Kit pulled off her concealing veil and wondered if he had merely played the diplomat, or had the sight of the earl pawing at her given him the impetus to intervene? The thought intrigued her as she sat down on the bed next to Bridget and felt her fevered forehead. No one had ever seen fit to rescue her before. Not even Rupert.
The fire in the grate had all but died as Kit undressed by candlelight and slipped into a thin white gown. Though the chamber was deep in shadows, Kit knew there was a small bed in the far corner. She intended to spend the night there so as not to disturb Bridget’s sleep. As she lifted the candle and turned, a strange sound came to her ears from the depths of the shadows. Kit stood still to listen for it again. Finally, she heard a voice speaking in a harsh, laughing whisper. It was an eerie sound.
“The rooster’s found another pretty little hen to decorate his roost!” Kit raised the candle a bit in order to better illuminate the room. A deeper shadow moved in front of the fire, and Kit knew the speaker was there. Too frightened to approach the apparition, she set down the candle and went back to the bed where Bridget lay. Her knife was concealed under the extra pillow. She didn’t know what the intruder wanted, but Kit planned to protect herself and Bridget.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Methinks the wolf this time will thwart our bird and serve him up for supper.”
Bridget moaned a little in her sleep, the sound startling Kit nearly out of her skin.
“You speak nonsense! Come into the light and let me see you.” The last thing she really wanted was to see whatever demon was speaking, but Kit bolstered her courage and demanded a confrontation.
The little bent-over figure moved slowly away from the fire and approached the chest where Kit had set the candle. When finally it stopped near the light, it turned. Kit saw it was nothing but an old woman, bent by a hump on her back, and cloaked in some coarse, dark cloth.
“Ahh! ’Twill be good to see him brought low!” the woman clapped her hands in glee.
“Who are you?” Kit whispered again.
“I?” She looked incredulously at Kit, unable to believe that anyone might not know her. “I am the Countess of Windermere.” She threw her head back and laughed silently. It was a bizarre laugh causing chills to move down Kit’s back as she watched the wretched old thing going through the motions of laughter with no sound.
“I...I thought the Countess...died last spring... You are not, you could not be her...her ghost? Could you?”
More infernal laughter. Kit trembled, certain she was poor Clarisse’s ghost.
“Agatha.”
“What?” Kit whispered, completely confused now.
“I! Me! I am Agatha. Wife of Clarence the Usurper.”
“Who is Clarence?” Kit asked, now totally confused.
“Clarence was the father of the peacock who now struts about Windermere Castle. Philip, he is called.”
The riddles were giving Kit a headache, and she was beginning to suspect that this Agatha was no more an apparition than Bridget.
“What do you want?”
“Take care. He needs a new hen to breed him some chicks. The last could give him no brood.”
“I don’t understand you! Can you not speak plainly?”
“Your wolf will find all he needs if he has the time and knows where to look.”
“My wolf—” She realized with a shock that the woman meant Gerhart, who was never called Wolf. “Who do you mean? What are you saying?”
“Silver eyes. Black thatch. Rightful earl.” Her words were said as though they were part of a song, an oftrepeated song.
“Do you mean Sir Gerhart?”
“Ahh, is that what he is called? Born of Bartholomew and Margrethe. Finally come for his birthright.” The strange silent laugh came over her again.
Finally, the old woman turned and hobbled back into the shadows. And then she was gone.
Kit stood still for a moment, afraid to move. It had been the oddest experience of her life, and she had no idea what to make of it. Had the woman just vanished into thin air? Where else could she have gone? The door hadn’t opened, and she couldn’t possibly have left through the window. Kit finally gathered her courage and went over to light a candelabra. With more light, she verified that the old woman was truly gone.
It was a long time before Kit fell asleep. Awakening early to the sounds of Bridget coughing and wheezing, she got up to administer more of the medicine to her old companion and was unable to go back to sleep. The room was chilly, so she added wood to the fire and then wandered about, puzzling over the events of the previous night.
