Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1)

by Steele Alexandra

  “It’s a Death Warrant.” Daphne said grimly. “Signed by Queen Domitia herself, ordering the execution of her daughter, Cornelia.” It took Spencer a moment to comprehend exactly what she was telling him.

  “You’re saying that Domitia the tender-hearted had her own daughter executed?”

  “Apparently. That might explain why none of the family histories explained how Cornelia died. I could see the family biographers wanting to keep something like that quiet.”

  Spencer merely blinked. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the strange script, and now he was able to read the warrant, albeit quite slowly.

  The first half of the page was entirely official business, regarding the date, time and method of Cornelia’s death. Her crime against the crown was listed as treason, and was not elaborated on. The bottom of the page was written in a slightly different script, and seemed to have been added in a hurry, judging by the way the lines slanted awkwardly down the page.

  “What is that?” Spencer pointed to the last paragraph.

  “Her last words,” Daphne answered quietly. “They used to record them on the death warrant after the execution was completed.” She took a deep breath and read them aloud. Spencer, already unnerved by the document, could have done without Daphne’s chilling reading.

  “You may think me mad, but there is a killer in the body of the queen that drives this destruction, and I am not so undone that I would let a queenslayer walk free after I am dead. I have set a trap, a prison of ink and paper. Long may she reside there. Long may my descendants live free of this violence.”

  There was a grim silence that was not broken until Daphne exhaled softly and gingerly pushed the paper aside.

  “There is a killer in the body of the queen.” Daphne repeated slowly. Lorna was sitting quietly on her haunches, her fingers interlocked as she stared pensively into space. She did not respond to her sister’s question. “What violence? And what did she mean by a trap?”

  Spencer shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak and then paused, studying the book. He hesitated and licked his lips. “I think it was the book.”

  Daphne blinked. “What?”

  “The trap,” Spencer said. “I think the book is Cornelia’s trap. Think about it. A prison of ink and paper. The book was bound the same year that all three women died. We know there’s something not quite right about it, something powerful and dangerous. Cicely stitches the future onto her tapestries. The first king was a bard who captured the will of any who heard his song. What if Cornelia could capture the body of any who looked at her painting?”

  “Why weren’t we dragged into the book then? Why are we still here?”

  “It wasn’t meant for us.” Spencer said. His mind was snapping the pieces into place even as he spoke. “It was meant to keep someone else in there, trap them in the pages forever.”

  “Trap who?” Daphne was frowning, but she hadn’t started arguing with him yet, which gave him confidence that his idea wasn’t too farfetched.

  “The queenslayer.”

  Daphne blanched. “You think so? Are we even sure that there is a queenslayer? I mean, before we assumed that the same person had killed Domitia and her two daughters, but now we know that Cornelia was sentenced to death by her own mother, so maybe we were wrong. Maybe the queen was behind Lavinia’s death as well.”

  Spencer shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. And…” His mind was racing, and then suddenly he reached it, the conclusion that all of this research had been spinning him towards. “That’s what Sansano wanted it for.”

  “He wanted to trap us in the book?”

  “No!” Spencer exclaimed, breathless with the shock of finally knowing. “He wanted to let her out.”

  “Why?”

  “Hm… let’s think. Why would anyone let out a powerful, dangerous woman with a grudge against Lucretius Queens? Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe someone who wants your grandmother dead.”

  “Huh.”

  “You have to admit, there’s probably a pretty long list of people who would like to see Queen Tryphena retire… permanently,” Spencer pointed out. He didn’t bother to mention that he happened to be on that list. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just that it seemed like she’d be able to do less harm from a tomb than from a throne.

  “I don’t know,” Daphne shook her head. “You’re basing all of this on the writings of a mad artist.”

  “She may have been mad, but she created the book that’s at the root of this mess. It’s thanks to her that we know why Sansano wanted the book.”

