The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “While I’m always ready to suspect Wyndon,” Richard said, “I don’t see what changing that small detail gains for him. Besides, many people have browsed through the old scrolls and books at Pendragon at one time or another. All of us did and never saw anything specifically saying how to travel time.”

  Kit rose to pace before the hearth. “Yes, but the library’s generally a disordered jumble. Whoever did this might have found something amidst the mess. Or elsewhere. And hidden the source. The library’s supposedly warded so nothing can be removed, but any ward can be broken or evaded if one applies enough power.”

  “Good point,” Cabot acknowledged. “Are we really considering that someone has changed time? Doing so would be a violation of natural law and thus forbidden, no matter how much anyone might speculate about it.”

  The four exchanged grim looks. “It seems the only explanation,” Richard muttered.

  “Didn’t you say, Richard,” Kit asked, “that everything you found was theoretical? That nothing was practical?”

  Richard studied the flames. “I found vague, confusing references to methods in some of the oldest scrolls. The writing had faded beyond even magical recall in some places. In others, the terms made little sense. They refer to taking Death’s path with a foot in life on either side. One said something about walking through the wraiths. It’s obvious this would be dangerous, even potentially lethal, but the material isn’t specific enough to be of any use.”

  “Aye.” Cabot rubbed his jaw. “But why the Croyland Chronicle? Aside from the men at the banquet and their families, there can’t be above two-score people in England who care about claims to the throne in 1483.”

  “Perhaps as a test, to see if it was possible,” Kit said.

  “Or as bait,” Richard added. “For that or a distraction, such a deed would catch my attention more than anyone’s once it came to light. Which again argues for Wyndon’s guilt. The Conclave Council punished the de Veres for Roland’s magical sins, but he was also convicted of treason and attainted under King Edward IV, costing the family lands.”

  “Regardless,” Jeremy said, “we’re discussing the power to alter reality. If you can destroy a document, why not a life? Why not go back and kill Oliver Cromwell and win the civil war? Why not, if you serve Rome, kill Martin Luther before he even conceived his theses?”

  “If you have that power,” Kit suggested, “why not use it boldly? Yet the change, as far as we know, is merely this one book.”

  Cabot shook his head, frowning. “For that reason, I agree with Richard. This smells of bait laid for us, particularly for him, though we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that this was done for some other reason we can’t fathom. Perhaps it was merely practice for something bigger. Who can say whether other changes have been made, ones we haven’t yet noticed?”

  Kit said, “The Chronicle covers more than the reigns of Richard III and Edward IV. It could’ve been taken because of something else it contains. Or by someone who subscribes, as many yet do, to the idea of Richard III as a monster and detests the fact that Parliament supported his claim to the throne. The loss of that information bolsters the Tudors at King Richard’s expense.”

  “As the Tudor dragon threatened King Richard’s boar in Mistress Willoughby’s vision,” Richard noted.

  Cabot stood to pace. “Someone who had the power to change history would want to eliminate anyone who could combat him. Or her. Some of the Gifted lack the raw power, but those of us who spring from Morgan’s and Merlin’s lines are much stronger.”

  They all nodded. Morgan le Fay and her twin, Merlin, had stood at King Arthur’s side, wielding astonishing power in his service. Joining their magic made them more than doubly stronger. Until they quarreled over the role of magic in the realm and everything started falling apart.

  Richard wrenched his mind back to the present as Cabot added, “In fact, I think only someone of that lineage would have the power to cause such a change or combat one who created it.”

  Kit rubbed the back of his neck as though it ached. “Wyndon springs of those lines, but so do we four. And many others. So we can’t consider him our only suspect. I wonder whether there’s still a copy of the Chronicle in the library where Buck found it. And if not, then what?”

  “I wonder,” Richard said, gazing unseeing at the night, “assuming it’s gone, whether Mistress Willoughby’s dream comes as a warning of that. Or, as we said, as bait.”