Unfortunately, not much was clear about the old crow’s visit the night before. She’d said she was Agatha, that much Kit understood. The old earl was Clarence, and Agatha claimed she had been his countess. If that were true, why did the old lady bobble around in the night, appearing and disappearing out of thin air, and babbling riddles like a madwoman? What self-respecting earl would allow his mother to go about in coarse rags, pestering the castle guests?
Kit opened the shutters to see that it was just barely dawn. It seemed a pleasant spring day, the rain having let up sometime during the night. It was still overcast, but the haziness only made the tree trunks seem blacker and the leaves more green. Even the grasses in the distance were more vibrant than Kit remembered. It was a beautiful land with neatly tilled rows on the hills and a good-sized town in the distance.
She poured water into the basin and began washing, when she saw a tiny gray mouse skitter across the room and disappear under a huge tapestry which hung from ceiling to floor. Kit hadn’t paid much attention to it before, for the cloth was darkened and obscured with age, making the details unintelligible.
Wondering about the mouse hole, and thinking to block it up, Kit went over and pulled the tapestry aside enough to search for the crack. Instead, she found more than a mere crack. The tapestry covered a false stone wall, which concealed a door hanging on hidden hinges. A small round hole, just big enough for two fingers was carved into the stone door. Kit put her fingers in, and the catch turned noiselessly. The door swung in heavily.
It was too dark to see into the dank, musty passageway, so Kit lit the candelabra, threw a blanket around her shoulders and went through. She found that the passage was small, only large enough for a narrow spiral staircase, which she began to ascend. Just when Kit was certain the steps would go on forever, the stairs finally ended at a stone door identical to the one in her own chambers. She turned the catch and found herself standing behind a large tapestry. Peeking round it, careful to remain silent, Kit perused what was obviously the bedchamber of Lady Agatha.
The old woman was snoring loudly in her bed which was as heavily draped as the bed in Kit’s own chamber where Bridget now slept. The room was dark as well, with Kit’s candelabra casting long darting shadows along the floor and walls. As she moved into the room, Kit began to reconsider the prudence of breaching the chamber of a sleeping madwoman.
Before she was able to withdraw, however, Agatha’s dark eyes opened and focused on Kit. “Well, well.”
“Yes, well, I...I wondered how you got into my room...” Kit said awkwardly. She felt like an intruder yet the old woman had intruded into Kit’s room only the night before.
“I waited for you.”
“For me?”
Agatha sat up in the bed and crouched her head down into her shoulders. She smiled, displaying more pink gum line than teeth. “For you. Of course.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid down to the floor. Nodding her head, she hobbled over to the window. Drawing the shutters aside, Agatha looked down into the courtyard three stories below and satisfied herself that no one was about. While Kit stood watching, Lady Agatha went across the room to a little wooden footstool and carried it back to the window. She turned and winked at Kit, then stepped up, reached out of the window and struggled to pull a loose chunk of granite free of the outside wall.
“I
can’t do it. You’ll have to get it out.”
“What?”
“The stone!” she cried impatiently. “The stone! What he needs to—ach! Here, reach thus.” She got Kit to stand on the footstool, and now the old woman was making her reach outside the window. “Pull and tug gently. Your fingers will find the prize.”
Agatha’s antics were beginning to annoy Kit, and she wished she had never come up to the old lady’s room. To humor the old woman, Kit played along, although she couldn’t help but wonder where this game would lead. Then, as she was about to pull her arm back inside, her hand happened upon the loose brick.
Carefully, Kit pulled the stone away and turned around to hand the heavy piece to Agatha.
“That’s it! That’s it! The rooster will broil for lunch!”
Kit reached back outside and put her fingers into the gap. There, she felt a canvas cloth holding something solid, heavy and metal, about the size of a large coin. She pulled it out to see that it was a large, ornate ring: a seal on which was engraved a peacock, its feathers fully extended.
