Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  “A pox on your curses,” Sorcha called out, again hoping Brother Jacques was listening. “You’ve no more power than a whipped egg! If you had the brains of a board, you wouldn’t sit about in a pile of unwashed window curtains!”

  Sorcha was back-pedaling through the door, hoping that the spate of invective would keep Athene off guard until the clearing could be reached. But the other woman was moving with long strides toward Sorcha, a hand wrenching at the flowing veils. “Bitch! Chienne des chiennes! Your wild, foreign face can’t compare to mine, even now!” She yanked the veil away, revealing perfect features and golden curls. She was the most beautiful creature Sorcha had ever seen. With a little gasp, Sorcha stood stock-still, one hand braced on the rough doorway. Yet even as she took in Athene’s stunning appearance, the hermit woman lifted a handful of shimmering hair to reveal a great puckered scar that ran from ear to shoulder. “Well?” demanded Athene, the blue eyes searing Sorcha with both malice and triumph. “Are you satisfied? Do you see that Athene is made of pleasure—and pain?” The golden hair fell back down over her shoulder to hide the brutal scar as Athene again marched on Sorcha. This time when the hand went inside the black draperies, it emerged with a sinister slender shaft. The ivory handle was carved into a death’s-head; the steel blade shone like silver.

  The time for courage was over: Sorcha whirled, half expecting to crash into Brother Jacques, but he was nowhere to be seen. Scrambling over the logs that barred the way to the hermit’s hut, Sorcha regained her footing and raced off through the evergreens. The shrieking mockery of Athene’s laughter followed her all the way to the bustling stream at the edge of the forest.

  She began to slow down as the trees parted to let the early afternoon sun beat upon her perspiring body. Some time later, barefoot, dirt-stained and weary, Sorcha gratefully spied the walls of Compiègne. She was about to cross the river by the little footbridge when a lone rider raised enough dust to make Sorcha put a shielding hand up to her eyes. Stepping aside to let him go over the bridge first, she sensed, rather than saw the man in the saddle.

  “Gavin!” she cried, half choking on dust and surprise.

  At first man and horse didn’t seem to pause, but just as he was about to guide his mount over the bridge, Gavin Napier reined up and stared in wonder at Sorcha’s bedraggled form.

  “Praise God!” Napier exclaimed, and leaped down from the horse. He moved as if to take Sorcha’s hand, then rooted himself into the dusty road. Dressed in a white cambric shirt and black breeks, he wore the same high leather boots Sorcha remembered, and the long-handled dirk was at his hip. He was bareheaded and faintly sunburned, yet his skin seemed even darker, and the hunter’s eyes were as deep and unrevealing as ever—save for that brief moment of relief when he had recognized Sorcha.

  Despite his hesitation, Sorcha refused to let either time or distance keep them apart another moment. Without shame, she hurled herself at his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around him. “Thank the Virgin and all the saints! I’ve found you! I thought God had stopped answering prayers!”

  Napier said nothing at first, though Sorcha could hear his deep breathing. Slowly, his own arms encircled her. “You should have forgotten me by now,” he asserted, his tone too rough. “I prayed you had.”

  But nothing he said or did could spoil Sorcha’s glorious happiness in finding him again. She looked up at him, the tangled black hair falling away from her elated face, the green eyes shining with joy, the wide mouth laughing with little gurgling sounds, like a brook gone berserk. “I told you at Fotheringhay I could never let you walk out of my life. But you did, and I kept waiting … and then”—she hurried on, trying to make sense and at the same time to drink in his presence—“I came to France, to be with Rosmairi, yet I knew I was searching for you.” Sorcha pressed her face against the cambric shirt. “I found you, too, by all that’s holy!”

  Gavin Napier emitted a rumbling sound that was half rebuttal, half chuckle. “Or profane.” He stood very still, the faint breeze rising from the river to ruffle their hair. Gazing over the top of Sorcha’s head, Napier’s features relaxed ever so slightly. “Rob tells me you came here at my brother’s urging.” He paused as two young boys drove a flock of geese over the little footbridge. “Have you seen Brother Jacques this morning?”

  “Brother Jacques!” Sorcha all but spat out the name. She pulled away just enough to look up into Napier’s face. “God’s teeth, are you going to tell me it’s Brother Jacques you were hastening to find just now instead of me?”

