The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “Now,” he said, “tell me why Hawkstowe pulled you out of that inn. What have you done for him in London?”

  “Nothing.” Her fingertips touched the ornate handle. Slid forward until she gripped it. “Let me go.”

  “I think not.” His hand tightened on her arm. “One way or another, you common bitch, you’ll answer me.”

  Over by the window, silvery light shimmered in the corner of her eye, but she scarcely noticed. She caught the tray’s edge and heaved upward. Cheese, bread and knife flew off the table. Lord Wyndon dodged but not in time. The heavy oval banged into his brow.

  His grip relaxed. She broke free and ran.

  “You trollop,” he roared.

  A man sprang past her—Richard! Oh, thank goodness!

  She spun in time to see him plant himself between her and Lord Wyndon. Miranda’s knees nearly buckled from relief.

  “Hold, Wyndon,” Richard ordered in a hard, flat voice.

  Lord Wyndon’s lip curled. “I wondered whether she was yours. Now I know.”

  “She’s my cousin and my guest, and so under my protection. Stand away.”

  “Or what, lordling?”

  The air between the two men suddenly crackled with invisible power. Miranda sidled closer, at an angle so she could see Richard’s face.

  His smile had a dangerous edge. “Do you truly want to find out?”

  “You wouldn’t dare, especially not here.”

  The coiled tension of a cat at a mouse hole thrummed in the lines of Richard’s body. His left hand lightly touched the smallsword at his side.

  “You attacked this woman, so the rules of engagement don’t bar me. As for the place, shall we see who has better credit with His Majesty?”

  Wyndon flushed. Miranda drew breath to speak, to offer a sop to his pride, but a tiny shake of Richard’s head stopped her. Although she pressed her lips together and stayed silent, she couldn’t bear the idea that he might be injured in a duel. Especially not one over her.

  Suddenly, Wyndon straightened. “Another time, stripling.”

  “I look forward to it.” Richard extended his arm to Miranda. “Cousin, let us return to the banqueting house.”

  She laid her fingers on his outstretched forearm and fell into step with him. Judging from the set of his jaw, he had a great deal more to say.

  She didn’t care. Even if he was angry at her for mistakenly trusting George, she had never been so glad to see anyone. “Thank you,” she said, “though that doesn’t begin to suffice.”

  In the corridor, they met Cabot, his face hard. “I’ve handled George,” he said. “I was ready to back you, Richard, if you needed it.”

  “I counted on that.” With a glance at Miranda, he said, “Cabot, will you tell Grandmère where we’ve gone? Miranda and I must talk.”

  The captain nodded and strode toward the banqueting house. Richard led Miranda down a different corridor. He stalked along with a stony face and taut shoulders.

  “This should do.” He stopped and jerked open a door, then stood aside for her.

  A wave of his hand lit the candles in the sconces. Small and scantily furnished with two writing tables and chairs, the room looked like some sort of clerk’s office.

  She marched inside. Surely he wasn’t fool enough to think she’d wanted to meet that frightening man.

  He shut the door. “Are you all right?” Peering into her face, he touched her arm gently.

  “I think so.” Miranda let out a shaky breath. “I was only frightened, not injured.”

  “What happened? Why did you leave the dancing?”

  “Your cousin said he knew about me, about my being from the inn. That other people knew and would tell. I didn’t want you to have trouble over me.”

  “Hellfire.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, George’s upbringing made him a self-centered, overindulged wastrel, something he has no desire to change.”

  “Then I’ve confirmed what was probably a guess. I’m very sorry, Richard.”

  He shook his head. “Had I told you more about George, I doubt you would have left with him. You would have been on your guard.”

  He paused. “Which brings us to Henry de Vere, Lord Wyndon. My family and his branch of the de Veres have had a deadly feud going since the Wars of the Roses. He’ll pass up no chance to do me an injury, and he has the scruples of a viper. I should have told you more about him after your dream about the bear stalking me, but I didn’t think it was something you needed to know.”