  “But there’s still too much we don’t know,” Daphne frowned. “I mean, we still don’t know who Sansano was working with. And if he did want to kill my grandmother, we still don’t know the reason.”

  Spencer frowned, his mouth slightly open. “You need a reason?”

  “Well…”

  “Go interview some of the prisoners in the dungeons and ask them if they’d need a reason to put their hands around the Queen’s throat and squeeze if they got the chance.”

  “Yes, well,” Daphne sputtered. “Why was he using the book then? Why not some other method? It’s just odd.”

  “Well,” Spencer began, but Lorna cut him off.

  “Because he didn’t want to be the one to do it. This way all he had to do was let her out.”

  “But the Fool didn’t have that kind of power,” Daphne said, “he didn’t have any magical ability.”

  “Maybe not,” Lorna said, “but the witch he’s working with does, and so does her apprentice.”

  “You think Melisande is trying to kill our grandmother?” Daphne asked flatly. For the first time she wasn’t arguing.

  “We’re not saying that,” Spencer said, “but Lorna’s right. Whoever it is, they don’t want to get their hands too dirty.”

  There was a dull creaking sound, and Spencer nearly jumped out of his skin. Behind them, the door to the library opened and the Librarian entered, rubbing his hands together briskly. “It’s bitterly cold out there. Yet, they say we might have a thaw tomorrow. That would be nice.” The old man crossed to the hearth to warm his hands, glancing over his shoulder at Daphne and Lorna. If he could tell from the stricken expression on their faces that something was wrong, he gave no indication. “The Lady Dimity is looking for you two,” he said, “something about that business with the cook I expect. Nasty affair.” He glanced at the papers and books that covered the desk before them. “How is your research coming?” He inquired. “Learning much?”

  “Oh, yes.” Daphne said shortly.

  “Well, good. Pity that witch couldn’t tell you anything about what happened to my book.” The Librarian’s tone was casual but his gaze probing.

  Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Pity. Come Lorna,” she said to her younger sister, who seemed to be wavering under the combined stress of their recent discovery and the Librarian’s searching gaze. “We mustn’t keep Dimity waiting. Spencer, we will see you tomorrow.” Spencer nodded his acquiescence.

  Daphne and Lorna took the warrant with them, and left him in the dimly lit library with the Librarian, who watched him curiously with eyes that were quite alert for such an old man. Finally, Spencer murmured an excuse and slipped away.

  ***

  That night, Spencer woke from deepest slumber with a question on his lips. “What’s wrong?” he tossed the words out into the night before his eyes were even open, aware only that someone had called out to him in his dreams, that a voice had banished all of the images that danced beneath his eyelids, and that he was almost suffocated by the pressure of someone’s fear. It weighed on the air around him, and soon his own heart was pounding in time to someone else’s distress. He rubbed his eyes and pushed his covers off, standing up and surveying the room easily thanks to the way the moonlight illuminated it; he could see nothing unusual or out of place.

  Suddenly he remembered that there were no windows in his chamber, and that once again, the moonlight seemed to come from no
source at all. Then he knew whose fear he was feeling. It was so vivid he could practically picture her, stalking the halls with her light footsteps, ringing her pale hands and crying out. He wondered what she could possibly have to fear. She was ethereal; she could pierce the darkness with moonbeams and vanish at will. What could touch her?

