the sea and vanished into the sun. Whatever vestige of Rory Shanahan haunted these waters was gone forever.

  Gradually the wind dried the tears on Kat’s cheeks. Twilight was here. She looked over the water one last time. The sea looked molten gold now, mesmerizing in its beauty. Even the gulls had stopped shrieking and squabbling for food and now nestled along the cliffs with their heads tucked beneath their frosted wings.

  Kat heard her mount whicker restlessly in the distance and realized it was time to head back. With a final glance, she turned from the sea. One strange, inexplicable moment after Rory had left, she experienced a desire to turn and walk calmly into those shimmering waters and let the cold waves close over her head and join her crew, as their good and faithful captain …

  Nay, Kat. She did not need to hear Rory’s voice again to know the notion was foolish and forbidden. She had a new life now, Rory had reminded her — one with Morgan, and their child. Or did she? She shivered and pulled her cloak more snugly around her shoulders. Aye, she must get back. She knew Merry would be frantic if she didn’t return promptly by the dinner hour.

  WHEN KAT REACHED FALCON’S Lair, she was surprised to see a fine yet unfamiliar coach parked outside the great door. Praying it was not the Earl of Cardiff, Henry Lawrence, she slipped from the gray’s back and handed the reins to Evan. Her stomach tightened with dread.

  She knew Morgan preferred riding over using a coach, and she doubted Uncle Kit would have pursued them here. Elizabeth Tudor’s messenger, then? Kat supposed Bess might consider her behavior scandalous enough to warrant arrest — snatching her cousin’s intended and wedding without permission probably constituted treason in their proud queen’s eyes.

  Squaring her shoulders, Kat mounted the steps. She was Lady Trelane. She must not flee from her duties. From now on, she would face her destiny head on. Rory’s parting blessing had given her the courage to endure, and she could do no less than fight fate for the sake of her child.

  Despite her resolve, Kat’s emotions were an equal blend of trepidation and defiance as she entered the great hall. She feared one disapproving glance from Merry might shatter her composure. Her sister loathed seeing her in trews; Merry’s outrage was unparalleled whenever Kat donned men’s garb and bound her breasts. Today she had done both. It was impractical to ride astride in a farthingale, Kat had pointed out more than once, but Merry never accepted excuses when it came to a lady’s appearance or behavior. Alack, Kat thought with a sigh, she and her twin had certainly outgrown each other long ago.

  She heard voices coming from the makeshift parlor. Since Morgan rarely, if ever, entertained, Falcon’s Lair lacked a proper parlor. Merry had done her best to cope with the “dreadful situation,” as she put it, by transforming the unused conservatory into a receiving room.

  Kat knew she should change into a gown and fix her hair before greeting her guests or, conversely, her new jailers, but she decided on a whim to risk shocking them all. If Morgan truly suffered such a beastly reputation, then his wife’s eccentricities would scarce be worthy of note.

  Kat opened the parlor door without announcing her presence. Merry whirled at the sound, her white taffeta skirts rustling. She looked prepared to snap at one of the staff for interrupting her private conversation.

  “Kat!” she exclaimed instead, though with an equal note of rebuke. “Where have you been?”

  Kat whipped the flat velvet cap from her head, letting the thick dark braid tumble to her waist. “Out.” Her gaze encountered another woman. Her eyes widened with surprise. “Mama?”

  “Can there be any doubt?” the attractive, dark-haired woman answered with a grin. She rose from a chair to indicate her own set of trews and canvas shirt, nearly identical to her daughter’s. Though she was one and two score now and the mother of seven living children, Bryony Tanner was slim as a reed and glowed with good health. Kat noted her mother’s hair was still dark as night, her blue eyes keen as ever. Bryony stepped forward and swept Kat into a fierce embrace, as a golden-haired man stepped forward and looked on with obvious emotion.

