Lady in Red - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 8)

by Shea,Lisa

  She stood, her heart firming with resolution. She would head into town. Perhaps there was news of a curious stranger just arriving from a nearby town. Or perhaps she would catch the eye of the murderer, a local known to her, who had been cautiously biding his time, and lure him into action. She hoped against hope that the result of her trip would not bring fresh details of yet another death.

  She set into motion.

  The road had become a muddy river, pulling at her shoes with each struggling step. By the time she reached the town common she was soaked to the bone. She made her way to the daffodil-yellow curtains, peering in to the gloomy room through the half closed shutters. There was no movement, no hint of activity within the grey walls.

  Sighing, she turned and slogged the long distance across the muddy town green. Surely Roger would be home. To her surprise, the front door was sturdily closed and the windows shuttered. Apparently he was not around either.

  She glanced at the church, but she could not bring her feet to head in that direction. Sitting alone in the quiet sanctuary, so full of memories of her and Berenger, would only drown her more deeply in her gloom.

  A burst of noise came from the far end of the common, and she saw motion and light coming from the tavern. The door was just swinging shut, closing in the gale of laughter emanating from within. A smile quirked her lips. Of course. Undoubtedly half the town had taken refuge in its warm, cozy hall for the afternoon.

  She huddled her cloak closer around her drenched body. She stepped her way carefully across the slick, muddy morass of the common, holding her skirts above the dark surface. Finally she was alongside the sturdily built wooden building. The large shutters of the two main windows were drawn closed against the torrent, but she could easily see through the gap in one to the well-lit scene within.

  The large room was nearly bursting to the seams with the townsfolk who had taken shelter from the storm. Lady Cavendish’s hand waved imperiously in the air, summoning over a barmaid, pointing down with disapproval at the pottery mug in her hand. Apparently the mead was not to her liking.

  Lord Cavendish was deep in conversation with Father Stockman, his eyes bright with enjoyment, spinning out a tale which apparently the priest found quite fascinating. The two clinked their ales together, toasting the conclusion.

  The next table was smaller, and Jessame smiled with contentment. Roger and Mary sat across from each other, her hands twined into his, and the joy on their faces seemed to send a glow across half the room. Mary leant forward and shyly whispered something to Roger, and he brought her hand to his lips for a tender kiss.

  A bright laugh carried high over the steady rumble of conversation, and Jessame’s head turned. She stopped cold. Cassandra’s face was alight with amusement, and she ran a hand through her honey-gold hair, sending it curling in gentle waves along her face. She gave a gentle shrug, her elegant dress of aquamarine and ebony rising with her movement, the fabric perfectly fitting against her trim body.

  Across from Cassandra, Berenger’s eyes held steady and attentive on the woman before him. He leant forward, asking her a question. The peals of laughter came again, and Cassandra’s eyes danced with delight.

  Jessame could not move. Rivulets of rain cascaded down her, streamed down every part of her body, but Jessame could not bring herself to turn from the window, to leave the deluge, to take one step into that warmth that seemed at once within the reach of a hand and at the same time miles distant.

  There was a movement at her side. She turned her head in distraction, her heart still fixed on the scene within the sturdy shutters. It was Hosea, the village workman, his ripped outfit cleaned of its dirt by the rain which pelted from the sky. His rough face drew down her length with a leer, then returned to her face.

  “You free tomorrow night?” he asked in a guttural growl.

  She nodded at him, then turned. The rain seemed to melt her shoulders, dragging her down, nearly meld her into the muddy path. She put one sodden foot in front of the other. Slowly, like a snail dragging its way through a water-logged swamp, she struggled the long, slow, torrentially wet way back home.

  Chapter 10

  The rain was, if possible, even more thunderous when she woke the next morning. The noise on the roof pounded into her brain, filled her soul, and left no room for other thought. The storm seemed to fill every corner of her being with its damp, throbbing sound.

