by Traci E Hall
The priest waved his hand. “‘Tis an old wound.”
Nicholas looked at Celestia, wondering if she could heal him, but she shook her head no. He nodded. The eye was gone, so what could she do? Funny, how little time it had taken for him to expect miracles from her.
“What curse were you talking about?”
The priest shifted uncomfortably and took a large gulp from his mug. He changed the subject. “It is time that you’re here, Nicholas. Where are you staying?”
Nicholas scratched the back of his neck, startled by the question. “The keep, of course. Where else? We are living in the parts that are habitable until I can get to the rest. As to why I am here in the village, one of our maids was murdered. We came looking for a priest so that she could have a proper burial.”
The priest sucked his bottom lip, his one eye wide. “Murdered?”
“Aye. She was hit on the back of the head, and then strangled with her own apron strings.”
“Shame.” He made the sign of the cross and bent his gray-haired head in prayer.
“Have ye caught the brute who did it?”
“Not yet, but we will.”
Father Michael stared into his mug, as if he’d rather join the dead Bess than journey to Falcon Keep. “I’ll come, then.”
“I thank you.” Nicholas made no move to get up. The priest held answers to his past, and mayhap it was time to ask questions. “What do you remember of my mother?”
The priest winced.
Nicholas’s gut clenched and he tapped the table top. “I’ve changed my mind, good father; I’d like some ale after all.”
Father Michael looked uncommonly nervous as he went to get ale, and Nicholas wondered what secrets the old man was hiding. After more drink, the chances were greater that the priest would give away information as freely as chickens laid eggs.
Nicholas glanced at Celestia, who was contentedly sipping from her mug. He put a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet and to let him speak.
Father Michael returned and handed Nicholas a mug with a shaking hand. He sat, fidgeting uncomfortably, repeatedly smoothing the black robe over his thin legs.
He looked to Celestia, who sent him an encouraging smile.
Finally the priest cleared his throat. “Your mother … she was a lovely woman, she was.”
Nicholas had the sudden urge to keep the past within the past. He’d tried, with Celestia and her healing hands, to move ahead, and how much pain had that wrought? He got up, banging his head on the low ceiling so hard he saw stars.
The priest looked alarmed as dust fell to the table.
“Nicholas!” Celestia captured Nicholas’s sleeve and urged him to sit back down. “Father Michael, Nicholas cannot remember much of his childhood. He was a lad of six when he arrived at the monastery. Don’t you find it odd that he has so few recollections of his life before then?”
Father Michael hid his face in his mug and slurped his ale, but not before Nicholas saw the fleeting expression of guilt cross his brow.
“Father? What do you know?” Nicholas decided to let her badger the priest a while. Asking Celestia to still her tongue had been a futile effort anyway. His head ached, and he swore he could smell apples. He plopped his elbows on the table.
Father Michael sighed and set his mug down with a thump. “How often our sins come back to haunt us.” The elderly man closed his one eye and said, “I told a small lie, but for the good of dear Nicholas. He was just a boy. And a monastery has no place for toddlers. Too young to work, too much trouble. But not our Nicholas, he was a strapping lad, big for his age.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes but held his tongue. Celestia tapped her finger impatiently against her tankard, her gaze unrelenting as she stared the priest down. Nicholas would have told her everything, had she ever used that gaze on him. No, wait, he reflected, he had already spilled all of his secrets with but a touch of her hand.
“And what small lie would that have been?” she prodded.
“Hmm,” the priest said quietly, looking away from Celestia to speak to Nicholas. “It was for your protection, mind, that we sent you so far away. I’d heard of a monastery run by Abbot Crispin, a man with a more than fair reputation. You were in danger here, so in the letter I sent to the abbot I said that you were six, when in reality you were but four. “Tis no surprise that you can’t remember. And mayhap that is just as well, my son.”
Nicholas closed his eyes. His name was not his own, his age was not his own. His entire life was a lie. It took all of his courage to stay seated, knowing that he would finally hear the truth of his past. The soft nudge of Celestia’s foot against his reminded him that at least he wasn’t alone.
