But at the center of this raging maelstrom was the tall, lean, and stalwart form of Right Reverend Moorcroft Ainsley, a steady hand at the tiller, a voice of courage in the dark, a man of faith and reason preaching of love and forgiveness.
By the time Isabel had made her way from the room she shared with Tuppence, it was an hour past dawn and the reverend already had preached three sermons. She found the angular clergyman in the courtyard, speaking in reassuring tones, waving benedictions to smiling parishioners, and filling the place with hope. Isabel had never been much for religion in her old life, but Reverend Ainsley was such a decent, pious, and godly man. The world, this world and her old, needed more men like him.
She now felt a little guilty for having awoken in such a bad temper, a notion that only compounded the shame she felt over the peculiar thoughts that earlier had sprung to mind over what the reverend actually had been up to with Mrs. Villeneuve in New Market. Honestly, having grown up in the American South, one would expect her to have a better opinion of ministers.
Swallowing her guilt, she left the reverend to his duties and sought out Tuppence, who she found in the common room with her nose buried in a book, an item Isabel learned the reverend had gifted her that very morning. (It was something about a girl who beguiles a dragon.) The two young women spoke briefly, and as Isabel awaited her breakfast, she attempted to coax Tuppence into further conversation.
“I’m sorry I retired before you returned last night,” she began. She gave the reticent young woman a moment to reply and then continued. “Did the reverend need your help with something?”
Tuppence lay down her book. “He didn’t exactly need my help, but I felt I needed to be there.”
“Oh,” Isabel replied. Tuppence for all her moodiness was still the very heart of goodness. “Do you think I might help the reverend in some small way?”
For some reason a blank look flashed across Tuppence’s face, followed by a tiny smile. “You should ask him,” was all the Surrey girl said.
Before Isabel could form another thought, there was a great commotion in the courtyard, followed by a tremendous shout.
“Fornicator!”
✽ ✽ ✽
Isabel was shocked and horrified at the scene she and Tuppence found in the courtyard. Moments before, there had been a series of shouts of “fornicator” and “adulterer” in the yard, and when she and Tuppence had gone to investigate, they’d found a half dozen men, swords in hand, facing the good Reverend Ainsley. The man at their center, upon whom Isabel had never laid eyes, continued to shout.
He was accusing Reverend Ainsley of having taken unnatural and depraved advantage of the man’s wife. It wasn’t until she heard the man’s name, Villeneuve, that she began to color and bite her lip. Certainly not. Certainly, her own perverse imaginings couldn’t have been true. There no doubt was something pompous and maybe even a little unctuous about the reverend, but she was as sure as the sky was blue that he wouldn’t engage in any such base and immoral depravity. The man starved himself of every pleasure life had to offer.
The answer was obvious. The same set of silly coincidences that had led Isabel to her momentary and shameless suspicion must have been latched onto by someone who didn’t know the reverend. In this world, as in her own, rumors had a life of their own — though in Albion the results were far deadlier. This realization only deepened her shame at having participated in such a farce, even if only in her own heart.
As she stepped forward to intercede, a strong hand gripped her arm and pulled her back. Tuppence.
The young girl shook her head. “There’s no interfering, Lady Isabel.”
With a feeble cry, Isabel’s hands flew to her mouth. She knew the girl was right. The telltale reddening of the minister’s left cheek said it all. The man, Villeneuve, had struck Reverend Ainsley across the face before she and Tuppence had arrived. A blood duel was the only reply to such an affront.
Something began to grow in her, a fear, a terror, an enormous sense of dread and loss. Its source was clear, and it was an overwhelming sensation that caused her body to tremble and her knees to feel weak. What sort of world was this? First it took fair Sir Utrecht, her first friend and only protector, and now sweet and pious Reverend Ainsley. What would that man know about wielding a sword? This was a land that found the best and purest and sought to grind them to nothing.