  With a nod, she accepted that. “How did you find me?”

  “Cabot saw you leave with George and fetched me. I beg your pardon for not being candid with you about him.” He shook his head. “I’m perhaps too accustomed to keeping my own counsel.”

  “In fairness, Richard, if I had known, I might still have walked into trouble. I didn’t know Lord Wyndon would be there, you see.”

  “I do see, and I don’t blame you. I didn’t know George and Wyndon had formed an alliance, nor did I expect either of them to approach you. Even so, I’d have thought Grandmère and I, between us, could protect you from the likes of them.”

  “You would have, if someone hadn’t fainted in the retiring room.”

  “What’s this?” His brows drew together.

  “As your grandmother and I left the room, someone fainted. It was nearly as close in there as in the banqueting house. The heat could easily trigger a fainting spell, especially in someone laced too tightly.”

  “It could. Still, she fainted at a very convenient time.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re not suggesting that was a ruse?”

  “I neglected to mention something important about Wyndon. He’s not only unscrupulous but Gifted. And not above using bribery or threats to get what he wants.”

  The idea that he’d arranged that fainting scene made sense, too much to ignore. What else had he done? What was that glimmer she’d scarcely noticed?

  She told Richard about it, and his face hardened. “How well did you see it?” he asked. “Could you determine its shape?”

  Miranda shook her head. “I didn’t really look at it. I was more concerned with escaping.”

  “That was clearly the right choice, and you did well.” Solemnly, he added, “You know what has been happening and how much is at stake. Your visions may hold the key to solving the problem. The fact that he’s so interested in you makes me doubly suspicious of him.”

  “But it doesn’t prove anything, does it?” she asked.

  Richard shook his head. “It isn’t enough to lay charges, not with all the allies he has on the Conclave Council. But that glimmer could be important. We must scry it, get a better look at it, as soon as we can.”

  The Hawkstowe carriage bounced over the cobblestones and up White Hall toward the City of London. Although Richard sat in a relaxed posture across from the two women, anger hung in the air around him.

  He glanced at his grandmother. “It’s time she learned defensive uses of magic, Grandmère.”

  “I agree.”

  The exchange reminded her of the way he’d used power at Dover, the things he’d said about blasting open the gaol. Miranda shook her head. “I can’t even hold a vision steady in a fire, and you want me to learn to defend myself with magic?”

  “One’s qualms,” Arabella said, “tend to vanish when one’s safety is at stake.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Miranda replied. They could discuss her reservations later.

  “I shouldn’t have sent her back with someone so prone to distraction as Lady Vale,” Arabella said. Sorrow darkened her eyes. “Richard, about George—”

  “We’re done. He has pushed me too far.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’ve had no reply from Morgan’s handmaidens. I’ll send to them again. We must explore Miranda’s visions.”

  “Who are Morgan’s handmaidens?” Miranda asked. “I meant to ask you the first time you mentioned them, but I became distracted by other topics.�
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  Richard smiled. “That was a busy day. Morgan’s handmaidens are keepers of her pool. As Morgan lay dying, she streamed all her remaining power into a pool at Pendragon, a manor all the Gifted share in Cumberland. The water heightens magical power, but it also compels truth. With my knowledge and your vision, we’ll see in full the omens you’ve glimpsed in fragments.”

  His grandmother responded, “I’ll send to them. You’ve other things to attend to.”

  She lifted the window curtain. “Richard. Miranda. It’s snowing,” she said in wonder.

  Big, fat flakes drifted down to settle like lace on the cobblestones. In London, in October.

  It was past midnight when they climbed out of the coach and walked up the stairs to the door in weary silence. Miranda’s excitement had faded. Her bones throbbed with exhaustion, but sleep seemed unlikely.

  In the foyer, they surrendered their cloaks to the footman. He bustled away, leaving them alone. Arabella turned to her grandson. “I imagine you young people won’t retire yet. Richard, perhaps you could give Miranda a lesson if you aren’t too weary.”