  It was a long while before she could pry herself out of bed, push back the covers, and stagger over to the small table. Sheets of water cascaded past the window as if she were living behind a waterfall. Every breath she took in was filled with the mist and metallic tang of the storm.

  She stared at the curtain of rain for long hours, her stylus idly poking holes into the wax tablet then sealing them up again. She knew she should eat something, but she could not bring herself to care. The world barely seemed to exist around her.

  Her eyes kept tracing their way over to the wooden box on the mantle, to the love token which nestled within, its face adorned with the curving fish she knew so well. Sabina had worn that against her chest, tucked within her chemise, for ten long years. She had kept that sign of Berenger’s love against her body, relishing her secret.

  Jessame thought of how upbeat Sabina had seemed in the first months of Berenger’s departure. Jessame had assumed at the time that Sabina was happy to have her all to herself. Now Jessame would no longer be distracted by Berenger. The two girls did end up spending much more time together after that, racing across the meadows, chasing butterflies.

  But Sabina quickly lost interest in the quiet activities that Jessame preferred – sitting by the pond for hours, staring at the sky, patiently reading by the light of the fire. Sabina greatly preferred the world of adventure, of hurdling fences and seeking out exotic locations.

  Each time she would talk about her dreams of travel and adventure, she would press her hand against her ebony cross, as if calling on a higher power to secure her dreams.

  A thought hit Jessame, and she staggered back, leaning on her table for support.

  It had not been the cross that Sabina was relying on. Sabina had never cared much for the church, and had escaped to the neighbors’ home any time her father had sat down to read the family a passage from the Bible. No, it had not been that polished piece of wood that she had been calling on to make her lust for adventure come true.

  It had been Berenger’s love token.

  The thought staggered her, that she had been mistaken for so many years. It had never occurred to her, not even in the faintest corners of her mind, that this could be the reason for Berenger’s sharp departure. Surely his father seemed to have plenty of money, but perhaps he wanted even more, as well as experience in the world, before he formally courted Sabina. Then he could provide her with the excitement and travel that she so clearly craved.

  It all made perfect sense.

  She became utterly lost. There were no memories left to her. Everything was tainted now, twisted through the lens of the bent coin. He had never really cared for her. He had only visited the home to be nearer to Sabina. He had left to solidify his future with Sabina.

  She collapsed onto the stool, all energy draining from her limbs. The light faded from the light grey of stable dust to the richer brown of freshly turned manure to the deep dark of the earth they had gently covered Sabina’s body with. Still she did not move.

  She had no idea what she was doing. She had no idea if she was making any progress. She felt lost … completely lost …

  There was slow hoofbeat coming up the path, and the bars lifted from around her, her breath eased back into her. Berenger was coming. He was returning to her. If for only a short while she could pretend they were children again, that her father was healthy, that Sabina was alive, that the token had not been found, that none of this painful chaos had ever occurred.

  She flung open the door, running out into the pouring rain with a hopeful smile on her face, looking up to -


  She drew to a staggering halt, standing stock still in the torrential downpour. It was not Berenger who stood before her, but Hosea, looking up and down her body with wolfish admiration. She realized that the deluge was plastering her red dress tightly along her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

  “Oh, you got your dress all wet,” he chuckled huskily. “We will have to get that off you right away.”

  Jessame took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. She was not ready for this. She could not go through with it, not today.

  “I … I am not feeling well,” she stammered, her voice tight.

  Hosea’s eyes turned sharp. “You certainly seemed healthy enough when you came racing through your cottage door just now,” he retorted. “You made a deal with me yesterday at the tavern. I have the money.” He patted a leather bag hanging on his belt, and a jingling noise echoed faintly over the pounding of water on earth. “Therefore you are mine for the evening. You are my possession, to do with as I will.”

  “I have changed my mind,” insisted Jessame, taking another step back, moving into her doorway, reaching to swing the door shut. But Hosea had taken two strides, slamming his hand against the door, holding it open, staring down at her with growing anger.