  He couldn’t imagine who or what could cause her such terror, but he couldn’t deny that she was afraid, not when he could feel her flinging her essence about the little chamber like a moth trapped in a jar, spiraling around its cage with mounting panic. His lips parted so that he could speak to her, but he could feel the woman’s pull, like the whisper of his name and the rustle of silk as she slipped out the door and around the corner. Rather than speak, he opened the door and followed her. The hall was so well lit by her essence that it might have been midday, except that the light was soft and white. He followed her out into the hall and he was grateful that the sisters weren’t there so that could be alone with her to try to decipher her message. He was certain now that she had one, he could feel it in every whisper as she lead him to the mirror.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her again as he confronted his own reflection in the enormous mirror. He knew that it was dusty and barely maintained by day, but at night she made it sparkle like a reflective pool. “I know that you want to tell me something.” He paused, waiting for something, anything. She gave him no message, but he could still sense her there, hovering about the room, sometimes just behind him, sometimes high at the ceiling, but always watching, always afraid. “I know you’re a friend. You warned us about the Fool. You saved us from him. You warned us about the book.” Spencer waited, listening. Nothing. She was still there, but still she waited. “Is that what you want to tell me about?” he asked her, “is it whatever’s in that book? Is it the Queenslayer?” He didn’t want to admit it, but he was a little fascinated by the thought of whatever lurked within that book.

  He hesitated. There was energy gathering behind him. He could feel tension in the air. “Who is in that book?” he asked her. “What do we need to know?”

  He stopped. White light was rapidly gathering behind him, slowly filling out into a glowing figure, the whiteness shining so brightly that he almost wanted to turn his head away. Then, when it had gotten as bright as he could bear, it died away entirely, and he was left staring into the mirror at the reflection of a person behind him.

  It was his own reflection.

  A doppelgänger. A second him, standing behind his original reflection.

  But while he was in his bedclothes with mussed hair, this boy was dressed, with the Book gripped tightly under his arm. But his eyes… His eyes were wide and staring, his face white and lifeless, his clothes stained with a rich wet redness that dripped down his pale face, drenching the book and his clothes, his shoes, staining his hair red. And his eyes were so very wide…

  Spencer leapt back from the mirror and then realized that the thing stood behind him and that he had only grown closer to it. He whirled, hand raised, ready to fend off that hideous second self however necessary, but the floor behind him was shockingly empty. He spun around once more, feeling that he was losing his mind, and saw that the reflection was still in the mirror, just as ghastly and horrifying as the first time that he had seen it.

  He flinched away, jumped to the side, shaking. “Why?” he whispered when he found his voice. “Why?” the dreadful thing only seemed to get closer and then he did lose his mind. He turned and ran across the hall, heedless of how much noise his feet made slapping on the stone floor. The moonlight had gone from the corridor when he reached it, but he raced down it anyway, not caring that he was all but blind in the darkness.

  The blackness was a blessing. He didn’t want to see; he didn’t want to know what else she had sent to leer at him out of the shadows. He just wanted to get back to his room. He almost overshot the door, but spun around at the last minute and frantically reached for the doorknob. He had a moment of fear that she might somehow have locked it and that he might be trapped in the shadows with her, but then it gave under his hand and he threw himself into the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

  He heard another sound as he tried to control his own loud panting and his spine stiffened before he realized that it was only the ticking of the clock in the hall. He felt his way through the darkness to his bed, suddenly wishing that the moonlight were back so that he could be sure his chamber was empty. Instead he kept imaging what hideous creature might be staring out at him from the shadows.

  He crouched by his bed and stayed that way for a moment, calming himself with steady breaths. Yet while the effects of his run slowly began to fade, he couldn’t help the way that the image of his own dead face kept surfacing. As his chest stopped heaving, his body was wracked by first one tremor, and then another. There was another and another until suddenly he found himself shaking like he was having a fit.

  It was only then that he allowed himself to feel for her, to try to sense her presence. There was nothing. He was most definitely alone, and so, suddenly feeling exhausted as well as shaken, he slipped into bed and lay there trying to banish that horrible vision from his mind.

  “Why?” He whispered again, although he knew he was alone and no answer was forthcoming. Why would a creature he considered an ally torment him like that? How could she show him something so horrible, betray his trust and his confidence in her so heartlessly? It was like he had lost a friend.