Somehow, she found herself back at the table where minutes before she’d been with Tuppence. The young Surrey lass had taken up her book and appeared to be leafing through, as if attempting to discern where she’d left off. What kind of people were these? Even Tuppence!
“This is no time to read!” She snapped those words and regretted them instantly, but before she could apologize, she saw a look on the face of Tuppence. Had the youngster just rolled her eyes?
Tuppence sighed and began to speak. “Lady Isabel, this is the way of things. But don’t fret. Among the common folk and lower gentry, there’s hardly ever a fight to the death. Most likely, someone will get poked or cut up a tad. And besides….” The girl seemed to grope for words. “Those skinny ones are a lot slipperier than you’d think. Ah, um … a wiry fella like the preacher will prove himself just fine.”
As if in afterthought, Tuppence scooted a short way down the bench they shared and awkwardly placed her arm around Isabel, cradling the woman’s head on her shoulder and no doubt, Isabel suspected, rolling her eyes all the while.
✽ ✽ ✽
All Deirdre wanted was to find out whether the beryl stone in the necklace would summon the ether dragon or the frost drake, but every time her eyes strayed to the new book Reverend Ainsley had given her, she felt Lady Isabel’s cold and disapproving gaze upon her. Deirdre wished there was some way she could inform the anxious and frightened woman that there was nothing about which she needed to worry. The fix was in. And she needn’t agonize over burying another friend. By all rights, Robert Villeneuve was an accomplished duelist, but he had about as much chance of besting the tall and gangly reverend as he had of sprouting wings and flying.
Though she knew it not, Isabel’s protector was as safe as a bug in a rug. But it would be a short while before the young woman found that out.
Under some ancient writ, a duel between commoners could not be fought until two bells had passed after the challenge, and even now, as Villeneuve warmed up his fencing arm in the field yonder, the Fiend was over in same said field, overegging the pudding. Reverend Ainsley’s pious devotions, which at first had been amusing, even touching, now were getting a little monotonous. How many confessions could he take? How many blessings could he bestow? How many benedictions, benisons, orisons, prayers, and supplications?
How many prayer chains could he start, fervently praying for Robert Villeneuve’s immortal soul? In front of the crowd, and it was a crowd of almost carnivalesque proportion that awaited the duel, the good reverend was acting like the cuckold Villeneuve was the victim of some grotesque injustice — which he in fact was, in several deeply ironic ways, but no one other than Deirdre and the Fiend knew that. Only they two knew for certain Mayor Villeneuve — for he was mayor of the local township — was a dead man.
There was a smidge of curiosity in Deirdre about how the Fiend would pull it off, whether the reverend would get in one lucky swipe or whether Mayor Villeneuve would accidently fall on his own sword. Truth was, she had no guess how the man’s death would come to pass, but there was no question the Right Reverend Ainsley would come out smelling like a rose.
She found herself smiling and bit her lip to stop. Glancing up, she caught sight of a tremulous and pale Isabel standing near the great oak under which combat was soon to commence. The poor thing looked a nervous wreck, and Deirdre did want to ease her worry in some way. But the Surrey lass just wasn’t good at acting and was unable to veil her indifference, a shortcoming which had rendered her earlier attempts to comfort her companion somewhat counterproductive.
Deirdre just couldn’t bring herself to put on a face she did
n’t feel and instead sat bored, deeply bored.
She thought of just grabbing the book and dashing upstairs for a few undisturbed pages of reading — the tome cried out to her from where it rested on a satchel to her right — but that would only aggravate the Isabel problem. No, she had to pretend to … oh … to do what?!
She leaned back in the soft grass, and it occurred to her that there was some method to all this. The Fiend hadn’t said he was without a plan. He said he was without a full plan. So there had to be something there, some reason or rhyme for why … well, why he was about to skewer the good mayor. If truth be told, she hadn’t really thought about why the Fiend had turned his attentions to Mrs. Villeneuve two nights before (nor why he’d been so flagrant in doing so — they’d kept half the inn awake with their clamorous coupling), and it hadn’t seemed appropriate to ask. Now it was obvious. The creature was looking for a reason to inter the woman’s husband.
