Shana Abe

by The Truelove Bride

  “You are most fair, cousin. Indeed, you are as fair as I had imagined you would be. You have the look of your mother’s family. Marcus Kincardine will appreciate that. Good night. Dream well.”

  And she faded off down the hall, walking her slow, measured step.

  Avalon ducked into her room, walking blindly over to the pallet. She had to think. No—She had to act.

  Her plans were disintegrating in front of her. She still had her money, the gold that she had carefully sewn into the lining of her capes, the jewels which were small and hidden away easily. At least there was that!

  But for the rest of it … tomorrow was too soon. How could she locate a suitable nunnery in the course of a day? Where would she go?

  Avalon had long considered the notion of how best to escape from her life. Her childhood in Scotland had convinced her soundly that she never wanted to go back there. Hanoch had seen to that, ironically enough. And yet he was so determined to wed her to his son, his only child. That determination had seemed more like an obsession to Avalon, even as a girl. After the Picts came he had kept her closely guarded and cloistered in a remote Highland village. It had taken the combined proclamations of the kings of England and Scotland to return her to her legal guardian’s custody, and even then, only on the sworn promise she would come back to the clan as the bride of Marcus.

  Avalon had never met Hanoch’s son. He had already been a squire to a zealot knight by the time she was seven years old, and he had remained away in the Holy Land during her entire stay in Scotland. That suited her well.

  She didn’t care about him or any bridal contract made in her name. In her mind Marcus was just another version of his father, fierce and redheaded and cruel, and there was no force on earth that was going to convince her to marry him. He could go to hell with the betrothal and Warner, for all she cared.

  She needed a convent, a powerful one; one strong enough to resist the outrage that would result on all sides from her defection. The closer to Rome the better, Avalon imagined, but she knew she would not get so far as that. She had heard of an order in Luxembourg that seemed ideal, and as second choice she thought perhaps France, at least something out of England. But now, dear God, she could not even hope to get there. Not in one day.

  She should never have come to Trayleigh. She should have left for that convent months ago. But Gatting had been so comfortable, Lady Maribel so gentle. And in all honesty, convent life had never seemed ideal to Avalon—even though it always remained the best solution she could conjure up from her dismal choices.

  But forever lingering in the back of her mind had been the thought of Trayleigh, her old home, how wonderful it would be to see it again, to be invited back. Over time, it had taken on the image of a haven to her. This last opportunity to come here before locking herself away with nuns for the rest of her life had been a lure too sweet to resist.

  A terrible weakness in her legs made her sink down on the pallet, sitting, almost winded, fighting the sense of disbelief that all her dreams were about to be destroyed at the whim of yet another man.

  For years she had drifted along in the strange currents of her life, privately planning, yearning for a measure of control over all the forces that had been vying to bend her—yet never quite managing to grasp that control herself.

  Years she had wasted, as it turned out, on a false hope: the hope of finding a home again at Trayleigh. And now she would pay for that wasted time.

  There was a faint scratching at the door, so small she almost didn’t hear it. It persisted, quiet and mouse-like.

  Avalon took a deep, shuddering breath, then crossed to the door and opened it.

  It was Elfrieda, hooded and timid, peering up at her.

  Avalon stepped back and the girl darted in, still cloaked, then curtsied.

  “Milady, I thought you should know. The lady you asked about, I have news of her.”

  It took Avalon a long moment to understand her, that she was responding to a conversation that seemed like years ago, instead of only hours.

  “I see,” she said. Even in her agitation over Warner and Marcus, the mention of Luedella brought back that peculiar sense of import, that overwhelming feeling that there was more here she needed to discover.

  Find her, whispered the chimera, opening its terrible eye, suddenly awake and strong in her head.

  Avalon recoiled mentally. Of course she wouldn’t find her. Merciful heavens, she had no time to go chasing cobwebs of memories now!

  Find her, persisted the chimera.

  No, no, I don’t have time for this, Avalon argued back silently, desperate.

  Find her.