  Napier had the grace to flush under his tan. “It is an urgent matter, after all.” He let go of Sorcha to take his horse by the bridle. “Come, this isn’t the place to chat. Let’s return to the monastery.” Deliberately, he led the big bay over the bridge.

  Scowling, Sorcha followed him, forcing her tongue into silence until they reached the abbey’s entrance, where a porter was eating strawberries out of a small wicker basket. “Back so soon, eh?” the man said to Napier and popped another fat red berry into his mouth.

  “Aye,” Napier replied pleasantly enough as the porter opened the gates.

  “Hold on!” Sorcha tugged at Napier’s sleeve. “Where are we going?”

  The porter eyed her with curiosity as a young boy raced across the courtyard to tend Napier’s mount. Napier flipped the boy a coin, then frowned at Sorcha. “To rejoin Rob, of course. He awaits news of Brother Jacques.”

  “A pox on Brother Jacques!” Sorcha folded her arms across her breast and rocked angrily on her bare heels. “Either you and I speak privately now, or I shall refuse to offer further assistance with this mad monk. Nor will I tell Rob—or you—what I learned this morning. Brother Jacques can eradicate the entire French court for all I care.” Whirling around, Sorcha turned her back on Napier and ignored the now mystified porter, who had inadvertently allowed strawberry juice to besmirch his white cowl.

  Gavin Napier stood on the dusty walkway, shifting his weight from one booted foot to the other and rubbing his bearded chin in vexation. With great effort, he stifled an urge to pick up Sorcha and haul her into the monastery. Instead, he took a deep breath and set his jaw. “There’s an inn, Le Chien Rouge, just a few streets away, by the river.” With forced gallantry, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  “I have no shoes,” she said, and saw his dark brows edge even closer together. “Though it is summer and many peasants are about,” she added hastily. With far less enthusiasm than she had shown just a few moments earlier, Sorcha placed her hand on Napier’s arm and let him lead her past the porter and back into the narrow street.

  They walked the short distance in silence. Sorcha had not yet seen Le Chien Rouge since arriving in Compiègne, but noted that it seemed respectable, no doubt a haunt of the town’s bourgeoisie.

  Indeed, its very respectability was affronted by Sorcha’s disheveled appearance. An owl-eyed young man wearing a white apron and carefully patched hose eyed the newcomers with a suspicion that bordered on panic. In a peculiar, high-pitched nasal voice, he inquired if Napier and his companion wished to eat. Before Napier could reply, Sorcha intervened. “Certainly, my good fellow. Pheasant and artichokes and onion soup and cheese and crusty bread. Wine, too, of course.”

  The young man, who called himself Bertrand Fils, seemed much relieved that his visitors desired food. He ushered them to a corner table, however, where they were somewhat shielded from the prying eyes of other patrons.

  Sorcha watched his spindly-legged departure and snorted. “Monsieur Bertrand thought I was a strumpet, I’ll wager! When will people cease mistaking me for what I’m not?” She glanced at Napier for commiseration, but noted his frown and flushed. “Oh, by heaven, you’re thinking I’m a strumpet, too!” Distressed, she wriggled about on the bench, which was worn into grooves by at least three generations of diners.

  The wolflike face softened. “You know that I think no such thing. It may be that I understand you better than anyone else.” Forcing herself to grow calm,
Sorcha contemplated his words. “Perhaps,” she admitted at last, “though I can’t say that I understand—or even know—you so well.” She saw his dark eyebrows lift ever so slightly and resumed speaking: “So then—what brings you to Compiègne?”

  Gavin Napier’s impulse was to respond that it was fate. He could scarcely believe that after not having passed through Compiègne in over two years, he would arrive within twenty-four hours of Sorcha Fraser. He had learned from Adam that Rob was with his kinsman, Brother John, at the abbey. It had seemed prudent to visit his former protégé and offer an explanation—as well as an apology—for his deception. In the time that had passed since Fotheringhay, many things had troubled Gavin Napier; not the least of these was allowing the innocent, guileless Rob to believe in a vocation that didn’t exist.

  As Bertrand brought the platter of food and a bottle of wine, Napier sketchily answered Sorcha’s question. Between mouthfuls of cheese and pheasant breast, she watched him closely, her disappointment mounting. Obviously, Gavin Napier hadn’t ridden to Compiègne because he knew she was there. At best, it had been a fragile hope, but Sorcha had nurtured it all the same, not quite able to believe in the coincidence of their both arriving in the same place at the same time.