She found herself frowning.
Why would he need a reason? He’d always before just pounced. Perhaps the good Lady Villeneuve had been available when the husband was not? Hmm…. No. Couldn’t the so-called reverend have waited for the man? Or gone looking for him? They weren’t exactly on a time schedule … were they?
She cleared her head and frowned more deeply.
Hullo, she thought. First the magistrate in the road, then the sheriff in the privy, then the bishop in the … well, not the belfry, but that sounded good, and then the prosecutor under the oak. And now the township mayor under a different oak.
“Damn,” she whispered to no one.
Why those men? The slaughter had seemed random at first, since the fools simply popped up along the way as she and the Fiend had travelled, but why Gheet officials? Now it seemed less random, and she wondered how the Fiend knew each would be in just the right place to do his nasty bit of work on them.
The wind? She’d really never pressed him on what that meant, but it was the Fiend’s frequent reply to how he knew things he ought not. The wind told him.
Okay, set that aside. Why those men?
She never knew the names of those murders, thieves, and rapists who’d victimized her family and friends, but she could name twice two-score Gheet families who were the worst tormentors of the Surrey in Edwin Township. Like as not, you could kill at random any seven men from any of those families and be sure to send at least one murderer to Hell.
But why Gheet grandees and not those men? Was it some collective punishment the Fiend had in mind for the entire Gheet community, as he once had mentioned? Because if so, it honestly was not a well-thought-out plan. The louts upon whom the Fiend so far had snacked were miserable bastards, but they weren’t the worst of the Gheets. In fact, those five were the men most responsible for upholding law and order — or what laughingly passed for such in Blenheim County. Gheet thugs might feel license to torment their Surrey neighbors, steal their land and livestock, and butcher their youth, but at least having the law there did something, kept them in check in some minor way.
Not that the situation of her folk could get much worse, but how was the Fiend helping?
She found herself frowning even more deeply.
Deirdre was so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed the murmur of the crowd had softened, and when she did, it occurred to her the frightful sound of steel on steel rang out nearby. With an indifferent sigh, she rose and ambled in that direction. Might as well see how the Fiend intended to put a cap on his most recent shenanigans.
✽ ✽ ✽
It took Deirdre no time at all to get Isabel undressed and ready for bed. The young woman hadn’t exactly celebrated the reverend’s “miraculous deliverance” at the duel that day, but she had been so relieved that she’d imbibed far more than she should. Isabel was out like a light, and Deirdre was free to feed her curiosity.
She put the book away, blew out the lamp, and locked the door after leaving the room the two shared. She had a good sense of where the good reverend would be at that moment, and if nothing else had changed in her life, she’d now developed a healthy liking of walking around at night. What was there for her to fear out there?
The duel had gone much as Deirdre had expected. Villeneuve had begun by taunting and toying with the apparently maladroit clergyman until the point when the mayor had tired of his little cat-and-mouse game and moved in for the kill. And then nothing. The reverend, who still pretended to wield his blade clumsily, had parried every blow, cut, and thrust with the barest of success. The mayor, upon whom it slowly had dawned that something terrible was amiss, soon after had fallen into a near panic, and with each increased effort, the silly politician left himself more overextended and more overexposed. To Deirdre’s surprise, the parry that severed the arteries in the mayor’s neck had looked ungainly yet natural. Even the Fiend had seemed taken aback at how abruptly an otherwise long duel had ended.
Of course, the reverend immediately had fallen to his knees, taken the dying man in arms, and begun to pronounce the last rites. Pure theater.
That spectacle wasn’t what she wanted to talk to him about. Nor, in fact, did she want to talk to him about his plans for vengeance. That all still simmered inside of her, and she wanted to think more on the subject and to steady her nerves before seizing that particular bull by the horns. No, there was something else. Something simple and a little silly.