  A lesson. A possible foray into lethal danger. Miranda shot him an uneasy look.

  His gaze held hers. “We’ll see, Grandmère. Good night.” His arm swept toward the stairs, inviting Miranda to precede him. “Miranda, shall we repair to the library?”

  She gathered her skirts. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “We cannot leave it forever, as I explained. Besides, we have much to discuss.”

  “While my last vision stopped when I wanted it to, it took three of you to free me from the one before it. If we’ve only you and me, is that wise?” She sneaked a glance over her shoulder.

  “I’m confident of rising to any challenge. The changing weather is a bad omen. We shouldn’t delay any longer.”

  He was right. Miranda nodded and tried to pretend she wasn’t nervous.

  They climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked down the corridor. The rush matting underfoot muffled the sounds of their footsteps.

  Richard opened the library door. A fire burned low on the hearth. He knelt to add more wood. “Pray be seated, Miranda. By the hearth, if you will.”

  She settled into a carved chair by the fireplace. “Do you always do that?” When he glanced at her in question, she nodded toward the fire he was stoking. “You could summon a footman.”

  “I could, but most of them are abed, and it takes only a moment.”

  What an odd nobleman he was. Perhaps because of what his grandmother had said about not esteeming rank as much as magic.

  “First,” he suggested, “let’s scry that glimmer you thought you saw. Scrying oneself is difficult, so I’ll handle that.”

  “I keep meaning to ask your grandmother, and I forget. What keeps people from scrying each other’s private business?”

  Richard’s mouth crooked up in a wry grin. “Well, there’s the do unto others principle, which might also be called fear of retaliation, and most of us ward our houses against scrying. The Mainwarings always have.”

  “But the unGifted can’t do that.”

  “No, but most of the Gifted don’t concern themselves with folk who are no threat to them. And because scrying doesn’t carry sound, eavesdropping on business decisions isn’t possible.”

  “That isn’t a very reassuring response.”

  “It’s all I have, alas.” He turned back to the fire.

  In moments, an image formed, Wyndon pressing her back against the table. Her throat tightened with the echo of her fear then. The image of her groped for the tray, and a silvery glimmer appeared around the window frame.

  “There,” she said. “Did you see it?”

  The tray slammed into Wyndon’s brow, and the glimmer vanished.

  “I did.” Richard started the scrying anew. As it progressed, his frown deepened.

  “Do you know what that is?” she asked.

  “Not for certain. But he may have been trying to form a passage, to escape without being seen.”

  Miranda frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  His face closed over. She thought he wouldn’t answer, but he said, “There is a way to move unseen from one place to another, by moving outside of time, so to speak.”

  “Do you think that’s what someone has done, making all these changes?”

  With a nod, he said, “I now suspect Wyndon more than ever, but I’ve no proof I can offer that this is possible, and he didn’t actually form a portal.”

  “What about the water from Morgan’s pool? You said it could compel truth. If you drank it and he drank it, wouldn’t that settle the matter?”

  “It that were possible, yes, but Wyndon has allies on the Council. They won’t vote to compel him without a reason that’s beyond doubt. In addition, some members know of the long dispute between his family and mine and are inclined to look askance at my suspicions of him.”

  “But you’re certain he has something to do with it,” she said quietly.

  “Doubly so now, but certainty doesn’t matter nearly so much as proof.” Frowning, Richard asked, “Did Wyndon say anything that might indicate knowledge of how events began to change?”

  She shook her head. “He asked me questions. You said his family and yours had been enemies for generations. Do you think he took this book, this chronicle you mentioned?”

  “He would do it just to spite me. Thanks to an ancestor who drank too much, he knows of my family’s interest in Richard III. On top of that, one of my ancestors exposed a magical plot by one of his to rule England during the Wars of the Roses.”

  His voice dry, he added, “Then, as now, the argument was that we Gifted should take advantage of the upheaval and seize power. If the plot had succeeded, England would likely have found itself in another Chaos Age.”