The priest drained his mug dry, then smacked his lips together. “Let me see, now, the year was 1169, or was it ‘68? No matter, our Lady Esmerada—your mother,” he said with a tip of his head toward Nicholas, “was a fetching lass of sixteen years. Half-Scot, she were, and half-English. She lived with her parents at Falcon Keep, which was her mother’s property. Her mother being the Lady Margaret, who had inherited the keep upon her own father’s death.”
Waving his hand as if that was just the bones of the story and not Nicholas’s family history, the priest continued, “After his demise, Lady Margaret was alone in the world. Frail and lovely she was, a pure English rose. But no matter her goodness and beauty, she was but a woman, and all know that a woman cannot hold a keep by herself.”
Celestia opened her mouth to protest, but the priest rambled on, having found his speed. Nicholas found the look on her face endearing.
“Afore long, she found herself wed to the Scottish brigand, Brinden McCarthy, and not long after that, she bore our Esmerada. Are you following along, Nicholas?”
Nicholas nodded, feeling dazed. Margaret, his grandmother, and Esmerada, his mother. He had Scots’ blood.
“Your grandsire, Brinden McCarthy, was an enterprising man, and remained loyal to his Scottish clan. Ye’ll have followed Solway Firth a ways before coming inland to the keep? Aye, Falcon Keep is too far from the water to be used as a port, but Brinden, he found a use for it—he grew crops and raised sheep, all to give food and money to the Scottish rebels.”
The priest’s brows furrowed in concentration. “The borderlands were being torn up by King Henry and King William. Each king wanted more than what they had. Scotland’s never been rich, but King Henry wanted land for his sons to inherit.” He chuckled, as if impressed by the old king’s audacity.
Nicholas broke in, “Aye, but King Henry won the argument, did he not? Forced King William to sign the Treaty of Falaise.”
“Good lad, to know your history!”
“I was raised a scholar, before becoming a knight.”
“Ah.” The priest nodded with approval before turning to Celestia. “For fifteen years Scotland was under England’s thumb. The country was beggared and pillaged by the Scots and English alike. ‘Twas after Henry died and Richard the Lionhearted became king that Scotland reverted back to King William.”
“King Richard sold it to him, his own land,” Nicholas scoffed. “Richard was already looking for coin.”
“It was said he felt great guilt over his part in his father’s death.”
Guilt? Nicholas understood that motivation quite well. And like Richard, he would pay his penance after doing the dirty deed.
Celestia smiled pointedly, “Nicholas’s grandfather?”
The priest colored, “I digress … Back when Henry was king he found out what old Brinden was up to. Falcon Keep was English, on English soil, and Henry vowed to put a stop to the Scottish McCarthy’s traitorous ways. However, your grandsire, me boy, was never of a mind to do as he was told.”
Celestia giggled. “A family trait, Nicholas?”
Nicholas looked over his nose at her before turning to Father Michael, fascinated by his own history.
“So when Brinden got the missive stating that his lovely daughter, Esmerada, was to be married to a
n Englishman, a lord favored by King Henry, he weren’t happy, and that is the God’s honest truth. Nor was Esmerada, for she was in love with the Scottish rebel, Robbie MacIntosh. She fair turned her nose up at her mother and her English ways; her wild heart was pure Scots.”
The priest looked sadly at Nicholas.
“Now it is my opinion that the good lady Margaret died of sorrow, for what her no-account Scottish husband had done to her keep and king, and for her daughter who had followed his ways. None but God knows for certain.” The priest wiped his watery eye. “I’ll tell you, Nicholas, Lady Margaret was a good woman, and I was sorry when she passed.”
Nicholas found himself sorry, too. The good Margaret had been his grandmother, and he had never gotten to know her. “What happened then?”