“Whose signet is this?”
“’Tis the seal of Bartholomew Colston, once lost, once stolen, only to be made anew and different, too.”
“Your riddles baffle me, good woman. Can you not speak plainer?”
“Show it only to the wolf and no other, else harm will come to you.”
Exasperation finally overcame her efforts at good will. “Well, I think I’ll just leave this little treasure here,” Kit said as she returned the seal to the niche in the wall. Why the woman was hiding it from Philip was no concern of hers, and she didn’t want to get involved in their dispute.
“No!” Agatha hissed. “You must take it! Conceal it and show it to no one but the wolf.”
“Please, Lady Agatha,” Kit said even as she reluctantly retrieved the seal again. “I have no wish to enter into your personal affairs with your son. I—”
“Do not call that vulture my son! He is not of my blood!”
“Well, whoever he is, perhaps you ought to give him back his seal, if that’s what this is.” Kit tried to hand it to the woman, but she closed Kit’s fingers around it.
“Why do you refuse to understand?” Agatha demanded in frustration. “Take it! Hide it! The wolf will know what to do with it!”
Kit sighed. She took the iron seal, picked up the candelabra and wrapped herself again in the blanket. “All right, Lady Agatha,” Kit said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.” Returning to the hidden door, Kit turned back to Lady Agatha, who appeared satisfied.
“I’ve waited so many years... Tell him to seek Tommy Tuttle in London. Mayhap he will tell more...”
“Who is Tommy Tuttle?”
More silent laughter, but no answer. “Let no one know of this passage,” Agatha admonished.
Kit turned and slid behind the tapestry and out the door. Within a few short minutes, she was in her own bedchamber with Bridget. It was as if she’d never left.
The gash on Kit’s lip was practically gone, and she smiled broadly at the sights and sounds of the fair as she rode into town with the earl and his party. The bruise about her eye was a pale greenish-yellow color, and was not as fierce looking as it had been only the day before. Lord Philip lent her a horse, and though she was compelled to ride sidesaddle due to her gown, it was a pleasant day to be out of doors, moving about freely.
She had never traveled beyond Somerton, and the markets held there had been small and quite unremarkable. The fair that day at Windermere was amazing to Kit, though not unexpected, since everything about the earl’s holding was large and lavish. The town was wonderful, full of noise and color, music and entertainment. The smells of food being cooked in the open air made her mouth water, and the sight of excited children running about through the stalls was exhilarating.
The richly garbed earl rode beside her, and Wolf was some distance back with Nicholas, Hugh and a few of his men. Kit couldn’t help but notice that the townspeople and yeomen kept their distance from her and his lordship. The people’s eyes remained downcast and they held their tongues. Once the earl passed, they put their hands to their mouths and muttered quietly among themselves.
The hostility of the people was not lost on Wolf, either. He knew that when he finally managed to wrest his title and estates from Philip, it would be a difficult task to right the wrongs done in the intervening years. He remembered Philip well enough to realize that the wrongs would be many and fierce.
Kit was assisted from her mount by the earl. Wolf watched the two walk toward the nearest of the stalls, where a merchant stood selling intricately tooled leather belts and purses. She hadn’t spoken to him at all since the night before, and Wolf found he missed her annoying chatter. Her head was modestly covered again today, and she wore a concealing cloak over a wine-colored gown with long, flowing sleeves. Though her clothing only hinted at her feminine form, one thing had become perfectly clear. Lady Kathryn Somers was no child, and her lack of courtly style only enhanced her mystique.
The urge to kiss her last night had been a powerful one, and he had to admit Kathryn was more compelling a woman than the intriguing blonde he’d thought he wanted at Somerton Lake. Just the thought of holding Kit again as he had in his room last night was enough to send a painful ache through him. He scowled at his own lack of discipline. She was just a woman. And she belonged to Rupert Aires. Wolfs task was only to get her to London. Nothing more.