As she entered the cemetery that was situated down the road from the inn, she first detected the telltale and stomach-churning sound she’d expected. The Fiend was at his midnight snack. She stole up to the grave in which earlier that day a large crowd had interred the mayor — the assemblage literally had begged Reverend Ainsley to conduct the ceremony, and he’d undertaken the task with the haggard and haunted face of a man who’d lost his very best friend. Such farce.
She flopped down and leaned against the headstone next to where the Fiend loudly and savagely assailed the mayor’s newly exhumed carcass. The sound was like that of a pack of ravenous wolves attacking a fallen elk.
“He wasn’t very fat,” she observed.
The growling, ripping, and tearing ceased for a moment. “No,” said the Fiend in a philosophical tone, “but he was a good fellow and deserves not to go to waste.” The ravening resumed.
She almost relented and asked why the man had needed to die, especially if he was a good fellow, but she wasn’t ready for that talk, not yet. It ate at her constantly, but she needed to muster her strength. Instead, she yet again rolled her eyes and asked the question she had intended.
“Do you think Isabel is a dullard?” The question, once asked, made her feel dreadful. But it was out in the air now.
The Fiend gave a great swallow. “Isabel? Of course not. She’s quite….” There was a pause. “Because she doesn’t speak and read proper?”
Deirdre nodded, knowing the Fiend could see her clearly, even in the poor light.
Rather than answering, the Fiend asked an entirely different question. “Have you not been sleeping well?”
She hadn’t been, not since Fiona had been so savagely taken, and hot tears stung her eyes. Not thinking about her loss had taken a considerable amount of her waking energy, and though she didn’t remember the dreams when each morning she woke, the terror of them haunted her nights.
The Fiend leapt from the grave and soon sat beside her, his arm gently draped across her shoulder. It was obvious from the feel of his clothing and the tenor of his voice that he was Reverend Ainsley again. But when he spoke it wasn’t with the reverend’s usual pomposity. “Isabel isn’t from your world,” he said plainly.
What did that mean? “You mean she’s from Evaria?” Deirdre had heard of the place but didn’t know where it was.
“No, she’s from a different world altogether, but one very much like this.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Remember what I told you of the two godly tribes? And how each was from a different world? Well, there are many such worlds, so many th
ey are beyond count.”
A strange feeling passed over her. “Is Isabel a god?”
“No,” was his gentle reply. “She’s a person just like you. You see, sometimes the walls between worlds grow weak for no reason, and people tumble through. I think that’s what happened to her.”
“So, she’s not a god?”
“No.”
“Or a Gheet?”
“No.”
“Oh, thank heavens.”
“Isabel is alone this world, child. She’s lost everything and could be a good friend to you, someone you could talk to about your pain.”
“I don’t….”
“Deirdre, it isn’t a cure, but sometimes talking about our pain helps ease it. You need someone like that in your life.” For a moment, what sounded like sadness crept into his voice. “It can’t be me — I’d only use your pain for my own devices.”
His words gave rise to something deep inside her, something that seized her throat and threatened to strangle her. “Am I worth more than three ducats?” she asked in a tearful and trembling voice.
“What…? I….” The Fiend paused and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Child, you are worth all the gold in this and every other world combined, plus two pennies on top. And I’ll eat the chitlins of anyone who ever says different.”
The girl began laughing amid her tears. It wasn’t clear if or how she should voice her thanks, but to her surprise the Fiend’s words again had made her feel better. But the smell beside the open grave was getting a bit much. “Speaking of which, the mayor is smelling pretty ripe.”
“Well, let’s get you back to the inn.”
“But what about your dinner?”
The Fiend made a sweet pshaw sound. “Don’t worry about that. I already nibbled off the choice bits.”
Envy
“To cast a covetous eye on that which is not yours is to curse your neighbor … and to chart your own course toward damnation.”
—Old High Wols Proverb
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