“That’s a frightening idea.” Looking wary, she picked up her goblet. “Why might I suddenly need to use magic?”
Watching the firelight play over her face, he replied, “For good or ill, you’re caught up in this, and great matters may be in motion. You’ve a role to play, and there’s no certainty it’s limited to visions.”
“I’m a clergyman’s daughter. A serving maid.” She raised startled eyes to his, and they were dark with fear. “I’m no one.”
“Dreams of power don’t come to no one.” He studied her for a moment. “If you aren’t sleepy, let’s have a lesson.”
He took the goblet gently from her fingers and set it with his on the small table beside him.
“Now, look into the fire. Imagine someone or something you’d like to see.”
“It would be good to see Lucy, from the inn. What do I do?”
“Hold the image and extend your power to the fire until you can feel it flicker. Then look for what you seek there.”
A crease formed on her smooth brow. Her magic brushed his, so he knew she was trying, but the fire crackled merrily, producing no images.
Perhaps they should start with something more basic. “Do you know how to open your senses and see if you’re alone?”
When she nodded, he said, “Do that. Good. I feel your power in the room. Now I’ll do the same. Tell me what you feel.”
“It’s a light touch. Whispery. On my neck. It tingles.”
“Good. That’s my magic and yours mingling. Now I’m going to scry in the fire.”
An image formed, his grandmother seated at a table in an elegant bedchamber.
“Do you see it?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “Turn your perceptions toward the fire and away from me. Aim them that way, if you will.”
“All right.”
“Do you feel the way the flame flickers, the way it crackles around the logs?” When Miranda nodded, he added, “Hold that feeling and think of the image you seek replacing that one.”
“I would like to see Lucy. I miss her.”
The vision in the fire wavered. Flickered away. Died.
Nothing replaced it.
His guest bit her lip and blew out a breath, her face frustrated. “I don’t feel it anymore.”
“It takes practice. Let’s try again.”
An hour later, she was slumped with fatigue, but she couldn’t achieve even a faint image. It was time to stop.
“We can try again when you’re not so weary,” he told her. “Don’t worry. Controlling magic takes time and practice.”
She nodded but didn’t look reassured.
“The control will come,” he told her. “We’ve had a long journey the last few days, harder on you than on me. It’s no wonder you’re tired. Do you think you can rest now?”
“Yes. My lord, thank you for your kindness.”
“You’re welcome. We can try again tomorrow. My grandmother taught me and may be able to offer suggestions I cannot.”
He smiled at her and opened the library door. “I’ll walk down with you.”
She looked surprised but didn’t protest. They walked back to her room in silence. Before she closed the door, she gave him a solemn look. “You’ve been very kind. I’m in your debt, my lord. A good night to you.”
“To you as well.” Richard turned back toward the library. Despite what he had let her believe, he had too much on his mind to sleep for a good while yet.
He poured himself another drink and settled into his favorite chair by the hearth. His glance fell on the footstool where she’d sat.
I’m in your debt, she’d said. If she could help him end the family curse, he would owe her a debt far greater than she could imagine.
Miranda walked toward the library the next morning with a sense of anticipation. As a treat, Lady Hawkstowe had ordered chocolate for Miranda with the morning meal—taken in her bedchamber, as though she were a real lady. Patience had served the sweet, expensive drink as casually as though it were water.
Now Miranda and Lord Hawkstowe and his grandmother would discuss her vision. Mayhap her dreams as well. She had her written account in hand. Better to think of that than of seeing his lordship again.
He’d given her a gift last night, one he probably didn’t recognize as such. She’d been honest with him about her dreams and about her family. Not since Mother’s death had she been able to speak so candidly. He’d been kind and understanding, signs of a warm heart under his stern demeanor.
During the last several days, she’d come to like him. Even to admire him. His rare smiles warmed her. When they’d met, he’d called her pretty dragon maid. Even if he’d said it sarcastically, he wouldn’t have used pretty unless he thought her so.
Where was the harm in appreciating all that? Especially so long as she kept the gap in their stations in mind.
When she entered, the room looked welcoming. Rain drummed on the library windows, but even the grayish light couldn’t dim the rich maroon, gold, and blue tones in the lush carpet draped across the table. The carpet, the leather-bound books, and the embroidered chair cushions proclaimed this family’s wealth.
What did it say about her, that she was not so wide-eyed at its lavishness as she’d been just last night?
Lord Hawkstowe stood by the hearth, one elbow on the mantel. His pleasant but impersonal nod of greeting, a contrast to the sympathetic interest of last night, jabbed her with disappointment. She shouldn’t be surprised, though. Last night, he’d been offering comfort. Today, he’d returned to the business at hand.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Mistress Willoughby. We’ll wait for my grandmother, but pray be seated.”
Miranda settled herself onto the stool again. The fire’s hearty warmth still seemed like such a luxury.
Lady Hawkstowe entered, waving at Miranda to remain seated. She took the armchair across the hearth from her grandson but looked at Miranda, who pushed down the disquieting sensation born of having someone’s attention on her without her glamours. She would grow accustomed in time, of course, but it still felt strange.
The older woman asked, “How are you today, my dear?”