  Warner! Bryce! Tomorrow was but a few hours away!

  Find her.

  She surrendered to it with a combination of anger and despair, knowing that she would be unable to ignore the incessant feeling. It would consume her, blocking everything else, pounding louder and louder in her head, her body, even if it meant her doom, even if it meant falling helplessly into Bryce’s trap tomorrow.

  It made no sense! But then, her chimera had never bothered with anything sane like sense before. It infuriated her.

  Find her.

  “Where is she?” Avalon asked, hating herself.

  Elfrieda twisted her hands together. “That lady is dead, milady.”

  Ha! Avalon wanted to jeer at the voice in her head. So there! Lady Luedella was dead. She felt a spiteful gladness at the news, followed by a spurt of shame.

  Poor Luedella was dead. She had been so old even when Avalon was a child, there was no reason to think that she might have—

  Elfrieda, who had been watching her intently, interrupted her thoughts.

  “But you may speak to Missus Herndon, if you wish.”

  “Mistress Herndon? Who is that?”

  “The one who took care of the lady, after they made her leave. I mean”—Elfrieda gave a frightened glance around the room—“after she left.”

  The sensation of her own doom grew stronger, tightening in her stomach.

  Find her.

  “Where is she?” Avalon asked again.

  “In the village, milady,” answered the girl. “She’s the grandmother of the innkeeper in the village.”

  Chapter Two

  Trayleigh’s guards nodded to the two maids as they passed through the main gate along with a group of other serfs, all of them heading down the road to the village for the night.

  Elfrieda, cloakless, shivered in the night air, though Avalon suspected it might be more from fear than cold.

  The young woman had bravely offered to take Avalon down to find Mistress Herndon, and that was before Avalon had given her three more gold coins. It seemed she had earned a sort of dogged loyalty from Elfrieda with her initial offering, an experience so out of the ordinary for Avalon that she didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  The girl’s cloak was mud brown and coarsely spun. It chafed the bare skin of her cheeks and hands, but still Avalon kept the hood low over her face, her head down and her walk meek, like the other serfs.

  Just beneath the cloak was her own clothing, the plainest she could find but, nevertheless, obviously a noblewoman’s finery. A dark blue veil covered the telling brightness of her hair from her brow to her shoulders, secured with a simple band of linen around her crown. It was a belt, actually, and Avalon fully credited Elfrieda for thinking of making it into a circlet, since all of Avalon’s coronets were made of gold or silver or both.

  They both had high hopes that from a distance Avalon looked just like the other women walking home.

  The guards went back to ignoring them after they’d passed, complaining to each other about the sudden influx of gentried guests to the castle.

  “Won’t sleep in the stables, I heard,” said one, spitting on the ground. “Too good for that, these lords. Want the great hall for themselves.”

  “Aye, we’re to the stables,” said the other guard morosely.

  Elfrieda tripped in the dirt pat
h, righting herself by clutching at Avalon’s shoulder. The cloak jerked perilously to the left, exposing the veil and part of her face. Avalon reached up and immediately pulled it back down, not daring to look over at the guards or the other people.

  The girl gave her a distressed look.

  “I’m sorry, milady, sorry, I—”

  Avalon threw her a warning glance and Elfrieda quieted at once, though she continued to look upset. Avalon attempted a smile, then took the girl’s hand in her own.

  The guards had noticed nothing, were now talking aggrievedly about the pungent smell of horses and how remarkably similar it was to that of these unwelcome lords.

  It was all bad news to Avalon. It seemed that Bryce wanted as many highborn witnesses as possible for whatever he had planned for tomorrow night.

  Later today, she mentally corrected herself. It was well past midnight by now.

  The village was close to Trayleigh Castle, a sizable cluster of huts made of sod and wood, even two taverns, plus the inn. The crowd of serfs began to split apart in the narrow streets, lost in the black doorways.

  The inn had only four rooms to let. Avalon remembered it from her childhood; Ona would linger here whenever they were down in the village. It was a resting stop with sweet ale and meat pies.