  “Well, we’ve enough problems for the moment,” Jeremy noted. “You seem to be at the center of this, Richard, based on the girl’s vision. Have you a suggestion?”

  “If we can determine what changed first,” Richard said, “it will tell us when the alterations began, and perhaps how.” He glanced at Jeremy. “Can you search the Church’s records and see whether anything else seems amiss?”

  Jeremy stared down into his wine. “I can put my clerks to work writing summaries of parliamentary acts, starting with last year and working backwards to the Restoration. I’ll also have them rework the same periods each fortnight or so. If the summaries change, history has. That could help us trace the changes back in time.”

  Nodding approval, Kit added, “I’ll see what I can find among the private libraries of the Gifted. People are used to having me poke around when I’m in London. Maybe they have something about time travel.”

  “We can hope,” Richard said. “I’ll work with Mistress Willoughby on her dreams until I know for certain what they mean.” He cast a grim look at the fire.

  Jeremy nodded. “We shouldn’t discount the chance that this girl actually had a dream of power. If the Chronicle is gone, her visions might be our best chance of finding it.”

  Miranda struggled against the dream. Hidden in the bushes, a bear tracked the knight, Hawkstowe, as he rode down a forest track. The beast exuded malice. She had to warn him. She tried to call, then to scream, her throat working frantically, but no sound came out.

  Suddenly, the dream changed. The forest trees dissolved into shadow. When the shadows cleared, she stood on a ladder above a crowd, her throat tight with terror, her eyes on the cross atop a distant church’s steeple.

  Help would not come. If only she’d had the chance, just once to—

  With a gasp, she broke free and opened her eyes. She lay in a bed with a canopy. With curtains, even.

  At Lord Hawkstowe’s house. Safe.

  She hadn’t dreamed of Mother’s death in years. Mayhap all the uncertainty she felt had triggered the vivid images, taking her back to the day that shattered her family’s soul. She hadn’t actually been there when Mother died, of course. Father had forbidden it. But he had gone, lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, and had hardly spoken for days after.

  Wiping sweat from her upper lip with her sleeve, she peeked through the bed curtains. The banked fire left the room dim and chilly. In the far corner, Patience, the young, square-faced maid who’d been assigned to her, slept on a truckle bed. She was not Gifted, but Miranda still felt as though she had more in common with Patience than with the house’s owners.

  She shook her head. For all she knew, this also was a dream. A maid assigned to her. This beautiful chamber with its damask hangings and ornate mantel carved with cherubs and flowers. She’d never slept under a plaster ceiling or known anyone who did.

  She rubbed her eyes. The room didn’t vanish, but she was definitely awake now. She should do as Lady Hawkstowe had asked and write down her dreams while they were fresh.

  The beautiful, green satin dressing gown Lady Hawkstowe had loaned her lay across the corner of the bed. Miranda slipped into it.

  Carefully she lit a candle with flint and tinder and placed it on the delicate table by the window. The beeswax gave off a sweet scent and a steady glow, unlike the rush lights, wicks dipped in fat, they’d used at the Golden Swan.

  Patience sighed, burrowing into her covers, but didn’t rouse. Miranda uncapped the inkwell on the desk and drew paper and a quill pen from the lo
ne drawer.

  All this was so confusing. Why had her gift awakened now, and with such insistence?

  Regardless, she had to learn to control the visions. Making her gift useful was the best way to convince Lord Hawkstowe to value her. To earn enough of his regard and his grandmother’s that they would help her find a new situation. Going back to the inn from a place like this would be even harder than enduring it before had been.

  Chapter 8

  As Richard made his way through his quiet house, he mulled over the changes to Buck’s book. How did Miranda Willoughby’s dream tie into them? How could he and his friends determine that?

  Faint light, as though from a single candle, showed under the door of the yellow bedchamber. Bait, or a guest in need of aid?

  His duty as her host overrode his vague suspicions. He tapped softly on the door. “Mistress Willoughby?”