  Slade Tanner hugged Kat in turn, when his wife was finished. “Thank God you’re safe,” he said. When Slade withdrew, Kat glimpsed a betraying sparkle of tears in her father’s deep green eyes — eyes that mirrored her own. At last, her identity was complete.

  “We thought the worst, Kat. ’Twas a rude and blessedly welcome shock to learn otherwise.” As Slade spoke, he touched Kat’s cheek as if to reassure himself she was real, not a spirit like Rory.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” Kat said, tears pricking at her eyes. “But how did you find out where I was?”

  Slade exchanged an amused glance with Bryony. “We had the misfortune of arriving at Court just as Bess blistered your uncle’s ears. It seems the Tanners have conspired to outrage Bess Tudor thrice in as many generations: two weddings without permission; one refusal to wed at all.”

  “Cousin Grace?” Kat guessed. At her father’s nod, she sighed. “How fares poor Uncle Kit? Is he languishing in the Tower as we speak?”

  Bryony laughed, planting her hands on her hips. “Bess knows better than to rile an old adversary again. The O’Neills and Tanner families are irretrievably linked now. O’Neills defend their own. The only prison dear Kit shall ever visit will be Ambergate, where I vow he is quite content to spend all his days.”

  Frustrated at having been left out of the conversation, Merry interrupted, sounding peevish. “Did you speak to the queen about me?”

  Slade shrugged. “Concerning what?”

  “Father! Don’t tease so. I pray you reassured Elizabeth Tudor of my constant devotion and unswerving loyalty.”

  “I fear it slipped my mind,” Slade said with a twinkle, winking at Kat and his wife.

  Merry stamped her foot, petulant as a little girl. “If I have lost my position at Court, I shall never forgive you!”

  “’Twas your choice to accompany your sister here, Merry,” Bryony put in. “I was prouder of you than ever when I heard what you had done.”

  “Aye, Mother, but I’m not the born rebels you and Kat are,” Merry wailed with distress. “My whole life is Court. Bess promised to make me a fine match someday.”

  “In this much, our good queen did not disappoint,” Slade said. “If you are agreeable, Merry, you will wed Sir Jasper Wickham come spring.”

  “Of the Carlisle Wickhams?” Gone in an instant were Merry’s tears; in the
ir stead, a calculating gleam appeared. “I hear tale Sir Jasper is rich and comely. He will suit me quite well, I trow.”

  “Wickham is also accounted rough and crude and brutal,” Bryony said dryly. “Though I suppose a border man must be.”

  Merry tossed her head. “My betrothed is hardly a barbaric Scot, Mother. You have been listening to too many O’Neill ballads. Elizabeth Tudor would approve no man for my husband who was not refined and accomplished in every way.”

  “Then you agree to Wickham’s suit?” Slade asked.

  “Aye, Father.”

  “Merry,” Kat protested, “it sounds like you have never laid eyes on the man.”

  “Just as you never saw Morgan Trelane and loved him anyhow,” her sister retorted. There was nothing Kat might say in response. That was true enough.

  Kat saw a shadow cross her father’s face, and all traces of mirth was forgotten.

  “Kit told us a little of your frightening adventure,” Slade said. “I would fain hear the tale again, from your own lips.”

  Kat wondered where to start. “D’you speak of Wales and Morgan Trelane?”

  “I know how you came to be here and heard Lord Trelane was the one who nursed you back to health. Also, that you were later taken to London, a prisoner of Henry Lawrence.”

  “Mark my words, the odious old goat shall hear from me,” Bryony interjected on an ominous note.

  Kat shook her head. “’Twas not Lawrence’s fault, Mama. He but rightfully sought to protect the queen. The strange circumstances of my survival and resulting blindness would give any man pause. I believe Lord Lawrence is good at heart. A trifle overzealous, perhaps.”

  “You are generous, Kat,” her mother said. “More generous than Lawrence intended to be with you.”

  “I would not incur the resentment of Morgan’s neighbors. I am Lady Trelane now, which behooves me to show a generous nature.”