  “You thought I was him, is that it?” he bit out in a growl. “Is my money not good enough for you? You are a whore. Your body is for hire to the highest bidder. It is my turn now!”

  He grabbed at her arm, pulling her roughly to him, pressing his lips bruisingly against hers. Her arm screamed in pain where the vise-like grip held her, and she fiercely twisted against it, breaking free with a jolt. She dove at her mat, her hand sliding beneath the pillow, reaching for her dagger …

  There was the impact of a foot hard on her side, and she screamed in pain, rolling away from the kick, the weapon skittering out of her hand.

  “You bitch!” he cried, his face mottled in fury. He raised his arm, preparing to strike. Jessame skittered back into the corner of the bed, raising both arms over her to shield herself from the blow.

  There was a blur of motion. A dark form streamed out of the deluge and slammed into Hosea’s side, driving him hard against the wall. Both men tumbled to the floor and drew up again, circling each other. Berenger’s breath came in deep draws, his eyes sharp with focus. Hosea launched at him, and Berenger dodged to the side, slamming his fist down on Hosea’s back as he went past, driving him into the ground. Hosea growled, coming up again, launching a vicious kick at Berenger’s kneecap. Berenger turned into it, catching it on his thigh, rotating to land a heavy punch on Hosea’s jaw. This time Hosea was slower to stand, his stance weaving, his eyes unfocused.

  Berenger dove forward, grabbing Hosea by the arm and twisting it around his back. He tossed him out into the deluge of rain, sprawling him face down in the mud.

  Berenger’s voice was ice. “If I ever see you here again, I will leave you unable to walk.”

  Hosea staggered to his feet, his face twisted with fury. “She is a whore,” he snarled. “Can a man even rape a whore? That is what her body is there for. That and nothing else.” He spit on the ground, then climbed on his horse and kicked it into motion down the road.

  Berenger turned, moving to kneel beside Jessame, to brush the hair back from her face with a shaky hand. His voice was gentle and low.

  “Are you all right? Did he … hurt you?”

  Jessame shook her head no, her hand moving to her head, tenderly feeling where she had slammed down into the floor. There was a small lump there, but she imagined it would heal soon enough. Berenger put out an arm, and she gratefully accepted it, allowed him to guide her over to a stool. He bent down and retrieved her dagger, placing it on the table before drawing up the other stool to sit beside her.

  His eyes held on the dagger for a few minutes, then slid to look at the wax tablet which sat near it on the table. His gaze sharpened as he took in the first few names on the list.

  Roger - 1

  Lord Cavendish - 7

  Berenger – 0

  Jessame flushed, grabbing the list and flipping it over face-down against the table. “That is private,” she ground out, her face burning with heat.

  Berenger stood roughly, moving to stand in front of the mantle, taking in long, deep breaths.

  Jessame stared at his broad back. She took in the strength in his shoulders and the firmness of his arms. She was reminded viscerally of how he had stormed in, how he had protected her. If he had not been here … her skin went clammy as she realized just how close she had been to danger.

  “Thank you,” she offered at last, knowing that the words were woefully inadequate.

  His voice was rough when he spoke. “Why do you do it?” he asked, his shoulders tight.

  Jessame turned to look out the window, at the dark curtain of water which streamed in never-ending sheets, at the desolate world beyond. Four women lay in the ground out there, four girls who had been cut down in their prime. Who knew how many other women would share the same fate if she could not figure out who was responsible? Nobody else was taking action on this matter. Nobody else would find justice for Sabina or the others. She had to see it through.

  She turned to look back at Berenger, followed his focused gaze to the wood box, the one that held the token of love he had given Sabina, the vow he had made to her ten years ago, before he had left them.

  Her emotions solidified and melded into steel. He might have abandoned those he cared for, but she never would.

  “You would not understand,” she stated in a low voice.

  “You are right – I do not,” he snarled, and then he was turning, striding out the open door, becoming lost in the deluge.