“Well enough, my lady. I had two dreams last night and recorded them as you asked.” She handed the papers to the older woman, who glanced over them before setting them aside.
“Richard mentioned that you had a difficult night and told me a bit about your dreams. I’ll look these over more thoroughly later.”
Frowning, Lady Hawkstowe leaned forward in her chair. “The meaning of these dreams may tie into the one that led you to summon Richard. Did they seem connected? Or give you any insight into the earlier vision?”
“Not that I could see, milady, but I’ve scant knowledge of heraldry.”
“Richard, what do you think?”
“As yet, I see no connection between last night’s dreams and the dragon vision, though the one about the bear may indicate Wyndon’s involvement.”
He stared into the fire crackling on the library hearth. She smoothed the worn skirt of her pink gown, once again feeling out of place. At least the angle of her body hid the beer stain near her hip so it wasn’t visible to the others.
Finally, he said, “Assuming we can trust the obvious interpretation, the red dragon, the Welsh symbol, represents the Welsh King Henry Tudor, and the boar, King Richard III. The stag would be Sir George Buck, one of the first to write a book defending King Richard.”
“But how can that be?” Miranda asked. “In the dream, the dragon is evil, not the boar. But everyone knows King Richard was the monster, not King Henry. He was two years within his mother’s womb and was born with long teeth, a wicked, withered hunchback, as befits one of such evil intent. Why, King Richard slew his own nephews to gain the crown. He—”
“Enough!” The word snapped from Hawkstowe’s lips as sharply as the crack of a wagoner’s whip.
Shock stopped the words on Miranda’s lips, and she recoiled.
/> “Richard,” Lady Hawkstowe said sternly.
His eyes sparked with irritation and something else Miranda couldn’t read. The look between them held while the heat in his eyes slowly died.
At last, he said, “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have taken such a tone with you.”
“I meant no offense, my lord.” At least her voice held steady.
His chest rose in a deep breath. “Of course not. However, I suggest you not rely in this matter on what everyone knows, lest you find yourself led astray.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What everyone thinks they know about King Richard,” he told her, his voice flat, “amounts to no more than a pack of lies concocted to prop up Henry Tudor’s shaky claim, through a bastard line, to the throne of England.”
“But how can that be? Surely a king wouldn’t do such a thing!” She looked to Lady Hawkstowe for support but found the dowager countess smiling at her indulgently.
“In fact,” the older woman said, “kings from time immemorial have often done just that to one degree or another while assuring themselves they merely did God’s will.”
Hawkstowe added, “In fact, King Richard was a well-favored man born after the usual time in the womb. He administered almost half of England for his royal brother in a just and honest manner. As a battle commander, notwithstanding his insane final charge, he had few peers.”
“Perhaps,” Miranda conceded hesitantly, “but what about his nephews, the princes in the Tower?”
“Bastards, the result of a bigamous marriage, not princes. They weren’t murdered on his account or by his wish.” He sounded so definite.
“How do you know that?”
The ice of winter hardened his eyes. “Because my ancestor unwittingly helped the true murderer and so incurred a blood debt I am sworn to avenge. Not only in your dream but in truth, I am the boar’s knight.”
His talk of blood oaths and knightly quests sounded like something from an old tale, but she couldn’t dismiss it, not after her haunting vision or in the face of his certainty. The ice in his eyes looked not so solid now. Behind it, something that might have been pain roiled.
Softly, Lady Hawkstowe said, “Very dramatic, Richard.”
The ice dissolved, giving way to frustration. He shot his grandmother a sour look.
“As it happens,” he said to Miranda, “I learned something last night that reminded me of one of your early visions. One of King Richard III’s defenders wrote a history of his life that contradicted the traditional account. The history drew on a monastic chronicle that contained the only known version of the parliamentary act settling the crown on Richard III instead of his nephew.”
“Parliament did that? I never knew of it.”
“Likely because Henry Tudor ordered all existing copies burned unread.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Not precisely the act of a man who had confidence in his own claim.”
“When did someone notice the change in the book?” Lady Hawkstowe asked, frowning.
“The day of the White Rose banquet.” To Miranda, he added, “That’s an annual gathering in honor of Richard III’s memory.”
Grimly, he continued. “Everything connected to that monastic chronicle has disappeared from the printed text, leaving no gaps or obvious omissions. As though by magic. Only the Gifted remember how the book read before.”
“And I had a dream about the pages of a book changing.” Miranda looked directly at him. “You didn’t mention this last night.”
He shrugged. “It could wait until this morning, and you had enough on your mind.”
“Speaking of books,” his grandmother said, “I’ve lost a spell primer, the one that appears to unGifted eyes to be a volume of poetry.”
“Didn’t you lend it to Lady Parkhurst?”
“Yes, but she returned it a fortnight ago. I thought we might need it for Miranda’s lessons.”
Frowning, Hawkstowe replied, “I’d say it must be here somewhere, but too much odd has happened of late. We’d hoped the changing book was an isolated incident, but if your book is truly gone, then there are likely others.”
“Since we cannot solve that problem at the moment,” Lady Hawkstowe said, “Miranda, let’s consider your visions, by which I also mean your visionary dreams, further.”