  Footsteps approached, so quietly that a man with normal hearing wouldn’t have caught the sound. “Lord Hawkstowe?”

  “Yes. Is anything amiss?”

  She opened the door a crack to peer at him around it. “No, I thank you,” she whispered, likely to avoid awakening her maid. “Your grandmother told me to write down my dreams, and I had one, and so I’ve written it down. I was just finishing when you knocked.”

  Beneath her nightcap, her hair had strayed from its loose braid. Her eyes looked too large in her pale face.

  “The dream disturbed you?” he asked.

  “I … some.” Her chin rose as though to ward off pity. “I dreamed of my mother’s death.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “Well, then. Thank you, my lord, for inquiring.”

  She started to shut the door, but his question stopped her. “Can you sleep?”

  “Soon enough, I should imagine. Your lordship need not trouble yourself over me.” Her cheeks flushed as though he had asked her something personal.

  “’Tis no bother. I was going to my library for a drink. Would you like one?”

  She clutched her dressing gown tighter at her throat. “I dislike strong spirits, my lord.”

  “Even my grandmother has a sip of brandy when she cannot sleep. Come, I thought we agreed that you would trust me.” Even though he yet harbored tiny doubts about her.

  “If you’re certain ’tis not improper.”

  “At this hour, who would care? The servants long ago sought their beds.” With a slight smile, acknowledging that she knew how such matters were treated, he added, “Besides, they notice only what I wish them to see.”

  “I suppose you’re right. After all, you hire only the best servants, do you not?” A twinkle flitted through her eyes.

  Smiling, he replied, “Only the best.”

  “Then I thank you, my lord. I confess, I didn’t look forward to trying to sleep.”

  When she stepped into the hallway, he recognized the garment she clutched around her as one of his grandmother’s dressing gowns. He touched her elbow to steer her toward the library, and his blood stirred at the contact.

  Ignoring his reaction, he asked, “You said you’ve had this dream before?”

  “Not quite like this, and it—it felt like the recent ones.”

  “A dream of power, you mean.”

  “Yes, but it came immediately after another vision, and I was … ” She hesitated. “Thinking of Mother’s death always distresses me.”

  “That’s understandable.” He opened the library door and stood back for her to enter first. Stirring the banked fire magically took only a moment.

  She waited in the center of the room, looking at the tall bookshelves. His library might not have the elegance of the one at Aysgarth House, but it must look magnificent to someone from her background.

  “Pray be seated,” he said. “You’ll be warmer near the fire.”

  She chose a low stool by the fireplace, settling onto it so that the full skirts of her shift and dressing gown flowed over her bare feet.

  The subtle gesture proclaimed an innate dignity that survived her reduced circumstances. He had to admire that composure, but mentioning it would be rude. Richard poured brandy into fine silver goblets, taking care not to put much in hers.

  When he turned, his breath caught in his throat. Firelight cast golden highlights over her face and the tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. The loose, modest dressing gown and shift conformed to her shape instead of forcing it to theirs. Thus draped, the curves of her hips and breasts had a seductive power of which she seemed unaware.

  Or was she?

  Oddly, she looked as though she belonged here. Or could. He gave himself a mental shake and handed her the goblet.

  She accepted it with a word of thanks. “You look very elegant, my lord. You must have had a fine evening.”

  “You and my valet would find yourselves in agreement. But yes, seeing my friends is always a pleasure.” He settled into the chair across the hearth from her.

  “Do you want to talk about your dream?” he asked. “It might help you sleep.”

  “It might.” Her face lost the color the firelight had restored. She turned her gaze back to the flames.

  If she’d dreamed of anything useful, he would do better to attend to that than to her beguiling looks.

  After a moment, she said, “I remember only a fragment. I stood somewhere high, looking down on a jeering crowd, and I was so afraid. I looked aside and saw a cross on a steeple. And I knew nothing could save me—as she must have known—and I regretted something—”

  “What was it?” he asked, more to break the chain of parallels that haunted her than to learn the answer.