“The day came when the Lord Peregrine arrived, young and cocky. You look most like him, but not so, er, vicious, around the, er, eyes,” the priest stammered and hastily took another pull from his empty mug. He set it down with a reproachful glare and continued, “Brinden was not so foolish that he thought he could deny the English king’s order. Did I mention he was an enterprising man? Aye, what he did was plan something else for his daughter’s wedding day, something that was to have suited them better. I remember that the sun shone that day, how rare, eh?” He smiled at Celestia’s nod. “A rarity it was, and lucky too, as the wedding was to be held outside. You’ll have noticed the large field in the front of the keep?”
Nicholas grunted. “The vacant acres of grass and weeds, you mean?”
“Yes. Away from the safety of the keep walls, but in all of nature’s splendor. There were a hundred trees at one time, apple trees.”
“I said I remembered apples,” Nicholas said to Celestia, his belly tight.
The priest frowned. “Your mother, the Lady Esmerada, and your father, the Lord Philippe Peregrine, were wed beneath God and before witnesses. Barely were the vows finished when the Scottish rebels arrived over the mound, ready to slaughter your father and all of his knights.”
Nicholas reached for Celestia’s hand, and the gentle warmth of her fingers curling over his calmed him as he absorbed the horrible tale.
“The English knights, though taken by surprise, had been better trained; they were not so wild and unruly as the Scottish warriors. They stayed in their formations and fought until the grove ran red with blood. By the time the battle was finished, the lord and his knights were victorious. Unfortunately, Brinden McCarthy and Robbie MacIntosh were both dead. Esmerada fell over their bodies, crying. Her heart had been trampled, as well.”
Nicholas took a deep breath. He could not remember his mother’s face. He tightened his grip on Celestia’s hand.
“And?” His wife was relentless in her pursuit of the truth, and Nicholas knew he should be grateful, yet his head was spinning with too much truth already.
Father Michael looked away. “She shook her fist and cursed your father. She told him and all the servants and guests left alive that she had loved Robbie MacIntosh with all of her body and soul. She vowed she would never be a wife to Philippe Peregrine, that she would never submit to him. Then she ran back toward the keep, and your father chased after her. He was a ruthless man, and Esmerada was his wife. He pulled her up over his horse and continued on for the keep. He left the next day.”
“The next day?” Celestia squeaked in surprise.
Nicholas could not believe his ears. “My father raped my mother on her wedding night?” He stood, remembering to duck before he slammed his head against the rafters. “No wonder she gave me away.”
Father Michael pulled Nicholas back down on the bench. “Nay! She never gave you away; we took you.”
“You what?” Nicholas exclaimed in confusion and disbelief. Celestia sidled closer to him.
“Let me explain.” The priest held out a placating hand. “Esmerada, when she found she was with child, hoped that the babe would be Robbie’s. She was happy, she sang and napped beneath the apple trees, dreaming of the future.” Father Michael deepened his voice and leaned close. “She was not content to wait unprepared for the lord’s return. She fortified the keep with extra men, and posted spies to watch the roads. Lord Peregrine was not to be allowed inside Falcon Keep’s walls.”
The priest continued sadly, “But he never came. You were born, and she realized that you had to be the baron’s get, so she sent word to him. He ignored her summons. Esmerada planned and plotted on how she could take her revenge against him. During that time, she allowed no English, nor Scots, in the keep. She began to spend most of her days in the north tower.”
The priest ran his hands over his drawn face. “As the years went by, she grew more pale and thin. Her anger was bitter, and it was poisoning her from within. I begged her to forgive and move on with her life, but she could not.”
He sighed, choosing his words carefully.
“Then she burnt down the apple trees, catching fire to numerous huts and frightening the peasants who worked in the fields. She had a friend who acted as your nursemaid during the times when she was, uh, not herself.”
“Who was she? What happened to her?”
“Ah, Nicholas, I am an old man. It was too long ago. A plain woman, as I recall. It was she who took you to Abbot Crispin.” The priest stared at the floor.
Nicholas shifted on the bench sensing that priest kept a few secrets still. “My mother was a madwoman? And that is why you took me from her?”