  “Chaos Age?”

  “The magical conflicts that led to the fall of Camelot and to what we like to call the Dark Ages. Wyndon’s ancestor was executed for misuse of magic against the unGifted, but the Council of that era found a way to prosecute him among the unGifted as well, for treason. The death warrant was signed by King Edward IV and carried out by the Constable of England, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III. They didn’t know they had assistance from the Conclave Council, who bound de Vere’s powers so he couldn’t use them.”

  “So Lord Wyndon has reason, or reason enough for him, to resent King Richard.”

  “And he does.” With a grimace, Richard added, “The enmity became personal between him and me over a chambermaid at Whitehall palace. He used her shamefully and then denied it. I brought the matter to the king’s attention.”

  He knew the king well enough to do that? Miranda gaped.

  The earl didn’t seem to notice. “Wyndon had to pay her a substantial sum and lost a lucrative office.” With a shrug, he added, “The king feels strongly that a man should support his bastards.”

  “Admirable, I suppose,” Miranda said. “If you think Wyndon has this book, can you scry in his house for it?”

  “Not past his wards. Even if I could, that might not help. Time is changing so much and so quickly that scrying into the past now only allows us to see a few days back. A fortnight would be difficult, farther back than that impossible. I’ve been thinking, too, of how we sensed a presence when we talked at the Golden Swan.”

  His eyes narrowed, turning to her. “Think carefully. Did his presence seem in any way familiar?”

  “No.” Frowning, she shook her head. “I was too frightened to notice whether he had the same familiar sense other Gifted do, but I’m sure I’ve never seen him in a dream. At the inn, we both walked through the cold spot. How could someone be standing there?”

  “That would be the question,” Richard told her. “The answer might also explain the sensation of being watched I felt at the inn near Canterbury.”

  Slowly, thinking through the jumble of visions and changes, Miranda suggested, “If he dislikes you so,
perhaps he destroyed this book anyway. And what are wards? I think my mother may have used that word, but not in a lesson.”

  “Wards are magical energy barriers the Gifted erect. They repel most forms of magical intrusion.”

  Standing to pace, the earl continued, “As for the Chronicle, if he took the book, he likely still has it. That family would rather keep than destroy whatever anyone else values. Once something is destroyed, it cannot be used to taunt or torment.”

  He paused, as though struck by an idea, then shrugged. “My grandmother is correct. You must learn defensive magic. We’ll start with using words and gradually move to not speaking.”

  When she nodded, he stood and stepped aside. “Push my chair magically. Tell it to move away, envision what you want, and feed magic into the command.”

  That sounded much easier than scrying or manipulating candles. Miranda stared hard at the chair and imagine it moving. “Away,” she said, and fed power into the image.

  To her amazement, the chair slid back a foot. A triumphant smile tugged at her mouth.

  “Oh, well done!” Richard grinned at her.

  Their gazes locked. His eyes warmed, and his grin faded. Miranda’s heart beat hard. She licked her lips, and heat flashed in his eyes.

  He took a step toward her.

  Muffled footsteps sounded in the hall, approaching the library quickly. Richard’s gaze met hers. “I know that tread,” he said, frowning. “Cabot.”

  At this hour? Her glance shot to the tiny clock on the mantel, which read one o’clock.

  Richard hurried to the door and yanked it open. Still clad in his finery, Cabot Winfield hurried through the door.

  “Richard—” His eyes met hers, and he checked. “I beg pardon. I didn’t think, this late, you’d be occupied.”

  “We were having a lesson,” Richard said. “Miranda, pray excuse us.”

  “Of course.” She rose to leave.

  “No,” Cabot said, “Miranda, stay. My news is no secret.”

  “Then spit it out,” Richard said.

  Grimly, the captain told them, “First, I saw James Beauchamp’s father walking into their house in the Strand on my way here.”

  Richard tensed. To Miranda, he said, “James’s father died more than a decade ago.”