Miranda nodded in acknowledgment, and the older woman continued. “What Richard said about the symbols does fit the vision. I know little of these matters, yet I wonder whether such a thing would have so clear a meaning.”
The earl turned to his grandmother. The older woman looked thoughtful.
At last, she said, “Richard has told you the truth about Richard III and Henry VII, regardless of what you may have been told to the contrary. Given that you do believe to the contrary, however, I wonder whether we’ve read the dream aright. Perhaps the correct interpretation would fit more with something you’ve always believed.”
Hawkstowe said, “How could it? We cannot reverse the symbols.”
“No, Richard, but perhaps they have nothing to do with kings and princes long dead. Perhaps they refer instead to something more current. Perhaps something in Mistress Willoughby’s life?”
Naught in her restricted life could evoke such images. Miranda shook her head.
Thoughtfully, Lady Hawkstowe continued, “A magical vision rarely flies in the face of a seer’s beliefs, and Mistress Willoughby has always accepted the unfortunate, traditional view of King Richard. A vision must include something the one it touches can believe, else the seer may refuse to acknowledge it.”
Miranda’s cheeks warmed. She looked down at her worn shoes. “The knight in the dream serves good. I’ve always believed in the noble goodness of knights.”
“Then you are worse educated than I thought,” Hawkstowe said dryly.
How dare he belittle her? She looked up, but his smile softened his words. He’d meant only to lighten the moment. She smiled in return and the warmth in his eyes made her breath catch.
He means naught by it, she reminded herself.
“Well, then,” Lady Hawkstowe said, “that might have sufficed. In any event, you must pursue this dream. We must make certain of its meaning.”
“Yes, milady.” Perhaps that pursuit would involve more lessons in magic.
Again, Hawkstowe and his grandmother exchanged a look. Miranda gathered her courage. “Have I said something wrong?”
Chapter 9
Again, a look passed between the earl and his grandmother. He said quietly, “It’s nothing to do with you. Your visions offer hope of solving the unsolvable, and I distrust that hope.”
Knowing the pain of false hope, Miranda could understand that.
“In the meantime,” he added, “there’s a custom we’ve neglected. Among ourselves, England’s Gifted use one another’s given names.”
That was a staggering notion. Miranda frowned. Had she heard him correctly?
He explained, “It’s an acknowledgement of kinship, and I should have broached it sooner. I would like you to call me Richard and allow me to call you Miranda.”
“And I am Arabella,” his grandmother said.
Were they were having a joke at her expense? Their solemn faces made that unlikely.
“As you wish,” she said, though the custom was astonishing.
The older woman smiled. “Good. Let’s return to the business that brings us all here. Richard, what are you doing about the Chronicle’s disappearance?
“Jeremy’s looking into that.” To Miranda, he said, “Jeremy is a friend, and the Chronicle is the monastic record I mentioned earlier. For several centuries, the monks of Croyland Abbey compiled reports of events in England. The particular volume that relates to the symbols of your dream has gone missing.”
His grandmother directed a speculative look at him. “Without subsequent visions, which may or may not come, to clarify this one, Morgan’s pool offers our best hope of refining it.”
The earl nodded agreement. When Mi
randa gave him a puzzled look, he added, “The pool has properties that may help us explore your dream.”
“What does it do?”
Lady Hawkstowe—Arabella—said, “It will put the two of you into a vision that matches yours, possibly even show you related events. You could do this alone, but since Richard has more training and appeared in your vision, his help may be essential.”
Blood debts and magic pools. She had fallen into a realm of legends made real.
“Is it dangerous?” she asked.
Arabella said solemnly, “Blood magic is always dangerous.”
A chill ran down Miranda’s spine. She’d used blood to make her dragon, never dreaming she ran a risk. Had she simply been lucky, or were some uses less dangerous than others?
“The pool is in Cumberland,” Hawkstowe—Richard!—stated, “at a place called Pendragon Manor. We can leave tomorrow.”
Traveling. A horse. Or worse, a coach that would make her ill. Oh, pray, no. Miranda groped for an excuse to delay.
“Ah, but you cannot,” his grandmother said. “Have you forgotten the masque at Whitehall on Monday next?”
“I would as soon forget it,” he said.
“Richard, the queen expects us. If you mean to beg off, you’ll need a better excuse than the reputation of a king two centuries dead. Besides, I’ve already sent to the palace to ask if we may bring our young cousin, who has lately joined our household.”
The dowager countess smiled at Miranda, who gazed back in bewilderment. She had met no cousin.
“You cannot be serious.” Wonder tinged Richard’s voice. “Those hyenas will do to her what the lions meant to do to Daniel.”
Realization dawned, but ... Surely not. “You mean me?” Miranda gulped, trying to settle her voice. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Arabella replied, “It will give you a chance to meet the Gifted nobility, who might be useful in finding you a new place. As for the courtiers, Richard, who are any of them to question a kinship we claim? We can scarcely leave our guest here alone while we jaunt off to court. Besides, every good Englishman or Englishwoman should see the king at least once, don’t you think?”
The Herald of Day Page 10