“We had to, my son. Were you not listening? Her dementia became worse. We worried that you would be in danger, because she could not forgive you for being Philippe Peregine’s child.”
Nicholas tightened his jaw, grinding his back teeth in frustration. Celestia elbowed him.
Father Michael stood on wavering legs and poured more ale all around. He took a healthy swallow, and gestured for Celestia and Nicholas to do the same. Nicholas pushed his mug away. “I cannot understand all of this. My mother came to her wedding already bedded by Robbie MacIntosh?” He felt sick.
“Aye. Your father, mayhap, had a reason to be angry. Forced to wed away from court at his king’s command,
Lord Peregrine is attacked by his new wife’s lover as soon as the vows are pledged. What was a man to do?”
“Did he ever come back?” Nicholas sat forward, folding his hands over his knee. Rape and murder and curses. Revenge had driven his mother crazy. Would it do the same to him?
The priest squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “It seems that Esmerada sent many letters to her lord, telling him to claim his progeny. Lord Peregrine, well, he became a baron soon enough, was angry and determined not to dance to Esmerada’s tune. He ignored the both of you.”
“So you sent me to Abbot Crispin—yet you didn’t tell the abbot that I was legitimate, and you didn’t tell him my proper age. I believed I was a bastard, with no value other than what I could earn for myself.”
Nicholas swallowed a surge of bitterness. What would his life have been like, if he’d grown up acknowledged as the baron’s son? He doubted that his father would have ordered him killed. His gut churned again.
“I did what I thought best,” Father Michael said firmly. “The letter I sent to the abbot gave your father’s name, but we insinuated that you could be in danger from him. Your mother was insane and had tried to throw you from the battlements; I did not want her to find you. I had to put my trust in God that all would be right in the end. The baron had already shown he didn’t believe you to be his, and we worried that he might have you killed. ‘Accidents’ happen, Nicholas, and we wanted you to survive your childhood so that you could come back and claim your birthright. Falcon’s Keep has been in your mother’s family for generations.”
“Some legacy. Nothing but madness and murder.” Nicholas rubbed his eyes, then scratched the back of his neck. His knee started to shake, and he had the overpowering need to punch someone or something.
“Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”
The priest ran his thumb
over the long scar on his face. “I was waiting for you to be stronger than your father, strong enough to take your inheritance by force, if need be. It was best to have limited contact with the abbot on your behalf.”
Nicholas growled low in his throat. Damn his father. Celestia placed her hand on the nape of his neck, her fingers soft and soothing against his hot skin.
“I’m truly cursed,” he said, staring at his wife. “Both of my parents have tried to kill me.”
“You cannot blame your mother; she was ill,” Celestia spoke softly. “Before her dementia, she loved you very much—the good Father said so, did you not hear?”
Was there no end to a man’s capacity for pain? “When she thought me another man’s child, aye, she loved me then.”
Father Michael interjected, “Which brings me to Esmerada’s curse.”
“Am I not cursed enough?” Nicholas slammed his fist down on the table so hard the top cracked.
“After you were safely taken away, Esmerada became more agitated. She walked the battlements of the north tower every eve, her white gown billowing in the wind, her hair flying about like black bats around her face. Esmerada was so pale and fragile, yet she fought the elements and stood on the crenellations shouting her curse, night after night. ‘Tis no wonder that the peasants thought her a ghost. They said she was already dead, that her unhappy spirit roamed the north tower. All of the servants, left Falcon Keep.”
“And what was the curse?” Nicholas sounded weary even to himself, and his shoulders slumped.
“That your father, Philippe Peregrine, would never have another living heir so long as he didn’t claim his firstborn son. You. And you had to have a child of your own, ensuring that Esmerada’s bloodline did not die out.”
Nicholas nodded, some of the tension in his neck gone, thanks be to his wife’s magical hands.
Father Michael spread his hands wide. “That is the whole tale. Now, answer me this. Why have you come to Falcon Keep after all this time? The abbot had written to us that you were a knight, and preparing to go on crusade. I’d heard nothing since.”