  All the rooms would be taken now, Avalon guessed, and then some. When they entered the main room it was bursting with people, mostly men, drinking, eating, and laughing loudly. Elfrieda seemed daunted by the unusual sight but kept her grip tight on Avalon’s hand and began to weave through the crowd. Only the white lines around her lips betrayed the maid’s emotions as she pulled Avalon past the long tables and benches of men.

  They received not a few hoots and calls, and once a tall man with a red beard reached out and swatted Elfrieda on her bottom, prompting appreciative shouts all around. Nothing stopped the girl’s course, however, and within moments they were at the narrow, twisting stairs leading to the rooms above.

  Elfrieda led the way, both of them pausing and bowing their heads at a lord going down, pressing to the walls to let him by, then moving on again. The noise from below came up easily through the wooden floor; the air was rich with the smell of ale and sweat.

  At last they came to the top, and then down to the end of the corridor to a stout door.

  Elfrieda knocked twice and entered, still pulling Avalon behind her.

  The room was only a dim, crowded space that had been sectioned off with wood and thatch, probably bringing the four previous rooms to five, Avalon thought.

  There was a man by the door, and Elfrieda turned to him, moved quickly into his embrace with a muffled sound that Avalon read as complete happiness. The man held her tight, brought his head down to hers and whispered something in her ear.

  Avalon had to look away. Elfrieda had been nothing but brave and kind in bringing her here, and did not deserve the spark of envy that bloomed in Avalon’s heart at the sight of the lovers.

  There was a wisp of a woman in a chair by the meager fire. She was old and fragile, draped in shawls with a ratted fur across her legs, peering up at Avalon now with expectant curiosity, her hands fluttering on her lap. Mistress Herndon, no doubt.

  Avalon waited for the chimera to come alive again, to tell her what to do next, but it remained perversely silent, apparently having led her here only to go back to its slumber. She let out a sigh of frustration, then moved closer to the woman, pushing back the hood of the cloak without thought.

  Mistress Herndon’s eyes widened, milky white and brown, and then she gave Avalon a quivering smile.

  “Why, ’tis Lady Gwynth,” she said, surprised. “I had almost forgotten about you, and yet here you are. Lady Gwynth.”

  Avalon knelt at the foot of the chair, close to the old woman, and spoke gently.

  “I am Lady Avalon, mistress. Gwynth was my mother’s name.”

  “Avalon?” The gaze turned confused, the smile faded. “Avalon? But little Avalon is dead.”

  “No.” Avalon placed one of her hands carefully on the woman’s, feeling the slight trembles that would never stop.

  “Aye,” insisted the woman. “She died in the raid. And Gwynth is dead too, my sweet lady, both of them dead, and who are you, then, looking just like them?”

  “Gram, this is Lady Avalon.” The man released Elfrieda and came to stand by them both. He was young and not very handsome, but had earnest brown eyes and a temperate look. “Remember I told you, Gram, about Lady Avalon, that she would come to see you tonight.”

  “Did you, now?” Mistress Herndon leaned back in her chair, squinting at Avalon.

  Elfrieda moved behind her lover. “Lady Avalon seeks to know something of your friend, missus. Remember Lady Luedella? Remember how she came to live with you? Lady Avalon would like to hear of it.”

  “Oh, Luedella.” Mistress Herndon clicked her tongue in dismissal. “She’s dead, as well.”

  “Aye, Gram,” said the young man, helpless. He looked at Avalon and shrugged.

  Avalon turned back to the woman. “Can you tell me what you remember of Luedella?” She felt her own aggravation at not knowing what she sought, struggling to put a half-formed idea into words. “Tell me why she left the castle, for instance?”

  Mistress Herndon looked away, then down at her lap. “Oh, aye,” she said, soft. “I remember how she left, my Luedella. And my lord, dear Geoffrey …”

  The fire spat and sizzled; a surly coil of smoke wafted out into the room. The old woman spoke again.