  Chapter 11

  Jessame blinked her eyes open, caught by the silence that hung over the cottage. The world outside her window was misty and dense; the fog cocooned her in a swirling shroud. She occupied some sort of netherworld between memory and reality.

  Her life at her family home had not seemed real. It was some sort of an imaginary world where her father thought everything was fine while the house and staff decayed around him and the furnishings gradually disappeared.

  This time here at the cottage was equally false, decorated with colorful costumes and strange pseudonyms.

  She pulled the blankets close in against her. She was losing track of what was real, of what she was …

  Finally she pushed herself out of bed, pulling on her red dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. She knew one thing for certain. It was Sunday. In a few minutes she was trudging her way down the quiet path, the ground semi-solid, drying out from the previous days’ deluge.

  The village was still nestled in sleep as she made her way to the common. A swallow looped its way across the open sky, but not another soul stirred as she made her way to the church, pulling open its heavy door and slipping inside. The hall was quiet, the familiar scent of incense rich and pungent. A soothing sense of peace settled over her.

  She made her way toward the front of the hall. She had time; she would be alone for a while. She slipped into the front pew where she had spent every Sunday during her childhood. A comfortable warmth nestled her as she settled into her spot. She clasped her hands before her chest, sliding down onto her knees, closing her eyes.

  It was as if the floodgates opened; a wealth of emotions and visions suddenly bombarded her. She could see her father sitting beside her, smiling down at her with tender love. She could hear the smooth rumble of elderly Father Gilman’s mass; he had passed away several years ago. And she could feel …

  Her eyes welled, the tears slipped down her cheeks. The warmth of Berenger’s hand was so clear in her memory, the steadiness of his grasp, the tenderness of his fingers, the playful, witty messages he would spell for her.

  Her heart twisted in pain, and her breath caught. How could he have left her?

  She gave her head a shake, sending the memories back into the past. She had to focus on the present, on her chaotic situation.r />
  She strove to make her mind as open as possible, as trusting as she could toward whatever help or insight she could receive. It was said that the Virgin Mary would help even the most desperate of causes. She certainly qualified here.

  She laced her fingers together. The encounter with Hosea had made it quite clear how dangerous her plan was. She had thought she was prepared – but she had not been.

  And would the murderer even decide to chase her down? She had no guarantee that he or she was in the area. Maybe a girl to the far north would be the next victim. So far she had been visited by a frightened boy and a man whose vice was lust, not murder. She could spend months hoping for a response to her bait, waiting … waiting …

  The tears continued to course, and a rolling sense of desolation overtook her. She was completely overwhelmed by the situation she was in. Her thoughts took on a desperate pleading.

  Holiest Virgin Mary, I beg you to help me. My father is dying. My home is collapsing around me. Millie and Reynard depend on me to keep them fed and sheltered. Sabina has been murdered. I swore to Millie that I would bring justice for Sabina, but I cannot see what to do. I am lost … I am lost …

  The tears streamed down more fully now, but she did not care. She poured every ounce of her heart and soul into her petition for help.

  I will do anything you ask. I will go on any course you set me on. I am spiraling in a whirlpool and I can see no escape. Please, send me a sign …

  A voice sounded from the end of the row, amused, light, and lofty. “Now there is something you do not see every day,” offered Cassandra’s voice with a tinkling laugh. “Poor dear, perhaps she will turn over a new leaf.”

  Jessame’s eyes flew open, and she swung them around …

  Berenger was standing at the end of the aisle, his eyes steady on hers, his gaze rich with concern and compassion, deep as the deepest well, steady as the sturdiest oak.

  “Jess,” he whispered, his voice rough.

  She pushed herself up in an instant, dropping her eyes, moving her way quickly past them to half run toward the back of the church. She slid herself into the far back corner of the last pew, settling there in the shadows, keeping her eyes lowered so that she could not see what the pair were doing.