To Wolf’s immense satisfaction, it seemed that Kathryn was not pleased to be forced into the earl’s company. She moved away from Philip frequently to converse with the other lords and ladies, but the earl always managed to take her arm again to draw her away from the others.
“My dear Lady Kathryn,” Lord Philip said, “come this way. I must show you a shop down this lane.”
As the earl and Kathryn wandered down the muddy lane, a couple of young boys came running through, kicking a large round stone, each trying to keep the other from getting it. The game grew rough, and one of the boys took a tumble. He slid through an immense puddle of mud, and inadvertently splashed Kathryn.
Philip was incensed. Wolf watched as the earl lashed out at the boy, picked him up by the ear and held him in a vicious grip until one of his men, an evil-looking fellow called Ramsey, came to take charge of the lad. The boy, only about ten years old or so, began to cry.
“P-please your lordship,” he wailed, “I’m sorry. I—I never meant—”
“You unruly beggar! Have you no sense? I ought to hang you and the miserable, flea-bitten dogs who spawned you...”
Wolf was angered by Philip’s exaggerated reaction to the offense. True, a goodly amount of mud had slopped onto Kit’s cloak, but Philip was slapping the boy senseless. Surely this kind of treatment was unnecessary and would only breed resentment in the townspeople. Talk of this type of incident spread like wildfire.
“I want him punished! Nail him! See to it!” Philip shouted as two more of his evil-looking cronies started for the lad.
“What can you do?” Nicholas asked, sensing Wolfs anger.
“Nothing, damn it. Nothing,” Wolf clenched his fists and stood fast.
“If you interfere, Philip will take offense and then Henry—”
“Bloody hell if I don’t know it, Nick!” Yet he somehow had to stop Philip from maiming the child. The boy would soon find his ear nailed to a post, or his foot or hand impaled if Wolf didn’t act. It was an untenable situation! He had to—
“Mercy!” Kit herself intervened. She wrapped one arm around the boy’s shoulder and chest from behind and kept him from being taken away by the guards. “Please, my lord! Hold!” she pleaded.
Wolf watched as she protected the boy with her own body, caring not a whit for the mud smearing onto her own clothes from the boy’s, nor the threat of Philip’s guards. Several of the earl’s party had caught up now and were observing the incident with interest.
“My lord, since I am the victim, will you not allow me to punish
the culprit?”
“Culprit? You call him merely ‘culprit’?” Philip sneered. “I say he’s a menace and ought to be—”
“Please, my lord...” she said sweetly, her tone belying the loathing she felt for the earl at that moment. The evil gleam in his eye was reminiscent of that which Baron Somers always had, just as he was about to lash out at her. Her heart pounded at the memory, and she gathered her courage to speak up for the lad. “Let me determine the boy’s fate.”
“Why not, my lord?” this from a voice from within the earl’s group.
“Yes, how amusing. Let Lady Kathryn determine the lad’s penalty.”
Philip gestured his guards away.
“What have you in mind?” the earl asked, attempting to appear as if this turn of events was perfectly acceptable. His nostrils flared, his upper lip quivered and Kit was not fooled by his mild tone. He was a perfectly hateful man.
Wolf watched as Kit turned the boy to face her. He could see that she was trying to calm him with a kind look, yet she needed to appear stern for the benefit of the earl.
“Since the lad has nothing better to do than harass unsuspecting ladies,” she said firmly, “let him follow along as my page. He shall carry my packages, run my errands, tend to my whims.” A murmur of assent went through the group. Few of them believed the lad deserved nailing for his offense. “It should be more than enough punishment for a boy who, I’m sure, would much rather play on a day as beautiful as this.”
Wolfram could almost see Kit holding her breath as she waited for the earl’s decision, and something in his chest twisted as he watched her quiet torment. Had he been closer, he’d have had to guard against kissing her for her sense of justice and her attempt to keep the boy from suffering such a brutal penalty for merely being a careless child.
The Bride of Windermere Page 7