  He was certain that after this latest excursion he would never be able to sleep, and for hours that was true. He tossed and turned on his cot, unable to stop running over in his mind the reasons why she might have shown him something so horrible. Maybe she was angry with him. He couldn’t think of how he might have offended her, but perhaps she had taken offense at something. Yet he hadn’t sensed any malice from her, only fear. Had she misinterpreted something he did as a threat? It was only in the hours before dawn that he felt his thoughts beginning to slowly wind down, preparing him to sleep once more. It was once he was half asleep, barely even aware of his own head on the pillow, that he realized she wasn’t angry. She had just given him his second warning.

  Chapter 15

  Spencer woke with the air closing in around him. Long before his eyes had opened he could feel his body steeling itself against a day that promised to be hard. Eventually he pulled himself out of bed, not because he wanted to, but because last night he had caught a glimpse of his own corpse, and death did not become him. There was work to be done, and he had to talk to Daphne and Lorna.

  But after dressing quickly and silently and then padding out into the hallway, he found that he was not the only one who was having a difficult morning. His mother was whirling about the tower like a butterfly under a glass. When she heard his footsteps in the hall she glanced anxiously over her shoulder and met his gaze with fear in her eyes.

  “She’s missing!”

  “Who?”

  “Her ladyship! Justine! Spencer, we’re ruined. I hoped at first she was hiding, but she’s never done that before, and I looked everywhere. She was there last night when I brought up her hot milk and tucked her into bed, but this morning she’s nowhere to be found. She’s been acting strangely the past few days, but I never expected anything like this. I can’t imagine her crossing the footbridge herself, but she must have.”

  “Yes,” Spencer said softly. “She must have.” But he couldn’t quite summon the panic his mother seemed to expect. A week earlier, even the day before, he would have been beside himself, but now he was strangely subdued. Not calm, for there was a tension building in his gut, a warning he could not ignore, a portent of greater doom. He was quite certain that Justine’s escape was not the disaster he could taste coming. No, whatever fate he awaited, it was much worse, and he had to face it before it consumed him.

  Outside it was a warmer day than was usual for this time of year. The snow had melted under the glare of a surprisingly harsh winter sun, and a single sweater was qui
te sufficient to keep Spencer warm as the wind ruffled his hair like a deceptively soft kiss. Within the shadowy interior of the Haligorn, he could hear his mother, still opening cabinet doors and rummaging through closets as though she expected to find the adolescent princess crouched behind a mop in the broom closet.

  “I’ll go look for her,” he said softly, and he stepped out of the Haligorn, making for the footbridge, and the castle beyond it.

  ***

  “Where are you going?” Melisande flinched at her mistress’s sharp words as though the woman had struck her. Felunhala had been in a foul mood since her falling out with the Fool. The witch had been reluctant to disclose the source of her quarrel with the jester, but late one night after a few glasses of wine the words had tumbled out of her. Melisande had been surprised, though not shocked. What was surprising was how deeply the rift appeared to have affected Felunhala. The woman had become nearly impossible to live with, and it seemed that this morning the witch was particularly troubled. There were deep circles under her eyes, her hair had not yet been brushed and she seemed half asleep, blinking blearily in the light that streamed in the windows.

  “Out,” Melisande answered, “to deliver Count Valinsky’s potion,” she added quickly, lest her brief answer be mistaken for impudence. The truth was that she had already delivered the potion the night before. This morning she had an errand of her own to run, and she needed a suitable excuse to leave the castle.

  Felunhala grunted an unintelligible response and bent down to unlock her cabinet, shooting a suspicious glance at her apprentice as she did so. Not for the first time, Melisande wondered how dangerous Felunahala’s secrets were, given how intensely the witch guarded them. “Well then,” Felunhala snapped, when Melisande paused in the doorway to watch her, “be gone. Valinsky won’t wait forever.”

  “Indeed,” Melisande fastened her cloak and left.

  It was with a strange foreboding that Melisande walked the now familiar path to Rathbone’s home. She expected the worst from him, given the news. It must have upset him greatly, to hear the lurid reports of the savage attack on the castle cook.