  “Your brother was gracious when I offered my explanation,” Napier said as he broke off a chunk of bread still warm from the oven. “Though he was preoccupied, of course. He seemed more concerned with Brother Jacques.”

  Sorcha peeled off an artichoke leaf and waved it at Napier. “Rob may be, but I am not! I am preoccupied with you—with us.” Seeing Napier involuntarily draw back, Sorcha tore the artichoke leaf in two and threw it on the worn wooden table. “You’re right—I should have forgotten you! I ought to hate you, despise you! You’re a coward, Gavin Napier, a fiendish seducer and a damnable liar!” Her voice had steadily risen to a shrill shout. “To think I greeted you with open arms!”

  Across the low-ceilinged common room, a half dozen nondescript travelers looked up from their meals to stare. In the doorway, three Franciscan friars paused, then discreetly turned away, and edged quietly toward a table as far removed as possible from Sorcha and Napier.

  Gavin Napier’s long mouth was clamped tightly shut in the dark beard. He gripped his wine cup with both big hands, lest he reach across the table and shake Sorcha into silence. From the arched doorway that led into the kitchen, Bertrand’s owlish eyes gazed anxiously.

  Napier caught Bertrand’s apprehension and stood up. Slapping down a handful of coins, he nodded to the young man, snatched Sorcha by the wrist and led her out the back door of the inn.

  “By God, you have the manners of a Highland poacher!” he fumed. “Couldn’t you at least keep your voice down?”

  Sorcha was struggling in vain to get free. A dozen baby chicks scattered near her hem as she tried to fight back a sudden surge of tears. “I don’t care! I meant what I said! I’ve waited two years to speak those words!”

  His profile was turned to her, the jaw set, the dark eyes brooding. Napier remained silent for several moments, then tugged at Sorcha’s arm. “There, beyond the wooden gate—it’s the stable. Or,” he demanded, not without a glint of humor, “would you rather talk in the henhouse?”

  It was Sorcha’s turn not to answer. She let him lead her across the tiny flagstoned courtyard, past the fragrant herb garden, and through the gate, which creaked on rusty hinges.

  The stable was small, though at least a half dozen horses and three cows were quartered there. From the rafters, a pair of pigeons cast indifferent glances from small, beady eyes. Napier spotted a bench by a wall that was covered with bridles and harnesses. Indicating that they sit down, he finally let go of Sorcha’s wrist, but kept one hand over hers. His usually controlled features were in chaos—anger, doubt, remorse, and pain vied for supremacy. Sorcha forgot her own tears and waited apprehensively for Napier’s next words.

  “You’re right,” he said in that low, rumbling voice that bespoke the depth of his emotion. “I was unfair and dishonest.” His gaze locked with hers, and despair seemed to dominate his face. “It was devious enough of me to let you believe I was a priest. But, in fact, I am as unsuitable for you as any man who’s taken Holy Orders. I can’t expect you to understand my heart—or that hard brown nut that has become my heart—but it is impossible for me to love you the way a man should love a woman.”

  He paused to worry his long upper lip with his teeth, and Sorcha couldn’t help but interrupt. “But you did! I know you did! I could sense it!”

  Gavin Napier gave a little shake of his head and a rueful smile. “I admit, I even fooled myself. For one fleeting, joyous hour, I thought I could love again.” His fingers tightened on Sorcha’s as one of the horses whinnied softly. “Yet I know that was an illusion.” The hunter’s eyes were black with sorrow. “I loved once, you see, and that love destroyed me forever.”

  Even in her anguish at his words, Sorcha’s practical nature asserted itself. “That sounds like an excuse,” she said, almost more to herself than to Napier. “Isn’t at least one broken heart expected in a lifetime?”

  He let out a long, painful sigh and passed his free hand through his hair. “Jesu, if only broken, it would be mended. I speak of destruction, Sorcha, of willful annihilation.”

  Despite herself, Sorcha made an incredulous face. “Whoever this woman was, she must have hated you. Why?”

  Gavin Napier shrugged his broad shoulders, and somehow the gesture made him seem much younger and more vulnerable. “I never knew exactly, but you’re right. She answered my love with hate. And feasted on my misery.”