  “She lost everything, so many did. But they did not kill her. I don’t know why. I don’t think she knew, either. Yet she lived. He hated her, I think. He used to mock her to her face. He used to hit her. I saw it.”

  “Who?” asked Avalon.

  “The lord. The baron. I don’t know why. Mayhap she just reminded him of what he had done.”

  Avalon was astonished. “Do you mean Geoffrey used to hit her? My father?”

  Mistress Herndon gave her a startled look, then scowled. “Of course not. The baron would never do such a thing.”

  “Then it was Bryce.” As Avalon said it she found herself nodding, matching the agreement in the woman’s expression.

  “Aye, Bryce.”

  Elfrieda made a tiny sound, almost a whimper, and quickly walked over to the door. The man followed her, took her back into his arms.

  “And—” Avalon stopped, then made herself say the words. “What was it he had done? What did Luedella remind him of?”

  Mistress Herndon sucked in her cheeks, then lifted up her head and stared down at Avalon.

  “Why, he bought the Picts, girl.”

  The floor was hard and cold beneath her. Avalon found herself braced with her hands behind her, fighting for the balance that had vanished in an instant. Then Elfrieda was there with an arm around her shoulders, slight but strong.

  The room fell silent again, only the dim clamor of the barroom below them leaking up through the wood.

  Avalon found her voice.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye.” Mistress Herndon shifted in the chair. “And Luedella knew it, too. I suppose it came down to the fact that he could not kill her so openly after the raid. Others might have realized what he’d done. She was the granddaughter of a baron. She was highborn, my lady was. So Bryce vanquished her. I was her maid,” the woman said proudly. “And so she came here, with me.”

  There was no proof. Avalon understood this without bothering to ask; she had gleaned it already from the nervousness of Elfrieda, the grim face of her young man, both of them now helping her to her feet.

  Bryce had bought the Picts. Bryce, who had everything to gain from the death of Geoffrey and his daughter, and who had not invited that daughter back to her home once it was discovered she still lived. After all, Avalon had inherited a great deal of Geoffrey’s wealth; Bryce had the title and the castle, but Avalon got all three of the manored estates, direct endowments from her mother’s side, plus a good portion of t
he wealth of Trayleigh.

  Bryce had had to give it all back to her when she resurfaced from the dead, a fourteen-year-old heiress. And he had never complained about it at all.

  Mistress Herndon was lost in her memories again and didn’t look up as Avalon bent over and brushed her lips against one of the withered cheeks.

  “Thank you for taking care of Luedella,” she said, and saw the shining path of a tear that slipped down the old woman’s face.

  “She was a fine lady,” Avalon heard her whisper.

  Elfrieda opened the door, taking a cautious look out, then let Avalon precede her.

  Avalon turned her back as the lovers said good night, pretended to study the blackened walls of the hallway as the two exchanged kisses and murmurs. At last they finished, the man going back into the room, Elfrieda beside her again, reaching up and pulling the hood close over Avalon’s face.

  Avalon couldn’t help it; she stared down at the girl, her swollen lips.

  Elfrieda caught the stare, looked away, and then back at Avalon.

  “We’re to be married this harvest,” she said, defensive.

  “I wish you all the best,” replied Avalon gravely.

  The noise was much louder than before as they approached the top of the stairs. Elfrieda took the lead again with determination.

  The uproar grew and grew as they crept down the spiral, much too loud to Avalon’s ears, almost deafening. It left her dizzy, it slammed into her head and wouldn’t leave, making her put one hand on the wall to find what was up and what was down again. And still the noise flourished, rebounding inside of her, an insanity of sound that made her falter and start again, until she was lost and blind.

  She wanted to call out to Elfrieda but couldn’t focus enough to do so. How could she go on? How could she even make it down into that room itself, the source of her confusion? She must conquer this; it was a reflex of the chimera, alive and now gone mad with its own power, keeping her feet numb and her eyes from seeing where she stepped on the slippery stairs until she crashed into something.