  “I don’t know. Then I awoke.” Her hands shook, forcing her to use them both instead of one to lift the goblet.

  Richard peered at her. She couldn’t sleep in such a state, and he hadn’t given her nearly enough brandy, even for someone unaccustomed to it, to blot out those memories.

  Perhaps confronting the memory would help. He gentled his voice. “What brought your mother to that point?”

  She stared at the flames. “Mother attended the ailing son of a local Royalist.”

  Richard could guess what was coming, and he hated it. The Royalists, supporters of the newly returned Charles II, had been intent on taking back the lands and authority they’d lost when parliamentary forces, advocating for government without a monarch, killed the prior king. While King Charles had urged tolerance, keeping a certain restraint at court, the struggle had taken some ugly turns out in the country.

  “After the Restoration,” she continued, “as you must know, dissenting clergy like my father lost their places. Father’s was the living on this man’s land. Land a Parliamentarian had taken over during the civil war but had to give back at the Restoration.”

  “The boy died,” Richard said, not needing Sight to guess.

  “Yes. The man said Mother had—that she’d killed his son because we’d lost our home. Father said the man coveted Mother, and she was so beautiful, so generous and kind, that perhaps he did, but nothing swayed him. She ... ” Mistress Willoughby scrubbed at her eyes. “I miss her so much.”

  “Of course you do.” That, at least, was genuine grief. If she was feigning it, she belonged onstage at Drury Lane.

  “So you came to London,” he prompted.

  With a nod, she said, “We had to leave, Father, my brother, and I. Father was distraught, and there was no work for him. He took what he could get, a position in his brother’s bakeshop. He never liked the work. Really, he was never the same after Mother died.”

  She raised her gaze to Richard’s, and the pain there stabbed into his soul. He clenched his fist to keep from offering a comforting touch that might be misconstrued.

  “Father used to read with me,” she told him, “and with Johnny, my brother. After she died, he so rarely wanted to.”

  She gulped her brandy. The coughing that followed, although it seemed to embarrass her, gave her a chance to recover her composure along with her
breath. She mustered a weak smile. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. I don’t usually go on like this.”

  “So I’ve observed. I asked you, remember.”

  She sipped brandy, staring into the fire, and he fought the tug of sympathy. After a moment, he asked, “What else did you dream?”

  “Of you,” she answered slowly. “I saw you riding through a forest. You looked ... sad.” She shot him a glance, then looked down at the hearth. “Then I saw a dark shape in the bushes. It was pacing you. Stalking you, almost.”

  “What shape?”

  “At one point, I saw it clearly. It was a bear.”

  The Wyndon crest included a bear. Careful to keep his voice neutral, he asked, “Is that all?”

  She nodded. “Then the dream changed to the other.”

  Richard nodded. Was this a genuine warning, or was she trying to beguile him by warning him of an enemy he already knew he had?

  “You saw nothing besides the bear?”

  “No.” Her brow furrowed, and she added, “But I could feel that it meant you ill.”

  “I know who the bear is, an earl whose crest is the bear and portcullis.”

  She looked relieved. “What does it—he—want?”

  “Nothing good.” He studied her in the flickering light. “I mentioned the Earl of Wyndon to you on our way back from Dover. That’s his crest.”

  “The man you asked me if I knew.” Her expression tightened, but her gaze didn’t waver. “My lord, I know there are things about me that seem strange to you, but still you’ve given me a chance to change my life. You’ve been kind to me. I wouldn’t bring trouble to your door.”

  Her eyes held only an earnest plea, no trace of calculation or deceit.

  He believed her. Whether he should or not. “You trusted my word when you came here,” he said at last, “so I’ll trust yours now.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him, and his blood stirred again.

  He stared into his goblet. “As for trouble, you’re not the one bringing it, so we’d best hope your lessons progress quickly. You may need them.”