  A brindle cat nosed its way from behind a wooden bucket, looked up yearningly at the pigeons, and slunk away. Sorcha paused before phrasing the next, obvious question. “Who was this wretched woman?”

  His eyes seemed to sweep up over Sorcha like a great, towering wave of remembrance. “Her name was Marie-Louise. She was my wife.”

  “Ah!” Sorcha actually fell back, her shoulders striking a piece of harness. “Was? What happened to her?” For one frightening second, Sorcha was afraid to hear the answer.

  “She died.” Napier took a deep breath, his hand still wrapped around Sorcha’s. “She was with one of her lovers at the time.”

  Despite Napier’s tragic statement, Sorcha couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. “She was faithless, I gather. I’m sorry.” The words sounded insipid and Sorcha cursed herself inwardly. “Was all this a long time ago?” she asked too rapidly, as if to cover the lameness of her previous remark.

  “It was,” Napier replied, staring straight ahead at a stall where a black-and-white-spotted cow regarded him with big, somber eyes. “I was twenty-two when I met Marie-Louise. Her mother was a Scottish exile, her father was French. Marie-Louise was sixteen, lovely as the lily, full of grace and charm. She already possessed wiles that would make a man go mad with desire. I sought her hand, and though there were others, I was the only Scot.” He stopped for a moment, then turned slowly to Sorcha. “This must be unpleasant for you, to hear me speak thusly of another lass.”

  “She’s dead.” Sorcha shrugged. “I don’t fear the dead.” Seeing the vivid pain in Napier’s eyes, Sorcha bit her lip. “Yet you do. Or her, at any rate.”

  “Aye,” he sighed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But it’s so.” Releasing her hand at last, he rubbed his temples. “It must sound daft to you, yet it’s very real to me.”

  “So it seems,” Sorcha said as matter-of-factly as possible. “But tell me the rest. If you wish to.”

  “It’s strange—but I do.” His gaze was almost diffident. “I’ve never told anyone else—except Adam.”

  Sorcha nodded in mute acceptance of his confidence. Napier took up his tale, relating how Marie-Louise’s mother had favored his suit. “Her father had been dead for many years, and Marie-Louise had no dowry, though that would not have deterred most of the young men who wanted to take her to wife. Still, my ancestry stood me in good stead. We were
married just after Eastertide that year, the ceremony performed by my brother, Adam. Within a fortnight she was unfaithful to me.” His voice rose slightly on the last words, but before Sorcha could interject more than a gasp of astonishment, he continued: “The worst of it was, she made no excuses. She even told me I should take a mistress if it suited me. She had no shame, no guilt—nothing except her insatiable need for men. Some were old and ugly, some were poor and simple; it made no difference. She mocked my humiliation, flaunted her sins. Everyone knew—and sniggered and sniped behind my back. A few were even bold enough to hurl their insults in my face.”

  Sorcha could stand it no longer. She put her hands on Napier’s arms and clutched him tightly. “The heartless whore! But why, Gavin?”

  He shook his head with such fervor that his entire body quaked. “I swear, I don’t know. It went on for almost a year. And then she told me she was with child. She insisted it was my child, though how she could be sure, I never could guess. Still, I wanted to believe her. I hoped that a babe might change her.” He stiffened in Sorcha’s grasp and took a deep, excruciating breath. “Two weeks later, she lay in my arms and looked at me with those lovely eyes and smiled with that beautiful mouth and announced that she had destroyed our child. I tried to kill her.”

  Sorcha’s hand fell away from Napier’s arms and went to cover her mouth. “Oh, sweet Virgin!” she murmured, laying her head against his shoulder.

  “She fled. Marie-Louise was strong, a superb horsewoman, a fine archer, as accomplished in sports as any man. I was insane with rage and hurt. The dirk had missed its mark. It gave her time to get away. Or perhaps I wanted her to escape.” Again, Sorcha felt his body tremble against hers. “She never came back, of course. And a year or so later, I heard she was dead.”

  Gavin Napier now sat very still, his head down, his shoulders slumped, like a runner who has just completed an arduous race. Sorcha felt his pain, absorbed his misery—and still could not reconcile it with her own experience. “The fact remains, my love, Marie-Louise is dead. Why should you let such a vile woman ruin the rest of your life?”